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

‘Of course,’ said Christie, making sure she sounded more welcoming than she felt. ‘If you’re not doing anything else, we’d love it.’

*

The next morning, Christie lay in bed, half dozing while a cup of tea grew cold on her bedside table. Mel had put it there, then given her a chance to have a much-needed lie-in by taking the children into town to get some last-minute bits and pieces. She went over the previous evening. Richard hadn’t hung around, saying he was sure they had plenty to catch up on without needing him there. But when she finally had Mel to herself, Christie couldn’t bring herself to ask her what was going on between them. Apart from not wanting to spoil the mood, she found she didn’t want to know the answer. Instead she listened to Mel’s adventures in the Caribbean, which mostly revolved around her affair with the photographer, and in turn regaled her with stories from work, interviews she’d done, her growing friendship with Frank and Sam and, of course, the night in Rillingham. Mel had listened with a mixture of astonishment and delight on her face. When Christie finished, she put her arms round her and nearly squeezed her to death. ‘What an amazing guy! It’s the best thing you could have done. You don’t really fancy him, though, do you?’

‘No,’ she said decisively, not even having to think about her answer.

‘Pity,’ Mel murmured. ‘Imagine the headlines.’ She dodged, laughing, as her sister had tried to push her off the sofa.

Christie stretched, revelling in the warmth of the duvet but bracing herself for the moment when she would have to get up. She pushed herself up against the pillows, keeping the duvet as close to her chin as she could, then inched her left arm out into the cold to pick up the mug. She’d hoped to have the central-heating in by now, courtesy of Drink-a-Vit, but thanks to the delay in payment, she’d only been able to afford to get the conservatory windows and the chimney done. The up-side of that was that the sitting-room fire drew beautifully now, no longer smoking and exacerbating her mother’s theatrical cough. The down-side was that, although she was hardly skint, she still didn’t have money to burn – at least, not until she’d paid off more of Nick’s bloody loan. Around her, the house was silent. She sighed, contented. No one was there to demand anything of her. The mile-long list of self-inflicted Christmas chores could wait for another couple of minutes, she told herself, screwing up her nose at the taste of the tea. No sugar. Downstairs, the phone was ringing. She ignored it. The only reason she had to leave the house today was to collect the silver tabby kitten she was giving Libby. She hugged herself with pleasure, imagining Libby’s face when she saw it. With that, and everything else she had in store, this Christmas would be perfect.

Mel had left The Times and the News on the bed beside her. She idly opened the News, thanking God she no longer had to write for them. Of course, the editor’s dismissive attitude to her had changed the moment she’d landed the Good Evening Britain job. What a pleasure it had been to be able to refuse his entreaties to stay on. On page three there was a picture of Gilly and Derek celebrating the birth of their triplets and a short feature taken from the huge photo-shoot, which occupied at least ten pages of the Christmas edition of OK! ‘CHRISTMAS BRINGS THREE CHEERS FOR GILLY’. The babies, Aphrodite, Melissa and Oscar, born on 13 December, lay on a white fur blanket: tiny things dressed in baggy red Babygros, their faces scrunched and pink, their fingers curling and uncurling. Gilly, dressed in a white silk robe, with flawless hair and makeup, was gazing out at the camera wreathed in a beatific smile, while Derek, his arm around her shoulder, looked down at his children, totally focused and adoring. And the babies, for all their newness, were sweet. Rather her than me, though, thought Christie. One baby at a time was exhausting enough. But those early days would be different for Gilly, who would be nannied, spoiled and supported to the hilt, unlike most new mothers who braved that precious time alone with their partners.

Christie flicked over the page and stopped dead. There was no mistaking the next photograph either. The photographer had caught her at her worst. Little makeup didn’t help but the angle at which she was holding her head made her face look pinched and anxious, her hair lank and unbrushed. She was clutching her coat collar tight against the freezing weather with her shoulders hunched up around her ears. Worse still, as she studied the photo with mounting horror, she realised she was walking out of Angela Taylor’s consulting room. Appalled, she read the accompanying text.

CHRISTIE IN CHRISTMAS CRISIS?

Exhausted Christie Lynch (42) emerges from a session with a family counsellor near her Buckinghamshire home. Has being thrust into the public spotlight become too much to bear? A friend says that Christie, whose husband Nick died over two years ago, is concerned that her family aren’t taking easily to her new-found stardom. Other friends are also concerned that TV7’s new star presenter may not be coping with the additional pressure as well as television executives hoped.

The piece went on to use quotes from ‘close friends’ and ‘programme sources’ to hint that Christie wasn’t exactly popular at the studio and was becoming a tearful foot-stamping diva. Who hated her enough to make this stuff up? Downstairs the phone was ringing again. She took no notice, re-reading the piece, thanking God there was no direct mention of Libby, although the reference to ‘her family’ could mean only one thing. Who the hell were these so-called ‘friends’ who apparently knew her so well? Only Maureen, Julia and Frank (he’d winkled the truth out of her one evening, intuiting that she needed a friendly ear to confide in) knew the full story and she was certain that none of them would break their silence. Would they? Beyond that, Julia had assured her of Sarah Sterling’s discretion.

Shortly after their conversation, Christie had seen an exclusive with Sarah’s byline on Tart Talk’s Marina French and her clandestine affair with co-presenter Grace Benjamin. At the time, Christie had been as astonished as the rest of the British public and wondered whether the claims were true, given the vehemency of Marina’s denial. Unable to bear the idea that her stupid slip of the tongue was responsible for this and the subsequent feeding frenzy in the other red tops, she had phoned Julia to ask if this was the story she had traded for Sarah’s silence. Her agent’s curt, ‘What you don’t know won’t harm you,’ was enough to confirm her suspicions. She had been both ashamed and horrified. Still was. Although Libby’s privacy was vital, this dog-eat-dog method of survival was completely alien to her and she didn’t like it one bit. She looked at the snapshot on her bedside table of Nick and the smiling children building sandcastles on Constantine Bay and sighed. Oh, Nick, why did you have to die? Come back to me, please. She closed her eyes, willing him to walk up the stairs. Nothing.

She examined the newspaper photograph again. Caught by a paparazzo she hadn’t even noticed. The clinic was on a busy road and he must have been sitting in one of the cars parked opposite, waiting, having followed her there. Could the paper, despite her previous relationship with them, have put a reporter on her tail who had just got lucky? Her next thought was for the children. They mustn’t see this, especially not Libby. Their Christmas mustn’t be spoiled. Afterwards, Christie would sit her daughter down and try to explain what might have happened and how no one would know Libby was involved.

Oblivious to the cold now, she leaned out of bed, fished her mobile from her bag and switched it on. As she dialled Mel, a sequence of buzzes alerted her to a number of missed calls.

‘Mel. It’s me. I’ll explain later but whatever you do, don’t let Libby see a copy of the News. Yes, I know it’s unlikely but just don’t. I’ll explain when you get back. No, I’m fine.’

She checked the missed calls. All from Maureen. Shit! She’d obviously seen the paper and reacted like an Exocet missile, immediately homing in on her reprobate daughter. Christie decided to call her after she’d spoken to Julia. By this time, her fury had been replaced by an icy calm. She would sort this out and she and Libby would weather the fallout – if there had to be one.

Julia picked up immediately. ‘Have you seen the piece in the News, darling? Not looking your best but all publicity is good publicity.’

Christie took no notice. ‘Nobody is supposed to know that we’re seeing Angela. How the hell did they find out?’

‘I’ve no idea. The press have their methods. But look on the bright side. We know you’re fine, really; Libby’s not mentioned and the speculation will you keep you in the public eye while Good Evening Britain’s off air. Glass half full, darling. Remember?’

Christie felt like throttling her. Julia had never expressed any genuine interest in Christie’s life outside her work unless it impinged on some arrangement she had made. Whatever she said, she would never understand the potential internal damage a story like this might do to her family. There was no point in arguing. Christie would just have to keep a wary eye open for photographers in future and continue to keep her children out of the limelight. She cut the conversation short, suddenly desperate to be up and dressed, ready for the children when they got back. No newspaper was going to spoil the weekend ahead of them, and neither would the togetherness of Mel and Richard.

She went downstairs and relaid the big open fire with each scrumpled page of the day’s News but, at the last moment, kept the page with her photo and took it up to her study. She made two more calls, one to her mother to reassure her that the story was a vindictive fiction, that she was fine and that, no, Libby would not find out about it. The second call was to Angela who listened and asked, in time-honoured therapist manner, what Christie was going to do. They discussed the pros and cons of telling Libby. Angela was all for telling her immediately, but Christie didn’t want to risk ruining Christmas. They compromised by agreeing that she should be told before New Year, and keep an appointment with Angela, who would catch the fallout. Finally, Angela asked how Christie was.

‘Please don’t be nice to me. I’ll cry,’ Christie muttered. Then amid tears and nose-blowing, she poured out her upset and hurt over the article, her fears for Libby, for the security of her family, and for her financial mess. After about fifteen minutes, she felt a lot better and thanked Angela, whose last suggestion was for her to have a shower, put on some makeup and enjoy Christmas with her loving family.

19 (#ulink_91290a61-694c-5167-a42e-d3c25ab378be)

By that evening, everything was as perfect as Christie had hoped. She, Mel and the kids had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, singing along to Christmas carols from King’s College, Cambridge, and getting ready for Christmas Day. Mel struggled with the instructions on the packet of instant stuffing while Libby and Fred (briefly, in his case) helped peel the veg. Christie decanted the M&S pudding into a white mixing bowl and, with string, secured some greaseproof paper over the top – to howls of derision from the others who swore they would tell Maureen that it wasn’t homemade. Finally, the turkey was taken out of the fridge and put in the cool of the newly repaired conservatory so the space could be filled with everything they’d prepared. There, done.

At last, they all dispersed to wrap the remainder of their presents, Libby and Fred giggling and whispering together. Christie went to her study to find the kitten curled up asleep on her favourite cardigan. She’d kept the radio on to drown the sound of any miaowing that might spoil the surprise, but the little thing seemed blissfully content, his black and grey tiger-stripes rising and falling with his rhythmic breathing. Christie sat in the old leather armchair that had once belonged to her father, heaving a sigh of satisfaction. She half tucked the offending page of the News down the side of the cushion, wishing she could forget its contents while telling herself to dismiss them as just a hiccup in proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, this evening was going to be all right after all.

Half an hour later, she was woken by Mel tapping on the door.

‘Chris! Can I come in?’ She twisted round the door, careful that the kitten shouldn’t escape, holding a blue and grey silk head square. ‘Do you think Mum will like this?’ She flicked it in half, put it over her head and tied it under her chin.

‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment.’ Christie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. ‘But it is lovely. Beautiful colours. What about this?’ She pointed towards a pot containing a few apparently moribund stems.

Mel pulled out the label and read aloud, ‘“Sweet Dream, a small apricot-coloured rose bush, double bloomed and lightly scented, perfect for the patio”.’ A pause, then: ‘Christine! It’s very pretty,’ she mimicked, snorting with laughter, ‘but I’ve decided that all the flowers on the patio this year are going to be white. Ted might like it, though.’

‘You’re joking?’ Christie sat up. ‘She hasn’t?’

‘No, not really. But I wouldn’t put it past her.’ She picked up a pencil and began waving it in front of the kitten, which stretched out a lazy paw to trap it. ‘Libby’s so going to love you, though.’

Every year, Christie and Mel went through the same ritual of trying to second-guess their mother but, however hard they tried, they never got her quite the present she wanted. Brooches were the wrong shape, gloves not the right colour, clothes inevitably the wrong size, Champagne too extravagant, chocolates too fattening, and candles smelt too strong, too sweet, too flowery. They both knew that the scarf would somehow fail to meet her expectations, as would the rose Christie had once been so sure was the perfect gift.

They heard Fred shout from downstairs. Carefully shutting the study door behind them, they barged each other out of the way, like schoolgirls, racing along the corridor and down the stairs to find him in the sitting room, trying to attach an old rugby sock of Nick’s to the mantelpiece with Sellotape. ‘Every time I put it up, it just falls off,’ he complained.

‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Mel took the sock and hung it over the fifties wooden clothes horse that Libby had pulled out of the loft to hang her Christmas cards on. ‘That way, Father Christmas can’t miss it. Suppose he comes down the chimney and forgets to look up. He might not see it on there.’

‘S’pose not.’ Fred looked doubtful.

After supper they sat together watching Home Alone (yet again). Fred lay sprawled across Christie’s lap, helpless with laughter, while Libby sat by Mel’s feet, casting the odd withering glance at him and smiling when she thought no one was watching. But Christie was. They were surrounded by their usual Christmas decorations: the over-decorated tree in the window; cards pegged unevenly to red ribbons pinned across the two alcoves on either side of the fireplace; pieces of holly just beginning to dry out and curl over the picture frames; paper chains made by Maureen and the kids criss-crossing the ceiling in two vast swags, held up in the centre by a rainbow-coloured tissue-paper ball. On top of the bookcase stood a green fabric wind-up Christmas tree that sported pink high-heeled button boots and wriggled and sang ‘Santa Baby’ on demand. Abandon taste, all ye who enter here, thought Christie wryly. But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was what family life should be: togetherness and time-honoured pleasures. If only she could maintain the status quo through the next ten years. She caught Fred’s hand sneaking towards the Christmas tin of Celebrations. ‘Enough, Freddie. You’ll be sick.’

At last the film was over, the brandy, carrot and mince pie left out for Father Christmas and Rudolph, an over-excited Fred had been packed off to bed and Libby, playing it cool this year, had followed soon after. Mel and Christie quietly filled Fred’s sock and Libby’s fishnet stocking, then made a pile of presents under the tree before turning the lights out, checking the kitten for the last time, then kissing one another good night.

*

A grey dawn was stealing through the gap in her curtains when Christie was suddenly woken by the icy touch of Fred’s feet on her leg.

‘Mum!’ he hissed, his mouth over her ear. ‘Can I go downstairs?’

She groaned, rolled towards him and reached out an arm for him to snuggle under. ‘Stay here and let’s wait for Libby.’

With a sigh of disappointment, he curled into her but for the next half-hour wriggled and fidgeted so much that by the time Libby came in Christie was well and truly awake. As dictated by family tradition, the kids fetched their stockings, and when the bed was buried under a mound of ripped wrapping paper and presents, it was time to get up.

They found Mel already in the kitchen making coffee. Christie pulled out a chair, wishing she’d had another hour’s sleep. ‘Oh, Libs, I’ve just remembered. I think I left the radio on in my study last night. You wouldn’t switch it off for me?’ She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘I’m dying for this coffee.’

‘If I must.’ They heard her tramping upstairs and, as her footsteps sounded down the corridor, they tiptoed after her, shushing a puzzled Fred. The study door clicked open, and then they heard Libby’s huge gasp. ‘Mum!’

Christie took the remainder of the stairs two at a time to find Libby walking towards her, cradling the kitten, her face alight with joy and disbelief. ‘Is he really for me?’

‘He really is.’ Christie put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Now all you have to do is think of a name – oh, and bring the litter tray down with you.’

‘What about me?’ piped up Fred, engulfed by a sense of unfairness.

‘Don’t worry, Fred. It’s your turn now.’ She took him by the hand leaving Libby to debate names with Mel. From under the tree she pulled out a box and watched the excitement in his face fade. He picked at the paper, his eye on the other presents as if hoping another pet was going to materialise from one of them. Then his eyes widened and he gave Christie a grin that almost split his face in half.

‘A Wii! That’s wicked, Mum. Can I phone Olly and tell him now?’

‘No, he can see it later. Let’s have some breakfast, then Mel can help you set it up while I get lunch on the go so we’re ready when everyone arrives.’