by Fern Britton
And look what happened to Ben. The words rose from nowhere to the front of her mind. Doing up her coat, Christie walked over to where Tony was waiting. She disliked being bracketed so glibly with Gilly, and felt cross with herself for failing to get any closer to understanding how this business worked.
*
After Christie had overseen the end of Libby and Fred’s supper, struggled with Libby’s maths homework and read Fred the next adventure of Swallows and Amazons, with Libby curled up beside them, the children had finally given in and gone to sleep. With time to herself at last, Christie sat on the floor of the sitting room with a mug of hot chocolate, leaning back against a chair and warming herself by the fire. She lifted up Smudge, who was kneading her legs with needle-sharp claws, and put him on her lap, stroking him until he stopped fidgeting. With no more distractions, she had time, at last, to think.
All the call to Gilly had done was confirm her colleague’s quite unreasonable hostility towards her, and that she was lying about the Drink-a-Vit money. What puzzled Christie was why such hostility existed when, as far as she was aware, she had done nothing to provoke it. Going behind Julia’s back had definitely been a bad plan. As a result, she’d been labelled a ‘spiky paranoid fantasist’. Although Christie was undoubtedly in the wrong, this was going too far. Was that really what people thought of her? ‘Spiky’? Perhaps occasionally, when things got on top of her or someone crossed her and she reacted badly, but no more than anyone else. ‘Paranoid’? No. She didn’t believe that anyone was really out to get her. The way Gilly snubbed her friendly overtures had been witnessed by plenty of other people. And ‘fantasist’? That wasn’t true either. Something fishy was going on at White Management. She had some proof of that now and was going to get to the bottom of things. She picked up the latest detective novel she was reading, opened it, then put it on the chair behind her. She had her own mystery to solve.
Shutting her eyes, she let her thoughts drift freely in and out of her consciousness. But always they arrived back at the same person. Julia. Who was the woman to whom she’d entrusted her livelihood and who wielded such power in the entertainment world? Where had she come from? All Christie knew was her business reputation and what Frank had told her. She eased the purring Smudge onto a cushion and went upstairs to fetch her laptop. Settling back by the fire, she began to Google. After an hour, she had found out nothing more about Julia than she already knew. Various press interviews revealed her as a subject who guarded her own privacy but who would speak readily on behalf of her clients. Most of the photographs Christie clicked on she had already seen on the walls of the White Management office. Julia’s Wikipedia entry held nothing about her early life until she attended drama school, bar a birth date of 11 March 1961 – and who was to say whether or not that was correct, apart from Julia herself? Beyond that, her biography was short, noting her marriage and divorce from Max Keen, and her involvement and absolution from blame in the death of Ben Chapman.
Yawning, Christie tried a different tack and Googled Ben Chapman. One last shot before she went to bed. Perhaps somewhere in the flash-flood of features run after his death she would find something more revelatory about Julia. She scrolled down the entries, many of them inevitably the same as those Google had thrown up about Julia. She was just about to shut the laptop down when her eye caught something new: Gone Too Soon, a biography of Ben Chapman. She clicked the link to Amazon. Months after Ben’s death, a scissors-and-paste account of his life had evidently been whacked together to satisfy the public appetite for information about him. It was already out of print but a couple of used copies were available. Why not? At the least, it might give her a fuller picture of Julia’s involvement with Ben. She ordered a copy and snapped her laptop shut with new resolve.
Chapter 25
A week later, Tony had just turned out of the TV7 car park and was heading towards the M40 when Christie was surprised to see Maureen’s number come up on her mobile. Her mother never rang unless there was something urgent to discuss. What could be so important that it couldn’t wait for her to get home? Alarmed that something might have happened to one of the children, she picked up immediately.
‘Christine? Is that you?’ Maureen said in a loud whisper, as if anxious she might be overheard.
‘Yes, of course. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Libby. She’s very upset.’ The words ‘Libby’ and ‘upset’ came through loud and clear.
Christie’s heart sank. Everything had been going so well recently. Mrs Snell was happy with Libby’s progress and Libby herself seemed to be enjoying school again. She’d chosen to have her hair cut back into a bob, had put on a little weight and had even been seen with her sleeves pulled up. ‘Upset?’ she repeated. ‘Why?’ She turned her head away from the dazzle of the oncoming headlights. ‘Couldn’t this wait till I get home and we can talk properly? I’ll be back in about half an hour.’
‘I thought I should prepare you.’ Maureen raised her voice, though Christie still had to strain to hear her over the traffic noise outside. ‘Some girls at school have told her you’re bankrupt and that you’re going to have to sell the house and move. She’s terrified they’re telling the truth and you haven’t dared break it to us yet.’
‘What? That’s nonsense. Wherever did they get hold of that?’ Christie almost laughed aloud.
‘I told her that’s what you’d say,’ Maureen said, audibly relieved. ‘That you’d have told me.’
In fact, her mother was probably one of the last people she would have told had she been in such trouble, Christie thought, imagining the reactions she’d get: the disappointment; the ‘I told you so’; the ‘What about the children?’; the ‘What will the bridge circle say?’ And not necessarily in that order.
‘But it’s all over one of those magazines.’ Distaste for them dripped from every syllable. ‘And that’s not all they say.’
Christie’s heart began to race. Since Christmas, she had gradually resigned herself to being a target for journalists and paparazzi. She had come to accept that this was what went with her job. As a result, she made a concerted effort not to look at the magazines devoted to celebrity gossip unless she absolutely had to, which she rarely did. But, however resigned she might be on her own account, she couldn’t bear the idea that any stories, particularly ones that weren’t true, should upset her family. Maureen was saying something else but, unable to hear clearly, Christie cut in: ‘OK, Mum. Thanks for the warning. I’ll see if we can pick them up on the way. Back soon.’
They stopped off at a twenty-four-hour garage where Tony insisted he should be the one to get out and buy whichever of the offending magazines he could find, leaving Christie fretting in the back of the car. When he returned, he was shaking his head as he passed her two of the celebrity-obsessed weeklies. Turning on the reading light, she saw that she featured on both covers. One screeched, ‘DEPRESSED?’ across a shot of her all togged up at a lunch-time event she’d attended recently, while the other offered, ‘DOWN AND OUT?’ with a picture of her looking tired and harassed arriving sans makeup at the studio. Inside, the articles expanded on the theme. Poor widowed Christie, the new darling of TV7, was struggling with depression that was disrupting her family life and threatened to ruin her relationship with her new man (insert photo of Richard and her walking down the high street). Financial worries, which stemmed from being without any prospect of work after Gilly’s imminent return, apparently meant she might have ‘to abandon her idyllic country lifestyle’ (where did they dream that up?) for a more modest existence elsewhere, which, in turn, meant her long-suffering children would have to change schools and friends.
She leaned her forehead against the cool window, looking out into the darkness. Tony kept a tactful silence. There was nothing she could do about the journalists who had made up these stories. She had put herself in the firing line – she had no one but herself to blame for that – and she appreciated they had a job to do (God knows, she’d come close to doing
it herself), but the way their editors blithely ignored the collateral damage that might be caused by their failure to check facts and their obsession with circulation were beyond her. No wonder Libby was upset. Some parent or pupil at the school must have seen and believed what was written and passed it on, leaving Christie to pick up the pieces. They may not have meant any harm but they were ignorant of Libby’s fragile state of mind and couldn’t have taken it into account. Until now, the sessions with Angela Taylor had seemed to be paying off, with Libby returning to her old self. She still had her moods – not to have them at all would be asking too much of a girl her age, reflected Christie with a wry smile – but at least she seemed much more settled, happier in herself.
But this would almost certainly get worse before it got better. Christie had seen how one story could spread through the media like a firestorm, being embellished and altered as it went, heedless of the truth. Look what had happened to Marina and Grace, outed by a broadsheet only to have the history of their private lives dissected for weeks in the tabloids and gossip columns. Her stomach tightened whenever she thought about her unwitting role in that – as well, of course, as Julia’s. She had sold her own client down the river for the sake of another. Suddenly exhausted, Christie closed her eyes and visualised Angela Taylor’s consulting room: pale lemon walls with a couple of framed Monet posters, stripped-pine floor, chest of drawers with potted palm beside it, cool calico curtains and two comfortable red chairs opposite one another, a low table with a potted African violet and a box of Kleenex. Imagining herself in the chair nearest the window, conjuring up the measured rhythms of Angela’s voice, she tried to recapture the soothing effect of their sessions, which helped clear her mind and sharpen her thoughts: preparation for dealing with the raging teenager who was waiting at home.
*
Contrary to her expectations, the house was deathly quiet when she walked through the front door. She went along the dark hall towards the light in the kitchen to find her mother washing up. Ted had come to give her a lift home and was sitting at the table with a paper and a cup of tea. Maureen turned when she heard footsteps, sloshing water onto the quarry tiles. A too large red and white stripy apron protected her mail-order beige trousers and brown tunic top. Her face was pale and tired. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Christie registered that Maureen looked her age at last, and felt sorry for her. No amount of Pilates, diet and wishful thinking could hold back the advancing years for ever.
Wiping her forehead with the back of her Marigolds, Maureen abandoned the sink and flumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs. Christie hated seeing her mother so weary, especially when she felt so responsible.
‘You’ve seen them, then?’ Maureen nodded towards the magazines in Christie’s hand.
‘Yes.’ She tossed them onto the table. ‘But I promise you that there isn’t a grain of truth in these stories.’
Ted picked one up and began leafing through it, his eyes round with appreciation of the paraded female celebrities. Maureen took it from him and slapped it shut, giving him a warning glare as she slid it out of his reach. Obviously not that exhausted, then.
‘Look, Mum. Please believe me. I know that people think there’s no smoke without fire, but these stories are just malicious shit.’ Maureen winced. ‘More tea?’ Although her mother and Ted shook their heads, Christie ran some water into the kettle and banged it onto the Aga. ‘Let me spell it out for you. Remember Top of the Class? I do have work in the pipeline. I am not going broke. Would the central heating be going in at last in a couple of weeks if I were? And Richard and I couldn’t be happier.’ She sat down, feeling as if every ounce of her energy had drained away.
‘I’m sorry, Christine.’ Her mother leaned towards her, both hands flat on the table. ‘Of course I believe you. What with Libby tonight, everything got on top of me. We’re not used to your new world, that’s all.’
‘I know that, Mum. I’m sorry too. It all gets too much sometimes.’ Christie reached across the table for her mother’s hand, feeling bad for having been so snippy. If she was finding it hard to adapt to becoming public property then how much harder must it be for her mother?
‘Is there anything we can do? You can talk to us, you know.’ This was a rare offer but there was no doubt that it came from Maureen’s heart.
Christie shook her head. Then, when she saw the genuine concern in her mother’s eyes, she changed her mind. She remembered how Maureen had patiently listened to her pour her heart out after Nick died. Day to day, that compassion was disguised by her mother’s brisk, no-nonsense façade. Christie longed to find that part of her mother again so she started to tell them about her problems with Julia. When she’d finished, Maureen thought for a moment and said, ‘I’ve always thought there was something suspicious about that woman. I know you can’t believe everything you read, but she didn’t come out well when Ben Chapman died. All that talk of an affair – and all those news reports. Nobody had one good word to say about her.’
‘Mum!’ Christie said it as a warning not to say more. ‘All right, all right. I didn’t say anything at the time because she seemed to be sorting you out. But this just goes to show. Don’t you think, Ted?’
He nodded, his eyes still on the magazines across the table.
‘This isn’t helping,’ Christie said. ‘I need advice on how to sort things out.’
‘Sorry, Christine. But if you can’t speak to Julia, clearly you should talk to someone else there. Doesn’t she have an assistant who can explain how things work?’ She looked at Ted, who nodded in agreement.
Before Christie had time to reply, Ted chipped in: ‘It certainly sounds as if there’s something funny going on. Couldn’t you ask to see your accounts? I haven’t forgotten everything from my days as an accountant. Maybe if I took a look I might be able to help.’
‘Yes – Ted used to be a partner in FDCK, you know,’ Maureen added, proud to be mentioning him in connection with such a prestigious firm.
‘Really? I’d no idea.’ Christie was stunned. The idea of Ted ever having done anything that didn’t involve him sitting in the bar at the Legion was completely new to her. In fact, the thought of Ted ever having had a life before Maureen had never entered her head. She rebuked herself for always having taken him at face value. She had obviously underestimated him. ‘Thanks, Ted,’ she added. ‘You know what? I think I could. I’ll ask Lily.’
Maureen was beaming at Ted. ‘I’m sure all this can be sorted out. You see, as I always say, a problem shared is a problem halved.’
Christie couldn’t remember her mother ever saying that, but she felt a surge of affection for her all the same. Perhaps she had been wrong to leave her out of the loop so often. If she hadn’t, they might have got on better. Note to self: make more effort but don’t be disheartened if it doesn’t work!
As the kettle began to boil, Maureen got up to take it off the Aga, then put it down when Christie shook her head, nixing the idea of tea. She turned back to the sink.
‘No, Mum,’ said Christie. ‘Why don’t you both go home and leave the rest of the tidying up to me? I’ll finish it off when I’ve talked to the kids. You’ve both been amazing.’
‘If you don’t mind, Christine, I think we will.’ Looking pleased with the compliment, Maureen peeled off the rubber gloves and hung them over a tap. ‘The children are upstairs somewhere. I’ll be back tomorrow. Usual time.’
Shutting the front door behind them, hearing the crunch of gravel as they drove off, Christie longed more than anything for a restorative glass of wine and something to eat. But before she could look after herself, she had something more important to do. Instead, she turned her back on the kitchen and, with a heavy heart, began to climb the stairs.
*
The next morning, she watched Fred and Libby trudge through the school gate. With their eyes fixed on the tarmac of the playground, they looked as if they were moving in slow motion, immune to the hubbub around them. Even Fred had
lost the usual spring in his step. They parted to go into the separate first and upper school buildings without saying a word to each other.
Christie rested her forehead on the steering-wheel. When she shut her eyes, she could still see Libby’s tight, angry little face staring at her as she explained how the stories written about her were untrue. Libby had heard her out, then thrown back all the familiar accusations she had used in the past.
‘You love your job more than us,’ she’d shouted, banging her fist on her bed. When she’d finally simmered down, the last thing she’d said was, ‘I wish Dad was here. He’d know what to do.’
Christie had sat beside her, putting her arm round her shoulders, feeling the tension still bottled up in her daughter. ‘But we’ve got Richard now,’ she said. ‘He can help us.’
That provoked the worst outburst of all. ‘I hate Richard! He’s not our dad and never will be. It’s all right for you and Fred when he and Olly come over, but it’s not all right for me. I hate them coming here.’ She had edged out of Christie’s protective embrace and turned to face her. Christie couldn’t remember ever having seen her so fierce and unforgiving. That look had stayed with her ever since. All the time, Fred sat on the bed beside her, listening quietly to Christie’s reassurances, pressing himself against her side, as if that would be enough to rescue him from the confusion he was feeling. When Libby had weighed in against Richard and Olly, he had still said nothing. Usually, Christie would have expected him to defend the two people who had become so important in his life. Instead, ashen-faced, he stood up, retrieved the worn Spiderman slipper that had fallen from his right foot and left the room. A second later, they heard his bedroom door click shut.