After twenty minutes, Christie knew the menu off by heart and was growing increasingly irritated and uncomfortable. Whenever she moved, she imagined Julia’s eyes boring into her. When she’d tried to check if Jack had left a voicemail to explain his no-show, a waiter had rushed to her side, explaining no phones were allowed. She could have gone outside, of course, but she couldn’t face running the gauntlet of stares again, least of all Julia’s. Just as she was debating whether or not to leave, there was a flurry at the door and in stepped her host. He crossed the restaurant, stopping briefly to greet people at various tables, nodding, smiling and exchanging the odd word, then chatting to Julia for what seemed an age. He gave Christie time to assess him again, taking in his charcoal grey couture suit, the neat salt-and-pepper hair, the smugness of his flawless expression, the suspicion of an eyebrow wax. Finally he joined her, apologising for his lateness. Feeling more insignificant than she had thought possible, she tried to brush off his apology as if she hadn’t even noticed the time.
He sat down and cut straight to the chase. ‘Now, how long have you been with us?’ He smiled, as if to encourage her.
‘Only a couple of months or so.’
‘Of course. I’ve been following your work for a while, you know, as well as watching you develop as a presenter.’
She had to hand it to him, he was as smooth as a snake. Did he really think she’d believe he’d ever watched MarketForce, let alone read her pieces in the Daily News? However, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued and flattered by his attention. The waiter had materialised beside them, order pad in hand. Christie had decided to plump for the crispy duck and watercress salad then the halibut, but Jack surprised her by ordering for them both.
‘I’ll have my usual and my guest will have the same.’
She wasn’t entirely sure that she was as impressed as he might have wanted her to be by this masterly approach that denied her what she wanted.
Within the snap of a finger, two flutes of perfectly chilled champagne were placed on the table. Another snap and there in front of them was a bowl of crushed ice with a tiny bowl of caviar on top, surrounded by blinis, sour cream, finely diced boiled egg, parsley and chopped shallots. Tiny mother-of-pearl spoons were placed on the table beside them. Christie tried to hide her surprise, having registered the price on the menu.
As they ate, Jack asked the questions, making her feel like the only woman in the restaurant as he focused entirely on her. His first was one Julia had warned he might ask: ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’ He leaned forward, inviting her confidence.
Better bold than not, she decided. ‘Oh, I’ve got my sights on the director-generalship.’
He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes. He changed tack. ‘Do you believe in heaven or hell?’
This is surreal, she thought, trying to find an answer that might appeal to him but only landing on, ‘No.’
She didn’t want to share with him the doubts she’d experienced after Nick’s death that had forced her to question so many things in her life. As they continued, she remembered Julia’s advice and remained positive and confident, aware that her agent’s no doubt eagle ear might be trained on her. Jack went on to mention the features she’d presented on the show and how much he’d liked her contribution. ‘You look the part and you’ve got an assurance that makes the viewers feel comfortable and included.’ So he must have watched after all, even if it was only on DVD in preparation for this lunch. Either that, or Julia had done her job supremely well. Christie certainly wasn’t going to admit to being anything other than the person he had seen or been told about.
As she began to relax, feeling she had got his measure at last, he said, ‘Tell me, what do you think of TV7?’
That was fine: she’d rehearsed her answer the previous night in the bath. She was about to reply when he continued: ‘Do you see the channel as a man or a woman? I mean … which characteristics do you think they share?’
My God! What was the man on? Julia was giving no sign of having heard a word of the conversation. Christie was on her own, all too aware she mustn’t say the wrong thing. She thought for a split second, then looked deep into those blue eyes and said, ‘Oh, a man, I think. It’s smart, has achieved a lot in a short time and charms both men and women. A sort of male Marilyn Monroe, if you like.’
Jack beamed and nodded, clearly identifying himself with the channel. She refused the last blini and, while he ate it, indulged in guessing what the mystery second course would be. But instead, a moment after they’d emptied their plates, he called over the waiter and asked for the bill. So that was how he kept so trim. Bloody hell, she was starving! Hoping she still had the KitKat in the glove compartment of her car, she heard him say, ‘I’d like you to come to the studio next week to see how Good Evening Britain is put together. I want to try a completely new face as a foil to Sam Abbott, who’s taking over as main anchor while Gilly Lancaster’s on maternity leave. I take it you’ve watched the show?’
Stunned into near silence, she hurriedly assured him she had. Who hadn’t? Good Evening Britain was fast becoming a TV legend: a programme filled with warmth and humour while unafraid to tackle the big news agenda.
‘Good, good. Gilly’s leaving in a few weeks, so we need to see how you look on camera in the studio and whether you can read the autocue and manage the talkback. Quite simple. I’m sure you’ll manage superbly. I’ll ask Janey to call your agent with the details.’
She nodded her agreement. Just wait until Mel and Maureen heard about this. Julia too.
Jack leaned over the table and touched her hand with the extreme tip of one finger. In a low, conspiratorial voice, he said, ‘I’ve got to go, Christie. My car’s waiting. We’ll be in touch.’ With that, he left.
Christie sat still in the centre of the room, feeling very alone and wondering what to do next. She reached for her handbag and was about to rise from her seat, when she froze at the sight of Julia steaming towards her. Julia’s guest had dematerialised – they must have finished their meal already – and she was nodding right and left, ensuring that most eyes were on her. Her blouse was crisp and her figure-hugging Prada skirt had not one wrinkle. She settled herself at Christie’s table, signalled to the waiter to clear away the remains of the lunch and ordered two double espressos. Then she smiled professionally at the speechless Christie.
‘Now, Christie,’ she asked, ‘how did that go?’
Two hours later, Christie arrived home, starving and elated. Walking through the front door, she was overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of over-fried onions and burning beefburgers. Her appetite instantly became a thing of the past. There was only one person she knew who could cook something so simple so badly.
‘Mel!’
Her sister was oblivious to everything as she jigged in front of the grill, a wooden spoon her microphone, swishing her apron can-can style over her jeans and wailing like a banshee. She had never let her family’s frequent criticisms of her voice put her off belting out a good song.
‘Mel!’ Christie shouted again, this time grabbing the oven gloves from her sister’s shoulder and swatting them at her waist.
Mel jumped round, the alarm on her face giving way to a grin. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?’ She turned to the iPod dock and lowered the volume, eager for Christie’s news. ‘What happened? Tell all. What did he want?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Christie slowed her down. ‘Where are the kids? I asked you to give them a decent meal, not a few charred scraps.’
‘They’ll