New Beginnings. Fern Britton
up. Yes, it is.’
Just at that moment the doorbell rang. It was the minicab.
‘Get out of here, Cinders.’ Mel kissed her cheek. ‘And don’t worry about the kids – I’ll be there when they get home from school. See you later. Love you.’
Christie grabbed a white Joseph jacket that she’d tried on earlier, slipped on her new L. K. Bennett peep-toe wedge sandals and hobbled downstairs.
*
Sitting in the taxi, feeling sick at the driver’s inability to brake gently and the prospect of her impending lunch, Christie remembered her first meeting with Jack Bradbury. The room had been packed with people – not because the wrap party was so enormous but because the green room they’d been allotted was so small. At least, it was compared to the one next door where there were huge celebratory shenanigans going on following the recording of an Elton John retrospective. After a couple of drinks, Grace and Sharon had persuaded her that, instead of the warm white wine and cold sausages provided for their party, they deserved something a little more A-list. Together, the three of them had sneaked to the kitchen of Studio One where, unnoticed in the hubbub, they liberated a couple of bottles of Krug and two glass plates of exquisite canapés – sage crostini with duck pâté, crab and asparagus tartlets, summer-vegetable roulades – destined for the dinner-jacketed liggers at Elton’s bash. How much more appreciated they’d be by the people of Tart Talk.
Returning triumphant, half expecting to be cheered on for their efforts, they discovered the atmosphere in the room had changed during their brief absence. Raucous conversations had dropped to whispers, heads were turned towards the door. There was a definite sense of expectation in the air.
‘Jack Bradbury’s on his way down.’
Christie wasn’t sure what the director of programmes for TV7 did exactly but, judging from everyone’s consternation about his arrival, it was obviously not to be underestimated. Before she had time to find out, she caught sight of a newcomer in the room. Not tall, but slender, tanned, with the physique of a good amateur sportsman, Jack Bradbury cut an impressive dash in a superbly tailored Ozwald Boateng suit and, if Grace’s whispered aside was right, a Paul Smith tie and shirt. He stood in the centre of the room and spoke: ‘I would just like to thank the Tart Talk team for a really great run of shows this year. It’s not easy to keep coming up with fresh ideas on a daily basis but, somehow, you keep doing it – and not too much over budget.’ Light laughter permeated the party. ‘So, congratulations, and see you all in the autumn.’
After the applause, he began to work the room, dispensing charisma to the assembled crowd. As they got used to him being among them, the noise level gradually rose again until, by the time he’d reached Christie, the decibel level was humming.
‘I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Jack.’ As he leaned forward to shake Christie’s hand, he gave her an appraising glance. She caught a whiff of his perfect aftershave, neither too sweet nor overwhelming and certainly rather seductive. She noticed his perfectly squared-off nails and soft hands. His smile was an orthodontist’s dream and his eyes were a sharp periwinkle blue. But, curiously, when she looked into them they lacked sex appeal. He might have no idea who she was, but she knew immediately who he was: a man who looked after himself, and a vain one.
‘I’m Christie Lynch. I’ve been allowed to join the Tart Talk girls several times over the last couple of months as one of the guest presenters.’
‘Of course you are. How are you liking it?’ As she told him, he had taken a step forward with a gentle leer and placed his hand on the wall behind her, trapping her. She could see Grace and Sharon over his shoulder, laughing loudly, and wished she could be with them. She took a half-step forward in the hope that it would be enough to detach him from the wall, and offered him one of Sir Elton’s canapés. The temperature between them dropped.
‘No, thanks. Well, delighted to have met you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
Her two minutes were up – but not before he had tried the Bradbury charm just once more: he held her free hand for a moment longer than necessary and looked her straight in the eye. Then he was off, working the rest of the room with equally meticulous timing.
‘Look at him go.’ Grace had stepped up beside her. ‘There’s a man who loves what God and TV7’s given him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He makes George Clooney look like someone in need of a Gok Wan make-over, girl. Haven’t you heard that he’s got an ensuite bathroom in his office? They say it’s so he can wash any part of himself if he happens to touch anyone lower than board level. All part of the deal. Just like the cream Daimler with the powder blue interior and Wilton carpet to match his eyes. And I saw you notice them!’
‘Yes, in the way a mongoose notices a cobra. He’s definitely not my type.’
‘He’s not anyone’s type, darlin’. Nothin’ and no one comes between Jack Bradbury and the business.’
‘Well, I’m sure he won’t notice if we have another drink, then. Let’s see if we can persuade another bottle of Krug to find its way in here. Coming?’ Putting Jack Bradbury firmly to the back of her memory bank, Christie had rejoined the party. And now, only days later, she was on her way to meet him again.
*
A baking July day and someone had sucked the air out of London. The traffic was crawling through the West End and she was going to be a few minutes late. The uniformed doorman at the Ivy greeted her, apparently oblivious to how hot and bothered she’d become on the way there. Her nerves about the impending lunch meant that she’d chewed off practically all Mel’s lipstick. She surreptitiously applied some more in the cool of the lobby without the aid of a mirror and strode through the double doors into the restaurant, hoping she’d got it on straight.
Right, Christie Lynch. This is it, she told herself.
The charming maître d’ asked her name. She replied, adding, ‘I’m meeting Jack Bradbury. TV7?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s not here yet but let me show you to the table and perhaps you’d like a drink?’
What? Not here yet? She attempted to look her most casual as she walked between the tables, praying not to be shown to one in the middle of the room where everyone could see her. Joan Collins, Christopher Biggins and Peaches Geldof watched idly as she sat at the empty table laid for two just off-centre. They smiled then looked away. She had never felt more conspicuous.
She sat down, thanking God for Mel. The trouser suit would have been entirely inappropriate and far too hot. Toying with a breadstick, she ordered a Bloody Mary to steady her nerves, the perfect drink to disguise the fact that she needed Dutch courage.
As she took her first sip, she looked up at the sound of a familiar voice. Julia! Her agent was being seated – horror of horrors – only two tables away in pole position at the ‘best’ table in the room. From the back, her male lunch companion could have been any of those TV types – expensive, casual get-up, carefully gelled hair. From the sound of his frequent, eager-to-please laugh, he was young and anxious to impress. Over his shoulder, Julia caught Christie’s eye, and inclined her head, giving a conspiratorial wink. Christie couldn’t help but be impressed. Julia was clearly one smart woman who had organised her schedule to keep an eye on her new client. Christie welcomed the sense of security it gave her but felt even more on edge. Did Julia think she was incapable of managing this meeting on her own? If so, she was right to be insulted.
After twenty minutes, Christie knew the menu off by heart and was growing increasingly irritated and uncomfortable. Whenever she moved, she imagined Julia’s eyes boring into her. When she’d tried to check if Jack had left a voice-mail to explain his no-show, a waiter had rushed to her side, explaining no phones were allowed. She could have gone outside, of course, but she couldn’t face running the gauntlet of stares again, least of all Julia’s. Just as she was debating whether or not to