New Beginnings. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ with excitement. ‘You’re going to have to tell me everything the minute you get home. I won’t go to bed till you phone. Otherwise . . . I’ll tell Mum.’ The worst threat she could muster.

       Christie laughed and swiped her sister with a cushion.

       The rest of the day dragged. Christie should have written up an article about surfing the net, a fast-growing phenomenon that even Maureen was interested in. Instead she went shopping. There was a small second-hand dress exchange at the end of the road where she found the perfect Armani LBD. At a fraction of its original cost, it was still way over her budget but, how did you dress for a lawyer?

       At last it was five to seven and the window of her top-floor flat was open so she could keep leaning out to see if he’d arrived. She’d shaved her legs, washed her hair and was just putting on the last coat of mascara when the doorbell rang. She jumped – and got mascara on her nose. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ With a tissue covering the blot she hung out of the window and saw him standing on the steps. ‘Coming,’ she yelled, then leaped into the bathroom, cleaned herself up and ran downstairs.

       They went to a small Greek restaurant off Charlotte Street. All rather clichéd – red and white check tablecloths, candles in retsina bottles and scarlet geraniums on the tables – but special all the same. He told her about his upbringing: only son of a now-retired lawyer and his wife, educated at a state grammar school with an ambition to follow in his father’s footsteps. She told him about her darling father, a printer in Fleet Street for thirty-five years who had succumbed to a brain tumour four years earlier. As a little girl she would sometimes go with him to watch the Sunday edition go to press on Saturday night. Maybe those times with him had hooked her to journalism.

       It was almost midnight when they got back to her flat. She invited him in for coffee but he declined. As he left he gave her the tenderest of kisses and promised to call in the morning. When she opened her flat door, the phone was ringing. She picked up, knowing exactly who it was.

       ‘Well? Shall I buy a hat?’ It was Mel.

      Chapter 5

      ‘Perhaps he’s going to offer you a permanent job on Tart Talk. Breathe in, for God’s sake!’ Mel pulled the zip of the dress between Christie’s shoulder-blades and up to the top.

      Christie had called in at her sister’s tiny Chiswick flat on her way to the Ivy, only to be told that the black trouser suit she’d chosen for the occasion was all wrong, too severe.

      ‘I wish. But none of the others have ever talked about leaving.’ Christie turned to her, each breath a dangerous test of the seams. ‘Is it meant to be this tight?’

      ‘No, it’s not. Get it off quick, before it rips. Here.’

      As the zip was undone, oxygen flooded back into Christie’s lungs and the dress fell to the floor among all the others Mel had suggested and Christie had discarded. Somewhere in the creative chaos of her bedroom Mel was sure she had the perfect outfit. It was just a question of laying her hands on it. Once again, the younger sister had taken charge and picked her way to the wardrobe, saying, ‘You may be a brilliant wordsmith, but you have no style at all. You’re so lucky I’m here. I finished the Vogue shoot yesterday and I’m off to Mauritius on Saturday.’ Bags hung off the end of her bed; jewellery was scattered entangled across two bookshelves and the mantelpiece; scarves and belts were draped over the chair back and the open wardrobe door. Wherever a hanger could hang, it did, both inside and outside the wardrobe, off the back of the door and the window frames, all carrying the trophies that came with being a fashion stylist and victim. But Christie’s mind wasn’t on the mess.

      ‘I only talked to the man for a couple of minutes at the end-of-term party and he didn’t seem fabulously impressed by me. Why would he want to meet me again so soon?’

      ‘Maybe so he can get to know you better. What about this glorious Vivienne Westwood? I got it for a shoot the other day and don’t have to get it back to her till next week.’

      ‘He’s not that type. And that dress definitely isn’t mine.’ It was a blue and white floral shawl-sleeved wrap with a slightly asymmetrical bodice that would make her stand out far too far in a crowd. Perhaps she should have gone with Maureen’s equally ridiculous suggestion of something from Country Casuals.

      ‘Bollocks! Just get it on.’

      Christie had always envied the way Mel was so sure of her opinions and never took no for an answer. She supposed that if anyone knew what she should wear to lunch with a head honcho at the Ivy, it ought to be her. She reached reluctantly for the dress.

      ‘You’ve got to look the bloody part, woman. No one’s going to laugh at you. There! It’s absolutely perfect.’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Christie turned in front of the mirror, uncertain. Mel stood behind her, dressed in tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, assessing her.

      ‘You look like a woman for once! Really great – honestly. I know what.’ Mel picked up a large Stella McCartney handbag, dug out from its depths a lipstick and painted her sister’s mouth a glossy pale orange. ‘The perfect finishing touch. What do you think?’

      ‘No. It is so not me.’

      ‘Shut up. Yes, it is.’

      Just at that moment the doorbell rang. It was the minicab.

      ‘Get out of here, Cinders.’ Mel kissed her cheek. ‘And don’t worry about the kids – I’ll be there when they get home from school. See you later. Love you.’

      Christie grabbed a white Joseph jacket that she’d tried on earlier, slipped on her new L. K. Bennett peep-toe wedge sandals and hobbled downstairs.

      *

      Sitting in the taxi, feeling sick at the driver’s inability to brake gently and the prospect of her impending lunch, Christie remembered her first meeting with Jack Bradbury. The room had been packed with people – not because the wrap party was so enormous but because the green room they’d been allotted was so small. At least, it was compared to the one next door where there were huge celebratory shenanigans going on following the recording of an Elton John retrospective. After a couple of drinks, Grace and Sharon had persuaded her that, instead of the warm white wine and cold sausages provided for their party, they deserved something a little more A-list. Together, the three of them had sneaked to the kitchen of Studio One where, unnoticed in the hubbub, they liberated a couple of bottles of Krug and two glass plates of exquisite canapés – sage crostini with duck pâté, crab and asparagus tartlets, summer-vegetable roulades – destined for the dinner-jacketed liggers at Elton’s bash. How much more appreciated they’d be by the people of Tart Talk.

      Returning triumphant, half expecting to be cheered on for their efforts, they discovered the atmosphere in the room had changed during their brief absence. Raucous conversations had dropped to whispers, heads were turned towards the door. There was a definite sense of expectation in the air.

      ‘Jack Bradbury’s on his way down.’

      Christie wasn’t sure what the director of programmes for TV7 did exactly but, judging from everyone’s consternation about his arrival, it was obviously not to be underestimated. Before she had time to find out, she caught sight of a newcomer in the room. Not tall, but slender, tanned, with the physique of a good amateur sportsman, Jack Bradbury cut an impressive dash in a superbly СКАЧАТЬ