by Fern Britton
She loved her growing friendship with Frank, as well as the working relationship she was developing with Sam. They didn’t criticise her views or what she looked like but accepted her for who she was and respected how she approached her work. There must be a way to marry her two lives without sacrificing either. All she had to do was find the key. She sighed.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
The small voice from the doorway almost made her jump out of her skin. She turned to see Libby standing there. Her hair had grown over the summer and she wore it with a side parting so the way it fell hid much of her face. Standing there in her loose tracksuit bottoms and a baggy long-sleeved top, shoulders hunched and hands hidden by her cuffs, she looked like a waif who’d strayed in from the cold. Christie held out her arms.
‘Come here, Libs.’
Libby crossed the room and sat on her mother’s knee, resting her head in the dip under her collarbone. For a moment, they were silent, taking comfort from their closeness. Times like this had become increasingly rare and correspondingly valuable.
‘Nothing, darling. I was later than I meant to be and then Granny and I disagreed over something. The usual stupid grown-up bickering. That’s all.’
‘I heard her say something about me.’ Libby shifted her position slightly so that Christie became aware of her bony bum digging into her thigh. ‘You weren’t arguing about me, were you?’
‘Of course not.’ Mrs Snell had asked for her silence and Christie would respect that until she had heard what she had to say. As for Maureen, her child-rearing techniques had gone out with the Ark, so she wasn’t going to be fazed by her views.
‘I don’t want you to argue. I don’t like it.’
How small she felt, how vulnerable. Christie stroked her daughter’s hair back from her face, as she had done since she was a toddler. ‘I’m just tired, darling. Nothing more than that.’
‘Will you phone her and make up? Please. I don’t want her to be cross when she comes tomorrow.’
‘I’m sure she won’t be but, yes, if you want me to, I will. Pass me the phone.’ Libby straightened to reach for it, then snuggled up while Christie punched in Maureen’s number. After a couple of rings, the answerphone kicked in. Maureen must have called in on Ted on the way home, wanting to let off steam, no doubt.
‘Mum? Hi. Just to say I’m sorry for shouting. No excuses, just tired. And I will think about what you said. Thanks for everything. You know how much I appreciate it, really. See you tomorrow.’ She hung up and gave Libby a squeeze. ‘There. Happy?’
‘What did she say?’ Libby wasn’t going to let it rest.
‘Supper’s in the fridge. That was all. Come and help me put it on the table.’ Christie changed the subject. Although she wanted to be able to talk to Libby openly about anything, she didn’t want the moment spoiled. Libby had become so mercurial and her reactions so unpredictable that she didn’t want to say something that would trigger a change in her mood. So what if they didn’t talk tonight? Doing something together was definitely a step in the right direction. When Fred was next at Olly’s, they would have more time to discuss whatever the problem was. Tomorrow she would learn what Mrs Snell had to say and then she would decide how to play it. She followed Libby into the kitchen and slipped Queen’s Greatest Hits into the CD player. Ever since the children were babies, Nick and she had played this on car journeys, singing along at full volume, and most of the songs had become family anthems. She opened a drawer, passed a handful of knives and forks to Libby, and they began laying the table, screaming out the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. And as they sang in and out of tune, Christie gave herself up completely to the pleasure she took from their togetherness. Her own anxieties about her work, the house and their future almost receded into the distance – even those concerning the loan with which Nick had saddled her.
Nick was a good man but no saint. The small things that drive husbands and wives to rows flourished in their house too. The loo seat being left up and his clothes draped around the house were high on Christie’s list of annoyances. Nick’s greatest grievances were continually being asked to take the rubbish out, and the smell of fake tan when she came to bed. The row about the fake tan was the worst they had ever had until the Big One.
One morning, Christie opened a letter from the bank addressed to them both. It was confirming a bank loan of £500,000 that had been requested earlier that week. The interest rate and final amount to be paid off after twenty-five years was very high. The letter went on to add that the equity in their house and its current market value were sufficient collateral.
She phoned Nick at work. ‘Darling, I’ve got a letter from the bank here about a half-million pound loan. Do you want me to ring and say they’ve got the wrong people or will you drop in there this afternoon?’
‘No, no. Don’t do anything.’ Nick sounded unusually flustered. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll explain when I get home.’
That night, supper was washed up and put away and the children in bed before the two of them had a chance to sit down and talk. Christie’s mind had been in overdrive all afternoon.
Handing him a glass of wine she said, ‘What’s going on? You can tell me anything, you know. Why do you need all that money? Are you in trouble? In debt? Ill? What is it?’
He explained, and the subsequent row was nuclear. They didn’t speak, touch or share a bed for days. Gradually she understood his reasons but neither of them could have foreseen how far the ripples of one small pebble tossed into the pool of their lives would spread.
Chapter 12
The café tables were busy with yummy mummies chatting and laughing, their attention only half on the toddlers who were playing loudly among the tables that were scattered with half-empty baby bottles, bibs, rattles, toys and teacups. One small boy who was clearly just learning to walk wobbled slightly, then, with bent knees, dropped onto his very full nappy. A smelly miasma of poo escaped. Christie groaned inwardly. Ramsay’s Tea Rooms was her favourite place for coffee but not when it was overrun like this. She checked herself. How mean-spirited she was being. She remembered how stir-crazy she had felt trapped in the house when the children were small, as well as the fantastic relief she had gained from being among like-minded women who understood exactly what she was going through. She ordered an Americano and an almond croissant and went to sit at a small table for two in an out-of-the-way corner by the window where she could think about what Mrs Snell had had to say an hour earlier.
She had arrived at the school with Libby and Fred at eight thirty. To her relief Miss Whittle, the deputy head, was already in so Christie had been able to nab her in the main corridor and give her lame excuse for her previous afternoon’s no-show. She knew no one would be really convinced by a delayed train out of Marylebone, even though it was almost the truth, but equally she didn’t want to reveal herself as someone too weak to extricate herself from a lunch. Miss Whittle’s disapproval was almost palpable but she had said nothing and checked the head’s diary to find there was a slot free at nine fifteen, after assembly.
Sitting on the second chair in a regimented line along the corridor outside Mrs Snell’s office, Christie had felt as if she was queuing for a punishment having been dis obedient in class. By the time Mrs Snell ushered her in, she was feeling quite repentant.
‘Come in, Mrs Lynch. I did wait yesterday but I gather from Jenny that your train was delayed.’
Christie was almost sure she could see a curl in the head’s lip marking her disbelief.
‘Such a nuisance,’ she went on, brusque and businesslike as she always was when dealing with parents. ‘But never mind, you’re here now. Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
Tea? That must mean she was about to say something upsetting or at least something that merited more than a couple of minutes of her time. Anxious to get on with the conversation, Christie refused. Mrs Snell ushered her into the room that always surprised her: its apparent disorganisation was so at odds w
ith its occupant. She moved a pile of fancy-dress costumes from a chair so that Christie could sit down, then piled them onto the top of a filing cabinet already occupied by a set of dusty NatWest piggybanks. The rest of the room was crowded with the paraphernalia accumulated from years spent in the same school. Personal mementoes kept company with photos of sports days and fancy-dress parades, childish drawings, tea-towels printed with images of children’s self-portraits, boxes of Christmas decorations, books, a map of the world and various unidentifiable clay models. Every surface was crammed with stuff. A sharp growl announced the presence of Meryl, a tiny Chihuahua, tethered by a long lead to a leg of the desk. Both women ignored her.
‘Right, let me tell you of my concerns.’ Mrs Snell walked round her desk to sit so that she was half obscured by a vase containing five burnt-orange chrysanthemums. Christie edged her chair across so that she could see the head teacher over the piles of paper and books.
‘First of all, I wondered if there was anything in Libby’s behaviour that was concerning you?’ Mrs Snell put her elbows on the desk and leaned forward to concentrate on Christie’s reply, her eyes like polished agates.
‘No. Nothing more than what usually comes with being a teenager. You know, a bit moody, difficult. Though my mother . . .’ She stopped, not wanting Maureen’s observation to be part of this conversation. At least, not yet. She didn’t want her to have noticed something that had escaped her. If Maureen was proved right, she’d never hear the end of it.
‘But she’s not a teenager yet, is she?’ Mrs Snell reproved her. ‘And that’s what’s worrying us. She used to be such a happy little girl, but her class teacher has told me that she’s becoming increasingly withdrawn. Instead of being one of the main contributors to class discussions, she now rarely speaks. I wondered if she’d said anything to you.’
‘Nothing. But we haven’t been able to spend quite so much time together recently. I’ve got a new job that’s been quite demanding.’
‘Yes, I heard. Congratulations.’ Never had the word sounded so hollow.
Christie was racking her brains, turning over Libby’s recent behaviour in her mind, searching for clues that might explain her apparent change of personality at school. Certainly she had withdrawn at home too, but not so much as to cause any real worry. When Christie had been that age, she had liked nothing more than retreating to her bedroom where she could curl up on her bed with a good book, a secret stash of biscuits and a couple of parentally approved oranges. Once she’d been given a stereo, she’d hidden away practising her dance moves and singing in front of the mirror, experimenting with the makeup that Mel had shop-lifted from Boots. Was Libby doing anything different from her? She’d felt she was doing the right thing as a mother by respecting her daughter’s privacy, but perhaps she was wrong. Had she missed any signs that were more disturbing?
‘Is something wrong here in school? Is she being bullied?’ Suddenly panic possessed her. Not her beautiful daughter – she had always had such a strong personality. ‘A force of nature’, Nick had called her. Why would anyone dislike or want to hurt her?
‘I don’t think so. We’ve kept a careful watch in the playground and at lunchtime and there’s no evidence of that.’ Mrs Snell sat up straight in her chair. ‘We have a strict anti-bullying policy here. She isn’t the most popular girl in her class – that’s usually reserved for the sporty or naughty ones – but she has friends she’s very close to.’
‘Aren’t anger and introspection normal for girls her age? What else could it be?’
‘That’s why I wanted to see you, Mrs Lynch. I’d like you to go home and talk to her, try to draw her out and find out what’s bothering her, if anything, so that you and I and my staff can help her. She doesn’t appear to be thriving. Is she eating enough?’ She paused as if to give Christie time to think before continuing. ‘I don’t like to let anybody slip through the net. It may just be that she’s missing you being at home most of the time. And children don’t like their parents to stand out from the other parents, you know. To have a celebrity as a parent can, I imagine, be mortifying. I’m very proud of Libby and I can see you’ve got your work cut out as a single working mum but I’m sure that together we can get the old Libby back again. After all, she has to start her GCSE preliminaries next year.’
Christie felt as if her guts were twisted in a vice. A dead father, a minor-celebrity mother and a prickly grandmother to greet her after school. Poor, poor Libby. At that moment Christie had felt like the worst parent in the world.
A loud crash brought her back to the present. Another stray toddler had tripped and fallen against a chair leg. The crash was followed by a long silence before a deafening yell pierced the air, alerting a mother who came hurtling to the rescue. Watching her made Christie think. She was just as guilty of taking her eye off the ball as this woman. Nick had always had such a close relationship with Libby. When he came home from work, he’d sit on her bed every night and read a story, working his way through the childhood classics. At first he had done the reading, but then, bit by bit, he had begun to share it with Libby. When he came downstairs afterwards, he would tell her the funny things Libby had said to him, and they would laugh together. Tears pricked at her eyes.
Don’t do this. Do not cry.
‘Excuse me.’
Christie blew her nose and looked up to see a middle-aged woman, quite oblivious to her distress, holding out an open magazine, a napkin and a pen. ‘We watch Good Evening Britain every night. We think you’re so good. Would you mind signing these?’
Not now, please. Go away. But Christie smiled. ‘Of course not. I’m glad you enjoy the show.’ She signed her name quickly, desperate to be alone with her thoughts again. After a couple of minutes, the woman shuffled off to rejoin her companion at a nearby table. A couple of the mothers were staring at Christie now, obviously discussing her. She acknowledged them with a nod of awareness that made them turn away. Fixing her gaze on the table, she felt horribly exposed as they, no doubt, picked her to pieces. But she wasn’t going to be driven out of her favourite café, whatever was being said about her. She sipped her Americano and slipped back into her memories.
It had been so easy to let Libby’s bedtime story go after Nick’s death. Her own grief had knocked her sideways for so many months, and trying to cope with Fred’s demands had meant that Libby was forgotten and had stopped being in the centre of the family. Well, no longer. Bedtime stories might be a thing of the past but on the nights she was home Christie would make the effort to be more interested in Libby’s schoolwork and try to inveigle her downstairs so they could do something together. A direct conversation would be too confrontational. Instead, she would find out what was troubling her daughter by using more circumspect methods. She had agreed to meet Mrs Snell again in six weeks, assuming nothing more significant happened meanwhile. By then, she would be on top of the situation. And in the first place, she would go to the library and see if she could find any books that might help with Libby’s term project on the Romans. That was something they could look at together tonight.
*
The library was almost empty. The ripple of a gentle snore barely disturbed the hush. The only other sounds were the gurgling of the old-fashioned radiators and the rustle of newspaper pages being turned. Christie inhaled the comforting musty smell of used books that never failed to bring back childhood Friday evenings when her father would take her and Mel to their local library after school. She walked through the adult section into the children’s, where she had to be reminded of the way to the reference section. Working her way through the history books, she became aware of someone standing right behind her. One step too close. Anxious, she turned, only to find Richard reaching for a book over her head.
‘Oh, it’s you. Hello.’ She felt a sudden pleasure in seeing him, having him stand so near to her.
‘None other.’ He pulled the book towards him. ‘Not working today?’
‘Yes, but trying to be a good paren
t as well.’
‘Snap.’ He looked at the book Christie had open in her hand. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Roman myths and legends. I used to love them. It’s such a shame that kids don’t read them any more. I thought Libby might be interested for her school project.’ She said it like a question, not absolutely certain that Libby would show any interest at all. ‘What are you after?’
‘Dinosaurs. What else? But then I saw you. Got time for a coffee?’
‘I wish I had.’ She lowered her voice in response to a loud ‘Sssh’ from the librarian. ‘But I’ve got to dash home.’ She didn’t want to explain that she had to be there for a short phone interview that Julia had set up with one of the women’s magazines about what was in her fridge. How was she going to make that even remotely interesting or out of the ordinary? Perhaps she should stop at the supermarket on the way home. Yes, the two sides of her life were better kept separate if possible.
‘Shame,’ he whispered, as they walked towards the exit. ‘But we’ll see you at the weekend? Olly’s got his heart set on making a Fimo version of Jurassic Park so we need Fred.’
She laughed. ‘Well, we can’t let him down, then.’ She watched as he crossed the road, turning to wave before he rounded the corner. This was the first time she’d seen him alone since the pub quiz. Since then they had met only when they’d ferried the boys between houses. Without saying anything, he had made it clear that he didn’t want more from her. He was happy with their friendship as it was.