Maureen, meanwhile, had come to accept that this was the career path her daughter had adopted for now. She had even been known to accept the odd compliment on Christie’s behalf in the village high street. Christie had once or twice noticed someone in the supermarket glance at her in recognition, and felt the satisfaction of doing a good job and knowing people liked her for it.
But at the beginning of July, Tart Talk was coming off air for eight weeks over the school holidays. Although not a proper regular on the show, Christie had come to look forward to her appearances, even to scything through Mel’s wardrobe – and, of course, to the much-needed income. She was unsure what she was going to do, bereft of all three.
*
One morning, Christie was in the kitchen with her second cup of coffee. She had left the kids at school an hour earlier, Libby complaining that she needed a new pair of Ugg boots (‘In the summer?’ asked Christie) and arguing that she didn’t want a haircut on Friday and, no, her skirt was not too short. Fred, in contrast, was itching to get stuck into the kick-about going on in the playground with his mates. How much less complicated a boy’s childhood was, Christie reflected as she cleared the draining-board.
Of course, she ought to have been writing the piece she was compiling on celebrities who suffered from bipolar disorder – she’d put it off for so long that the deadline was in danger of whizzing by her – but every time she got a new commission from the Daily News these days, she found it harder to galvanise herself. Christie wasn’t interested in bitching about the latest breed of female celebrities and the editor knew that. Her days at the News were definitely numbered. The only question was whether she or they would cut ties first. Her only regular income came from her new ‘Straight from the Heart’ column for Woman & Family magazine: a nice little earner, courtesy of Julia. But with Tart Talk off the air and no certainty that she’d be asked back, she prayed that Julia would get her something else. She needed the security of knowing she had more guaranteed TV work.
Still putting off going to her laptop, finding any displacement activity more appealing than writing the bipolar piece, she idly turned the pages of the News. Her attention was caught by the TV7 logo. The headline screamed ‘NOT ONE, NOT TWO, BUT THREE FOR G’. Gilly Lancaster, the glamorous co-presenter of Good Evening Britain, the nightly news programme, was having triplets.
Her absence will be another blow for the popular programme, which was hit almost a year ago by the death of handsome anchorman Ben Chapman (34). He was found in the indoor swimming-pool of über-agent Julia Keen’s (49) luxury weekend hideaway. After the verdict of accidental death, Gilly was supported by TV bosses and viewers and has taken the show to the top of the ratings. When she’ll start her maternity leave is to be announced, but TV7 will be looking for a replacement. Who will take over? Gilly says she will be back on the show as soon as possible and in the meantime is delighted and looking forward to giving her husband the family they have longed for. She is 35. (How dangerous is a multiple birth in elderly women? Pages 23 and 24.)
Christie remembered again the swimming-pool incident, which had been all over the papers. A tragedy for Ben’s family, but it must have been very difficult for Julia, too. Not only the accident itself but the inevitable press speculation surrounding it must have damaged her reputation in some quarters. Despite her weepy denials, there had been definite suggestions that the clientagent relationship had developed into something less than professional. Having met Julia now, she had only admiration for the way her agent seemed to have weathered the storm and apparently not let the tragedy affect her, personally or professionally. What strength of character she must have. Christie shut the paper and went upstairs.
She opened the door to her study and, as always, felt a special calm overtake her. This was her sanctuary, her private room. The faded floral wallpaper was peeling from the cornices, one of the walls smudged brown by a large patch of damp. Nick’s colleagues had given her the Edwardian mahogany desk at which he had worked. On either side of the knee-hole there were four pedestal drawers with brass handles, and on the rectangular moulded top there was a worn red-leather 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