New Beginnings

by Fern Britton

  ‘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.

  Chapter 15

  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 bean-pole 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?

  ‘Your sleeve?’ Dr Collier held out the cuff.

  Impatient, Christie tried to help her. Libby pushed her away and defiantly pulled up her shirt-sleeve. Between her left wrist and elbow there was a row of four parallel angry scratch marks. They were quite distinct. Christie could tell from the doctor’s expression that he was as taken aback as she was. ‘Libby!’ she gasped. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Libby wrenched her sleeve down again. ‘I haven’t done anything. I was just playing with Sophie’s kitten.’

  Dr Collier peered sagely at her over his glasses. ‘I’d stop playing with it, if I were you, my dear. You might do yourself some lasting damage.’ He shook his head at Christie, advising her not to say any more. They would speak later. ‘Now, if I can just do this . . .’

  Libby reluctantly bared her arm again and let him tighten the cuff above her elbow while Christie sat, her eyes fixed on the marks, far too regular to be cat scratches. They could only have been made deliberately, but with what? And why? Could Libby be self-harming? She was only too aware that countless young girls did, but had never knowingly come across one. But why would Libby want to do such a thing? If only she could get inside her daughter’s head and find out what was going on in there.

  Before they left, the doctor cleared his throat but Libby kept staring at her lap. ‘Look at me, Libby.’

  She did so, her eyes large and insolent in her pale face. ‘I think you should come back to see me in a week’s time. If you’ve lost any more weight, I might need to run some blood tests. And stay clear of that kitten.’

  *

  Christie parked outside the empty playground. On the drive back to school, she had been running through what she wanted to say to Libby and what she should say. Three people – Mrs Snell, her mother and Dr Collier – had noticed something was wrong with her daughter, but not her. She ached with the knowledge that she had let her daughter down. She longed for the help and advice of Nick who had loved and known Libby so well. He would have have had an idea what to do, who might help them. But . . . she stopped herself . . . was this the same girl he had understood and loved? Libby seemed to have changed in so many ways since he had died. This was something Christie had to deal with alone.

  ‘Libs. I don’t know why you don’t want to talk to me at the moment,’ she began gently. ‘I miss you and our little chats. I love you very much, you know.’

  Libby turned to her and Christie could see the tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, come here.’ She held ou
t her arms and they hugged awkwardly as the gearstick dug into her hip. ‘I know things aren’t easy with my long hours and your schoolwork. Is that what’s upsetting you?’ She rested her cheek on the top of her daughter’s head, inhaling her familiar smell, never wanting to let her go. There was a small sniff. ‘Whatever is it? Libby, tell me.’

  Libby’s voice was so muffled, Christie could only just make out what she was saying. ‘Why do you have to be on TV?’

  Her heart sank as she judged her reply, but Libby carried on.

  ‘You’re not ours any more,’ she gulped. ‘You’re everyone else’s too. Everyone at school talks about you. I liked it better when you were ordinary and no one knew you, and when Dad was here.’ She pulled away from Christie’s arms and sat hunched in her seat, picking at another cuticle.

  Christie so longed to come up with a quick-fix for her daughter’s pain. If only life were that easy. So her mother and Mrs Snell had been right. ‘Believe me, Libs, I wish Daddy were here every minute of every day. I miss him so much – we all do. But he’s left me in charge, so this job is just to help me fill the coffers and then I can go back to peace and obscurity. You’ve changed too, my darling. You’re growing up and I have to let go of my baby Libby, don’t I?’

  ‘I know. But that’s different.’

  ‘It’s not really, you know.’

  They sat in silence, each considering what the other had said. Unable to bear the sight of her daughter’s red-raw fingertips, Christie took her hand, stroking it with her thumb. ‘Libby. If something else was wrong, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  Libby leaned her head against the window. The first spots of rain began to run down the glass behind her.

  ‘Why’ve you given up sugar in your tea? Are you trying to be . . . healthy?’

  ‘Ye-es . . . and Sophie says I need to lose weight.’

  Christie opened her mouth to speak but Libby got there first.

  ‘And before you say anything, I do. I need to get rid of my fat thighs and hips.’

  Christie hugged her. ‘And were those scratches really from Sophie’s cat?’

  Her daughter’s face crumpled as the tears began to fall. She tried to wipe them away with her free hand.

  ‘What happened?’ Christie pressed her, then waited.

  ‘You won’t tell Sophie’s mum?’ Libby begged.

  ‘Promise.’ Christie dreaded what she was about to hear.

  ‘When I went to Sophie’s, she showed me her arms. She’s been cutting herself for ages, ever since her dad left them. She said it made her feel better. So I thought I’d try. But it didn’t make me feel better.’

  Christie thanked God.

  ‘It hurt and I didn’t go anything like as deep as Soph.’

  ‘So you won’t be doing it again?’ She had never felt so out of her depth.

  ‘No.’ Libby sniffed, while Christie fumbled in her pocket for a grubby Kleenex to share with her. ‘It didn’t stop me thinking about Dad, except for a second.’

  Christie hugged her again. ‘Libby, we must sort this out.’ An extraordinary sense of calm came over her as she took control. ‘I had no idea you felt so bad. I think perhaps we should try to get some help. No, wait . . .’

  Libby was shaking her head as she tried to open the car door. But Christie kept a firm hold of her other hand so she wouldn’t be able to escape.

  ‘We aren’t in the right place to talk about this but I will find someone who’ll help us both understand what’s happening here. Perhaps I should have done that when Dad died.’ Her words provoked another outburst of sobs. ‘But I didn’t. It’s not too late, though. We’ll get through this together, and you will feel better.’

  Libby’s tears slowed and she blew her nose. Her body visibly relaxed and her face showed the relief she felt. ‘D’you promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ Christie drew her child to her again, feeling how the tension had left her. Libby was relying on her and she wouldn’t let her down. ‘Now, you’d better go. Or you’ll miss English altogether. Splash some cold water on your eyes in the cloakroom and no one will notice anything. We’ll talk more tonight.’

  A kiss on the cheek and Libby was gone, leaving Christie staring after her, wondering what the hell she should do next. Remembering the Telegraph interview, she checked the time on the dashboard. Oh, fuck! Ten minutes to get home and do her hair and makeup. As she drove, she considered to whom she should turn: Mrs Snell or Dr Collier? She decided the sympathetic doctor was the more attractive of the two. She would call him as soon as the interview was over.

  *

  Sarah Sterling was charming. If anything, slightly too charming. In her forties, smart in black, with straight, streaked hair and an inquisitive gaze, she arrived with a photographer. They decided to photograph Christie in the kitchen, even though she had tidied the sitting room specially. Sarah helped clear the breakfast things into the dishwasher, chatting all the while. I know the routine, Christie reminded herself. Get the interviewee to relax, make sure you’ve got enough material for the piece then, when they’re off their guard, go in with the killer question. She held herself ready. When the table was clear, she followed the photographer’s directions and posed, smiling, until he was satisfied he’d got the shot he wanted. Only then, she realised her coffee mug had been in every shot – the one Mel had given her with ‘SEX BOMB’ in large letters on its side. When she had finally succeeded in persuading them that this was not the image she wanted to convey to Telegraph readers and he had agreed to airbrush the words out, she was left alone with Sarah.

  They quickly covered the obvious subjects of her growing up and her early career, peppered with a few throw-ins about her philosophy of life (make the most of what you’ve got), her favourite possessions (my photo of Nick and the pottery pig made by Libby), greatest weakness (my quick temper), what she hated and liked most about herself (I try not to hate anything, and my optimism), then her thoughts on town (negative) and country (positive) living. That led inexorably to her marriage and Nick’s death, which had so radically changed her life. Sarah was pleasant, interested, and Christie found herself warming to her as they chatted. She had no problem with talking about Nick. Writing about their marriage and about him had rehearsed her in what she did and didn’t want to say. Thinking about him for the second time that morning she wondered again how he’d advise her to deal with Libby.

  ‘How do you find Julia?’ A question from left-field.

  ‘Great. She’s a fantastic agent and person to have on-side.’ Christie was not going to let Sarah trip her up.

  ‘Not too domineering? One or two of her ex-clients have complained that she can be too pushy. That children’s presenter, Katie Belstead, swears she lost the children’s Saturday show job thanks to Julia demanding too high a fee even though she’d asked her not to.’

  Neither was she going to be tempted into indiscretion. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Certainly hasn’t happened to me.’

  Realising she was getting nowhere, Sarah changed the subject. ‘Being left with two young children must have been hard?’ She helped herself to another Jammie Dodger from the tin.

  If only you knew, thought Christie, but instead gave her stock reply: ‘To begin with it was, but I’ve had amazing support from my mother and sister.’

  ‘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.
r />   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.’