Nicholas laughed. ‘Drama queen.’
We got into our waiting cab. As we drove away into the warm night, Nicholas closed his eyes and was soon snoring softly. Dear man. In his late seventies, bald as a coot, debonair and dapper, he was impeccably dressed as always in a suit and socks from Paul Smith, his shoes handmade in Italy. He’d been my agent and friend for over thirty years, a charming, kind and funny man, but with a core of steel when negotiating terms and well respected in the industry, something I had been grateful for over the decades.
I stared out of the window as we headed west past the familiar landmarks of Fortnum & Mason, The Wolseley (my and Nicholas’s favourite watering hole), The Ritz hotel, past Green Park on our left and into the flow of traffic around Hyde Park corner. I was puzzled by Chris’s behaviour. Fifteen years ago, he had been the man who was ‘thrilled and delighted’, his words, to have me on board. His team had put on a hell of a show at the time, pitching to me why I should join them and leave the magazine where I’d worked in my thirties and forties. I’d done a bit of TV work before then; I’d often been brought in as a guest writer and broadcaster on various lifestyle programmes, or to review the papers on a Sunday, but nothing permanent until spotted by Chris Lindsay. It had been seductive and flattering, and I’d accepted, and I’d had a very happy time since, coming up with programme ideas as well as presenting. For years, I’d hosted the morning show, then more recently the mid-morning programme, with a few extra appearances on shows covering everything from gardening to antique finds, the type shown in the early evenings. I’d particularly enjoyed the fact that my ideas were respected and often taken through to production. For years, I’d been the face of Calcot morning TV, my face on posters, social media, even buses. ‘Face on the back of a bus, not like the back of the bus,’ I gaily told friends at the time. I was recognized wherever I went, got good seats in restaurants, was invited to everything. It was a golden era, but I’d had a feeling these last few months that something had changed. The extra appearances were starting to dwindle. It didn’t look as if I was going to be given back my usual slot on the early morning show.
Nicholas opened one bleary eye. ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Almost. Nicholas, my inner drama queen aside, what would I do if work dried up? I’m fifty-eight. Am I too old to be presenting?’ Actually, I wasn’t fifty-eight. I was sixty-four, a fact that Nicholas knew all too well, but kindly ignored.
‘Don’t talk tosh. There are plenty of women your age going strong on our screens, all still working. Have a facelift if you’re really worried about your age.’
‘I will if you will,’ I said. I knew he wasn’t serious. We’d discussed it at length after one of the directors had suggested it last year. I wouldn’t go that way. Why should I? I looked years younger than I was, something I worked hard at. A ten-minute routine every morning with my facial toner, an hour’s Pilates every other day, wheatgrass in smoothies, probiotics for my gut, six to eight glasses of mineral water whatever the weather. I maintained a size eight, despite the more than occasional night on the fizz. Luckily I’d inherited my mother’s good bone structure and my father’s slim build and, thanks to the talented Damian Ward, hairdresser to the celebs, no one would ever know that my shoulder-length hair, once chestnut brown, was now white under the blonde and fudge-coloured highlights. ‘And did you hear Rhys ask what I was doing there and not in a friendly way?’
Nicholas’s soft snoring told me that he’d dropped off again.
When we reached his house in Holland Park, I gently shook him awake. He opened his eyes, got out cash, waved away my refusal to take it and tucked the money in my handbag. ‘Sleep well, dear Sara. Your career isn’t over. Rhys isn’t your friend so don’t worry about how he acts or what he says. He’s an ass and all will be well.’
He had been listening, after all. I watched him as he got out and walked up the steps to a white teraced town house. A welcome glow from lamps lit on the ground floor showed that his partner, James, and their shepadoodle Atticus would be waiting up for him.
The taxi went on to Notting Hill and into a cobbled mews where I had lived for the past ten years. Home. No lights on. No dog, cat or partner waiting. My choice. No regrets. In I went and was upstairs, make-up off, in bed in less than ten minutes. Sadly, although exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come. My mind had gone into overdrive, going through my budget. How long could I survive without work? How would I pay the mortgage with no regular income? What else could I do? Is there a care home for celebrities where we’d all gather together in a communal area and sing ‘Memories’ from Cats? I finally dropped off as the lyrics about ‘better days gone’ droned on in my head.
Chapter Two
The following week, I’d just finished a piece for a series looking into the true value of health spas, when Chris’s secretary called to say he’d like to see me. Deep breath. Good posture. Ready to smile. Try to block out ‘Memories’ from Cats and singing has-beens in my head and replace them with Gloria Gaynor and ‘I Will Survive’.
Chris got up to greet me when I entered his office (floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the canal at Camden). Peck peck on
