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

‘How have the children – Libby and Fred, isn’t it? – managed? It must have been hard for them too.’ Sarah had eaten the top of her biscuit and was now nibbling at the filling, leaving the jam button till last.

‘They’ve been fine.’ Christie studied the pointed toes of Sarah’s black knee-high boots as she closed the subject. Her children were a no-go area.

Sarah looked thoughtful. ‘I only ask because a friend of mine was in a similar position – well, divorced, not widowed – and although her daughter seemed to be coping at first, my friend’s just realised that she’s being bullied at school and has started self-harming. She doesn’t know what to do.’ She took her last bite of biscuit.

Suddenly she had Christie’s full attention.

‘It’s so difficult for kids these days,’ Sarah went on, helping herself to another. ‘They have so much to cope with at that age that we didn’t. I watch Milly, my thirteen-year-old, like a hawk to make sure she’s eating enough. I worry she’s too thin. A couple of my friends’ daughters are anorexic,’ she went on anxiously, no longer the journalist but a mother. ‘It’s been incredibly difficult for them. But cutting themselves – I don’t understand why they do that or how one wouldn’t notice.’

‘Oh, I can.’ The words slipped out almost without Christie noticing. To her horror, she felt her chin wobble.

‘Can you?’ Sarah leaned forward, concerned, her eyes intent on Christie.

‘I’ve just come back from the doctor with Libby. I’m so worried about her.’ Immediately she knew she’d said too much. She drew back, appalled that she’d fallen straight into the journalist’s trap. ‘That’s off the record.’

‘Of course.’ Sarah clicked off her tape-recorder, but looked as though she wanted to carry on talking.

‘I think we’ve finished, haven’t we?’ Christie stood up and took the mugs to the sink.

Sarah nodded, glancing at her watch. She had all she needed. ‘God! Is that the time? I’ve got to be in Covent Garden for two thirty and you’ve got to get to the studios. I must go. I’m sorry, but good luck with your daughter. Who said being a mother was easy?’ She laughed, the professional again, before letting Christie see her out. She’d got her story and was leaving her interviewee in a blind panic.

*

In the chauffeured car to the studio, Christie spoke to Mrs Snell, assuring her that Libby’s problems were being looked after. After that, she had a long reassuring conversation with Dr Collier, who said he’d refer them to a family therapist. Christie had one more call to make.

‘How did it go, darling? Sarah’s good, isn’t she?’

‘Very,’ she replied, looking out of the car window. ‘Julia, I need you to do something for me. I stupidly fell into the trap of saying something about my daughter that absolutely must not be made public. I need you to make sure she doesn’t use it.’

‘I’m sure whatever it was can’t have been that bad.’ Julia had switched into soothing-client mode.

‘It was, trust me.’

Silence fell between them.

‘You’re going to have to tell me, darling. Otherwise I’m not going to be able to help.’

Christie knew she was right, yet she held back. Sarah had caught her at a vulnerable moment and had known just how to exploit it. But if she told Julia, that would be two people too many who knew what was going on within her family. Once the secret was out, she would have no control over it any more. But she desperately needed Julia to do a damage-limitation exercise so she had to trust her.

‘Whatever you tell me won’t go any further. You have my word.’

She had no alternative. She repeated the conversation she had had with Sarah Sterling. She heard Julia’s surprised intake of breath. ‘If it gets into the papers, Libby’ll never trust me again and I’ll never get her better.’ Christie could hear the pitch of her voice rising. ‘It mustn’t.’ She groaned.

‘Calm down. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I’m almost certain children under sixteen are protected by law. They’d need your permission to print anything about her.’ The cogs whirring in Julia’s brain were almost audible. ‘But better safe than sorry. I’ve got an exclusive up my sleeve that I can trade with Sarah. Don’t worry. Leave it with me. She’ll understand.’

‘Julia. You must not share this with anyone else. Promise me.’

‘Don’t insult me, darling. I’m your agent. It won’t go further.’

Christie clicked off her mobile with a sinking heart, praying that Julia would keep her word.

Christie’s relationship with Libby sometimes seemed so tenuous. Always had been. Usually they overcame whatever tested them, but public exposure of Libby’s problems was something from which they might never recover. Nick’s close relationship with his daughter had seemed so different. Even in the short time they had had together, an unbreakable bond had formed between father and daughter that, right now, Christie envied.

Nick had always understood Libby’s moods. If ever there was a daddy’s girl, she was it. And he was helplessly wrapped round her little finger. On her fifth birthday, the little family went to stay with Granny Maureen, whose house was a short drive from the Secret Town, a model village so realistic that it even had miniature trains running round it. Freddie was beside himself with excitement as he squatted down at each station to see them arrive and depart. Libby was following the printed treasure hunt given to visitors so they would spot the smallest things. She loved the prisoner escaping from the police station, and the bride coming out of the church. But most exciting of all, for her, were the large koi carp swimming in the pond.

Nobody saw what happened, but they heard the splash. Somehow Libby had climbed over the barrier, walked across the train track and past a small boathouse and was now floating face down in the water, her hair streaming out behind her.

Christie stood there, paralysed by shock, for a moment unable to speak. Then she yelled, ‘Niiiiiiick!’ as loudly as she could. But he was already in mid-air leaping the barrier, track and boathouse to get to his daughter. His splash drenched Fred, who began toscream hysterically. Within seconds, Nick had Libby in his arms and didn’t let her go until they reached the first-aid room where she was pronounced fine but shocked. Back home, that night, Nick slept with his daughter in her tiny bed. He couldn’t bear to let go of her. And for her part no one but her daddy would ever do.

16 (#ulink_43d4964f-0e26-55a0-8f74-d42aa3b34059)

The night sky was clear and the temperature had dropped well into single figures, bringing the first real intimation of winter. Sam, Christie and the crew had spent the day in Rillingham, filming and broadcasting a Good Evening Britain special almost entirely devoted to the key by-election that was so significant to the Lib Dems. It seemed certain that Labour weren’t going to retain the seat but there was a chance that the overweening confidence of the Conservatives was not going to pay dividends. The Lib Dems had run a very efficient and effective campaign but opinion was divided as to who would win.

Christie was wrapped up in her red winter coat with the fur (faux, of course) collar, complete with gloves and hat. She had been standing outside the polling station for what felt like hours, warm when the OB lights were on but freezing when they were turned off. Her feet were blocks of ice. She and Sam had been interviewing all day, trying to get a fix on whether or not the Lib Dems were going to clean up on this highly contested seat. They’d been to the constituency offices of the main parties before catching up with some of the more extreme candidates. The weather had meant that there had been a decent voter turn-out so they’d got some good varied vox-pops. She thanked God the live broadcast was over at last so they could all retreat to the warmth of their hotels. Once the results were announced in the morning, they’d be on the spot to re-interview the candidates and canvass public opinion for that evening’s show.

Never had Christie been so happy to see a hotel. An old timbered coaching inn, it radiated history and charm. Through the mullioned windows, she could see the lights of the crowded restaurant, and heavy oak beams. She imagined the buzz of conversation, the warmth of a blazing log fire, and shivered in the night cold. They were crossing the road towards it when a youngish man, protected against the cold by a tartan scarf and grubby dark overcoat, stepped out from the shadows in front of Christie, making her stop dead. Behind him stood another man with a professional-looking camera. ‘Could we have just one photo with you?’ he said. ‘Just one. Please.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ Sam intervened. ‘We’ve all had a long day. We’re dying to get inside. No photos.’ He took Christie’s arm and tried to guide her past him, Frank closing ranks on her other side.

The man took no notice, trying to insert himself beside Christie while his friend ran in front, camera at the ready. ‘Please,’ he begged, reaching towards her sleeve. She recoiled, bumping into Frank.

As Frank drew Christie closer to him, the man darted behind them. By now she was really alarmed, quickening her pace to keep up with Sam and Frank, who were trying to hurry her into the hotel. The man gave Frank a shove that almost sent him flying. At that moment, Sam dodged in front of him.

‘That’s enough. OK? We don’t want any trouble but you’re frightening the lady. Go home, or I’ll call the police. Now.’ He stretched out his arm, allowing Christie to make a dash for the door.

Her heart was pounding as she collected her key from the small reception desk and excused herself to go upstairs to change. Her room was on the first floor down a crooked corridor lined with hunting prints. She let herself in and collapsed onto the heavily draped four-poster bed. She was unsure which she was most surprised by – her unwanted fan or Sam’s transformation into her saviour. She shivered as she thought of the guy – sad, really. He hadn’t seemed dangerous but his assault was an eye-opener. She’d discovered a big downside to becoming public property. There was little she could do except try to put the encounter out of her mind and be more watchful in future.

As the feeling gradually returned to her fingers and toes, she sat up and removed her coat and jacket. That only left the overwashed M&S thermals hidden beneath the thin terracotta-coloured cashmere jumper and dark-green skirt. She swore that never again in the middle of winter would she wear a skirt and high heels when reporting on the road. Big mistake! She went into the bathroom where she brushed her hair and repaired her lipstick. Then she rang home to make sure all was well. Since Hallowe’en, things had been on a better footing with her family. Libby seemed happier and had agreed to see Angela Taylor, the family therapist that Dr Collier recommended. Julia had worked whatever magic she needed with Sarah and nothing had appeared in print. Nonetheless, she was still running close to her credit limit with Maureen so it was important to try to do everything right and not upset her. Finally ready, she went downstairs to meet Frank and Sam.

Frank had booked a table in the bar for a late supper. The dark panelled room was busy for a weekday, full of news hounds gathered there for the by-election. Christie caught sight of the two men deep in conversation at the back of the room. She made her way through the tables to join them and caught the last of what Frank was saying: ‘She’s out for number one.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

Frank pulled out the chair beside him. ‘There you are. Are you OK?’

She sat down. ‘Yes, thanks to you two. Thank God you were there.’

Sam reached for the bottle of white Rioja and filled their glasses. ‘What a creep. Forget about him.’

‘Nothing else I can do, is there? So who were you talking about?’

‘You weren’t meant to hear, but …’ Frank’s embarrassment didn’t last for long. ‘We’re just talking about Julia.’

Sam glared at him as if to say, ‘Why can’t you keep your mouth shut?’

‘It’s OK.’ Christie picked up the menu and began to read. ‘What were you criticising her for this time?’ She decided on the salmon fishcakes and sorrel sauce, with spinach.

The two men looked sheepish, neither volunteering anything, both concentrating hard on the menu.