Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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Gilly could say any more, she cut in: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gilly, but those hormones must be getting to you. I’m Christie.’
Sam laughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment while an infuriated Gilly tinkled through her teeth, ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’
The next fifty-four minutes went smoothly enough, and Christie was relieved that her interview with the heroic fireman ran without a hitch.
When the show was over, the first person she saw coming towards her was Julia. Immaculate as ever in a sharp yellow swing coat, her face was thunderous. ‘What were you thinking?’ she hissed, clearly not wanting to be overheard.
‘What do you mean?’ Christie was genuinely confused. ‘I thought it went well.’ So well, in fact, that as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Sam had got up and kissed her cheek. ‘You were terrific,’ he’d said. ‘Especially the interview with Jack Brown – very emotional.’ They’d both ignored Gilly’s audible ‘tsk’. ‘We should give you a proper welcome,’ Sam went on. ‘Come down to the bar, when you’re ready.’
‘You went well – very well, in fact.’ Julia softened slightly. ‘But what on earth were you wearing?’
As Christie began to explain, she could see Julia’s eyes glaze over. Her agent wasn’t interested in excuses or explanations. She wanted results. She came to at the mention of Gilly and her apparent approval of the fated blue dress.
‘You must have misunderstood her. She’s a pro and would never have told you to wear blue. Never.’
‘She didn’t exactly tell …’ But she had lost Julia’s interest again. It was true that Gilly hadn’t recommended she wear the dress, but she certainly hadn’t advised her against it when there might have been time to salvage the situation. Perhaps their relationship was already more complicated than she’d realised. In future, perhaps she would be less trusting, more cautious. Christie said goodbye to Julia, who was dashing off to a first night in the West End, then hosting an after-show dinner at Sheekey’s, so had no time to discuss anything more ‘till the morning’.
With her heart in her high heels, Christie returned to her dressing room to change. Unable to face going home to listen to Maureen reiterate Julia’s and probably the entire nation’s view of her outfit, she tossed it into a corner and zipped herself into the offending blue dress, ready to face the music in the bar. Once she was on the outside of a glass of wine, surely her faux pas wouldn’t seem to matter as much?
She pushed open the door to a crowd of staff, most of whom were completely unfamiliar to her. She spotted Sam near the bar and began to make her way to him. As soon as he felt her touch his arm, he turned and his face lit up. ‘So you’ve escaped the wicked witch’s clutches at last. Well done.’
For a moment, Christie thought he meant Gilly, but then he said, ‘The Queen of Mean? Oops!’ He winked. ‘I mean Ms Julia Keen, of course.’
‘She’s not that bad.’
‘No, she’s a good agent, I’ll give you that. But I’d keep her at arm’s length, if I were you. She’s scary. I know Ben was – well, perhaps, a little unhappy about her? And look what happened to him.’
‘What are you saying? Whatever happened to Ben was an accident. Julia was completely vindicated and you know it.’ Christie automatically sprang to her agent’s defence.
‘OK, OK. I’m sorry. Just a joke.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Forget I said anything and let me get you a drink.’
Out of his regulation work suit, Sam looked younger than his forty-something years. He had changed into jeans, open-necked white shirt and dark blue jacket. His hair was gelled into its signature spiky disorder and his eyes, generously cornered by crow’s feet, gave away a man with a good sense of humour. Within moments, Christie had a glass of white wine in her hand and was being introduced to the group that surrounded him. Caught up in the show gossip, she began to relax, watching Sam pull the crowd into his orbit. He was engaging, indiscreet without being scurrilous, and very funny indeed.
He was in the middle of a bawdy impersonation of Gilly and her husband, Derek: ‘“Oooh, Derek! However could you have defiled me so? Three babies! You must have drugged me.”
‘“More like the other way round, dear.”’ Sam put his hand on his hip, camp as anything.
‘“Don’t do that, Derek!”’ he went on. ‘“My mother already thinks you’re gay.”
‘“Well, she should know, the old fag bangle.”’
Christie wasn’t sure whether laughing was the right thing for her to do or not, so she tried to look pleasant but not too engaged.
The man beside her nodded at her. ‘Hi, I’m Frank, the senior cameraman. I’m so sorry you had all that trouble with your dress tonight. Gilly’s a cow. She loved how uncomfortable you were made to feel. I’ve worked on this show for years, love,’ he patted the bar stool beside him, ‘and I can tell you that you should be careful where Gilly’s concerned. She won’t like someone else treading on her patch, even if there’s good reason. She’ll be back as soon as those doctors let her, babies or no babies.’
‘Well, that’s fine by me,’ Christie said, not wanting to give the impression that there were any difficulties between them. ‘It’s what I’m expecting. I’m covering two or three days a week until she’s on leave and then again as she eases herself back into things.’
‘Ease!’ Frank laughed. ‘Gilly doesn’t do “ease”. She’ll be back as fast as a rat up a drainpipe. Mark my words. Did she tell you to wear that blue dress?’
Christie’s face reddened. Then she caught herself. ‘Well, not exactly.’
‘I thought so. You’re going to have to watch her like a hawk.’ He paused to take a sip of his lager. ‘Have you got a stylist?’
‘My sister, Mel.’
‘Do you have a gay best friend?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, you do now. Why don’t I come shopping with the two of you and help you with what looks good on camera?’
She’d never clothes-shopped with a man before. Nick would have peeled ten pounds of onions rather than go with her. He had left what she wore up to her, and was always gratifyingly appreciative of her choice, whatever Mel said. Why would she break the habit of a lifetime and go shopping with anyone, let alone a gay man she had only just met? She thought of Mel, her unofficial stylist, who was at that moment jetting her way to a fashion shoot in Hawaii, lucky sod. But, on the other hand, why not? She had warmed to Frank immediately and – who knew? – it might be fun. Besides, she obviously needed all the people she could get on her side after her inauspicious start. His was a hand of friendship being held out in unfamiliar shark-infested waters. She smiled and accepted his offer.
Two days later, Christie and Mel pushed behind Frank towards the corner table in the crowded wine bar. The place was swamped with Saturday shoppers, taking the weight off their credit cards while they had lunch. Insisting the two women took a seat, Frank dumped the couple of bags he was carrying for Christie, then fought his way back to the bar to order their drinks. They squeezed themselves behind the table, yanking the bags with them. Armed with her purchases, more than she had ever bought in one go, Christie felt like somebody out of Sex and the City. This must be what it was like to be a lady who lunched. She thanked the Lord for a brand new salary and a healthier bank balance.
While they waited she peered into one of the yellow Selfridges bags and pulled apart the tissue paper. A glimpse of the cream wool jacket made her wince with pleasure as she remembered the hit her bank account was about to take.
‘Don’t even go there, love,’ Frank had said,