New Beginnings. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ writing insert. She liked the idea of her elbows resting where his had, her knees filling his space. Above her lap there was a longer drawer that she filled with postcards and cards she thought might one day be useful. Behind her stood an old leather chair and a filing cabinet, its surface ringed with coffee-mug marks.

      The July sun warmed her face as she sat down and looked across the garden to the fields beyond. She glanced up at the curtain-free metal rings on the brass rail above the window, then at the bookshelves to her left, which were filled with favourite novels, mostly by the crime-writers to whom she’d become addicted after Nick’s death. She found that losing herself as she unravelled one plot-twisting mystery after another removed her from her grief. A couple of years on, she took as much if not more pleasure from them. In front of the books she had placed her treasures: the cribs from the tops of the children’s christening cakes, a tiny toy cat in a basket given to her by Libby, a plastic Superman from Fred, and several Fimo figures they’d made together.

      On the wall to her right hung a large picture that she and Nick had found when they were on holiday in the Limousin. Sunshine cut through two rows of sentinel-straight trees that flanked a country road, similar to so many they’d driven along. Beside it, there was a wedding photograph with a scribbled note from Nick stuck to the frame: The happiest day of my life. Love you. N.

      She pulled out a tartan biscuit tin from the top left drawer of the desk. Inside were all the other love notes that Nick had written to her. When he was alive, she’d find them pinned to the back of a cushion, under her pillow, in her purse, among the cutlery in the kitchen drawer, fluttering from the pages of a book. Just a few words that often meant so much. She touched them, imagining his fingers on them once, as hers were now. She shut the lid, returned the box to the drawer and switched on her laptop.

      Two hours later, having delved into the bipolar psyches of five lesser celebs, she was feeling rather manic-depressive herself. She’d made a passable stab at the feature but would polish it up the following morning – right now she wanted to get to school in time to talk to Fred’s teacher about his total lack of interest in reading. Libby had rarely been seen without a book on the go when she was Fred’s age but he was only happy with a football. Was that boys? Or did he have a problem she hadn’t recognised?

      Just as she was switching off her laptop, the phone rang. She didn’t have a chance to say more than ‘Hallo,’ before she heard, ‘Christie Lynch? Janey Smythe here. I’m Jack Bradbury’s PA from TV7. He’s asked me to arrange lunch with you at the Ivy on Thursday. I know it’s short notice but could you manage that?’

      Christie was astonished by the unlooked-for invitation. Why would TV7’s director of programmes want to see her? She had only met Jack Bradbury once at Tart Talk’s wrap party, and was sure she hadn’t made much of an impression. Presumably he wanted to talk about the show, but why? Julia hadn’t mentioned anything and the producer, Helen, had always been the person who’d liaised directly with her. She thought quickly and decided it was politic to accept. ‘Of course. That would be lovely. Thank you.’

      Was she doing anything on Thursday? She couldn’t remember. But, whatever, she’d cancel it. She didn’t want to jeopardise any chance she had of returning to the new season of the show.

      ‘One o’clock, then.’ And Janey Smythe had gone.

      Christie sat down at her desk again and stared out of the window, past the trampoline and the horse-chestnut trees to the field beyond, where sheep grazed contentedly in the sunshine. Why would Jack Bradbury want to see her? She was hardly more than an ant in his world. She picked up the phone again and dialled White Management. She was put straight through to Julia.

      ‘Jack Bradbury’s invited me to lunch at the Ivy.’

      ‘Ah.’ Christie detected a note of surprise that almost immediately vanished, as Julia continued, ‘I’ve been telling him to call you for ages and at last my hard work’s paying off. They all listen to their auntie Julia in the end. Would you like me to come for support? I can always get the best table.’

      ‘His PA said she was making the booking.’ Was that a snort of annoyance she heard? ‘But I’ll be fine on my own. I just wondered if you knew what was behind it.’

      ‘I’ve got an inkling . . .’ She clearly had no such thing and was as taken aback as Christie by the invitation. But she recovered herself quickly. ‘If my plans come off this could be very good for you. Just make sure you look your best.’ Christie didn’t rise to the veiled insult about her dress sense. ‘And don’t talk too much about your dead husband. Jack likes people to be upbeat. Tell him how much you love Tart Talk and want to build your TV career, where you see yourself going. Be confident and positive and flirt with him – he’ll respond to that. Of course, him being aware that you’ve already got me on side will help. He’ll tell me how you did.’

      Christie was beginning to feel like a five-year-old being prepped for an interview at a new school. However, she respected what Julia had to say, so heard her out without objecting. Eventually she hung up, none the wiser about the reason behind the invitation. She would have to wait until Thursday. But waiting didn’t come easy to her. She had never managed to conquer that sense of nervous anticipation – especially before the more momentous events in her life. It was as if she had a sixth sense that something important was about to happen.

       Waiting for the doorbell to ring, Christie’s stomach was churning. She remembered how, after dropping the entire contents of her handbag at Nick’s feet, he had produced his business card and handed it to her with a smile.

       ‘I owe your sister a chance to chat you up so if you feel like it give me a ring.’

       They shook hands and laughed again before getting into their respective cars and driving off.

       Mel was thrilled when Christie told her. ‘God knows what he’s like, Chris, but he’s a lawyer so Mum will love him. Serial killer or not, go for it.’

       Her sister stood over her while Christie dialled his number. Expecting the voice of a secretary, she was surprised when Nick answered. ‘Christie, how good to hear from you. I was worried you might think I was a serial killer or something.’

       Mel, who was sharing the receiver, gave a thumbs-up. ‘Sense of humour! Good sign,’ she whispered.

       Nick continued, ‘I don’t want you to think I give my card to every beautiful woman I meet.’

       Mel pretended to swoon.

       ‘In fact, you’re the first. Was that very presumptuous of me?’

       Christie wrenched the phone from Mel’s grip, and sat on the sofa. ‘Of course not. Do you think I’m too forward ringing you well before the designated “Thou shalt not ring back for seventy-two hours” rule?’

       ‘Of course not! OK – so what are you doing tonight?’

       ‘Play it cool. Play it cool,’ mouthed Mel, who had picked up the cordless extension from her bedroom and was sitting next to Christie.

       ‘Nothing. Free as a bird.’

       Mel thumped her forehead with a palm, and Christie stuck out her tongue at her.

       ‘Great. Where are you and what time shall I pick you up?’ After СКАЧАТЬ