New Beginnings

‘Who’d know?’ Libby’s reasoning was impeccable. Her father’s daughter.

‘Well . . .’ Christie hesitated ‘. . . I would, and I wouldn’t be happy. Look, it won’t be for long.’ She reached out to lay a consoling hand on her daughter’s leg.

‘But suppose they take you on for ever? People stay in those jobs for years, don’t they?’

If Libby hadn’t sounded so anxious, Christie would have laughed at the idea. Instead she reassured her: ‘They won’t. I’m only going to be there while Gilly Lancaster’s on maternity leave. She’ll be back.’

‘But suppose you’re better than her? Or suppose she wants to stay at home with her children?’

‘Libby, don’t. This will only be for a few months. Just understand that it’s an opportunity for me that may work out well for us all.’ She smoothed her daughter’s hair. ‘Look at me. I promise.’ She leaned across and kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s go and get Fred.’

They drove in silence, Libby listening to her music, occasionally bursting into random snatches of song, while Christie thought about their future. The prospect of being beamed nightly into households all around the country was as daunting as it was exciting. However much she tried to reassure Libby, she knew at the back of her mind that her daughter was right. There was no doubt that their life was going to change, perhaps not altogether for the best, and there was nothing she could do to stop that.

This is what I wanted, she reminded herself. And, after all, it’s only for a year tops, so I’d better make the most of it.

They turned down a long driveway, between two rows of rowan trees, the car crunching over deep gravel, and she stopped in the stable-yard at the back of a square, red-brick Victorian farmhouse. The door to the kitchen was open and Christie could see Olly and Fred’s heads bent in concentration as they studied something on the kitchen table. They looked up when they heard the car door slam but immediately went back to the matter in hand.

Christie tapped at the door before she went in. Stepping over a pile of muddy boots and shoes, she found herself in a long wide room with a large pine table in the centre and wooden units along two of whitewashed walls, which were hung with rusty old farming tools at one end, cooking utensils at the other. Richard was standing with his back to her, intent on pouring a colourless liquid from a large brown bottle into a preserving pan.

‘What are you all doing?’

‘We found a bird’s skull and some spine bones!’ Fred gabbled. ‘Olly and I are trying to work out what kind of bird from this book. You have to look at all the different shapes of beak. We think it might be a kestrel. See how hooked theirs are?’

‘We’re soaking them in hydrogen peroxide to sterilise them so they can take them into school,’ Richard said, putting the pan safely at the back of the wooden draining-board and screwing the top back onto the bottle. ‘Jigger, no!’ Said too late as a black Labrador rushed through the door and jumped up at Christie, almost bowling her over. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s not meant to do that but he’s young and very stupid.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Christie was laughing as she took the cloth he offered and wiped at the paw prints on her jeans, turning away from the disobedient dog, which was now refusing to be shooed out by Olly.

‘Mum, we’ve been learning to track in the woods too. And I know how to tell the time without a watch now.’

‘Really? How can you do that?’ she asked, giving the cue for a torrent of incoherent explanation from the two boys, who talked over each other as they described something involving the sun, a stick and some stones. ‘Come and see.’ They rushed out of a second door at the end of the room into the garden, Jigger chasing after them, jumping up and catching their sleeves with his teeth as they ran.

‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but I guess we haven’t got time.’ Richard let her go out of the door first. ‘Wouldn’t Libby like to see too?’

‘She’s wrapped up in her music. Besides, anything Fred gets up to is way beneath her. She’ll be fine provided we’re not too long.’

They followed the boys across the garden to a stick that was standing with a circle of stones placed evenly around it.

‘Go on, Mum. Ask me the time,’ said Fred.

Christie obliged.

‘Half past five,’ he yelled, triumphant.

‘That’s amazing and completely right.’ She knelt down to have the elementary sun-dial explained to her. When she looked up, Richard was gazing in her direction. She got to her feet. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘This is just what Fred needs. He absolutely loves coming here.’

‘And we love having him. Don’t we, Jigger?’ He bent to pat the dog that was wagging around his legs, shivering with delight at the attention. ‘We were lucky today, not having any team-building groups in. Some companies want to come at the weekend – they simply can’t waste a minute of the working week – and then it all gets a bit hectic on the childcare front.’

‘Perhaps I could return the favour on those days,’ Christie offered, as they began to head back to the car. ‘Fred! Come on.’

‘If Caro’s away, I’ll hold you to that.’

‘Oh, sorry, how stupid of me.’ She kicked herself for forgetting that his situation was not the same as hers.

‘Nothing to be sorry about. But there is one thing I was wondering, which is . . .’ He paused, as if nerving himself to say something. ‘There’s a pub quiz next Saturday and one of the regulars on our team can’t make it. I don’t suppose you’d like to come? Would you?’

Christie froze. Was he actually asking her on a date? She dismissed the idea as fast as it had entered her head. Of course he wasn’t. They had the kids in common and he probably didn’t have anyone else he could ask at such short notice. Mates, that’s what they were. But then she remembered Mel’s comment about tuning her radar. Perhaps they could be more. Perhaps she was failing to read the signs. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Provided I can find a babysitter.’

As they reached the car, Fred hurled himself onto the back seat while Jigger, having jumped in after him, was hauled out from the other side by Richard. ‘Bloody animal! That’s terrific. I’ll pick you up at about six. We’ll eat there.’

As they said their goodbyes and thank-yous and set off for home, Christie became aware that Libby had removed her headphones when Jigger made his unscheduled entrance and exit and was now staring at her with a look of disdain cut with horror. ‘You’re not going on a . . .’ she could barely say the word ‘. . . date with him, are you?’ She mustered all the scorn at her disposal. ‘Aren’t you a bit old? And, anyway, what about Dad?’

‘You’re never too old, Libby. Never.’ Christie smiled at her daughter. ‘And Dad would be proud that we’re all getting on with our lives, you know. He really would.’

Her eyes on the road, she didn’t see the two spots of colour that appeared on Libby’s cheeks or the single tear she dashed away as she turned to stare out of the window.

Chapter 8

Thirty minutes before her first programme, Christie was looking in her dressing-room mirror, studying the professional makeup on her face. Not bad. The photo-shoot (in a beautiful coral body-con dress that Mel had picked out for her) had been good, and the accompanying articles in the papers that day were positive.

There was a knock on the door of the tiny dressing room. It opened to reveal Gilly Lancaster, balancing a hand-tied posy on her pregnant stomach. In the flesh, she was smaller than she appeared on TV. A sleek mane of immaculately blow-dried blonde hair framed her face, and twinkling arrangements of gold and silver stars hung from her ears. Not a wrinkle showed above her neat, pointed nose or beside her wide mouth – all beaten into submission with Botox and filler, no doubt. For the umpteenth time, Christie swore she would stay out of the hands of cosmetic doctors and surgeons, whatever the cost to her new career. Gilly’s welcoming smile revealed a mouthful of perfectly capped and whitened teeth. She was wearing an elegant dusty pink crêpe-de-Chine trouser suit with a jacket cut low enough to reveal a hint of pregnant cleavage, with a wide front bow, its ends long enough almost to disguise her bump. Looking longingly at Gilly’s towering strappy shoes, Christie couldn’t but remember her own pregnancies and her constant longing for comfortable slippers and tracksuits. She could no more have dressed like this than fly to the moon.

Today had been the first day they’d met and, following that encounter, Gilly was here with what must be a peace-offering. Earlier, Christie had walked into her first production meeting two minutes early to discover that everyone bar Vince, the programme editor, was already there. Gilly had been sitting on the far side of the large table strewn with newspapers, most of which were open at the page on which Christie’s glamorous photo stood out beneath headlines such as ‘NEW GIRL MAKES NEWS! LANCASTER LYNCHED’, with flattering accounts of her suitability for the job and photos showing Gilly’s burgeoning figure. There was an empty chair beside Gilly. She had put her hand on the back and nodded at Christie, saying, ‘Come and sit here.’ Grateful for the friendly gesture, Christie had sat down. Just then, the swing doors had banged open and Vince burst in. He took one look across the table, his face reddening. ‘You’re in my chair,’ he said, with quiet menace. Mortified, Christie had moved to the other empty one at the end of the table. She had seen Gilly give Vince a look, as if to say, ‘I warned you she was an idiot,’ then glance at her with a one hundred per cent smirk.

Things had not improved when Vince then championed Christie and insisted she was given the second-lead interview with Jack Brown, one of the few firemen who had survived an oil-refinery blaze. Despite Gilly’s furious objections, he was adamant that he wanted Christie to make a mark on her first show.

Christie remembered the glare Gilly had shot in her direction, yet now she was standing in front of her with a floral apology. The last thing Christie wanted to do was get off on the wrong foot with any of her new colleagues, especially on her first show.

‘I didn’t get a chance to give these to you before.’ Gilly passed the flowers to Christie who thanked her and looked vainly for a vase in which to put them. The only one there held the wilting good-luck flowers that Libby and Fred had picked from the garden that morning. Defeated, she put the posy on her dressing-table.

Gilly was oblivious to the fate of her gift and carried on: ‘Julia’s told me so much about you. We talk all the time. Is she here yet?’

‘Not yet. She called to say she was running late.’ If Gilly wasn’t going to refer to what had happened earlier, then Christie wouldn’t either. Starting out with a confrontation or an apology would not make any kind of working relationship. She’d happily accept the olive branch and leave it at that.

‘She’s so amazing.’ Gilly sat in the other chair, wincing as she slipped off a shoe and rubbed her slightly puffy feet. ‘When I started, she made everything so easy. She knows everyone.’ A burst of laughter escaped her lips. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Excited, terrified and numb,’ said Christie. ‘I’ll be glad when the first show’s over.’

‘You’ll be absolutely fine. Sam’s a poppet. He’s learned so much since he’s been working with me.’

Christie disliked the patronising note that had crept into Gilly’s voice.

‘What are you wearing?’

Julia had explained that she’d secured Gilly a clothes budget and a stylist who shopped with her, but the show didn’t run to doing the same for the second-string presenters. Once Christie had proved herself, perhaps she’d be given a budget of her own. Until then, with Mel’s help, Christie had vowed she wasn’t going to be made to feel like Second-hand Rose.

‘This dress?’ She adopted a jokey pose. Mel had found a very simple figure-hugging bluey-purple shift with cap sleeves that seemed ideal for her first appearance.

‘Fabulous.’ Gilly’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. ‘The perfect colour for you.’ She was interrupted by another knock at the door, their call to go to the studio. ‘Follow me. This place is such a warren. I don’t want you to get lost.’ She slipped her shoe back on and, limping, led the way.

Although she knew what to expect, Christie was always surprised by how small and intimate the studio was. The low, black ceiling was hung about with hundreds of studio lights that raised the temperature to Saharan heights. People were standing about, chatting quietly or listening to whoever in the gallery outside was talking to them via their earpiece. Across the smooth, shiny floor looped fat black cables attached to five cameras topped with autocue hoods that were focused on the brightly lit set, like monsters watching their prey. Against three of the walls were what looked like scuffed Ikea room sets. In the middle, two curved cream sofas sat empty in front of a softly lit orange backdrop. A carafe of water, two glasses and a box of Kleenex (for the more emotional interviews) were placed on two low tables. To the left was the demo area, the empty white corner that the designers could magic into anything: today, a kitchen set. On the right, in the hard-interview area, two uncomfortable-looking chairs faced each other across a coffee-table against a wide photographic backdrop: a collage of well-known buildings from around Britain.

As she waited for the floor manager to come over, Christie became aware that a couple of scene hands were staring at her, then looking away and smiling as if having a joke at her expense. Before she had time to ask them what was so funny, the director was talking in her earpiece.

‘Christie, hi. Ian here. Just sit on the cream sofa and let Camera Two have a look at you.’ As she sat down, his voice abruptly changed. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’

‘I’m sorry? What’s the matter?’ Christie was completely thrown. She looked around for Gilly, who had admired her outfit, but she had vanished among the crew. If something was so obviously wrong, why on earth hadn’t she said so when there had been a chance to put it right?

‘The matter? No one wears blue on set. Surely you know that. You’ll disappear into the chroma-key.’

‘Chroma-key?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Someone tell her, for fuck’s sake. And in the meantime – Lillybet!’ he bellowed down the talkback to one of the runners, all of whom were pretending not to notice what was going on. ‘Take her down to Wardrobe and see if they’ve got something suitable. Anything other than fucking blue!’

The entire studio had turned to look at her.

Wishing this was a nightmare from which she’d soon wake up, Christie was marched away through the maze of corridors. Lillybet quickly explained that chroma-key was a bit of TV magic that allowed all kinds of photos, films and weather maps to appear where they weren’t. Some chroma-key screens were green. Good Evening Britain’s was blue. When they reached Wardrobe, she banged open the door, avoiding a giant pile of discarded shoes, and yelled, ‘Quick. Emergency. Nell, we need something right now.’ She grimaced apologetically at Christie, who was feeling so small she barely noticed.

Nell, a slight girl dressed in black with purple-and-black stripy tights, punky red-and-orange hair standing on end and a multi-ringed right ear and right nostril, emerged from behind a rail of clothes. Obviously peeved at being disturbed, she eyed Christie up and down. ‘Haven’t got much in at the moment,’ she said grumpily.

‘Doesn’t matter. The show starts in fifteen,’ said Lillybet. ‘It does matter to me,’ interrupted Christie, realising she didn’t want to be remembered for making her first appearance on Good Evening Britain in a sack. Maureen and Mel would never let her live it down, never mind the press. And Julia! Oh, God. ‘There must be something you’ve got that isn’t too awful.’

‘Just a minute.’ Nell disappeared again and came back with a maroon skirt and a cream shirt with a semi-circular frilled arrangement across the bust. ‘How about this? Right size. The best I can do.’

While Christie tried the outfit on, she could hear the director shouting through her earpiece and over Lillybet’s walkie-talkie. She straightened up and looked in the mirror. As if making her look like a refugee from a seventies sit-com wasn’t crime enough – the blouse put a good ten years on her. At least. ‘I’m not sure about this. Isn’t there something else I could try?’

‘No time and you look fine. Really.’ Lillybet didn’t sound entirely convinced but another disembodied yell galvanised her. ‘Come on. We’ll be dead if we’re not back in the studio in a couple of minutes.’ She was already holding open the door.

Not wanting to make things worse, Christie had no choice but to follow her. As she approached the set where Gilly was waiting, seated on the sofa opposite Sam, she thought she saw a satisfied smile hovering on her co-presenter’s lips. But, with only moments to go, there was no time to say anything. One of the makeup girls rushed up and neatened her hair, dabbing powder on her nose to deaden the perspiration. There was no point in worrying what she looked like now. She held her head high and went to sit beside Gilly, as instructed, listening to the familiar introductory music and waiting for the show to begin.

Gilly opened as usual, and led straight into Christie’s introduction. With a saccharine smile, she addressed the nation, her fans. ‘As you all know, I’ll shortly be going on maternity leave to have my three little blessings so it gives me enormous pleasure to be able to introduce Caroline Lynch . . .’ Christie and Sam looked at each other ‘. . . who’ll be looking after things for me.’

Enough, thought Christie. Before Gilly could say any more, she cut in: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gilly, but those hormones must be getting to you. I’m Christie.’

Sam laughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment while an infuriated Gilly tinkled through her teeth, ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’

The next fifty-four minutes went smoothly enough, and Christie was relieved that her interview with the heroic fireman ran without a hitch.

When the show was over, the first person she saw coming towards her was Julia. Immaculate as ever in a sharp yellow swing coat, her face was thunderous. ‘What were you thinking?’ she hissed, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

‘What do you mean?’ Christie was genuinely confused. ‘I thought it went well.’ So well, in fact, that as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Sam had got up and kissed her cheek. ‘You were terrific,’ he’d said. ‘Especially the interview with Jack Brown – very emotional.’ They’d both ignored Gilly’s audible ‘tsk’. ‘We should give you a proper welcome,’ Sam went on. ‘Come down to the bar, when you’re ready.’

‘You went well – very well, in fact.’ Julia softened slightly. ‘But what on earth were you wearing?’

As Christie began to explain, she could see Julia’s eyes glaze over. Her agent wasn’t interested in excuses or explanations. She wanted results. She came to at the mention of Gilly and her apparent approval of the fated blue dress.

‘You must have misunderstood her. She’s a pro and would never have told you to wear blue. Never.’

‘She didn’t exactly tell . . .’ But she had lost Julia’s interest again. It was true that Gilly hadn’t recommended she wear the dress, but she certainly hadn’t advised her against it when there might have been time to salvage the situation. Perhaps their relationship was already more complicated than she’d realised. In future, perhaps she would be less trusting, more cautious. Christie said goodbye to Julia, who was dashing off to a first night in the West End, then hosting an after-show dinner at Sheekey’s, so had no time to discuss anything more ‘till the morning’.

With her heart in her high heels, Christie returned to her dressing room to change. Unable to face going home to listen to Maureen reiterate Julia’s and probably the entire nation’s view of her outfit, she tossed it into a corner and zipped herself into the offending blue dress, ready to face the music in the bar. Once she was on the outside of a glass of wine, surely her faux pas wouldn’t seem to matter as much?

She pushed open the door to a crowd of staff, most of whom were completely unfamiliar to her. She spotted Sam near the bar and began to make her way to him. As soon as he felt her touch his arm, he turned and his face lit up. ‘So you’ve escaped the wicked witch’s clutches at last. Well done.’

For a moment, Christie thought he meant Gilly, but then he said, ‘The Queen of Mean? Oops!’ He winked. ‘I mean Ms Julia Keen, of course.’

‘She’s not that bad.’

‘No, she’s a good agent, I’ll give you that. But I’d keep her at arm’s length, if I were you. She’s scary. I know Ben was – well, perhaps, a little unhappy about her? And look what happened to him.’

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