Fern Britton - New Beginnings

Christie relaxed a little bit more. This was to be expected. Maureen relished playing hard to get. That way, when she eventually agreed to a request, the gratitude she received was always the greater. After years of being irritated by the habit, Christie now accepted it as part of her mother’s character. Her grandmother had died years ago, but Christie well remembered the straight back, the pinched face and the distressing lack of affection she showed to any of her family. Maureen had obviously paid the price for her upbringing and seemed to flourish with the reassurance she gained from being needed.

‘It’s not for ever,’ Christie urged, ‘just until Gilly returns to work full time. They’re expecting that to be next spring or early summer. In the big scheme of things, that’s no time at all. I should earn enough to keep us going for a while and do the house up a bit more. And I’ll pay you for a proper job.’

‘Let me think about it,’ Maureen hedged. She raked a manicured hand through her artfully streaked hair. ‘You know, I can’t put my life on hold much longer. I’ve promised Ted that, one day, we’ll go back to Rajasthan. He’s desperate to see his parents’ graves again. He had a happy time as a boy out there – “son of the Raj”, as he calls himself – and tempus fugit , you know.’

‘Yes, Mum, I do know, but right now I need you. We need you. Look at this place. There’s so much crying out to be done. This is my chance to pay off my overdraft at last and put the house right. I’ve got to do something about the conservatory before it falls in and there’s damp rot in my study and two of the bedrooms. Central-heating that worked would be a bonus. And I need a new washing-machine. I could go on and on.’

‘I did warn you that it would be too much when you bought the place. But would you listen?’

Her knowing tone infuriated Christie, as it so often did. ‘I’m glad I bought it, really glad. It’s home – but the upkeep’s a bit more than I’d imagined.’

Maureen sniffed again and arched her eyebrows.

‘But now I’ve got a chance to begin to sort out the house and my financial problems.’

‘Well, I’m not not helping. I’m just pointing out that it’s not that straightforward.’

For that read, ‘I want you know how much I’m sacrificing,’ thought Christie. Instead, she said, ‘It’s not for long – not even a year – just to collect the kids from school or be here if they’re getting a lift, give them supper, and then I’ll be home.’

‘Anything can happen in that time. Especially when you get to my age. Amy Stanbridge felt a bit strange . . .’

Christie gave an inner groan, knowing that one of her mother’s stories about the Grim Reaper was coming up.

‘. . . She told her husband she was going upstairs for a rest. Never came down again. He found her dead as a doornail on their bed. Hadn’t even had time to take her shoes off. You see, when you get on a bit, you never know.’

‘No, you don’t. But I have to take this job for my sake and for the children’s. If you want to go to India, fine. Just say so, and I’ll find someone else.’ But she knew that this trip was a pipe-dream – Maureen and Ted would never be able to afford it. And Maureen knew that too. Nonetheless, the look that said she was going to be as intransigent as she could be had crossed her face.

As her mother shut her eyes and angled her face to the sun, Christie resigned herself to the wait. She thought back to her screen test, which couldn’t have gone more smoothly. She and Julia had been welcomed to the studio by the programme editor, who had explained that he wanted Christie to read the previous night’s script from Good Evening Britain . She’d had to open the show, and then they had role-played a couple of short interviews. He helped her with the art of the four-minute live television interview. ‘Ask daft lads’ questions,’ he explained. ‘Who? What? Why? Where? When? And then a killer if you can.’ Despite her nerves, she managed to read the autocue, simultaneously listening to the open talkback in her ear, through which she heard the comments, directions, cuts and ribald jokes from the producer and his team in the gallery.

Afterwards, Julia assured her that she had sounded quite natural. Her panic that the autocue would run too fast for her hadn’t shown. She even enjoyed being ‘interviewed’ by Sam Abbott, who was very friendly, easy to talk to, and would be her co-host.

Thankfully, the doyenne of the show, Gilly, hadn’t appeared, due to an appointment with her obstetrician, and Christie had left feeling confident that she had at least done the best she could. Two days later Julia phoned to say the job was hers. ‘I’ve got the contract in front of me, all pretty standard stuff. Nothing we need to go through. Salary’s agreed at five hundred pounds a show payable at the end of each month. I can get it biked round to TV7 this afternoon.’

‘But don’t I have to sign it?’ Everything was happening so fast.

‘With your permission, I can sign it as your representative. Then it’s done and dusted. That’s how I work with most of my clients. They’re relieved not to be bothered with the detail.’ Julia’s brisk and businesslike attitude didn’t invite argument.

‘In which case, if you’re happy with it . . . Better get it back to TV7 before anyone has second thoughts!’ Christie laughed, glad not to have the responsibility of the paperwork.

‘Mmm.’ Julia didn’t.

Now Christie had two weeks in which to put her ducks in a row before she made her début appearance on Good Evening Britain , when she would be introduced by . . . Gilly herself.

Terrified as she was about meeting the clever, witty, much-loved Gilly, her first priority was to appeal again to the more terrifying Maureen, whose eyes were still shut. ‘I don’t want to upset the kids’ routine, if I can help it,’ Christie began.

Her mother’s eyes snapped open. ‘I’ll never get another chance like this.’ Don’t plead with her, she remonstrated with herself. That isn’t the way.

She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile. She fished it out of her pocket.

It was Julia.

‘Julia, hi.’ She made a despairing face at her mother. Her family were already only too aware of the frequent phone calls she received from her agent at all times of the day. Didn’t the woman have a life of her own? ‘No, I haven’t forgotten the photographer first thing tomorrow morning. No, don’t worry, I’ll be looking my best.’ She became aware of Maureen gazing rather pointedly at the remaining biscuit on her chair arm. Defiant, Christie picked it up but hesitated as she remembered the slightly too-tight dress she was planning to wear in her publicity shot for the programme. ‘No, Julia. I definitely won’t be wearing trousers.’

A smile crossed Maureen’s face as Christie hung up. ‘I’m glad to hear that you’ve got somebody making sure you don’t let the side down.’ She paused. ‘All right. I’ll come over in the evenings from four till eight thirty and we’ll see how it works out.’ Overhearing the phone call had obviously tilted the balance.

‘Will you really?’ Christie put the biscuit down. ‘Wait till I tell the children. They’ll be so pleased.’ No harm in bending the truth a little in the interest of family relations.

‘Where are they, anyway?’ Maureen turned towards the house. ‘I thought they might at least come and say hallo to their granny.’

‘Not here, Mum. In fact, I’ve got to go and pick them up in a minute. Libby’s been over at Sophie’s and Fred’s been staying with Richard and Olly again. I can’t tear him away from there. They have such a good time doing all those boy things that I’ve been so bad at.’