Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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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