Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend

‘No need to thank me. Must dash. Taxi waiting. ’Bye, darling.’

‘—you’ll get for me?’

The only answer was the dialling tone.

*

After the show that evening, Christie refused Sam and Frank’s offer of a drink in the bar. Sitting in the back seat of the Mercedes on the way home, she had the thinking time she needed. Half-term was over, so work would be more manageable from now on and she would devote what time she could to Libby and Fred. At least they’d all have a proper routine for the few months she had left with the show.

Lights were blazing from the house when she finally arrived home. The rich smell of baking potatoes and chicken stew filled the kitchen. Maureen was washing up and smiling at something Richard was saying. In front of him sat four large orange pumpkins, their chopped flesh scattered on the newspaper that covered the table. Fred and Olly were concentrating on cutting ghoulish faces into the hollowed-out skins. Next to them, Libby and a girl Christie didn’t recognise were cutting cats and broomsticks out of black paper. Dressed in uniform black, their nails painted green (Libby) and black (friend), they made a witchy pair, bent over with their hair shielding their faces as they concentrated on the task in hand.

‘Welcome home.’ Richard was the first to notice her. ‘Maureen asked me if I’d help with the lanterns. So here I am.’

Christie bit back her surprise that Maureen had involved Richard, a man she didn’t know, before she registered that of course she did know him. They often helped one another out in the week. She could see from the beam that lit up Maureen’s face that Richard had made a hit.

‘Mum!’ Libby looked up, pleasure on her face for once. ‘Come and see what Chloë and me are making. We’re going to stick them on the windows for tomorrow night.’

‘They’ll look great.’ Christie was relieved that the Libby she knew and loved was back. ‘Can I help?’

‘We need some witches’ hats. Could you cut those?’ She passed over a spare pair of scissors and a sheet of black sugar paper.

‘But I need you to help me with these teeth,’ Fred wailed. Before an argument began, Richard grabbed the knife and began chipping away at a gaping pumpkin mouth.

‘Christine, before you do anything, could we have a quick word?’ Maureen nudged her towards the sitting room. Christie could see that she was burning to get something off her chest.

Her mother was brisk. ‘Look, Christine. As you weren’t here, I’ve booked an appointment at the doctor’s for Libby.’

‘Why?’ Christie’s maternal hackles rose. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘She’s very pale, she didn’t touch her packed lunches last week and she’s only been picking at her meals over half-term.’ Maureen softened with concern before becoming more definite again. ‘She’s going first thing next Monday morning. With you.’ She ran her hands over her hips to straighten her skirt and mark the end of what she had to say. ‘And I’m going home now to try and catch up with my own life.’

‘Yes, Mum, and thank you, but on Monday morning I’ve got a Daily Telegraph interview at ten o’clock.’

Maureen looked straight into her daughter’s eyes. ‘Then it’s a good job that the appointment’s for ten to nine. You’ll have plenty of time to do both. I’ve seen these.’ She picked up a women’s magazine and one of the TV listing guides that Christie had left on the floor. Each ran a story on her, celebrating that she was a new face on a popular show and was rapidly establishing a strong and positive rapport with the viewers. ‘I hope you won’t be getting above yourself.’ Before Christie could reply, she had turned back to the kitchen, said her goodbyes and left the six of them busy finishing their preparations.

Christie felt the familiar guilty twist in her stomach. ‘’Bye, Mum. And thanks,’ she called after her.

Eventually the children drifted off to their own devices, leaving Christie and Richard to pour themselves a glass of wine while they tidied up. Then they lit the lanterns and put them in the sitting-room windows before settling themselves in front of the fire.

‘Busy week?’ As she asked, Christie noticed for the first time the razor-thin scar to the right of his upper lip and wondered how he’d got it.

‘Not bad. We had three companies in this week so it’s been quite full on. Luckily Caro was around so it didn’t affect Olly. He was thrilled she was back and loved taking Fred over there to show off his other bedroom and his other lot of games and toys. How was yours?’

‘Mmm, OK. I can’t thank you enough for helping out. I’ve been worried about Libby. Mum’s just said something too, but she doesn’t seem too bad tonight. Hormones, I hope.’

They let the conversation take them round their children, school (she didn’t mention Mrs Snell), TV7, the new assault course Richard was designing. Lulled by the warmth, the wine and the easy sense of companionship, Christie found herself relaxing, comfortable in his company. It was only when they sat down that she realised just how much she was enjoying being with him. She looked at his face, seeing what Mel must have noticed on their first meeting. But he had more than just good looks. She saw a vulnerability in his face that intrigued her. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. Realising how little she knew about him, she wanted to ask about his background but at the same time she didn’t want to intrude on his privacy. Did she fancy him? And, more pertinently, did he fancy her? Just a bit?

When he eventually got up to go, she followed him to the door. He called to Olly and stood in the hall, waiting for his son to appear. They were standing so close she could smell the faint scent of him.

She leaned towards him to kiss his cheek. As she did so, he turned and, unintentionally, her lips met his. He tasted of red wine with the slightest hint of cinnamon. She suddenly felt an intense longing for her past life. For Nick. For someone. Forgetting herself, she leaned into him and closed her eyes for just a second. He jerked back as if he’d been stung. When she looked up she saw panic in his face.

‘Ooops,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said awkwardly, holding the pumpkin lantern between them. At that moment, Olly and Fred tore down the stairs, Fred bumping into Christie and almost knocking her off balance. Richard reached out to steady her but she stepped back from his hand, not wanting to make the situation worse.

‘Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.’ He put his hand on his son’s head and shepherded him out of the house. ‘I’m sure we’ll see you soon. Thanks for the wine,’ he said, sounding horribly formal all of a sudden.

Christie watched the tail-lights of the battered Land Rover disappear down the drive. What had she done? How could she have misread the signs so badly? She might be out of practice but she was sure he’d felt as comfortable with her as she had with him. She’d obviously been quite wrong. The kiss had been just an accident, she told herself. Or had it? She shut the door behind them. Well done, Mrs Lynch, she congratulated herself. Another bloody cock-up. She walked into the sitting room where the candle-lit pumpkins flickered in the window, sat down and looked at Nick’s photo. He was laughing at her. Picking it up, she spoke aloud: ‘I don’t know, Nick. Have I lost my touch? You’d have kissed me, wouldn’t you?’ She touched the glass. ‘I loved you so much but I’ve got to move on now. I need more than your memory to keep me going. He’s a nice guy, you know. I think you’d like him. And I thought he liked me. Oh, well, I guess I was wrong. No accounting for taste, eh?’ She gave a sad little laugh. ‘Still, you know me. I’ll live to fight another day. And at least I’ve got the kids.’ She put the photo down, gave her husband a last look, and went to round up Libby and Fred for bed. Who knew what was going on in Richard’s mind, what he was keeping hidden? Men were strange creatures. After all, even Nick hadn’t been entirely straight with her until she had prised the information about the loan from him and promised to keep its existence secret.

‘I’m doing this for Ma and Pa, OK? Ma knows nothing about it and must never know. Promise you’ll never tell her, or anyone else for that matter. Pa is a proud man and I can’t let him go under. I just can’t. I’m his only son and it’s taken him seven years to tell me the truth. Please understand. I need your support more than ever.’

He explained that Pa had invested heavily in Lloyd’s and the returns on his investment had bought the highlands house and a decent income. However, at the tail end of the eighties the dividends were drying up, and by the nineties, Lloyds were asking their backers to pay back huge sums in order to get them out of the red. Pa expected the market to pick up so hung in there. He cashed in some insurance plans and other savings, but by 1999 he was in hock to his bank for half a million pounds and they were threatening to take the house. Eventually, with his pride round his ankles, he had told Nick the truth. He had tears in his eyes at the thought of bringing such a loss to Elisabeth. ‘I’d blow my brains out if I hadn’t already cashed in the life insurance policy.’

‘Pa, don’t say things like that. I’ll do anything I can,’ Nick had promised.

Christie had never seen him so out of his depth. ‘Were you hoping I wouldn’t find out? Is that why you went to the bank on your own? Would you have told me if I hadn’t opened the letter?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not.’

That was what had lit the fuse to Christie’s temper. ‘You weren’t going to tell me? I’m not your mother living in a dream world of times past. I’m your wife. I’m not an idiot and I never expected that you, of all people, would treat me like one. Oh, my God, Nick – you, of all people. You’re not the man I thought you were.’

And so sensible Nick Lynch put everything he had, including his young daughter and pregnant wife’s security, on the line – and the millstone of a debt of half a million pounds was born.

15 (#ulink_047728cf-f08d-5bfa-a66e-3a28768e1301)

Libby was furious. Her face was pale, her mouth a thin, stubborn line, her eyes dark and sparking with anger. Her school shirt bagged over her navy-blue skirt, the skinniness of her beanpole legs accentuated by her black tights and heavy black shoes. She’d paused to eat a mouthful of porridge before filling her book bag, cramming in everything she needed any old way. Christie’s insistence that she removed her green nail varnish before school meant that the edges of her nails were marked with colour that she hadn’t managed (or bothered) to get off. Her school jacket and the oversize navy-blue jumper in which she insisted on drowning herself every day hung on the back of a chair.

‘I don’t need to see the doctor and I’m going to miss English. The only lesson I like,’ she said, taking a quick slurp of tea. She made a face at the sweetness. ‘Unlike sugar, which, if you ever bothered to listen to me, I’ve given up.’

‘Well, if you get a move on and stop being beastly, you won’t miss English,’ said Christie, through gritted teeth. ‘Fred’s been sitting in the car for the last five minutes. Do hurry up.’

‘Oh-kay-er.’ She managed to drag the simple phrase into three syllables. ‘I’m ready.’ Libby threw on her jumper and jacket before grabbing her bag, which was now so heavy that she stomped outside with one shoulder higher than the other.

Christie sighed as she locked the house behind them. They had argued over the visit to the doctor last night but she had stood firm. Neither had she gone into the reason for the appointment, masking it as a routine check-up. If Libby got wind of Maureen’s anxieties, she would refuse point-blank to go. To be truthful, Christie was sure Maureen was making a fuss where none was needed. But if this kept her quiet …

Having dropped Fred at school, they drove to the surgery on the edge of town where they sat on sticky plastic seats surrounded by posters offering help to smokers, drinkers and the overweight, advertising clinics for sexual health, diabetes, babies, and advising flu jabs, regular smears and breast checks. After twenty minutes, regularly punctuated by Libby’s sighs and irritated tuts, Dr Collier put his head round his surgery door and invited them in. He was a gruff, kindly man who had been at the practice for years and had helped Christie start to find a way through her grief and depression when she had first arrived in the area. He had listened to her and she trusted him implicitly. More twinkly Dr Finlay than ER’s smooth Doug Ross, he was tweed-suited and waistcoated, a stethoscope around his neck, rimless half-specs sitting low on his nose. He gestured them to the two chairs beside his desk, catching Christie’s eye and nodding to reassure her, before directing his attention to Libby.

‘Now, Libby. Can I ask you to hop on the scales?’

Without saying a word, she kicked off her shoes and obliged.

He played around with the weights until he was satisfied, then asked her to stand where he could measure her height. He raised one bushy grey eyebrow as he made a brief note. ‘Are you eating enough, my dear? You really need to put some meat on those bones.’

Libby returned to her seat without answering, earning herself a nudge in the ribs from Christie. ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.

‘Let me check your blood pressure too. Roll up your sleeve.’ He turned away and started unfolding a dark grey cuff attached to a monitor. Libby sat there, not moving, picking at a cuticle.

Christie nudged her again. ‘Come on, Libs. The sooner Dr Collier’s done, the sooner we can get you to English.’ She wished her daughter would behave as well in public as other people’s children seemed to. Why had she been blessed with a small thundercloud?