by Fern Britton
‘Good riddance,’ yelled Libby. ‘Don’t come back!’
When eventually Christie was convinced that Libby half believed her, she went down the corridor to Fred. His light was off and all she could see was the dark silhouette of his body in bed. There was no response to her whispered, ‘Good night.’
She’d gone downstairs feeling more despondent than ever. How could children of their ages be expected to understand how all this worked? How hard it must be to imagine why people would go to such lengths to include their mother – of all people – in a magazine, especially at the expense of the truth.
That morning, the three of them had rushed through breakfast saying as little as possible to one another. Christie hadn’t needed to hurry either child. They couldn’t wait to be out of the house. Yet school didn’t seem a very happy alternative. She sighed and wished for an easier life. At the same time she was certain that this storm would eventually blow over. They always did.
There was a tap on the passenger side of the car. Richard’s smiling face was framed in the window. She felt a familiar flutter in the pit of her stomach. He opened the door. ‘What’s up with you? You look as if the world’s about to end.’ He slipped into the seat beside her and took her hand.
‘No, not really. Just recovering from another jolly evening with the Lynch mob.’ She made a face. ‘Have you seen the latest gossip mags?’
‘No. Let’s go for a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’
In her wing mirror, she saw a dark-haired middle-aged man in a brown fleece standing in the shadows of the school hedge. He was holding a long-lens camera and now slid into a white van. Behind him, a red Nissan Micra was pulling out and Christie recognised the driver’s woolly hat as belonging to one of the most persistent of the paparazzi she’d seen. Should she get out and say something, appeal to them to keep out of her children’s life? What was the point? They no doubt had their snaps of her with her head on the steering-wheel, of Richard. Nothing she said to them would make a difference. And they weren’t the ones going to write the words. She glared at the man who had been by the hedge. He gave her a cheery wave.
She didn’t mention to Richard that she’d seen them.
*
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at a quietish table in Ramsay’s Tea Rooms. By getting there so early in the morning, they had stolen a march on the mid-morning descent of the Nappy Valley mothers and tots. While Richard spooned sugar into his coffee, stirring it noisily in the large white mug, Christie related everything that had happened since Maureen’s call to her the night before.
He listened as she told him the stories that were now doing the rounds at school. With his sympathy and support, she could at last laugh at how ridiculous they were. When she got to Libby’s response, she didn’t stop short of telling him everything that had been said. As she felt the release of talking about it, the words flooded out without her thinking about what she was saying. She didn’t even leave out her daughter’s reaction to the mention of him. When she saw his eyebrows tighten, she immediately wished she’d been more careful. The news of Libby’s hostility was poor reward for all the effort he had made with her. A shadow crossed his face as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He looked at Christie thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against his upper arm. Unable to tell from his expression where his thoughts were taking him, Christie suddenly felt uneasy.
‘Penny for them?’ she asked, picking up her mug and gazing at him over its rim.
‘I’m worried about Libby, that’s all. A child of her age shouldn’t have to deal with all this crap. And I’m including me and Olly in that.’
Christie should have known that Richard’s first consideration would be for Libby and not for himself. At the same time she wasn’t sure she liked the direction in which he was going. She hurried to reassure him. ‘Libby’ll be fine. Really. I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s a drama queen, always has been. We’ve weathered much worse than this. She’ll come round as soon as her friends get it into their heads that they can’t believe all they read.’
‘Mmm . . . but obviously me being around so much isn’t making it any easier.’
She could almost hear his thought processes ticking over. No, this was definitely not going the way she wanted. ‘That’s not true. Remember France?’
‘Of course I do.’ His eyes lit up as he smiled at her.
That was more like it. Christie relaxed.
But the smile only lasted a second. ‘I didn’t tell you what she said to me that evening when you took Olly and Fred down to buy their beanies, did I?’
Christie felt as though her heart might stop beating. ‘No?’ She remembered their last night in France when she had taken the boys off, leaving Libby absorbed in reading Twilight, while Richard made them all some supper. She had been in her room when Christie and the boys came back.
‘I wasn’t going to mention it because I didn’t want to upset you and, anyway, I thought it would blow over but now . . .’
‘What did she say? Tell me.’
‘I simply asked her to lay the table and she exploded, screaming about how I couldn’t tell her what to do, I wasn’t her dad, all that stuff.’
‘Oh, God! I know it’s hard.’ Christie put down her mug and looked into his eyes. ‘And there are bound to be setbacks.’
‘Of course. And perhaps it would be easier if she only had me to get used to. But I suspect I’m just a small part of her problems.’
Christie didn’t need him to remind her. Thanks to Angela’s sympathetic probing, she had only recently realised that Libby had always blamed herself for not saying good bye to Nick on the last morning of his life. There were one or two ghosts that the two of them had only just started laying to rest.
But Richard hadn’t finished. ‘Having lost Nick, I think she’s frightened of losing you too. I know,’ he said, responding to her faint grimace, ‘cod psychology! But I kind of understand where she’s coming from. After Iraq, I saw an army shrink about the guilt I felt for surviving when friends hadn’t.’ He carried on talking: ‘But if I were her, I’d feel I was already sharing you with everyone who watches the show and reads these magazines. I wouldn’t want to share the little bit that was left with anyone else.’
Christie felt tears prick her eyes as she heard him echo Libby’s words. She concentrated on her next mouthful of coffee, dreading whatever he was about to say next.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way but I think we should have a break from each other. I can’t do this . . . to Libby, or to you.’
Outside, the traffic roared by, pedestrians walked past purposefully, the sun shone. Yet in their dimly lit corner of the café everything stood still. The two of them sat motionless, mugs raised, neither wanting to acknowledge what had just been said.
‘What?’ Christie was first to break the silence.
Unable to look at her any more, he lowered his gaze. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for tearing your family in two. Libby needs more time.’ The sound of his mug hitting the table was loud in the small space.
‘And I need you.’ Christie felt as if she’d been cast adrift at sea, with the one remaining life-jacket caught in the swell and floating away from her.
‘Darling Chris. It’s not a question of your needs. Libby has problems. I don’t want to be the cause of another. This is really for the best.’ He stood up, looking miserable.
This was what he’d been trained to do, she reminded herself. Listen, weigh up the pros and cons, decide and act without further ado.
‘But you can’t say that,’ she appealed, even though she suspected it was pointless. ‘We just need to get through it. And we will.’
‘I’m not saying “for ever”. I’m just saying “for now”. Perhaps when Libby has grown up a bit, we might try again.’ He smiled a small, sad smile. ‘Come on. We should go.’
‘You can’t just go. Not like that. We should talk.’
‘There’s nothing
more to say. Trust me. It’s for the best.’ He stood up and turned towards the door.
Christie got to her feet, grabbing her coat, then bending over to pick up the sheepskin glove that had fallen to the floor. She caught him up at the counter where he was paying. As they emerged into the street, they had to screw up their eyes against the sudden brilliance of the sunshine.
‘Will I see you again?’ Christie asked, horribly conscious of sounding like a Z-list actress in a B-movie.
‘Of course you will.’ He took a step back to hold open the tea-room door for a woman attempting to manoeuvre a twin buggy inside. ‘I don’t want to spoil Olly and Fred’s friendship. We can still be friends too, can’t we?’
‘Of course,’ she said quietly, as she asked herself how he could take a step back from their relationship so effortlessly. How could he give up like that? Wasn’t what they had worth fighting for? Christie was far from sure that being friends was going to be straightforward – for her, anyway. His sensitivity towards Libby was one of the things she loved about him but now she hated him for it too. Did he expect her to switch off her feelings for him just like that? Was that what he had just done? Did that ability come from his army training too?
With nothing left to say, he walked her to her car and watched as she climbed in. Then he kissed the tips of his fingers, pressed them against her window so they left a little steamy mark, and walked off to his Land Rover. Christie watched him in her mirror, then banged her fist hard against the steering-wheel. She was not going to give up so easily. She’d expected so much from him. Perhaps too much. But this was not over yet.
Chapter 26
Ten days later, Christie and Mel were sitting in the kitchen with Saturday lunch on the table between them. Mel poured them some of the Macon Lugny she’d brought with her and put the half-empty bottle back in the fridge. Two days earlier she had returned from Wales where she’d spent six days on a blowy, wet beach, waiting for the sun to make an appearance so they could complete a beachwear shoot. ‘It would have been cheaper to fly us all somewhere warm for a couple of days,’ she moaned, reaching for another Kleenex to blow her nose. ‘Prestigious brand they may be, but so tight on the budget.’
With the side of her hand, Christie swept the bread-crumbs scattered over the chequered tablecloth into a neat pile to the right of her plate and began to talk. The children were out so the sisters were making the most of the opportunity to catch up on the events of the previous week. They’d last seen each other two weekends ago when Christie had picked Libby up from Mel’s when the first Top of the Class weekend was over. Since then there had been the predicted blizzard of articles in the press and online about Christie’s personal and financial crises. They’d raked through her dress sense, her haircut, and whether she was a suitable presenter (given her mental instability) for a prestigious children’s programme. Every one of them had been written by a woman. Whatever happened to the sisterhood? she wondered. Was there anything left for them to fork over and find wanting? Women will never bust through the glass ceiling if they continue to feast on each other like piranhas.
‘Look at this.’ She pushed the previous Monday’s Post under her sister’s nose. ‘This was meant to be the piece that set the record straight, that told my side of the story. Julia set it up especially. I should have followed all my instincts and said no.’ She knew the piece off by heart, not least the bold header ‘LYNCH CHRISTIE’. Beneath it, the journalist, Hannah de Manner, looking sultry in her accompanying publicity shot, had managed a spectacular hatchet job. Phrases kept coming back to Christie: ‘. . . aiming to be the new Gilly Lancaster but misses woefully . . . too nice, too mumsy, too plain dull . . . does the chemistry with the divine Sam Abbott extend beyond their working hours . . . as it is rumoured Christie would like . . .’ and on it went, accompanied by photos of her with her head on the steering-wheel and looking distraught as Richard walked away from the car.
Mel read it, then picked it up, tore it to pieces and got up to put them in the bin. ‘That’s all it deserves. What did Julia have to say?’
‘Not her fault. I must have antagonised Hannah, who had agreed to be nothing but positive. In fact we got on like a house on fire and I opened up too much – again! Why can’t I learn my lesson? I said in January that I wouldn’t do any more interviews but Julia convinced me that this was the right thing to do. I should have asked for copy approval but completely forgot, like an idiot. So Libs has spent the entire week in a gloom,’ Christie concluded, absent-mindedly putting a finger into the crumbs and remoulding the shape of the pile. ‘Whatever I say won’t jog her out of it. She refuses to go to Angela’s in case we’re followed. I can’t very well drag her there, screaming and kicking. Imagine the stories if I did!’
‘Who’s going to follow you, for heaven’s sake?’ Mel cut herself a sliver of cheese, which immediately fell to pieces. She pulled the board towards her and concentrated on trying again.
‘Mel, it’s been really awful. You can’t imagine. The paparazzi have been following us to school.’
Mel looked up in open-mouthed disbelief, her knife halted halfway through the wedge of cheese.
‘Honestly, that’s what’s been happening. I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve been on telly for almost a year, that’s all, and the whole thing’s gone mad. Sometimes I wonder whether someone isn’t feeding this nonsense to the press and telling the paps where I’ll be.’
That earned her a stern look from her younger sister before she went back to the cheese. ‘That’s a bit paranoid, isn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ Christie conceded, with a shrug. ‘But Libby’s worked herself into such a state about them. She’s even been worried that something’s going to happen to me.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. But look what happened to Princess Di. I’m not saying I’m like her – of course not – but these guys can be dangerous.’ She helped herself to some quiche. ‘If there was someone to blame for all this, then I think I’d find it easier.’
‘Can’t you haul in Richard as a bodyguard – in more ways than one?’ Mel winked as she fingered the silver feather pendant at her throat.
‘Mmm . . .’ Christie hesitated. ‘That’s something else I haven’t told you . . .’ She pushed the quiche away, took a mouthful of wine and got up to refill her glass from the bottle in the fridge.
‘No, Chris!’ Mel looked towards the ceiling. ‘Tell me you haven’t fallen out with him. Not after all we went through at Christmas.’
‘Not fallen out exactly.’ She had another swig of wine, then went on to tell Mel, word for word, about the conversation in the tea room.
‘Friends! He’s got to be kidding!’ Mel burst out, as Christie drew the story to a close.
‘So I haven’t seen him since. Actually, I thought I’d deliberately avoid him for a bit while I work out what to do. Anyway, absence makes the heart . . . and all that. At the same time, I’m determined not to let him go without a fight.’
‘You go, girl!’ Mel punched the air. ‘That’s what I like to hear. But don’t leave it too late before you take action. Men don’t hang around single for long at our age. Olly hasn’t taken the same tack, I assume?’
‘God, no. But Mum’s nobly agreed to do the ferrying backwards and forwards between us. She’s even picking him up this afternoon on her way back from her bridge morning. But there’s a definite whiff of burning martyr about her.’
‘We all know where she thinks the sun shines from.’
‘Tell me about it. She obviously feels I’ve let her down badly by allowing him to slip through my fingers.’ Christie laughed ruefully, knowing that Mel would understand.
Mel cut another piece of cheese and piled it with some ham onto a piece of bread. ‘This is crazy. You’re obviously made for one another. How can we get him to see sense? Couldn’t you – I don’t know – couldn’t you find a reason to ask his advice, like dealing with your feckless plumber who still hasn’t turned up?’
Mel was tossing up the difference between a cup of coffee and opening a second bottle of wine – the wine won – when Fred ran into the room. ‘Where’s my metal detector?’
‘By the back door, as usual,’ Christie said. ‘Why? Come here and give me a kiss first.’
‘Mu-um!’ he objected, giving her the briefest possible peck on the cheek as he raced past on the way to the door. ‘We found a Roman ploughshare buried in the wood this morning. At least, that’s what Richard thinks it is. When I go back, we’re going to clean it up. I’m going to have another look in the field.’
Just envisaging Richard with the boys was enough to make Christie’s insides tip. She gratefully accepted Mel’s offer of another slug of wine as Fred rummaged around in the accumulated clutter of boots, sports gear and an old sledge. They heard footsteps in the passage.
‘Can I come and see?’ Mel asked Fred, grabbing her glass and disappearing out of the door after him, with peerless timing, just as Maureen came in from the hall.
‘All well, dear?’ She eyed the wine bottle with a sniff and the familiar lift of an eyebrow. ‘You’re not taking to drink, are you? It won’t help.’
‘Of course I’m not. Mel and I are just catching up. Do you want some?’ She got up to get her mother a glass from the cupboard, anticipating the answer.
‘Well, perhaps just a small one,’ her mother relented. ‘But I am driving.’ She removed her sheepskin coat and hung it on the back of her chair, then sat down, straightening the knife-like creases in her trouser-legs as she did so.