But Christie had gone. She couldn’t take her mother’s wittering any longer so she had opened the front door and just walked out. For a brief moment in her life she wanted to be free of responsibility. No more widow, no more mum. Just Christie.
Her escape didn’t last long – half an hour at most – and when she got home, the children were in the middle of supper, eating chicken nuggets at the kitchen table. Maureen was at the sink, making a jug of Ribena. Christie went to her and hugged her. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘That’s all right, darling.’
And nothing more was said.
Somehow the funeral drew a line through the chaos of the days preceding it, and gradually Christie’s life began to take on a rhythm of sorts. Not the same as before, but almost bearable. Now that she was solely responsible for the children and could think of nothing else, she gave in her notice at MarketForce and devoted herself to them, so money was tight. When Libby and Fred were settled, she would start working as a journalist again. The one thing hanging over her head was the bank loan Nick had taken out to help his father, not long before he died. The debt was part of his legacy to her. She had promised him that she would never tell Maureen about its existence, and there was no way she would tell her now.
Deep breathing was not producing the desired effect. Christie’s heart was still racing as fast as if she’d been rigged up to an intravenous caffeine drip. Her palms were clammy and she knew that if she unclenched her fists her hands would be shaking. She inhaled again slowly, trying to focus her thoughts. Catching sight of herself, she immediately wished she’d stuck with the simple black round-necked dress, her original choice, instead of giving in to her fashionista sister. After last night’s couple of glasses of wine, Mel had insisted she went for something more ‘out there’.
‘Chris! I’m not going to allow you to disappear into the scenery … as normal. This is your big chance, the one time when you want people to notice you, and you’re dressing in your usual widow’s weeds. Try this.’
She held out a funky, figure-hugging aquamarine and yellow silk sheath dress, which they both knew Christie would never wear in a million years. The neck, hemline and lack of sleeves meant there was way too much on show. Only two years younger, Mel had always been the risk-taker, edgier, unafraid of others’ opinions, and her dress sense reflected that. She had been the highest-marked student of the year when she graduated from the London College of Fashion and was now making a name for herself as a freelance stylist for the glossy mags. Although the sisters were the same size, there was little in their separate wardrobes that would happily cross over. In any case, Christie wasn’t sure she wanted people to notice her because of what she wore.
In the end, they had settled on a compromise, dug from the back of the wardrobe: a maroon wrap dress that reached to just above her knees and whispered, ‘Look at me. I’m sexy and smart.’ Even Mel didn’t know how this piece of good taste had got into her wardrobe, but they’d agreed that, zhooshed up with very sheer tights, a simple but gorgeous necklace and some killer heels, this was the look that was just right for Christie and for the show.
However, now, standing at the side of the studio, surrounded by the controlled chaos of cameramen, runners, researchers, editor, producer and the other presenters, Christie suddenly felt less confident. Instead of distracting attention from her modest bosom, the large milky amber pendant they’d chosen seemed to accentuate it. To fill out what now seemed an inappropriately skimpy neckline, she needed the breasts of Sharon Barber, the bosomy ex-soap star and Tart Talk regular who was standing a few feet away, chatting to the floor manager. Christie pulled at the jersey fabric, trying to close the V, then reminded herself of how the girls in Makeup had complimented her. Under those super-bright lights, her reflection was of someone she hardly recognised. Instead of the usual dressed-down mother of two, she saw someone elegant but not intimidating, well-groomed but not over the top. They’d given her a bit more eye-shadow and lip-gloss than she was used to and her hair was bigger and more flicked out, but she had to admit that, against her expectations, she quite liked the new her. She took another deep breath.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Marina French smiling at her. An experienced news reporter, now deemed too old for the mainstream news, Marina was respected for her popularity and her ballsy attitude to life, which made male presenters quail. She was still the anchor of Tart Talk because of the much-needed gravitas she lent to the otherwise unpredictable fast-talking show. ‘Christie, don’t worry. You’ll be fine,’ she murmured, as she nodded towards the audience. ‘They’ve come to have a good time. They want to like you.’
Christie nodded and swallowed. ‘Hmm. If you say so …’
‘Every guest presenter feels nervous their first time on live TV. I’d be worried if you weren’t. But once you’re out there, the time’ll whizz by. Try to enjoy it. You’ll soon be an old hand.’
‘I hope so.’ And she truly did. However nerve-racking the experience so far, she was feeling an excitement that she hadn’t known in years. Last week’s phone call from the show’s producer had come at exactly the right moment. She had read and loved the one-off piece Christie had written about Nick’s death, her enforced single motherhood and subsequent move to the country.
After two years, Christie had at last found she was able to look back and understand that she should celebrate the time she had been given with Nick. As the children grew older, she was even beginning to enjoy being single again as she gained a new perspective on 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