Fern Britton - New Beginnings

‘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.’

Enough, thought Christie. Before Gilly could say any more, she cut in: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gilly, but those hormones must be getting to you. I’m Christie.’

Sam laughed to cover the awkwardness of the moment while an infuriated Gilly tinkled through her teeth, ‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’

The next fifty-four minutes went smoothly enough, and Christie was relieved that her interview with the heroic fireman ran without a hitch.

When the show was over, the first person she saw coming towards her was Julia. Immaculate as ever in a sharp yellow swing coat, her face was thunderous. ‘What were you thinking?’ she hissed, clearly not wanting to be overheard.

‘What do you mean?’ Christie was genuinely confused. ‘I thought it went well.’ So well, in fact, that as soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Sam had got up and kissed her cheek. ‘You were terrific,’ he’d said. ‘Especially the interview with Jack Brown – very emotional.’ They’d both ignored Gilly’s audible ‘tsk’. ‘We should give you a proper welcome,’ Sam went on. ‘Come down to the bar, when you’re ready.’

‘ You went well – very well, in fact.’ Julia softened slightly. ‘But what on earth were you wearing?’

As Christie began to explain, she could see Julia’s eyes glaze over. Her agent wasn’t interested in excuses or explanations. She wanted results. She came to at the mention of Gilly and her apparent approval of the fated blue dress.

‘You must have misunderstood her. She’s a pro and would never have told you to wear blue. Never.’

‘She didn’t exactly tell . . .’ But she had lost Julia’s interest again. It was true that Gilly hadn’t recommended she wear the dress, but she certainly hadn’t advised her against it when there might have been time to salvage the situation. Perhaps their relationship was already more complicated than she’d realised. In future, perhaps she would be less trusting, more cautious. Christie said goodbye to Julia, who was dashing off to a first night in the West End, then hosting an after-show dinner at Sheekey’s, so had no time to discuss anything more ‘till the morning’.

With her heart in her high heels, Christie returned to her dressing room to change. Unable to face going home to listen to Maureen reiterate Julia’s and probably the entire nation’s view of her outfit, she tossed it into a corner and zipped herself into the offending blue dress, ready to face the music in the bar. Once she was on the outside of a glass of wine, surely her faux pas wouldn’t seem to matter as much?

She pushed open the door to a crowd of staff, most of whom were completely unfamiliar to her. She spotted Sam near the bar and began to make her way to him. As soon as he felt her touch his arm, he turned and his face lit up. ‘So you’ve escaped the wicked witch’s clutches at last. Well done.’

For a moment, Christie thought he meant Gilly, but then he said, ‘The Queen of Mean? Oops!’ He winked. ‘I mean Ms Julia Keen, of course.’

‘She’s not that bad.’

‘No, she’s a good agent, I’ll give you that. But I’d keep her at arm’s length, if I were you. She’s scary. I know Ben was – well, perhaps, a little unhappy about her? And look what happened to him.’

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