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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ her life. When she had said as much to her editor at a drinks party, he had immediately reacted: ‘I’ve never heard you talk like that. You must write about it for me.’ So she had. She had poured her emotions into the piece, excited to be exploring something so close to her heart, such a welcome change from the usual consumer-based features that had become her stock-in-trade. When her editor had criticised it as ‘too cerebral for our market’, and asked, ‘Where’s the sex?’ she had almost despaired.

      To be asked to come on Tart Talk to talk intelligently about women surviving the loss of the love of their lives was a huge compliment. But today she was feeling rather differently. She had been up since five thirty, unable to sleep, not even in the back of the sleek Mercedes sent to take her to the TV7 building, home of Tart Talk, as it crawled through traffic held up by roadworks on the Euston Road. Sitting on the uncomfortable leather sofa in her dressing room, leafing through the pile of the day’s papers as she waited to be called to Makeup, there had been plenty more time for the nerves to kick in. She had been thankful when a runner finally took her along to the green room to meet the three regular presenters.

      She had immediately sensed the great rapport that existed between Marina, Sharon and Grace: Grace Benjamin – the thin, gap-toothed black comedian with a big laugh, whose bisexuality was often the butt of her own jokes. Their camaraderie meant they had welcomed her without reserve, offering her coffee before they went through with the producer the subjects they might be going to cover on today’s show. How much would Christie be able to contribute to a discussion about middle-age binge drinking and subsequent one-night stands? Staying up late to watch Newsnight just in case had been a complete waste of time. She’d have to wing it and focus her efforts on the reason she was there.

      Just before they were due to go on, a fourth woman had sashayed in, finishing a conversation on her BlackBerry. Tall and well-padded but dressed in a stylish tailored cream suit, not a hair out of its coiffured place, she sat down beside Marina. ‘Hello, darling,’ she breathed. ‘I was in the studios so thought I’d pop down and see how you were.’ Her energy and presence immediately refocused the room so all eyes were on her. Christie was wondering where she’d seen her before when Marina introduced her.

      ‘Julia, you must meet Christie Lynch. Remember she used to be on MarketForce? She’s going to be talking about bereavement on the show today. Christie, this is my very special agent, Julia Keen.’

      Christie immediately knew who she was. Julia Keen was one of the talent agents in London, a name known to most magazine readers, loved and feared in equal measure by those in the business. She had made her reputation by poaching high-earning clients from other agents, often appearing with them at all the most prestigious showbiz events. Christie had read one or two profiles about her in the press. About a year ago Julia had been the subject of much media interest when one of her clients, the TV presenter Ben Chapman, had drowned in her indoor swimming-pool: coroner’s verdict, misadventure. But the press had been free and frequent with speculation about their relationship and the real reason for Ben having been there without his girlfriend, as well as about what had really happened. He had been the co-host of Good Evening Britain, a news/magazine show that had actors, writers and MPs queuing up to appear. Newsnight meets The One Show, it had the six to seven p.m. slot on TV7 five nights a week. When Ben died, his on-air partner, Gilly Lancaster, had made a tribute to him so moving that it was printed on every red-top front page the following day. His long-term partner, Laura, was devastated at losing him, while Julia had absented herself from the red carpets and all that went with them. Success breeds success but scandal can be a dangerous enemy.

      Christie remembered the photos splashed in the press of Ben, Laura and Julia, as well as of an indoor pool that had come straight from a scene out of Footballers’ Wives: colonnaded french windows leading back into the house, white loungers, tropical ferns in large ceramic pots. Julia clearly knew how to enjoy the fruits of her success. Smiling, Christie offered her hand – to find it gripped firmly, as Julia’s clear blue eyes assessed her in an unnerving and not altogether pleasant way.

      ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Julia said. ‘I’ve read your Daily News column. Good luck today.’ She gave her another look of appraisal.

      ‘Thanks.’ Christie, feeling a little uncomfortable, was relieved when, at that moment, the green room door opened and they were called to the studio.

      As she stood in the dark, behind the set, she could hear the large audience of students and pensioners filing in. Who else had time to go to a daytime show? Bussed in for the occasion, they found their seats and the buzz subsided as the warm-up man welcomed them. Christie strained to hear what he was saying.

      Then someone else caught her attention.

      ‘Christie, my darling. Hi. I’m Tim, the floor manager.’ A young casually dressed man wearing headphones was at her side. ‘Welcome. Nice to have you. In two minutes, watch Marina and just follow her onto the set and take the second stool on the left, behind the desk. OK, love? Good luck.’ He patted her shoulder in encouragement.

      Oh, God, Marina was walking onto the set. They want to like me, Christie repeated to herself, and followed, as confidently as she could, to the sound of applause. Why did I say yes to this? She could feel the heat of the lights on her face and a prickle of perspiration on her back as she went out into the bright lights. She hitched herself onto the stool, which was high enough to make the women sit up straight or fall off, and wondered what to do with her heels: let them hang or tuck them in? She tucked them in and pulled down the sides of her skirt.

      ‘Look as if you’re enjoying yourself,’ whispered Grace. ‘They won’t eat you.’

      Switching on a smile as the warm-up guy introduced the team, Christie looked up and out towards the audience where her eyes fell on Mel in the second row, resplendent in a to-be-noticed-by-my-sister neon pink scarf, grinning like a maniac and giving her the thumbs-up. If only Nick could have been there with her. He would have been so proud. She twisted her wedding ring round her finger, then swiftly reminded herself that she had to stop thinking like that. This was her life now.

      ‘OK. Fifteen seconds, studio. Quiet, please,’ shouted Tim. He continued the countdown to zero, then the show’s title music struck up.

      As the cameras began to roll, they were all laughing. It was up to the four of them now. Christie heard a disembodied voice introducing Marina, Grace, Sharon, and then: ‘… and please welcome Christie Lynch, the merry widow, to ask her: is there dating after death?’

      Oh, God! No! Why had no one briefed her that they weren’t going to be taking the sensitive, dignified approach she had imagined? Because they realised she’d have shied away? Of course. She should have known better than to trust them not to trivialise the subject, but it was too late now. In front of the audience and her co-presenters, she had no choice but to keep smiling and try to think of something to say. Come on, Nick. Give me strength.

3

      Before she knew where she was, the show was over. Mel had kissed her, said how brilliant she had been and disappeared off for a shoot with John Swannell, her favourite fashion photographer. Christie had climbed down from her stool and was taken to the green room, where she found all her belongings had been brought from the dressing room.

      The entire programme team was there, enjoying sandwiches and a glass of wine. While Marina was sharing a joke with Sharon, Julia Keen discreetly engineered a conversation alone with Christie, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, as she said, ‘You were good, darling. Much better than I expected. Now, do you have a good agent?’

      Taken aback by Julia’s СКАЧАТЬ