New Beginnings. Fern Britton
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4
‘Julia’s ready for you. Follow me.’
Christie stood up, straightened her jacket and followed Julia’s PA, who had introduced herself as Lily Watson-Fellows – ‘Call me Lily’ – out of the plush reception area. They left behind the frenetic atmosphere created by two receptionists, who were buzzing about, answering phones and furiously typing, and entered the silence of a long corridor. The first door on the right was labelled ‘Lenny Chow’. Inside the small, no-frills office, lined with shelves crowded with bulging files, a shirt-sleeved Chinese man of about forty was tapping at a calculator and making notes on his screen.
‘That’s Lenny, our accountant,’ Lily said, in passing. ‘He’s indispensable and sorts out the money side of things for the agency.’
Lenny looked up and smiled at Christie through his wire-framed glasses. ‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo,’ she replied, taking in his open, happy expression and his slicked-back black hair. This was a face that said integrity and duty, she thought. However, she couldn’t but notice his nails were bitten to the quick.
‘Ciao, Mr Chow.’ Lily laughed.
Christie transferred her attention to the framed glossy photographs of White Management clients that hung on the walls. Most of them were household names, actors and presenters, often in the company of a perfectly groomed and always beaming Julia Keen – a hand on a shoulder, sharing a joke, deep in conversation – clearly a woman with a wardrobe, not to mention a roll-call of A-list talent. After passing Lily’s cupboard of an office, Christie was shown into an elegant white room with a plush air-force-blue carpet and two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a spectacular view across the glittering Thames to beyond the London Eye. On the other two there were more photos, framed front covers of Broadcast and Stage & TV Today and an in-depth profile of Julia from the Observer.
‘Sit down, darling.’ Julia gestured at the black leather sofa opposite a low, round, glass coffee-table where one white orchid arched in solitary splendour. ‘Coffee?’
When Lily had been dispatched to get caffè latte for Christie and water for Julia, the agent emerged from behind her preternaturally tidy desk. She was dressed as immaculately as the last time they had met, this time in a drop-waisted coffee-coloured jersey dress that spoke designer, though Christie had no idea which one. Her feet were encased in spike-heeled suede ankle boots and a short fur jacket was slung over her shoulders. Christie felt rather understated in her jeans with last year’s black jacket over a plain white shirt. Julia brought with her the distinctive scent of Prada Cuir Ambre – smoky leather and scary.
‘Now, what can we do with you, I wonder,’ Julia spoke almost to herself.
‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ Christie refused to let herself feel intimidated. Whatever Julia had to say to her, she would hold her own.
Julia gave a brusque laugh to show she’d heard, but she was obviously more preoccupied by her own thought processes. ‘You know,’ she began tentatively, ‘I think you’ve got real potential as a live on-air presenter. Your appearance on Tart Talk was very well judged. As you gained confidence, the audience responded well to you. I liked that.’ She was focused on the nail of her left index finger, which she was slowly stroking with her right thumb. ‘You’re intelligent and express yourself well. That’s important.’
‘Thank you.’ High praise indeed.
Julia shifted her gaze to Christie. ‘And you look good too. The camera likes you and that’s crucial in this business. And you’re not the average female presenter. A young widow. Two children. Juggling the work-life balance.’
Christie felt herself melting under the other woman’s attention. Julia had the invaluable knack of making a person feel as if they were the only one in the world who mattered while they were with her.
‘In the first place, let me see if we can get you more appearances on Tart Talk to help you find your feet. Then I’ll put out some feelers. There’s a couple of people I think you should meet.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Christie couldn’t believe this was happening. To be taken so seriously by such a big player in the entertainment industry was more than she had dared hope for. Several of Julia’s clients had been quoted publicly, crediting her with their success. Just a little of that would be enough. Despite the speed with which Julia had agreed to see her, she had still half expected a polite brush-off.
Within a few minutes the meeting was over, bar a rapid summary of the formal terms of any agreement between them. Julia rapped them out too quickly for Christie to take in the minutiae but she did catch her commission rates: ten per cent on all of Christie’s media work (‘Your bread and butter, darling’) and fifteen per cent on any commercial work, personal appearances, conferences, endorsements . . . that sort of thing (‘The very welcome jam’).
‘Is there some kind of formal written contract between us?’ Christie realised how naïve she must sound but wanted to be clear.
Julia gave a little laugh. ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Just a simple gentleman’s agreement based on trust. So much easier. My clients all have complete faith in me. The payment for any work I secure for you is sent to me and I take my percentage. The rest is paid directly into your bank and a remittance slip supplied for your accountant.’ She looked up at Christie. ‘Do you have any problems with that?’
Christie allowed a micro-second to elapse as she absorbed what had been said. ‘No, of course not. But I’d appreciate you sending me a note confirming it, just in case I’ve missed anything.’
Julia gave her a wintry smile.
The following morning Julia phoned to say again how thrilled she was to be representing Christie and promised to get to work on her behalf immediately. Christie was stunned that Julia had taken time out of her busy schedule to call. This was it. Now it was up to her to be worthy of her new agent. If only Maureen could be as supportive. Had Nick sent Julia to be her champion? To do what he no longer could?
Their arrangement paid dividends immediately. Tart Talk wanted more of her, and within a couple of months, Christie was beginning to feel like an old hand at the presenting game. Even more reassuring, she was rediscovering a side of herself that had withdrawn from public since Nick’s death. A Christie who was more confident, funny, unafraid to voice her opinions or even to shock her mother (which Mel found hysterical) was coming out of the shadows. She had begun to look forward to the mornings when she was picked up by a driver and whisked to the studio for eight thirty. In the production meeting, she swigged her Starbucks with the other presenters as they laughed and chatted their way towards an agenda for that day’s show. As her confidence grew, she had established her own character within the group: potential best-friend material, who talked an edgy sort of sense. Sometimes the others ribbed her for being a bit old-fashioned, and she still regretted the day she had risen to the bait, announcing, ‘I have been to Agent Provocateur, you know. There’s more to me than meets the eye.’ On air, too. The girls had never let her forget it.
The practical benefit was that her bank balance was healthier than it had been in months – well, years, if she was honest. Earning three hundred pounds an appearance meant she had been able to make small inroads into Nick’s bank loan and, with Julia’s assurances of more work to come, had found a local builder to give a price for the collapsing conservatory, the leaking roof and the wonky chimney. When they were fixed, she would move on to the long-awaited overhaul of the plumbing and central-heating – last winter, scraping ice off the inside of the windows had been no fun – and finally she’d be able to get down to redecorating the rooms.
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