by Fern Britton
‘Hurry! We’ve got to catch them up,’ he yelled, bouncing up and down, watching Olly being pushed towards the exit by Richard.
‘Get off!’ insisted Libby, giving him a shove. ‘I can’t get this one on if you’re sitting there.’
‘Leave it out, kids.’ Christie put out a hand to steady their bags. ‘We’ve managed a week without a row. Do you have to start the minute we’re back in England?’
Libby actually apologised and put her hand beside her mother’s, helping to steady the trolley, which seemed to have grown wheels with a mind of their own. They yanked it towards the exit. As the boys argued about whether they were riding horses or motorbikes, Libby glared at them with contempt. Richard and Christie exchanged a private smile, sharing their amusement over the squabble. They pushed out into the terminal building, looking for the directions to the car-park bus. Suddenly, as they skirted the edge of a WHSmith, Fred let out a bellow and pointed. ‘Hey! Look, Mum. Isn’t that you?’
Christie turned towards the direction in which he was pointing. She stopped, letting her trolley skid into the back of Richard’s legs. A stack of OK! magazines was staring face out towards them with the words ‘LYNCH IN A CLINCH’ so bold and such a bilious yellow they couldn’t be missed. Above them was a photo of Richard and her smooching on the snowy chalet balcony. She remembered exactly the moment on their first night away when they’d stepped outside to escape the kids, but someone must have been waiting with a long-distance lens. Worse still, overlapping the picture was another of Sam looking unusually dishevelled, his body half hidden by the question ‘BROKEN-HEARTED?’ The implication was obvious.
‘Oh, my God.’ She felt as if all the breath had left her body.
Fred and Olly had made a beeline for a rack of sweets and were already arguing over the choice of two jumbo Haribo packs. Libby, cheeks burning, was looking anywhere but at her mother.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Richard was rubbing his calf. His gaze followed Christie’s. ‘My God! What’s that about?’
‘Would you mind buying a copy?’ she asked him.
‘Er . . . yeah . . . if you really want to read it.’ He sounded uncertain.
‘I do.’
He went over to the stand, picked up a copy, then paid for it and the boys’ sweets.
Christie pulled her woolly hat a little further down in a fruitless attempt to disguise herself from the other customers in the shop – she was sure they must have read every word and were staring at her.
Richard gave the boys their sweets, tucked the magazine into his shoulder-bag and put his arm round Christie. ‘Come on, gorgeous. Let’s get you to the car.’ He whistled up a barely responsive Libby and the five made their way to the bus stop.
On the bus, Christie sat next to Libby and took her hand. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry to be such an embarrassing mum. It’s terrible for me too.’
Libby snatched her hand away and turned up her iPod Shuffle.
While they were driving home, Christie read the magazine piece, which said little but implied that she and Sam had been seen having cosy dinners together. Apparently he had hopes for more than a professional relationship with her. Richard was portrayed as a handsome single father whom she’d homed in on at the school gates. There were ‘quotes’ from a so-called ‘mum at the school’, who claimed that no dad was safe from the attractive, well-paid widow and TV broadcaster who was beginning to believe she was better than Gilly Lancaster. She was even accused of attempting to push Gilly out of Good Evening Britain altogether. The piece was full of lies, peppered with the odd grain of truth to make it convincing.
Richard kept quiet, merely asking if she was all right.
Later that night after supper, Christie and Richard sat together on the sofa with the boys sprawled on the floor, gripped by Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Richard dozed, making little sputtering noises whenever he exhaled, while Christie lay back, her eyes half shut, reliving the past weeks.
How thrilled she had been when Richard had suggested they all went skiing at half-term, but she had vetoed the idea immediately. The job came first and she knew it was out of the question to ask Julia to wangle any time off for her. She could imagine the response. ‘More time off? You’ve just had Christmas. Out of the question.’ But then the news came through that Gilly was desperate to get back on air. Two months at home with the triplets was driving her crazy, so she had begged Jack to let her return, just for a week. Her doting parents were thrilled to be grandparents at last and allowed to look after the babies.
In the end, it was Julia who asked Christie to take the week off. She’d be doing them all a huge favour if she agreed to step aside, even though they were all aware this would be a breach of her contract. ‘And I know how keen you are on money,’ Julia had added, quite unnecessarily. ‘So I’d better tell you now that you won’t be paid. They can’t afford two salaries. I don’t want you to think that I’ve taken it out of your pay packet.’
Christie assumed this was a poor attempt at a joke after she had pursued her yet again about the cheque that still hadn’t come through from Drink-a-Vit. A louder snore from Richard reminded her that she didn’t want to think about all that now. She’d have plenty of time to sort out her finances after she was back at work the next day. Instead, she transported herself back to the Alps.
With only three weeks to go, Richard had managed to find a last-minute booking in the ski resort of Les Gets. For the first couple of days there, he had spent his time alone, high on the black runs, while Christie humiliated herself on the nursery slopes with the kids. Despite the undoubted attractions of Gustave, their hunky instructor, she was constantly debating the pleasure of sliding down a hill, falling over, and then climbing back up just to repeat the experience. Her thighs, knees, calves and feet screamed for mercy at every step. The idea of hot chocolate and a good whodunit seemed infinitely preferable. Then, at the end of the third day, she actually began to stay upright more than not and to enjoy the sensation of speed (however slowly she was moving, it felt fast!), as well as the cold air in her face, the majesty of the snow-covered mountains. By day four Fred and Olly, whose daring knew no bounds, were practised enough to go off on the red runs with Richard in the afternoons, leaving Christie and Libby to their lessons.
Libby was a changed girl. She laughed with Christie, flirted with Gustave and even played snowballs with the boys and Richard, laughing when Richard pushed one down her neck but always pulling away when, unthinking, he kissed her good night. She blossomed into an attractive young woman with clear, tanned skin and a smattering of freckles. Christie was so proud of her, wishing she could bottle each moment they spent together.
For the last two days, they had all been able to ski together, if cautiously. The evenings were filled with hot baths, mulled wine, good food, plenty of laughter and the best nights’ sleep she could remember.
Christie had to pinch herself when she thought how much their lives had changed in such a short space of time. And it all seemed completely right. Since Boxing Day, her relationship with Richard had moved effortlessly forward. A drink in the pub had progressed to dinner out, to evenings spent comfortably together in one another’s homes – although they had yet to spend a whole night in the same bed. To her disappointment, Richard had insisted on not sharing a bedroom, even in France. He argued that they had plenty of time, and that the most important thing was for the children to adjust to the idea of them being together. So although she was dying to get him between the sheets for more than a delicious snatched hour or less in an empty house, she was happy to bide her time. But not for too much longer.
The boys hardly noticed how close their parents had grown, and certainly seemed not to care. The more time they could spend together, the happier they were. The only obstacle in the way of Christie and Richard’s happiness was Libby, who was beadily aware of what was going on. Richard had been at pains to show her he wasn’t trying to replace Nick, that her father was not to be forgotten. He ask
ed her about him, what they had done together, trying to draw her out, but she held herself back, never hostile but always wary. ‘All she needs is time,’ he’d say, watching her run after Smudge or stomp up to her room.
Christie became aware of the music swelling into a finale: a sure sign that Harry had failed to conquer Voldemort yet again. She opened her eyes, just as Olly leaped on his father yelling, ‘I’m a death-eater!’
Richard woke with a start, rolling Olly onto the arm of the sofa. ‘No, you’re not. But you are a monstrous pain in the neck.’ He ran his hand along Christie’s thigh as he sat up. ‘We’re going to have to go.’
‘I don’t want half-term to finish,’ said Fred, turning his mouth down at the corners, pretending to cry. He jabbed the poker into the fire. Christie removed it from his hand and put it back on its stand before he set the house ablaze.
‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Work and school tomorrow.’ Richard stood, raising his arms above his head and stretching. Christie thought how fit and well he looked, helped by the skiers’ suntan, even though she knew it went no further than his collar line.
‘Why don’t you just stay?’ asked Fred. ‘You might as well.’
Olly took his father’s hand and looked up at him, hopeful.
‘Think so?’ He grinned at Christie over the boys’ heads. ‘We’d both love that but everything we need’s at home. So, no choice. Perhaps next time.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ she agreed, grinning back.
*
‘Thank God you’re here again.’ Sam kissed Christie’s cheek as soon as she walked into the green room the next day. ‘I’d forgotten how grim working could be. Never ever take another holiday. Please.’
‘Gilly’s been so bloody difficult,’ Frank kissed her other cheek. ‘Fussing about camera angles and lighting. Thank God for Tim, who somehow managed to calm her down. Having babies has done nothing whatsoever for her.’
Christie laughed. ‘She can’t have been that bad.’
‘Believe us, she was. I even heard her giving Julia an earful. They were in this very room and I just happened to be passing . . . quite slowly.’
‘Go on, tell. You know you want to.’ Christie smiled, thinking how much she’d miss all this when the time came to leave.
‘Well!’ Frank put his hands on his hips with the campest of movements. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing.’ He ignored their joint, ‘Yeah, right,’ and carried on regardless: ‘Derek wants a Rolex Daytona Cosmograph, white gold with diamonds. No change from sixty K, retail. As God is my witness.’ He paused for effect. ‘And Gilly doesn’t have the spare cash. Can’t understand why not.’ His voice rose to a falsetto as he mimicked her. ‘“I thought I had plenty after that Drink-a-Vit ad campaign, Julia. I promised him. What can you do about it?” On and on she went.’
‘So what happened?’ Christie was fascinated by this nugget of information, which suggested Gilly’s problems might not be so far from her own.
‘Julia calmed her down and promised everything would be fine, of course. She’s not going to upset one of her highest earners, is she?’ He looked at Christie as if she was stupid, then grinned. ‘We longed for the day when you’d be back.’
‘Come off it. It was only a week, and she’ll be back for good soon. Nothing I can do about that.’ Christie hung up her cream jacket, then picked up the half-empty bottle of milk that was on the coffee-table and put it back in the fridge Not surprisingly, nothing had changed in her short absence. The unforgiving neon lights still flickered on the ceiling and the coffee stains on the carpet were still there. The worktop was crowded with open biscuit packets, boxes of tea and coffee, used scripts and unwashed cups and plates.
‘And what about you two? Splashed all over the front of OK! – that really got Gilly going.’ Frank changed the subject, unable to resist the lure of scandal.
‘What can you do but laugh? It’s so pathetic.’ Sam stepped in a little too swiftly. ‘Anyone want a biscuit?’
‘I think I might just have been insulted.’ Christie tried to look indignant as she piled up the newspapers to make space for the plate of chocolate digestives that Sam brought over.
‘You know I don’t mean it like that. I’m honoured to be associated with you,’ he teased. ‘But who on earth dreams up these stories?’
‘Someone who was at the same hotel in Rillingham?’ Frank suggested mischievously. He brushed the crumbs from a chair and sat down, resting his Hugo Boss trainers on the table edge, then removing them as he became aware of Sam’s and Christie’s disapproving looks. ‘Not me.’
‘Frank! You promised,’ hissed Christie, gesturing towards Jeremy, the handsome young sparks who had made such an impression on Gilly’s Derek. He was hunting for a clean mug as the kettle boiled in the corner, steaming up the one and only mirror.
‘I certainly did. And not a word has crossed my lips. But hotel corridors have ears and eyes, you know.’ He pulled down the front of his Merc jersey and slightly hitched up the legs of his Gap jeans, revealing an inch of stripy Paul Smith sock.
‘Shut up!’ She glared at him, zipping her mouth, although aware they probably couldn’t be heard over the three TV screens on the wall that were blaring out Bargains in the Basement, the show ahead of them in the schedule. ‘We’ve all moved on.’
‘So we see,’ Frank said enthusiastically, his face glowing. ‘He’s quite a dish, your Richard. When do we get to meet him, then?’
‘I’m keeping him to myself for as long as I can.’ Christie watched as their first guest, the mother of a reality-TV star, was escorted down the corridor to the studio. ‘That’s the last time we’re being papped, if I have anything to do with it. So keep your indecent ideas to yourself.’
‘As if. And after all I’ve done for you.’
‘Well, you know what it’s like.’ Christie couldn’t keep the smile from her face as she thought of Richard.
‘If only I could remember!’
Lillybet put her head round the door. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘Show time!’ Frank sashayed out of the room without waiting for them.
‘He wouldn’t have said anything, would he?’ Sam asked. ‘After all, he’s the only one who knows.’
‘Nah. Not a chance. It’s some journalist doing guesswork that got a bit near the knuckle. You’re not broken-hearted, are you?’ She retrieved her jacket and slipped it over her blouse, doing up the buttons as she made the adjustment into her role of TV presenter.
‘No way. Oh, sorry. That came out wrong.’ Christie laughed so he didn’t need to justify himself. ‘No, but when we’re done, I’ve got to tell you about Melissa. She’s gorgeous. Met her at Mahiki’s a week ago. And this time it really is different.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Sceptical but amused that he hadn’t changed any more than their surroundings had, Christie led the way out of the green room. As she turned into the corridor towards the studio, she was almost sent flying by none other than Jack Bradbury, who was hurrying towards the lift. He stopped to check she was all right before he recognised her.
‘Well, well. Christie “Lynch in a clinch”. Looked like a good holiday – and all paid for too. Thanks for stepping down for a week. I appreciate it.’
She was taken aback by his unexpected concern, never mind his thanks. ‘No problem. It tied in well with everything at home.’
‘So we saw.’ He gave a pearly smile and slipped between the lift doors, clearly anxious to escape the grotty nether regions of his empire.
It wasn’t until she was sitting on the sofa with Sam, interviewing a woman who was starting a campaign for better road signs at accident black spots, when Jack’s words came back to her. ‘And all paid for.’ What had he meant? Julia’s attempt at humour over what she saw as Christie’s penny-pinching meant that she remembered quite clearly she wasn’t being paid for her week off. Sam’s thumb dug hard into the underside of her thigh. The interview! To drift off was a cardinal broadcasting sin. She recovered herself imme
diately, hoping the viewers would have interpreted her lapse in concentration as a moment when she was considering her next question. She rejoined the conversation as though nothing had happened and was careful to complete the show without another slip.
However, in the car home that night, she returned to Jack’s comment and to her relationship with Julia. Whatever reservations she might feel, she owed Julia everything. If it weren’t for her, she would probably be out of work, sweating over some freelance writing commission, worrying about where the next cheque was coming from. Equally, if it weren’t for her, they wouldn’t have the new washing-machine, the conservatory; the roof wouldn’t have been mended, they wouldn’t have gone to France and she’d still be getting unpleasant letters from the bank. Next on her list of must-dos when she could afford them was to get the central-heating sorted, decorate downstairs and – this was what really pleased her – buy two business-class tickets to Delhi for her mother and Ted. They had been so happy for Christie and Richard, and at least she could give them the treat Ted longed for as a thank-you to them both.
However, Julia and money were awkward subjects. The second Drink-a-Vit payment had yet to appear and she still had no idea what Jack had meant about being paid for half-term. Was he mistaken? Julia would know. After Christie had been taken on by Good Evening Britain, she had continued to allow her agent to sign her contracts on her behalf – once they’d gone through any unfamiliar or unusual clauses over the phone together – persuaded that this was an efficient business method Julia used with all her clients. Christie was embarrassed by her lack of financial savvy and the panic she felt when faced with a page of accounts. Nick had always looked after that side of things and she had passed on the responsibility to Julia with huge relief. Having someone you trusted to look after the money made life ten times easier, even if it meant she was more ignorant than perhaps she should be about the finer detail.