Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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Without saying anything, he had made it clear that he didn’t want more from her. He was happy with their friendship as it was.
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’ Frank could hardly contain his excitement. He was almost bouncing on the edge of his seat with glee. There was nothing he liked more than to be first with a piece of decent gossip. He had eagerly responded to Christie’s call, asking him to join her for coffee in TV7’s canteen.
‘I’ll tell you when you take your eyes off Jeremy.’
Frank’s eyes were fixed on one of the young sparks who was chatting by the coffee machine. Butch, like something out of the old Levi’s ad, but with short, streaked hair, he wore low-slung jeans, a large-buckled belt and a T-shirt so tight that every honed muscle was visible. Christie blinked. Was that the hint of a nipple ring?
‘Mmm. Sorry, love. An old gayer like me can look, can’t he? Oh, to be young again.’ He sighed.
‘Come off it. You don’t look bad.’
‘Not like the old days, though,’ Frank patted his stomach, which was just inching over his belt, before turning to his bacon and eggs. ‘Now! Could this little chat have anything to do with Gilly’s enforced bed rest?’
‘You know?’
‘Darling, the entire studio’s been rejoicing since the news hit the wires last night. How did you hear?’
‘A phone call first thing this morning telling me to meet a film crew at her home this afternoon.’
His expression said this was news. So she still had the ace up her sleeve.
‘And I’m to be the sympathetic female interviewer!’
For a moment she thought Frank might choke. A dis-believing snort developed into a crumb-spraying belly laugh that ensured he had the attention of the entire canteen. And not in a good way. He stared at her. ‘Darling! You? A minnow to interrogate a Great White? She’ll eat you for breakfast.’
‘Thanks so much for the vote of confidence! But this time I’ll be ready for her, I promise.’
Frank rearranged his face. ‘Of course you will. You’ll do brilliantly. Just make sure you tell me every single detail! What colour carpet, how many photos of her are on display – and check out the downstairs loo. What’s her bedroom like and is there any sign of Derek sharing it with her? Derek’s definitely on the lavender bus, dear. If he hasn’t got on it yet, he’s definitely got a ticket.’
*
The car drew up outside Gilly’s Twickenham address. A small crowd of paparazzi was gathered in front of the high wooden gates. A single policeman moved them to one side as the driver leaned out to press the button on the entryphone. The car moved forward as the gates pulled back to reveal a brand new Georgian-style mansion backing onto the Thames. To one side of it, in front of the garage, was parked the family fleet of cars: a top of the range Range Rover, registration DL1 and a custom-painted gold Aston Martin DB9, registration G1 LLY. As they parked outside the building, the gates closed behind them and the front door opened. Welcome to Gilly Central, Christie said to herself, as she climbed out of the car.
A tall, perma-tanned man dressed in black jeans and a crease-free black and white striped shirt with a pink cashmere jumper hung about his shoulders stood waiting to greet them. A weak mouth widened into an insincere smile that was reflected in his pale blue eyes. ‘Hello, I’m Derek. Gilly’s husband.’ He offered his hand to be shaken. Christie grasped it, surprised at its almost feminine softness. Could Frank’s jokes about Derek’s sexuality be nearer the mark than she’d given him credit for?
‘Hi. I’m Christie and you probably know the others.’ She turned so that he could see the cameraman, sound recordist, lighting man, makeup girl and Jeremy, the muscly sparks who’d come along as the cable basher, all standing behind her.
Derek’s eyes locked on Jeremy’s for the briefest of seconds. Jeremy smirked at him. Derek looked away and gave a cursory nod before gesturing them inside. Only Christie registered their silent exchange. She knew how interested Frank would be. As soon as they were through the door into a large, enclosed porch, they were quietly requested to take off their shoes before going any further. Another door opened and they were toe-deep in ivory Axminster that stretched across the vast, double-height hallway to the twin staircases that curved in almost a heart shape to join the first floor. On the back wall between them a life-size portrait of Gilly, dressed in a long, white, Grecian-style gown, gazed benignly at all comers. On a table at its foot, a single candle burned beside a large bunch of white lilies that filled the air with their heavy scent. That and the huge domed atrium way above their heads contributed to the inappropriate religious atmosphere. As the crew stood staring, Christie drank in every detail to repeat to Frank later.
The silence was shattered by a loud and recognisable voice that reverberated down the stairs. ‘Derek!’
‘Coming, my love,’ he shouted back, then wearily turned to the crew, catching Jeremy’s eye again as he did so. ‘Gilly’s expecting you.’
At the top of the stairs, he knocked on and pushed open a polished wooden door, then stood to one side. As she stepped through, Christie had to check that her jaw was still in place. They had been shown into the largest bedroom she could remember being in. More extraordinary still was that there was not a splash of colour to be seen – just acres of whiteness, accessorised with gold, nothing else. To her left, there was a white velvet three-piece suite, the sofa occupied by a white Persian cat that lay stretched on its back in front of a faux coal fire. By the arm of one of the chairs, a glass occasional table held an arrangement of ten gleaming gold-dipped white roses, a gift tag propped against the vase. The walls were hung with an impressive collection of Venetian mirrors, the light from the recessed ceiling bulbs and artfully placed floor lamps playing off the intricacies of the cut glass. Above the white marble mantelpiece was a vast canvas that was – well, white. Christie had to suppress an urgent desire to laugh.
A cough took her attention to the other end of the room where Gilly sat, like a glorious ad for the White Company, propped with pillows on an enormous bed, its height exaggerated by being raised on a platform with three shallow steps that ran all the way round. Behind her, from a gold tiara fixed high on the wall, two sheer cotton voile drapes swept down to either side of the bed where they were held in place by gold tie-backs. Beside them were two enormous arrangements of white roses. Near the right-hand foot of the bed, a large cheval mirror was angled so that Gilly could catch her own reflection. She checked herself as she greeted them weakly, forgetting that they must have heard how loudly she could still shout.
‘Gilly! How are you feeling?’ Christie took a step forward, determined to meet her on the common ground of motherhood. One mum to a mum-to-be.
‘Furious at having to let everyone down. Nothing could be more inconvenient.’ So bed-rest had yet to bring out the hidden mother in her – if there was one. ‘Shall we get on? The doctor’s called to say he’ll be here shortly. Bloody nuisance. How I hate being a burden.’ She adopted a theatrical wan face again, checking it in the cheval mirror.
‘Sure.’ Christie dropped back into professional mode. ‘Shall we go through some questions while the boys set up?’
‘I don’t think we need to do that, do you? I know exactly what I want to say. I don’t know why they bothered sending you, really. I could just do a straightforward personal piece to camera.’ She smoothed the highly threaded, satinised duvet cover in front of her. ‘Is Marie there?’
The makeup girl stepped forward, clutching her box of tricks.
‘Thank God it’s you, Marie. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. No rouge today. I’m a little pale, I know, but I want the viewers to see the real me.’ She pulled her white marabou-feather-edged bed-jacket closer round her shoulders and flopped back, as if exhausted by the effort.
While