New Beginnings. Fern Britton
some respects, that had come as a relief. After all there were only so many bread-makers, bicycles and dishwashers a woman could compare without going round the bend. Her last two budget assignments had been fish slices and cat food. She sighed. There must be more to life. Occasionally she got thrown the odd family piece, such as when she, Libby and Fred had trialled a low-cost holiday weekend in Llandudno (never the Maldives, of course) or a celebrity-oriented feature that no one else wanted, but her heart was never in them. They certainly didn’t give her anything like the adrenalin high she had felt that morning on Tart Talk. They paid the bills but had no impact on the bank loan Nick had left her. Moreover, she still missed the headiness of the early days of MarketForce when she had worked in a more investigative arena and was able to exercise her brain. When she attempted to move into writing more meaty opinion pieces that would demand research, suggesting as possible topics the anonymity of rape victims or the future of inner-city children excluded from school, she had been told firmly that the News was no longer the paper for that sort of thing. She stopped to pull out a rogue sycamore seedling. Yes, the cons were far outweighing the pros.
If Nick were here, he’d say she had to follow her heart – but he wasn’t. And because he wasn’t, she had to earn some cash from somewhere so she could sort out her finances and begin to lavish much-needed attention on the house. Besides which, she knew she couldn’t/shouldn’t let life pass her by. What had happened to the girl who used to make Nick rock with laughter? It was definitely time to give her career a kick-start. If she could do that, everything might change. She thought of Julia’s card in her pocket, took it out and read the details: ‘White Management: Britain’s Number One Talent Agency’. An agent of that calibre wouldn’t give out her cards on a mere whim, surely.
She turned it over in her fingers and reached for her mobile. How strange that Fate should have led her to Julia just when she needed her, exactly as it had led her to that first chance encounter with Nick. Perhaps this was a sign. From him?
‘Oh, God! I hate weddings.’ Christie looked up at the stoic lines of the Victorian church, which sat on a grassy island in Ealing, surrounded by large, graceful Edwardian houses. Overhead, there was enough blue to ‘make a pair of cat’s pyjamas’, as her mother was fond of saying, but the wind had got up, chasing white clouds across the sky. Christie was forced to hold on to her wide-brimmed hat as she progressed with the other guests through the churchyard and into St Stephen’s.
As she stepped into the church, the organist was playing something she knew well but couldn’t identify. Church music’s a little like lift music, she thought, immediately familiar but impossible to name. She caught a whiff of incense, lavender and beeswax, none of them quite overwhelmed by the scent of the lilies that decorated the aisle and pew ends.
This was the third wedding she had been to in almost as many months. She had reached an age when all the girls she knew were getting married – except her, as her mother liked to point out with a sharp little glint. ‘Darling Christine. You’ll never meet a man unless you try harder. You career women will learn eventually that old age without a man is just . . . old age.’
Christie smiled as she accepted an order of service from a young boy swamped in his hired tailcoat, and went to find a seat. She spotted her sister about halfway down the aisle, sitting at the end of an almost full pew – Mel turned and called Christie’s name, the single ostrich plume bouncing wildly in her hair as she waved. A flamboyant fashion-design student, she was everything that her shy, neutral-coloured sister was not.
‘Christie, I’ve saved a seat for you.’ She turned to the rest of the pew, encouraging them to shuffle along to make more room. ‘Can you squish up? Sorry, what’s your name?’ she asked the slightly reserved man sitting on her left.
‘Nick. Nick Lynch.’
Mel gave him a wide smile. ‘Nick! Let me introduce my gorgeous, very single big sister. If you’re on your own, please chat her up and make me happy. If you’re not on your own, then point her towards someone who is. It’ll make my day! And our mother’s, too, because she thinks Christie’s destined for spinsterhood.’ She stopped for a second to give Christie an encouraging grin. ‘Don’t look like that, Chris! I’m only trying to help.’
Embarrassed, Christie smiled an apology at the amused-looking Nick before squeezing into the space that had been made for her. She was hoping Mel would shut up, but her sister was on a roll and there was no stopping her. Now her attention had turned from Christie to the groom, who was standing at his seat in front of the altar, talking to the best man, then turning towards the church door, expectant and nervous.
‘I wish I could help him too,’ Mel confided in a whisper. ‘I wonder if he knows what he’s letting himself in for. I was at the hen do and there was no stone unturned . . . if you know what I mean! Here she comes. The blushing bride – with plenty to blush about.’
A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit the arched doorway and in stepped the bride on the arm of her proud father.
‘Bet she’s got no knickers on under that dress,’ Mel whispered. ‘It’s her trademark.’
Nick caught Christie’s eye over the trembling ostrich feather. He was smiling.
‘Mel! Sssh.’ Christie stifled the urge to gag her sister and burst out laughing.
‘Another good man bites the dust,’ Mel insisted. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’
And with that the organ went into a hosanna of tumbling chords. The groom turned for his first glimpse of his bride, and as their eyes locked, he blushed rather sweetly. She, on the other hand, was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She continued her journey down the aisle, and their mutual gaze never wavered until they were duly joined in holy matrimony.
The reception in a nearby hotel was long and dull. The photos had taken for ever and the food as long again to make an appearance. Christie’s feet were aching. She sat in a quiet corner of the ballroom and looked at her watch. When would be the right moment to slip away without being rude? She hoped she could make her excuses before the disco hell began. She spotted Mel and beckoned her over. ‘Mel, I’ve got to go in a minute. I have to make an early start on a piece I’m writing for the News. It has to be in on Monday and—’
‘Oh, please stay a bit longer, you party pooper. You know Mum’ll grill me tomorrow. “Who did Christine talk to?” “Did she dance with anyone nice?” “What are we going to do with her?” ’ Mel impersonated her mother’s elocuted voice perfectly. Christie giggled but still kissed her sister goodbye and, with promises of phone calls and a takeaway during the week, slipped into the gathering gloom of the car park.
As she fumbled for her keys, she dropped her new handbag, spilling its contents onto the tarmac. Crouching to pick them up, she was aware of another person bending to help her. She turned and looked straight into the eyes of the man she had met in the church: Nick Lynch.
‘Hello, again. Your sister tried to introduce us before the service and I completely failed to chat you up. I’m Nick.’
‘Thank God you didn’t. I’d have been mortified. I’m so sorry.’ She picked up her purse and her keys, while he grabbed her makeup bag. ‘I’m Christie. Please ignore Mel. She’s quite mad and the doctors don’t often allow her out, but you know how lax security can be!’
They both laughed and then, in the silence that followed, Christie took in his face. Nice. Not too good-looking but pleasant with wide blue eyes, brown curly hair, broad cheeks and a slight dimple in his chin. He was a couple of inches taller than her and stockily built, but maybe that was his morning suit.
And he looked at her too. Later he would tell everyone it was love at first sight but in truth, even though he fought a strong compulsion to kiss her there and then, it took a few walks