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

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СКАЧАТЬ to get her mojo back in working order but in the end had agreed that practice was the only way.

      She was startled by a quiet rap at the door. Grabbing her coat as a dressing-gown, she went to open it. Sam was standing in the corridor, holding two glasses of brandy and smiling in a boyish way that lit up his whole face.

      ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He offered her a glass. ‘Seems to me that I might be the ideal person for you to practise your romantic techniques on. No strings attached. Just a bit of fun to get you started.’

      ‘Are you kidding?’ That last glass of wine had definitely gone to her head, making her feel pleasantly tipsy. She pulled her coat tighter round her, wishing that she had packed something other than Nick’s old pyjamas.

      ‘No, I’m serious. But if you don’t fancy it, well, have the brandy anyway.’ He held out one of the glasses.

      ‘Er … thank you. But …’

      Go on, she imagined Mel’s voice in her ear. Who needs to know? He’s good-looking, you trust him, and he’s saying he won’t come back for more. Look at it as the first hurdle. Once you’re over it, the next one will be much easier. And, you never know, it might even be quite nice.

      She laughed as her inhibitions took flight. What the hell? ‘Why are you standing out there?’ She stepped back, pulling the door open.

      ‘Really? Are you sure?’ His confidence deserted him. She liked him for that.

      ‘Let’s have the brandy and see. But if we do, no strings. And no telling Frank. We’d never hear the end of it.’

      ‘None and absolutely not.’ He came into the room and raised his glass in a toast. ‘Dutch courage.’

      *

      The next morning Christie woke up alone. Sam had left after they’d had a really very enjoyable time together, giving her a chance to catch some sleep and to get ready for the day ahead. He had been right, she thought, as she took her shower. Some skills don’t go away. They just need a bit of a polish. She had always imagined that she would feel guilty and terribly disloyal to Nick if she slept with someone else. At last she had realised that enjoying herself with another man didn’t mean she would forget him. No one was going to replace him in her heart, but that didn’t mean she had to sign up to the nearest convent. Mel was right. Of course. One slightly drunken night had shown her that she could enjoy herself without being racked with remorse. Before he left her room, Sam had emphasised once again that he didn’t want any ties and she was more than happy with that.

      She was second down to breakfast. Frank was already in the dining room, with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten plate of scrambled egg. On her way to the table, she stopped to pour herself some orange juice.

      ‘Well, look at you!’ The light reflected off the top of his head as he gazed at her over his reading glasses, assessing what he saw.

      ‘What d’you mean?’ All innocent.

      ‘Doesn’t take Einstein to work out what happened to you last night. You look as if you’ve had your flue well and truly swept!’

      Christie blushed. ‘Frank! For God’s sake, shut up!’

      ‘You’re glowing, darling. Well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer couple is all I can say.’

      ‘Get one thing straight, Frank Bolton. We’re not a couple. It was a one-off no-strings number.’

      ‘No need to bite my head off.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

      Christie hoped so.

      Sam was looking at his watch as he came over. He was slim in a pale grey suit that gave a pleasant hint of what was underneath. He gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. She blushed, remembering the pleasure she’d experienced the night before when those lips had been so very intimate, and earned herself another sly squeeze from Frank.

      Without bothering to sit down, Sam poured and slugged back a half-cup of black coffee, then grabbed a piece of toast before turning to go. ‘Come on, guys. We’ve got to get down to the town hall for the results. They’re posting them at eight thirty.’

      ‘I’m ready. Just let me get my things and check out.’ She drank the last of her coffee and stood up. She felt better than she had for ages. Sam had done her a favour and she understood the deal between them. Her radar was being cranked back into working order. She hurried upstairs, feeling quite ready for whatever the day would throw at her.

17

      Julia was late. Very late. Christie had asked for this meeting and had arrived promptly, just as Julia expected her to when she called a meeting. She was naturally aware that she was one among many on her agent’s long list of priorities, but even so, to be kept waiting for almost an hour (so far) bordered on rude. The time had been punctuated with messages saying she was on her way, unavoidably delayed. If it hadn’t been for those, Christie would have left ages ago, happy to arrange another appointment. As it was, the continuing promise of her agent’s imminent arrival had kept her there. A deliberate and well-practised power ploy, she suspected. She sat in Julia’s office, comfy on the black leather sofa, having been shown in by her assistant, Lily. After she’d flicked through the copies of Harper’s, Vogue and Broadcast, Christie fell to wondering what conversations these walls must have heard, how many careers had been made and bank balances improved in this room.

      She got up and went to the window behind Julia’s desk. The street below was glistening wet, with the rain bouncing off the roof of a passing bus. She watched a young woman attempt to hail a cab, then shake her feet as a car ran through a puddle and splashed her. Christie turned and looked at Julia’s desk: immaculate, with neither a coffee stain nor an ink smear on the caramel leather. She jumped as Lily put her head round the door with another message.

      ‘I’m sorry, Christie.’ They had dispensed with the formalities half an hour ago. ‘Julia’s rung in again. She’s ten minutes away. She really won’t be long. Can I get you another tea?’ She crossed the room to take away Christie’s cup.

      She was an attractive girl with an unusual face: full lips, quite a large but well-shaped nose, wide-apart eyes that registered interest in everything she heard, and the sort of pale skin that burned with the first hint of sunshine. She wore little makeup apart from a dash of mascara and a pale lip-gloss that she had obviously reapplied since she’d last appeared. Her dark hair was cut short in a funky asymmetric design. An extremely short tartan skirt exposed most of her very long legs down to her flat leopard-print pumps. A variety of droopy Top-Shop-style layers covered her upper half and a silver locket hung next to a cross on a thin chain around her neck. Nothing could be further from the studied and expensive elegance of her employer.

      ‘I won’t, thanks.’ Christie’s eyes travelled to a photo on the wall of Julia with Ben Chapman, laughing together at some awards ceremony. In one corner was scrawled, ‘To the best agent in the world. The best is yet to come. Love Ben xx.’ She’d studied it on and off during the times she’d been there and now remembered Frank and Sam’s disbelief over the way their friend had died. She stared idly at the presenter’s face, open, friendly, conventionally handsome. ‘I suppose you must have known Ben?’

      ‘Yes. He was one of Julia’s top clients.’ The cup she was carrying rattled against the saucer СКАЧАТЬ