Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton

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      ‘Well, that’s fine by me,’ Christie said, not wanting to give the impression that there were any difficulties between them. ‘It’s what I’m expecting. I’m covering two or three days a week until she’s on leave and then again as she eases herself back into things.’

      ‘Ease!’ Frank laughed. ‘Gilly doesn’t do “ease”. She’ll be back as fast as a rat up a drainpipe. Mark my words. Did she tell you to wear that blue dress?’

      Christie’s face reddened. Then she caught herself. ‘Well, not exactly.’

      ‘I thought so. You’re going to have to watch her like a hawk.’ He paused to take a sip of his lager. ‘Have you got a stylist?’

      ‘My sister, Mel.’

      ‘Do you have a gay best friend?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Well, you do now. Why don’t I come shopping with the two of you and help you with what looks good on camera?’

      She’d never clothes-shopped with a man before. Nick would have peeled ten pounds of onions rather than go with her. He had left what she wore up to her, and was always gratifyingly appreciative of her choice, whatever Mel said. Why would she break the habit of a lifetime and go shopping with anyone, let alone a gay man she had only just met? She thought of Mel, her unofficial stylist, who was at that moment jetting her way to a fashion shoot in Hawaii, lucky sod. But, on the other hand, why not? She had warmed to Frank immediately and – who knew? – it might be fun. Besides, she obviously needed all the people she could get on her side after her inauspicious start. His was a hand of friendship being held out in unfamiliar shark-infested waters. She smiled and accepted his offer.

9

      Two days later, Christie and Mel pushed behind Frank towards the corner table in the crowded wine bar. The place was swamped with Saturday shoppers, taking the weight off their credit cards while they had lunch. Insisting the two women took a seat, Frank dumped the couple of bags he was carrying for Christie, then fought his way back to the bar to order their drinks. They squeezed themselves behind the table, yanking the bags with them. Armed with her purchases, more than she had ever bought in one go, Christie felt like somebody out of Sex and the City. This must be what it was like to be a lady who lunched. She thanked the Lord for a brand new salary and a healthier bank balance.

      While they waited she peered into one of the yellow Selfridges bags and pulled apart the tissue paper. A glimpse of the cream wool jacket made her wince with pleasure as she remembered the hit her bank account was about to take.

      ‘Don’t even go there, love,’ Frank had said, when she questioned the expense. ‘If you’re going to start looking at the prices, I’m going straight home. Trust me. You need one or two designer pieces just to make the high street stuff sing. You’ve got to look good in this game. This is a necessary expense.’ Mel applauded him and quickly absorbed his TV dress rules – no black (too dense), no red (the colour bleeds), no white (too dazzling), no stripes or checks (they strobe).

      After that, Christie gave herself up to whatever would be, and shopping with Frank and Mel had turned out to be a joy: funny, inspired and inventive. He had a flair for seeing what teamed and toned, what mixed and matched, what would look good under studio lights in front of a camera and what would best hide the microphone and earpiece packs that got stuffed like two fag packets up her jumper. On top of that, he had oodles of patience that stood him in good stead while Christie made up her mind. Whenever she was losing the will to live, he’d appear at the cubicle door with exactly the right accessory to pull an outfit together: the wide woven belt, the heavy beaded necklace, the understated bracelet. Mel was the voice of reason if things got too camp and he took over when she got too avant garde.

      Result? Two knock-’em-dead jackets, three dresses, a skirt and two pairs of trousers, plus various bits of cheap and cheerful jewellery.

      Three and a half hours after they had first set foot in Selfridges, they had called a halt and repaired to the wine bar for lunch.

      The sisters looked up to see him approaching, clutching three glasses of champagne. He squeezed in opposite them. ‘Cheers,’ he said, passing them round. ‘Here’s to Team Christie.’ They clinked glasses and sipped. ‘Why do we ever drink anything else?’ he wondered, obviously not expecting an answer. ‘Now. What I’m dying to know is, how did a nice girl like you get tied up with Julia? Tell all.’

      Christie was exasperated by people’s reaction to her agent. She was disappointed Frank thought the same as everyone else and gave her usual brisk answer. ‘We met on the Tart Talk set. She invited me to see her and I was impressed. She’s good. I don’t understand why you’ve all got it in for her.’

      ‘Well, I can’t speak for the others, love, but I’ve known her a long time. Since drama school, in fact.’

      ‘Drama school? Julia’s an actress?’

      ‘Yeah. I don’t know why she didn’t keep it up. She was very good at convincing everyone around her to give her the leading roles in the end-of-term productions. Several boys had their hearts broken because she persuaded them that they loved her. Funnily enough, she only ever made moves on the rich ones. Something to do with her upbringing, I guess. She ironed out her north-west accent very quickly, was always immaculately turned out and managed to get someone else to buy her supper. She must be struggling a bit at the moment, having lost a client in her swimming-pool last year. I know for a fact that one or two others have left her and, apart from you, she hasn’t taken on anyone since he died. Mud sticks.’

      ‘Poor Ben. She must have been so upset. What a thing for her to deal with.’

      ‘Hmm.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I once knew her quite well, but now she doesn’t even acknowledge me. If you’re in, you’re in. But if you’re out … Are you eating?’ He passed across the long menu, just as one of the few waitresses stopped by their table.

      As they waited for her noodle dish, Mel’s salad and his steak frites, Christie regretted being so dismissive. ‘Tell me more.’

      He gave her a knowing look. ‘Remember Max Keen? He came into the studio the other day with that actor … what’s-’is-name.’

      Christie nodded. Max Keen was Sam’s agent and she remembered meeting him briefly when another of his clients, Clem Baker, was on the show. Max had accompanied him, keeping in the background, standing behind the cameras, quietly watching, while the Hollywood A-lister had talked to Sam and Christie about his latest Oscar-tipped performance. In contrast to the film-star good looks of his client, Max was a small, balding man, neatly but casually turned out. However, the two had a rapport, which was plain to anyone who watched them together and Max, however tough a negotiator he might be, had a transforming smile. She had seen that for herself when Sam had introduced her to him.

      ‘Yes. Why?’

      ‘He and Julia were married once. And he was the top talent agent in the country. He learned the business at Mellors and Crombie where his secretary was none other than guess who?’ He left the gap, waiting for her to fill it in.

      ‘Julia?’

      ‘Got it in one. After two years, they got spliced despite, or perhaps because of, the ten-year age-gap.’ His eyes lit up at the idea of a sexual shenanigan СКАЧАТЬ