by Fern Britton
Nick’s partner in the law firm where he’d worked was more helpful. Nick had taken out a life-insurance policy, which would pay out three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Might she consider selling the mews house, paying off a bit of the loan and using the insurance money and what was left to downsize and move out of London? Good advice. But she had blown it by falling for the draughty money-pit she now called home – and she still had to pay off the loan.
Chapter 18
Mel’s flight had been due in at five that afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve. A taxi would have dropped her at the house a couple of hours ago, so Christie was rushing home to see her. Because Mel had changed her plans at the last minute and extended her latest exotic shoot into a Caribbean holiday, the sisters hadn’t spoken to each other for weeks. And before that, work, the children and the builders had overshadowed everything else in Christie’s life as she journeyed back and forth between them, always preoccupied by one or another.
They had occasionally emailed each other, Mel waxing lyrical about the delights of St Lucia and about the photographer on the shoot, Jean-Pierre, who, at equally short notice, had taken the same two weeks as holiday. Funny, that. They had been holed up in Rodney Bay, having a high old time. In return, Christie’s replies had been brief, only hinting at the events in Rillingham. She was dying to tell Mel all about what had happened with Sam, but she deleted the message time and again because she couldn’t manage to convey the exact mood of the evening. What she didn’t want was Mel to misinterpret it and to cast Sam as a chancer (which he was, of course, but in the most charming way) and her as pathetically desperate (which she absolutely wasn’t). Instead she resorted to teasing her sister with veiled suggestions about a mystery man, which she knew would have her fizzing with desperation to know what had really gone on.
Neither had she told her about Libby, about their visit to Dr Collier and the subsequent appointments with Angela Taylor, the private family therapist he had recommended. Despite her initial reservations about sharing her family’s intimate problems with a complete stranger, she had been impressed by the way Angela had encouraged Libby to open up, even at their first meeting. She had also found some release herself by talking things through on her own. Angela said little but what she did say was perceptive and cut to the heart of a concern, pointing her towards new ways of looking at her own and Libby’s reaction to Nick’s death. Angela was quiet, non-judgemental and, after only three appointments, had given Christie hope. But these were stories best saved for a long evening with a bottle of wine, when she could explain everything going on in her head without Mel drawing the wrong conclusions. And, at last, this might be the evening. She hoped it would be the first of many, as they all hunkered down for a fabulous Christmas together at home. No work. No Julia. No worries.
Approaching the house, Christie could see the Christmas-tree lights, a blaze of colour in the sitting-room window. To the left of the door, the kitchen window was almost obliterated by Fred’s cotton-wool snowscape where an unevenly plump Father Christmas and his sleigh descended to the chimney of a house that, with a bit of imagination, was something like theirs. Brightly coloured squares of presents flew off into the sky behind him. He had no means of steering since her and Libby’s scissor skills had stopped short when it came to the reindeers’ legs and harnesses. The faded red paper lantern, bought on honeymoon in a strange Christmas shop she and Nick had found in the backstreets of Naples and brought out at Christmas every year since, hung in the ox-eye window above the front door.
She took the presents that she’d been storing in her studio dressing room out of the boot of the car and rushed them upstairs to be hidden in her study without anyone catching her. The smell of burning cheese confirmed Mel’s presence in the kitchen. She tiptoed downstairs, wanting to surprise everyone. Just as she turned at the bottom of the stairwell, something lurched at her out of the darkness. She grabbed at the end of the banister to steady herself.
‘Gotcha!’ Fred clung to her like a monkey, his lips pressed to her cheek. She hoicked him up to her hip – before he broke her neck – and, breathless with surprise, kissed him back.
‘Look up, Mum. Auntie Mel and me put it up there.’ He pointed an ink-stained finger towards a bunch of mistletoe tied to the light fitting. ‘She’s been here for hours and hours. And she put some presents under the tree. Can I . . . ?’
‘No, no, no.’ She unhooked his arms and lowered him to the floor. ‘You’ve got to wait until Christmas Day.’
‘But . . .’ He was fidgeting with excitement, pulling at her hand.
‘No.’ She knew exactly what he was going to say. ‘Not even one. Come on, let’s see what’s for supper.’
To her surprise, she heard a man’s voice in the kitchen – Richard. What was he doing there? Then she heard Libby laugh, followed a second later by Mel.
‘God, I’m hopeless. Rich! I thought you said if I kept stirring it wouldn’t go lumpy.’
Rich! Since when had the two of them been on such close terms?
‘For God’s sake, woman! Pass me the pan and I’ll do it.’ Christie could hear the amusement in his voice.
‘Not only is he handsome, he can cook as well. What do you think of that, Libs?’
‘P’raps he could teach you.’ Libby laughed again.
‘I’m trying. I’m trying.’ Richard groaned before the sound of whisking took over.
Standing in the chilly corridor, Christie was suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible sense of exclusion from what was going on in her own kitchen. Mel had been back for five minutes and already everything was happier families than it was when Christie was around. The thought was fleeting but it hurt. She told herself not to be so bloody stupid, took a breath and walked in to see the three of them busy making supper. Libby was watching the chops under the grill, Richard was rapidly stirring something on the Aga while Mel was checking a pan of boiling water.
‘Chris!’ As soon as she saw her, Mel replaced the saucepan lid and rushed over to hug her. She was looking fabulous, sun-kissed and, despite the December temperatures, wearing a floaty aquamarine dress that did everything for her tan. Her hair had lightened by several shades and was cut to frame her face, accentuating her high cheekbones. ‘You’re back already. I wanted to have this cauliflower cheese done for you, but Libby and I got into such a muddle.’
Christie looked over at Libby, her face pale but happy as she smiled at them both and gestured with despair towards the table where a casserole dish sitting next to a wire-rack of mince pies contained what was obviously their incinerated first attempt.
‘So that’s the smell?’ Christie hugged her sister back and planted a big kiss on her cheek.
‘’Fraid so. Luckily I asked Richard in for a coffee when he gave me a lift from the airport so help was at hand. What a man!’
Richard had turned so he was standing with his back to the Aga, holding on to its rail. Christie looked at him, liking how the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled, how the ends of his mouth slightly turned up even when he didn’t. She experienced a sinking sensation that came with the realisation that something she thought she didn’t much want was no longer available to her. Suddenly she wanted him more than anything.
‘Gave you a lift from the airport,’ she echoed.
‘Yes, Maureen mentioned Mel was getting an expensive taxi and, as I was in town at a business lunch, it was easy to reroute via Heathrow.’ Richard picked some dog hairs off his beige sweater and smiled as her sister nudged him aside so she could return to the cooking. Mel had been right. He was gorgeous.
Christie thought fleetingly of Sam. She felt no flip of the stomach when she saw him. And now I fancy Richard, she thought. Oh, Christie, get over yourself. Why does it matter to me that he and Mel click? I should be pleased.
She didn’t need long to work out the answer. Of course he isn’t gay. You never really thought he was. He just doesn’t fancy you. He fancies your sister. Get over it.
‘A
nyway, I’ve asked him to supper since he’s virtually cooking it. That’s OK, isn’t it?’ Mel took the pan off the Aga and crossed the room to drain the cauliflower.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ No, no. Actually, it’s not. I want you on your own to find out exactly what’s been going on.
‘Do you know what?’ Mel looked as if she was receiving divine inspiration. ‘I’ve had an even better idea. Why don’t you come to Christmas lunch?’ She didn’t notice either Christie’s or Richard’s look of alarm, or she ignored it. ‘He was just saying, it’s him and Olly on their own before they go to his mum’s on Boxing Day. They aren’t even having a turkey or Christmas pudding. It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it, Chris?’
‘It’s rather short notice for you, though?’ Richard sounded unsure.
‘Come! Come!’ shouted Fred, thrilled with the idea. ‘Say they can, Mum. Go on.’
Christie pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, feeling as if her world was spinning off its axis. How could Mel be so insensitive? Then she remembered how she had denied all interest in Richard. She had no one to blame but herself. At the same time, she had imagined that she might still be in there with a chance. She was willing to square up to opposition – but unknown rivals for love were one thing. Her own sister was quite another. The last thing she wanted was to spend Christmas Day with them cosying up to each other, leaving her in the cold. She was aware that all eyes were on her, waiting for her decision: Mel and Fred’s demanded she say yes; Richard’s were questioning, and Libby’s dark and unreadable.
‘There’s always way too much food and Mum adores him,’ Mel urged, as if he wasn’t there. ‘And it would make such a change.’ She spun round, almost knocking Libby off her chair. ‘What d’you think, Libs?’
‘Whatever.’ Libby’s demeanour had inexplicably changed. She got up and disappeared through the door, leaving the chops to Mel. They heard the sound of the TV switched on in the sitting room. Mel shrugged in a that’s-teenagers-for-you way. Christie desperately wanted to go after her daughter but knew the mood meant she’d be cold-shouldered. Now was not the moment. What would Angela advise her to do?
‘Why don’t you ask the mystery man you hinted about in your email?’ Mel was bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Then it would be a real party.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said sharply, aware of Richard studying her with new interest. ‘I haven’t got a mystery man.’
Mel looked confused. ‘But you said . . .’
‘Mel!’ She stopped her in her tracks, saying firmly, ‘No, I didn’t. You must have misunderstood. Too much sun and too many rum daiquiris, I bet.’
‘Probably.’ Mel deflated, then recovered herself quickly. ‘But I thought . . . Well, what about Rich and Olly, then?’
‘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 ment
ion 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 sand-castles 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.