Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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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 he had written down her address and phone number they hung up.
Mel was bouncing up and down with excitement. ‘You’re going to have to tell me everything the minute you get home. I won’t go to bed till you phone. Otherwise … I’ll tell Mum.’ The worst threat she could muster.
Christie laughed and swiped her sister with a cushion.
The rest of the day dragged. Christie should have written up an article about surfing the net, a fast-growing phenomenon that even Maureen was interested in. Instead she went shopping. There was a small second-hand dress exchange at the end of the road where she found the perfect Armani LBD. At a fraction of its original cost, it was still way over her budget but, how did you dress for a lawyer?
At last it was five to seven and the window of her top-floor flat was open so she could keep leaning out to see if he’d arrived. She’d shaved her legs, washed her hair and was just putting on the last coat of mascara when the doorbell rang. She jumped – and got mascara on her nose. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ With a tissue covering the blot she hung out of the window and saw him standing on the steps. ‘Coming,’ she yelled, then leaped into the bathroom, cleaned herself up and ran downstairs.
They went to a small Greek restaurant off Charlotte Street. All rather clichéd – red and white check tablecloths, candles in retsina bottles and scarlet geraniums on the tables – but special all the same. He told her about his upbringing: only son of a now-retired lawyer and his wife, educated at a state grammar school with an ambition to follow in his father’s footsteps. She told him about her darling father, a printer in Fleet Street for thirty-five years who had succumbed to a brain tumour four years earlier. As a little girl she would sometimes go with him to watch the Sunday edition go to press on Saturday night. Maybe those times with him had hooked her to journalism.
It was almost midnight when they got back to her flat. She invited him in for coffee but he declined. As he left he gave her the tenderest of kisses and promised to call in the morning. When she opened her flat door, the phone was ringing. She picked up, knowing exactly who it was.
‘Well? Shall I buy a hat?’ It was Mel.
‘Perhaps he’s going to offer you a permanent job on Tart Talk. Breathe in, for God’s sake!’ Mel pulled the zip of the dress between Christie’s shoulder-blades and up to the top.
Christie had called in at her sister’s tiny Chiswick flat on her way to the Ivy, only to be told that the black trouser suit she’d chosen for the occasion was all wrong, too severe.
‘I wish. But none of the others have ever talked about leaving.’ Christie turned to her, each breath a dangerous test of the seams. ‘Is it meant to be this tight?’
‘No, it’s not. Get it off quick, before it rips. Here.’
As the zip was undone, oxygen flooded back into Christie’s lungs and the dress fell to the floor among all the others Mel had suggested and Christie had discarded. Somewhere in the creative chaos of her bedroom Mel was sure she had the perfect outfit. It was just a question of laying her hands on it. Once again, the younger sister had taken charge and picked her way to the wardrobe, saying, ‘You may be a brilliant wordsmith, but you have no style at all. You’re so lucky I’m here. I finished the Vogue shoot yesterday and I’m off to Mauritius on Saturday.’ Bags hung off the end of her bed; jewellery was scattered entangled across two bookshelves and the mantelpiece; scarves and belts were draped over the chair back and the open wardrobe door. Wherever a hanger could hang, it did, both inside and outside the wardrobe, off the back of the door and the window frames, all carrying the trophies that came with being a fashion stylist and victim. But Christie’s mind wasn’t on the mess.
‘I only talked to the man for a couple of minutes at the end-of-term party and he didn’t seem fabulously impressed by me. Why would he want to meet me again so soon?’
‘Maybe so he can get to know you better. What about this glorious Vivienne Westwood? I got it for a shoot the other day and don’t have to get it back to her till next week.’
‘He’s not that type. And that dress definitely isn’t mine.’ It was a blue and white floral shawl-sleeved wrap with a slightly asymmetrical bodice that would make her stand out far too far in a crowd. Perhaps she should have gone with Maureen’s equally ridiculous suggestion of something from Country