with speculation about their relationship and the real reason for Ben having been there without his girlfriend, as well as about what had really happened. He had been the co-host of Good Evening Britain, a news/magazine show that had actors, writers and MPs queuing up to appear. Newsnight meets The One Show, it had the six to seven p.m. slot on TV7 five nights a week. When Ben died, his on-air partner, Gilly Lancaster, had made a tribute to him so moving that it was printed on every red-top front page the following day. His long-term partner, Laura, was devastated at losing him, while Julia had absented herself from the red carpets and all that went with them. Success breeds success but scandal can be a dangerous enemy.
Christie remembered the photos splashed in the press of Ben, Laura and Julia, as well as of an indoor pool that had come straight from a scene out of Footballers’ Wives: colonnaded french windows leading back into the house, white loungers, tropical ferns in large ceramic pots. Julia clearly knew how to enjoy the fruits of her success. Smiling, Christie offered her hand – to find it gripped firmly, as Julia’s clear blue eyes assessed her in an unnerving and not altogether pleasant way.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Julia said. ‘I’ve read your Daily News column. Good luck today.’ She gave her another look of appraisal.
‘Thanks.’ Christie, feeling a little uncomfortable, was relieved when, at that moment, the green room door opened and they were called to the studio.
As she stood in the dark, behind the set, she could hear the large audience of students and pensioners filing in. Who else had time to go to a daytime show? Bussed in for the occasion, they found their seats and the buzz subsided as the warm-up man welcomed them. Christie strained to hear what he was saying.
Then someone else caught her attention.
‘Christie, my darling. Hi. I’m Tim, the floor manager.’ A young casually dressed man wearing headphones was at her side. ‘Welcome. Nice to have you. In two minutes, watch Marina and just follow her onto the set and take the second stool on the left, behind the desk. OK, love? Good luck.’ He patted her shoulder in encouragement.
Oh, God, Marina was walking onto the set. They want to like me, Christie repeated to herself, and followed, as confidently as she could, to the sound of applause. Why did I say yes to this? She could feel the heat of the lights on her face and a prickle of perspiration on her back as she went out into the bright lights. She hitched herself onto the stool, which was high enough to make the women sit up straight or fall off, and wondered what to do with her heels: let them hang or tuck them in? She tucked them in and pulled down the sides of her skirt.
‘Look as if you’re enjoying yourself,’ whispered Grace. ’They won’t eat you.’
Switching on a smile as the warm-up guy introduced the team, Christie looked up and out towards the audience where her eyes fell on Mel in the second row, resplendent in a to-be-noticed-by-my-sister neon pink scarf, grinning like a maniac and giving her the thumbs-up. If only Nick could have been there with her. He would have been so proud. She twisted her wedding ring round her finger, then swiftly reminded herself that she had to stop thinking like that. This was her life now.
‘OK. Fifteen seconds, studio. Quiet, please,’ shouted Tim. He continued the countdown to zero, then the show’s title music struck up.
As the cameras began to roll, they were all laughing. It was up to the four of them now. Christie heard a disembodied voice introducing Marina, Grace, Sharon, and then: ‘. . . and please welcome Christie Lynch, the merry widow, to ask her: is there dating after death?’
Oh, God! No! Why had no one briefed her that they weren’t going to be taking the sensitive, dignified approach she had imagined? Because they realised she’d have shied away? Of course. She should have known better than to trust them not to trivialise the subject, but it was too late now. In front of the audience and her co-presenters, she had no choice but to keep smiling and try to think of something to say. Come on, Nick. Give me strength.
Chapter 3
Before she knew where she was, the show was over. Mel had kissed her, said how brilliant she had been and disappeared off for a shoot with John Swannell, her favourite fashion photographer. Christie had climbed down from her stool and was taken to the green room, where she found all her belongings had been brought from the dressing room.
The entire programme team was there, enjoying sandwiches and a glass of wine. While Marina was sharing a joke with Sharon, Julia Keen discreetly engineered a conversation alone with Christie, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, as she said, ‘You were good, darling. Much better than I expected. Now, do you have a good agent?’
Taken aback by Julia’s directness as well as the apparent need for discretion, Christie, suddenly self-conscious, muttered, ‘No. I’ve never really needed one.’
Julia’s eyes seemed to light up from within. ‘I think things are about to change for you. Perhaps we should have a little talk some time. Take my card.’ She extracted one from a small silver holder and slipped it into Christie’s hand. ‘Just call me,’ she said, giving Christie’s arm a little squeeze just above the elbow. Then she turned to join the other women and, within moments, was laughing as if she’d been with them for the length of the joke.
Christie stared at her, watching how she stayed for just as long as was necessary before making her excuses. She realised this was her cue to leave too. She said her goodbyes, receiving polite and not unenthusiastic thanks from the producer. She left the building carrying a hand-tied bunch of Heavenly Scent flowers, a Diptyque candle and a card from the regular presenters thanking her. She had pretended not to see the producer hurriedly signing on their behalf when she’d thought no one was looking. The card that Julia Keen had given her was burning a hole in her pocket.
*
Not until Christie sank into the grey-leather back seat of her chauffeur-driven Mercedes and she was watching the black ribbon of the M40 disappear beneath them, did she stop to take stock. Only then did she realise that she had no idea what she’d said at any time over the past hour or so, or if any of it had made sense. Her brief conversation with Julia had taken on the quality of a dream. She dismissed it as an aberration. The woman had only said what she felt she had to. Hadn’t she?
The driver had been asked to drop her off at her mother’s where she’d left her car. There was just time to drop in before she went home to meet the children when they got back from school. The door chimes pealed, and through the dimpled glass, she saw the distorted silhouette of her most ferocious critic coming towards her. The door opened to reveal Maureen, slim, her streaked blonde bob as aspirationally gamine as ever, beady eyes darting this way and that, thin mouth stretched into a smile, a hand on the string of pearls that crowned her heather twinset.
‘Christine! We all watched you, darling. You were surprisingly good, although I wasn’t sure about your lipstick.’ She held the door so Christie could just squeeze through. ‘And the dress. A bit revealing but the colour wasn’t bad.’ She led the way into the sitting room where the only one of the ‘all’ who was left was Ted Brooks, Maureen’s ‘gentleman friend’, whose right hand enveloped a sherry glass. Not the first of the day, if the colour of his cheeks was anything to judge by.
‘Ah, Christie.’ He glowed. ‘Marvellous show.’
‘Thanks, Ted. I was very nervous.’ She waited, not wanting to have to prompt either of them to congratulate her on her contribution.
‘I say, that Sharon is an attractive woman.’ His watery blue eyes misted over, presumably in memory of that spectacular cleavage.
Maureen briskly changed the subject. ‘I didn’t expect you to know so much about alcohol or men, or to broadcast the fact to the entire nation. Are you looking for a new father for the children? It would have been nice if you’d at least told me first.’
‘Oh, Mum, you know I’m not. That was just what they wanted me to talk about so I went along with it. But, anyway, why shouldn’t I if the right person came along?’ She ignored her mother’s raised eyebrow.
‘I’m