Christy looked around her happily. ‘Well. I see what you mean about the decor. Straight from my childhood home.’
‘That’s what I thought!’
Christy laughed. ‘That’s probably why you wanted this place so badly. You always used to say you wanted to live in my house. Before you realized it was run by a psychopath. But we can sort this out.’ She pulled out her phone and scrolled rapidly through her contacts. ‘I’m going to ask Eliza for her decorator’s details.’
‘Eliza?’ Eliza would be a hot star on Christy’s books. Christy always did this never-mentioning-surnames thing, to show how close she was to the person in question.
‘Eliza Wragg? You know, the actress. She was in that ITV police drama. You don’t? Shit, I need to work on raising her profile. She has this amazing house in Wimbledon. She’s got kids too, but she manages to make it look as if they don’t exist. I really recommend her guy. He’s hugely in demand but if you mention my name, he’ll fit you in, I’m sure.’
‘I wasn’t planning on a decorator. Didn’t you once say people who employed decorators were people who were colour-blind and had money to flush down the toilet?’
‘I used to think that, then I saw the effect these pros can achieve. Lover, seriously, when are you ever going to find the time to decorate this house yourself? Believe me, go for this guy. It’ll so be worth it. He can get you discounts on everything, so in the end it’ll pay for itself.’ Christy looked around the hallway. Evening sunshine slanted in through the high windows and pooled on the
tiles, like a golden puddle. In the garden, Sandrine and the boys were whooping. ‘Yes, I’ve done good. I really have.’
Behind her back, Rosie rolled her eyes. She loved Christy, obviously, but her smugness about Jake’s – about their – change in fortune, was slightly tiresome. Yes, she had got him the
Archbishop Grace
audition and had negotiated some great deals for him, but ultimately it was all about Jake’s talent. Any agent could have pulled off something similar.
‘We don’t have a swimming pool,’ Rosie pointed out.
‘You will have, before long. Trust me. There’s so much interest in Jake; it’s just amazing. I guess the only thing is that it may not be long before you move to Hollywood.’
‘Hollywood!’
‘Why do you think he’s meeting this agent? So many movie parts on offer, not to mention mini-series.’
‘But I don’t want to live in Hollywood.’ Eurgh. It would be everything that unnerved Rosie about the Village, only a million times worse. Most importantly, she’d be thousands of miles away from Nanna.
‘It’s the centre of your husband’s industry,’ Christy said gently. ‘Ultimately if you want to be a star it’s where you end up. Think of the house you could live in there. Maybe the Beckhams’ old mansion?’
‘Don’t be daft. We’re not exactly Beckham-level, are we?’
‘The sky’s the limit, lover,’ said Christy in her
strongest Bristol accent, defusing the tension by making Rosie laugh.
George came dashing in from the garden. ‘Mummy, Mummy. Come and see the new bum-bum dance.’
‘Your what?’ Christy looked appalled. Rosie always remembered her expression when she’d once casually sniffed Toby’s nappy-clad bottom to see if he’d done a poo. People without children just didn’t get it – and why should they?
George giggled. ‘Our bum-bum dance. We boing on the trampoline and show you our bums while we sing the bum-bum song. It’s really funny. Come and see it, Mummy, please!’
Post bum-bum dance, which Christy watched pretending to be thrilled (admittedly she had to do enough of that humouring her adult clients), the boys went to bed. Sandrine read them four stories. Eventually they sat down to dinner.
‘Cooking dinner in a room where you can stretch out both your arms and not touch the walls,’ gloated Rosie as she dished out the chickpeas – they didn’t look as
‘That’s what I thought!’
Christy laughed. ‘That’s probably why you wanted this place so badly. You always used to say you wanted to live in my house. Before you realized it was run by a psychopath. But we can sort this out.’ She pulled out her phone and scrolled rapidly through her contacts. ‘I’m going to ask Eliza for her decorator’s details.’
‘Eliza?’ Eliza would be a hot star on Christy’s books. Christy always did this never-mentioning-surnames thing, to show how close she was to the person in question.
‘Eliza Wragg? You know, the actress. She was in that ITV police drama. You don’t? Shit, I need to work on raising her profile. She has this amazing house in Wimbledon. She’s got kids too, but she manages to make it look as if they don’t exist. I really recommend her guy. He’s hugely in demand but if you mention my name, he’ll fit you in, I’m sure.’
‘I wasn’t planning on a decorator. Didn’t you once say people who employed decorators were people who were colour-blind and had money to flush down the toilet?’
‘I used to think that, then I saw the effect these pros can achieve. Lover, seriously, when are you ever going to find the time to decorate this house yourself? Believe me, go for this guy. It’ll so be worth it. He can get you discounts on everything, so in the end it’ll pay for itself.’ Christy looked around the hallway. Evening sunshine slanted in through the high windows and pooled on the
tiles, like a golden puddle. In the garden, Sandrine and the boys were whooping. ‘Yes, I’ve done good. I really have.’
Behind her back, Rosie rolled her eyes. She loved Christy, obviously, but her smugness about Jake’s – about their – change in fortune, was slightly tiresome. Yes, she had got him the
Archbishop Grace
audition and had negotiated some great deals for him, but ultimately it was all about Jake’s talent. Any agent could have pulled off something similar.
‘We don’t have a swimming pool,’ Rosie pointed out.
‘You will have, before long. Trust me. There’s so much interest in Jake; it’s just amazing. I guess the only thing is that it may not be long before you move to Hollywood.’
‘Hollywood!’
‘Why do you think he’s meeting this agent? So many movie parts on offer, not to mention mini-series.’
‘But I don’t want to live in Hollywood.’ Eurgh. It would be everything that unnerved Rosie about the Village, only a million times worse. Most importantly, she’d be thousands of miles away from Nanna.
‘It’s the centre of your husband’s industry,’ Christy said gently. ‘Ultimately if you want to be a star it’s where you end up. Think of the house you could live in there. Maybe the Beckhams’ old mansion?’
‘Don’t be daft. We’re not exactly Beckham-level, are we?’
‘The sky’s the limit, lover,’ said Christy in her
strongest Bristol accent, defusing the tension by making Rosie laugh.
George came dashing in from the garden. ‘Mummy, Mummy. Come and see the new bum-bum dance.’
‘Your what?’ Christy looked appalled. Rosie always remembered her expression when she’d once casually sniffed Toby’s nappy-clad bottom to see if he’d done a poo. People without children just didn’t get it – and why should they?
George giggled. ‘Our bum-bum dance. We boing on the trampoline and show you our bums while we sing the bum-bum song. It’s really funny. Come and see it, Mummy, please!’
Post bum-bum dance, which Christy watched pretending to be thrilled (admittedly she had to do enough of that humouring her adult clients), the boys went to bed. Sandrine read them four stories. Eventually they sat down to dinner.
‘Cooking dinner in a room where you can stretch out both your arms and not touch the walls,’ gloated Rosie as she dished out the chickpeas – they didn’t look as
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