New Beginnings Page 9

  ‘Poor Ben. She must have been so upset. What a thing for her to deal with.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘I once knew her quite well, but now she doesn’t even acknowledge me. If you’re in, you’re in. But if you’re out . . . Are you eating?’ He passed across the long menu, just as one of the few waitresses stopped by their table.

  As they waited for her noodle dish, Mel’s salad and his steak frites, Christie regretted being so dismissive. ‘Tell me more.’

  He gave her a knowing look. ‘Remember Max Keen? He came into the studio the other day with that actor . . . what’s-’is-name.’

  Christie nodded. Max Keen was Sam’s agent and she remembered meeting him briefly when another of his clients, Clem Baker, was on the show. Max had accompanied him, keeping in the background, standing behind the cameras, quietly watching, while the Hollywood A-lister had talked to Sam and Christie about his latest Oscar-tipped performance. In contrast to the film-star good looks of his client, Max was a small, balding man, neatly but casually turned out. However, the two had a rapport, which was plain to anyone who watched them together and Max, however tough a negotiator he might be, had a transforming smile. She had seen that for herself when Sam had introduced her to him.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘He and Julia were married once. And he was the top talent agent in the country. He learned the business at Mellors and Crombie where his secretary was none other than guess who?’ He left the gap, waiting for her to fill it in.

  ‘Julia?’

  ‘Got it in one. After two years, they got spliced despite, or perhaps because of, the ten-year age-gap.’ His eyes lit up at the idea of a sexual shenanigan or two. ‘They left M and C and set up their own artist-management company, Keen and Keen. Everybody wanted Max to take them on, but he was bloody choosy. As a result, he built up a bespoke client list that was second to none, sharing the responsibilities with his new wife.’

  ‘So what happened? Why aren’t they still together?’

  ‘Two reasons, I guess. One: Julia’s a ruthless, bitchy workaholic who takes all the credit she can – you must have picked up on that by now? And two: a leopard never changes its spots, so Max went off with his latest assistant. Lucy was young enough to give him the family he wanted. Such a scandal at the time.’

  Christie could see how much Frank must have enjoyed it.

  ‘They said Julia refused to have kids because they’d get in the way of her career.’ He paused as their food was put in front of them, not wanting to the waitress to overhear. After he’d had a couple of mouthfuls, he continued, ‘Against all expectations, instead of collapsing under the pressure of such a public divorce, Julia set up White Management in direct competition with Max. If it hadn’t been too confusing I bet she’d have used his name. She hung on to it for herself, though. Nothing like success by association.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Only if we have another glass! Shiraz this time, I think. Your turn.’

  Christie edged out and made her way round a group of shrieking women sporting sparkling antennae and pink T-shirts bearing the words ‘Em’s Hens On Tour’. But her mind stayed with what Frank had been telling her. Remembering Julia’s elegance and style, it was impossible for Christie to imagine Max and her as an item. He was so much shorter, so relaxed, and with more of the frog about him than the prince.

  Suddenly one of the ‘hens’ grabbed her arm. ‘Aren’t you Christie Lynch?’

  She shook her arm free, surprised. ‘Yes, I am. I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you.’

  ‘I watch that news show every night.’ Christie could smell the alcohol on her breath. ‘Janey! Got your mobile? You don’t mind, do you?’

  Before Christie had a chance to answer, the woman had engineered herself so they were side by side and her friend was taking a picture of them together. ‘Thanks ever so much. The kids’ll be thrilled. They love Sam.’ With that she turned back to her crew and left a disconcerted Christie to make her way to the bar. Although no one else approached her, she was aware that one or two people were staring at her. The unexpected attention had been quite harmless but made her feel uncomfortable. Recognition was one thing, being accosted quite another. But if the fans of the show were all like that, she had nothing too serious to worry about.

  When she returned to the table, Frank and Mel were examining the two necklaces they had insisted she buy, one chunky, one sparkly. ‘Now you’re kitted out for every occasion,’ Mel said. Christie popped them into their bag and, taking her glass, nodded for Frank to go on with his story.

  ‘Julia was livid – there’s no woman like Julia when she’s scorned, I can tell you. She’d already built up a reputation that provoked envy, resentment, admiration, you name it. But without Max’s good influence, she lured clients from other agents – most often from him, of course – promising to double or treble their income. And, more often than not, she did. That’s how to get an impressive list.’

  ‘That’s good, though, isn’t it? All’s fair in love and business?’ Christie wasn’t much enjoying the picture Frank was painting of her agent. If only she’d done some background research first, as Richard had suggested, like the well-trained journalist she was meant to be.

  He took a sip and savoured the red wine. ‘Well, her business tactics weren’t exactly applauded but she got ten out of ten for chutzpah. What matters to her is where and how to get top dollar.’

  ‘What about Ben Chapman?’

  His face saddened. ‘He was a mate of mine. Great guy. God only knows what happened to him that night or what he was doing in the pool.’ He looked at his watch. ‘That’s for another time, though. Too depressing. Right now, I want to know more about you two girls.’

  As they finished their meal, Christie told him about her career, Nick and the kids, then Mel talked about her glam but single life. Finally it was their turn to quiz him.

  ‘There’s not much to tell,’ he said. ‘I’m just an old queen who wanted a bit of glamour in his life. I was destined to be the next Tom Hanks, but a little smaller, fatter and gayer, and I ended up a cameraman at TV7.’ He ran a hand over his tightly shaved head and Christie couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he’d polished himself before coming out. He was so shiny and smart, as if he’d just come out of the box – never mind the closet. For the next few minutes they encouraged him to tell them more about his life, but while he was happy to talk about others, he was surprisingly reticent about revealing too much about himself. Christie was content to wait until another time when she suspected he’d be more forthcoming. He needed to know that he could trust her. She loved his camp flamboyance, his outspokenness and, most of all, the generosity he’d shown her. She felt that of all the people she’d met on the show so far, he was the one she could trust: a brand new friend. She, Mel and Frank were like the Three Musketeers.

  *

  That night, with Maureen ensconced downstairs on babysitting duty, Christie showered, shaved her legs and painted her toenails, then pulled almost everything she owned out of her wardrobe to find something suitable for her date with Richard. She wanted to look her best but not as if she’d tried too hard. Whatever she wore had to be right. Her bedroom was more like Mel’s by the time she had settled on her flounced long skirt, sleeveless T-shirt and tunic top, with the wide woven leather belt and chunky necklace she’d bought that morning. She knew Mel would have had a thousand fits over her boho sister, but she felt comfortable.

  When she went downstairs, Maureen looked up from the magazine she was reading and gave her a long hard stare.

  ‘What, Christine, is the point of asking me over so you can go shopping and then not wearing anything you bought?’

  ‘Oh, Mum. That’s different. I was shopping for work. I’d look a complete prat if I turned up in the pub dressed in that stuff. Trust me.’

  But Maureen remained unconvinced, despite grudgingly admitting that she supposed what Christie had on was better than her usual jeans. She felt more
confident when Fred and Libby gave her their half-hearted approval, tearing their attention from the TV for a nano-second. At least when Richard arrived, she thought she noticed his eyes widen with appreciation. As did hers. His checked Viyella working shirt had been replaced by a soft pink linen one that showed off his tan. She loved the fact that it wasn’t perfectly ironed, although he’d obviously had a damned good go. His jeans were clean, and instead of his usual walking boots, he was wearing brogues, shiny with polish. She breathed in and caught the slight scent of aftershave

  As he opened the door of the Land Rover, Richard apologised for its state, took out some muddy boots from the passenger side and flung them into the back. The smell of wet dog and dog blanket enveloped her as she climbed in. A lumberjack jacket lay on the back seat among sweet wrappers and Ordnance Survey maps; a compass jiggled on the dashboard. Her nerves settled as she sat beside him, hearing about Fred and Olly’s frustrated attempts to train Jigger to climb a ladder. When they reached the pub, and were crunching over the gravel to the front door, Richard automatically put out his hand for her to hold. She took it, registering its roughness and strength, liking the unaffectedness of his gesture. Inside, the Oak and Archer had been reinvented as a gastro-pub, with none of its more traditional clientele to be seen.

  ‘Give me the old farmers and their three-legged dogs any day,’ Richard joked. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of spit and sawdust.’

  But Christie liked what she saw. A deep bar was surrounded by pine tables through which the serving staff threaded their way, carrying plates of steaming fresh food. Richard’s friends were on the far side of the room. He introduced her to his business partner, Tom, Tom’s girlfriend, Sally, and a couple staying with them, Helen and Robert. Richard encouraged Tom to move down the bench so Christie could sit between them.

  As soon as she got the chance, Sally couldn’t resist quizzing Christie. ‘How long have you known Rich? Can’t have been long. Or else he’s kept very quiet about you.’

  Richard overheard and answered for her: ‘School-gate Mafia, Sal. That’s all. Our sons are best mates and can’t be separated.’

  Christie shot him a look of gratitude. He winked at her as he moved the conversation smartly on to Tom and Sally’s children, a subject on which Sally could hold forth for hours. Only being presented with the short but delicious-sounding menu made her break off mid-flow.

  Having ordered, they began to talk again. Richard made sure that Christie was included in the conversation, taking time to explain when they wandered onto people or stories she didn’t know. It was almost as if he sensed that this was the first date (if it could be called that) she’d been on since Nick died, and he was doing everything he could to make her feel comfortable. And his efforts were paying off. As she smiled and nodded, joining in when she could, her mind wandered to the real reason for her being there. Was she just a convenient walker for him, a stand-in for the team or, she caught her breath, might he be interested in her in another way?

  Eventually, the meal over, the quizmaster emerged and propped himself by the long oak bar, waiting for the tables to charge their glasses before he began the questions. Their team soon discovered a shared competitive streak a mile wide as they urgently whispered their answers to one another and scribbled them down. When Christie confidently put forward a completely wrong answer, she was relieved that Richard just nudged her and smiled without making her feel any more stupid than she already did. Eventually joint highest scorers, no thanks to her sporadic contributions, they faced sudden death. Breath held, they listened intently for the final question. The quizmaster ramped up the tension with a long pause, then: ‘What’s the fewest number of moves with which a person can win a game of chess?’ They turned to one another, each disappointed to realise that no one else knew the answer either. Richard and Tom started whispering and counting on their fingers. The other team were looking just as frantically ignorant.

  ‘Never understood the game, myself,’ said Sally, draining her gin and tonic, prepared for defeat.

  ‘My husband played once.’ As Christie envisaged the board permanently set up in their Chelsea living room for Nick’s long-distance game with his father, she remembered his frustrated efforts to explain it to her. ‘Fool’s mate,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s just come to me. Fool’s mate. Two moves. The answer’s two, I’m sure.’ She scribbled it on a piece of paper and dashed over to the quizmaster, who loudly declared them the winners. The rest of the evening was a blur of congratulation and laughter as they shared a celebratory round before saying their farewells and heading home.

  Richard and Christie left the pub flushed with victory and, in her case, an extra glass of wine. To her consternation, an air of awkwardness settled over them in the Land Rover and they found themselves casting around for things to talk about.

  ‘How’s work?’ Richard tried, opting for the safe ground.

  Christie’s relief was mixed with a touch of regret that he hadn’t hit on something more personal. ‘Actually, fine,’ she said. ‘I thought after that awful start that it was going to be a disaster, but there’s a great team and I’m beginning to love it.’

  ‘And Julia? Still happy with her?’

  Her heart sank at the mention of her agent’s name. ‘Do we have to talk about her now? It’s been such a great evening. I don’t want to think about work at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Richard sounded surprised but seemed happy to listen to her talking about how much Fred had enjoyed camping with them and how she’d spent the time with Libby. As they neared Christie’s house, Richard seemed to withdraw even more into himself. She felt as if she had babbled for the most of the way, cramming words into the silence as fast as she could while he slipped away from her, concentrating on the road ahead, nodding and smiling when he thought appropriate. But, if she was honest, there was only one thing on her mind: would he or would he not kiss her goodnight? And, if he did, should she invite him in? She ran her tongue round her teeth, regretting that last drink and wishing she had a peppermint.

  When the car stopped, Richard kept the engine running. A sure sign he wouldn’t be coming in. However, as he leaned towards her, she readied herself for the kiss goodbye, half closing her eyes in anticipation. She could feel the warmth of his skin as he came close, could smell his faint cologne. Just when she expected him to make contact, he swerved past her to wrestle with the door handle until he finally pushed open her door.

  ‘Wretched thing often sticks,’ he explained, as he sat back in his seat, putting both hands on the steering-wheel. He turned towards her, his features unreadable in the shadowy dark of the car. ‘You were a star tonight. Thank you.’

  Picking up her cue, she got out swiftly and said good night.

  Later, sitting up alone and nursing a small, consoling glass of whisky, she had written off her disappointment in his evident lack of interest as an aberration brought about by the effects of alcohol and success. Her response moved from disappointed to pragmatic. If that was how he wanted things between them, fine. She counted herself lucky to have him as a friend. Thank God she hadn’t embarrassed herself. She twisted her engagement ring round her finger. She had never doubted her feelings for Nick and she was sure he had felt the same for her. She still found it extraordinary how certain they had both been about each other from the beginning. Would she ever find someone like him again?

  As soon as they were engaged, Nick wanted to make things official by asking Maureen for Christie’s hand in marriage. He had spoken to her once or twice on the phone when she had rung to talk to Christie. She hadn’t been impressed. ‘Christine, why is your young man at your flat so early in the morning on a weekday? I hope you aren’t living together. Your father would be so disappointed.’

  ‘Mum, no, he’s not living with me but he does stay the night sometimes. It’s almost the year two thousand so, please, let me be.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I’d like to meet him, that’s all.
Just to make sure he’s right for you. You’ve always been such a bad judge of character and could do with the benefit of my experience.’

  ‘Mel likes him.’ Christie protested.

  ‘Well, I don’t much approve of her lifestyle either. Fashion students don’t live in the real world, do they?’

  And now Nick and Christie were engaged. Mel knew and so did their friends. But they deliberately kept Maureen in the dark. As soon as Christie was wearing her rather large and sparkly engagement ring, she arranged to drive up to see her mother. ‘Mum, is it OK if I come up for Sunday lunch?’

  ‘Well, if it’s nice I may be working in the garden and not want to cook.’ Maureen was justifiably proud of her small garden on which she lavished much care.

  ‘That’s all right. It’s just that I was going to bring someone to meet you. Nick.’ Christie held her breath, waiting for her mother’s reaction.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so? You are silly and secretive sometimes. I’ll do a coronation chicken salad with my new potatoes. Will he like that?’

  As they pulled up at Maureen’s, Christie couldn’t help comparing this humble house to Nick’s parental pile. Nick squeezed her hand. ‘I’m a bit nervous. Do you think she’ll like me?’

  ‘Couldn’t give a toss if she doesn’t.’ And she didn’t. Nick was everything she had ever wanted in a man, and whatever her mother said wouldn’t change her mind. As they clicked open the gate, the front door opened to reveal Maureen dressed in her best. She looked at Nick and almost fainted. As she was to tell her circle of church-flowers ladies later, ‘He’s like that Mr Darcy but with better manners. Christine’s no Elizabeth Bennet but she’s done very well for herself. I did think the ring was a little vulgar, though.’

  Nick laid on all the charm he had for Maureen, and after lunch and the obligatory tour of her manicured back garden, he asked her if he could marry her daughter. Maureen couldn’t get the sherry out fast enough. At last, a son-in-law. And a son-in-law who would inherit a highland castle at that.