New Beginnings

‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but I guess we haven’t got time.’ Richard let her go out of the door first. ‘Wouldn’t Libby like to see too?’

‘She’s wrapped up in her music. Besides, anything Fred gets up to is way beneath her. She’ll be fine provided we’re not too long.’

They followed the boys across the garden to a stick that was standing with a circle of stones placed evenly around it.

‘Go on, Mum. Ask me the time,’ said Fred.

Christie obliged.

‘Half past five,’ he yelled, triumphant.

‘That’s amazing and completely right.’ She knelt down to have the elementary sun-dial explained to her. When she looked up, Richard was gazing in her direction. She got to her feet. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘This is just what Fred needs. He absolutely loves coming here.’

‘And we love having him. Don’t we, Jigger?’ He bent to pat the dog that was wagging around his legs, shivering with delight at the attention. ‘We were lucky today, not having any team-building groups in. Some companies want to come at the weekend – they simply can’t waste a minute of the working week – and then it all gets a bit hectic on the childcare front.’

‘Perhaps I could return the favour on those days,’ Christie offered, as they began to head back to the car. ‘Fred! Come on.’

‘If Caro’s away, I’ll hold you to that.’

‘Oh, sorry, how stupid of me.’ She kicked herself for forgetting that his situation was not the same as hers.

‘Nothing to be sorry about. But there is one thing I was wondering, which is . . .’ He paused, as if nerving himself to say something. ‘There’s a pub quiz next Saturday and one of the regulars on our team can’t make it. I don’t suppose you’d like to come? Would you?’

Christie froze. Was he actually asking her on a date? She dismissed the idea as fast as it had entered her head. Of course he wasn’t. They had the kids in common and he probably didn’t have anyone else he could ask at such short notice. Mates, that’s what they were. But then she remembered Mel’s comment about tuning her radar. Perhaps they could be more. Perhaps she was failing to read the signs. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Provided I can find a babysitter.’

As they reached the car, Fred hurled himself onto the back seat while Jigger, having jumped in after him, was hauled out from the other side by Richard. ‘Bloody animal! That’s terrific. I’ll pick you up at about six. We’ll eat there.’

As they said their goodbyes and thank-yous and set off for home, Christie became aware that Libby had removed her headphones when Jigger made his unscheduled entrance and exit and was now staring at her with a look of disdain cut with horror. ‘You’re not going on a . . .’ she could barely say the word ‘. . . date with him, are you?’ She mustered all the scorn at her disposal. ‘Aren’t you a bit old? And, anyway, what about Dad?’

‘You’re never too old, Libby. Never.’ Christie smiled at her daughter. ‘And Dad would be proud that we’re all getting on with our lives, you know. He really would.’

Her eyes on the road, she didn’t see the two spots of colour that appeared on Libby’s cheeks or the single tear she dashed away as she turned to stare out of the window.

Chapter 8

Thirty minutes before her first programme, Christie was looking in her dressing-room mirror, studying the professional makeup on her face. Not bad. The photo-shoot (in a beautiful coral body-con dress that Mel had picked out for her) had been good, and the accompanying articles in the papers that day were positive.

There was a knock on the door of the tiny dressing room. It opened to reveal Gilly Lancaster, balancing a hand-tied posy on her pregnant stomach. In the flesh, she was smaller than she appeared on TV. A sleek mane of immaculately blow-dried blonde hair framed her face, and twinkling arrangements of gold and silver stars hung from her ears. Not a wrinkle showed above her neat, pointed nose or beside her wide mouth – all beaten into submission with Botox and filler, no doubt. For the umpteenth time, Christie swore she would stay out of the hands of cosmetic doctors and surgeons, whatever the cost to her new career. Gilly’s welcoming smile revealed a mouthful of perfectly capped and whitened teeth. She was wearing an elegant dusty pink crêpe-de-Chine trouser suit with a jacket cut low enough to reveal a hint of pregnant cleavage, with a wide front bow, its ends long enough almost to disguise her bump. Looking longingly at Gilly’s towering strappy shoes, Christie couldn’t but remember her own pregnancies and her constant longing for comfortable slippers and tracksuits. She could no more have dressed like this than fly to the moon.

Today had been the first day they’d met and, following that encounter, Gilly was here with what must be a peace-offering. Earlier, Christie had walked into her first production meeting two minutes early to discover that everyone bar Vince, the programme editor, was already there. Gilly had been sitting on the far side of the large table strewn with newspapers, most of which were open at the page on which Christie’s glamorous photo stood out beneath headlines such as ‘NEW GIRL MAKES NEWS! LANCASTER LYNCHED’, with flattering accounts of her suitability for the job and photos showing Gilly’s burgeoning figure. There was an empty chair beside Gilly. She had put her hand on the back and nodded at Christie, saying, ‘Come and sit here.’ Grateful for the friendly gesture, Christie had sat down. Just then, the swing doors had banged open and Vince burst in. He took one look across the table, his face reddening. ‘You’re in my chair,’ he said, with quiet menace. 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 shortly be going on maternity leave to have my three little blessings so it gives me enormous pleasure to be able to introduce Caroline Lynch . . .’ Christie and Sam looked at each other ‘. . . who’ll be looking after things for me.’