by Fern Britton
‘Thank goodness you’re there, Christine. I was so worried you wouldn’t pick up.’
The panic in her mother’s voice set off a clarion call of alarm bells in Christie’s head. ‘What is it, Mum?’
‘Libby hasn’t come home. She wasn’t on the school bus.’
That’s all she was phoning for? Christie tried to keep her temper as she calmed her mother down. ‘I’m sure it’s OK. Remember she did this once before? I was frantic until I discovered she’d gone to the nail bar with Chloë and “forgotten” to tell me. I thought I’d drummed into her head that she shouldn’t do it again – I obviously didn’t.’
‘I’ve tried to call her but her mobile’s off and I’ve phoned all the mothers and friends whose numbers I’ve got. None of them have seen her. As far as they know, she was coming straight home.’ Fear was making Maureen gabble.
The room around Christie blurred and seemed to tilt away from her. She closed her eyes to steady herself. When she opened them, everything around her seemed to be going in slow motion as she forced her thoughts back into order. Thought number one: there must be a simple explanation.
‘Christine! Are you still there?’ Maureen’s voice made her jump.
‘Keep calm, Mum. I’m sure she’s fine. Have you phoned Sophie’s mum? She’s probably there.’
‘She was the first I tried. Sophie’s no idea where she is.’
‘She can’t have disappeared. You must have forgotten someone.’ Of course that’s what must have happened, she told herself, keeping her own panic in check.
‘No, I’ve tried everyone. I’m sure something’s wrong. You’ve got to come home.’
This was the mother she knew of old: decisive, controlling. And Christie’s instinctive reaction, born long ago, was to resist.
‘Mum, I really have to be here for the PM’s interview,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s important.’
‘Yes, I know that. I’m sorry. But, Christine, sometimes you have to put family first, whatever the sacrifice. I can’t deal with this on my own.’
Don’t guilt-trip me now, thought Christie. It’s not fair. She had been looking forward to getting her teeth into a more serious piece of TV journalism. Trust Libby to pull a stunt like this today of all days.
‘You’ll be letting Libby down if you stay,’ Maureen protested.
Christie knew that she was right. In a crisis, her place had to be at home. If anything had happened to Libby and she wasn’t there to do everything she could, she would never forgive herself. Libby was her priority. There was no alternative but to abandon ship and go.
Dreading the reaction from Vince, the programme editor – what Jack Bradbury and Julia would have to say didn’t bear thinking about – Christie first looked around for Sam. He’d know how best to break the news to Vince. And he was bound to welcome the challenge of carrying the interview on his own. It would be a great break for him. But he wasn’t at the shambles that passed for his desk, two down from her, so she had to go straight to Vince.
She found him in the gallery, having a quiet moment in front of the rows of screens, chatting to members of the PM’s security team who had been checking the building entrances and exits. At her request, he stepped out into the corridor to talk. As she explained what had happened, her scant hope for a sympathetic reception dwindled. He stared at her, his eyes unblinking, his face turning a gentle scarlet, until he exploded.
‘No fucking way! You can’t waltz off and leave us two hours before we go on fucking air!’
She flinched as a spot of saliva landed on her lapel. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but my daughter’s missing. I have to go. Sam’ll do a good job on his own.’
‘Sam!’ His face grew more purple than she’d imagined possible, the tendons in his throat standing out like ropes. ‘Sam’s too much of a lightweight for a solo interview like this. He needs to be paired with someone who’s not afraid to cut through the crap. Someone who can pull a bit of gravitas out of the bag. Woman to woman. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?’
She might have taken this as a compliment if she hadn’t been too busy concentrating on the way his face was changing by the second. Then, something seemed to switch on in his brain, and a look of relief was paired with the beginning of a smile. ‘Of course!’ he pronounced. ‘Gilly!’
‘What?’ Christie felt sick. This wasn’t the solution she had envisaged at all. ‘She’ll never get here in time.’
‘But she’s already here, sweetheart.’ The smile spread across Vince’s face as it resumed its normal colour. ‘She’s brought the triplets in today to meet everyone. And, even better, she’s got Derek and a battleaxe of a nanny with her. Lillybet!’
The runner materialised at his side.
‘Find Gilly and bring her here right now. She’s got to be somewhere in the fucking building.’
As the runner disappeared, every fibre of Christie’s being was screaming, ‘No!’ The last thing she wanted was for Gilly to benefit from her misfortune. She stood by Vince, trying to look as if she shared his pleasure at coming up with such a programme-saving solution, but it was hard.
‘Look, I must go,’ she said, suddenly aware of time passing and Maureen’s growing concern. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Wait right where you are. We’ll sort this in a couple of minutes.’
Not wanting to cause any further ructions, she waited. After what seemed like an age, Gilly’s voice could be heard demanding Lillybet slow down. Then she swept round the corner, almost knocking the runner out of the way. She looked as groomed as ever, and improbably squeezed into a gorgeous red stretch cotton dress: far more mannequin than mother. She gave Christie a cursory nod but turned the full beam of her attention on Vince.
‘What’s so urgent? I’ve really got to see to the triplets.’ She put both hands on her hips, and stood, jutting her chin towards him, challenging.
‘One great big crisis, that’s all. The PM’s coming in and Christie has to go home. I need you to step in.’
‘Me?’ All innocent. ‘But what about the babies? Besides, I’m not prepared.’ She straightened the neckline of her dress.
Christie could see that Gilly was going to milk this one as much as she could.
‘Gilly, you’re a pro,’ Vince wheedled. ‘I know I can rely on you to do a top-class incisive interview. Aren’t I right, Christie?’
Although it almost stuck in her throat, Christie managed a strangled ‘Yes.’
‘Well, put like that . . .’ Gilly ran a hand through her hair, pushing it up at the back. ‘I’ll have to tell Derek and Eunice to take my babies home without me.’
I should think that’ll be a blessing for them, at least, Christie thought.
Gilly pursed her heavily glossed lips as she thought through any other implications, although all three knew it was only a matter of time before she agreed. ‘OK. I’ll have to go to Wardrobe and see what they’ve got. Nell may have to get something in specially.’
‘I knew I could rely on you,’ said Vince, a little too pointedly for Christie’s liking. ‘Right! Christie, if you give Gilly your research notes and whatever you’ve done on the interview script, that should make Gilly’s life easier.’
‘Sweet of you, Vince, darling. But I don’t think I’ll be needing those.’ Scorn rippled through the last word. ‘I’ve been following the news and you know I always prefer to do my own script, however last minute.’ She turned to Christie, with the look of a cat that had snaffled all the cream. ‘Isn’t it lucky that Julia mentioned to me the PM was coming in today? I hoped I might get a chance to meet her . . . again. I’ve a very good sense of what’s needed.’
*
When she left the TV7 studios, all Christie felt was the crushing disappointment of having had such a major opportunity snatched away from her, as well as real sympathy for Sam. All their preparation had gone up in smoke. She hadn’t managed to find him before she left the building but could imagine his horrified reaction when he heard their interview had been hijacked
by Gilly. Nor could she help asking why Julia had broken confidence and alerted Gilly to the PM’s appearance in the studio. What were the two of them playing at? By the time the car approached the M4, she was no nearer to finding an answer.
As they left London, her thoughts turned to what would be waiting for her at home. Until this moment, she had successfully convinced herself that a load of fuss was almost certainly being made over nothing. Then an awful thought occurred to her. What if it wasn’t nothing? Suppose something had happened to Libby? Pulling her phone from her bag, she checked to see if there was a message from Maureen. No. She started to dial her mother’s number, then stopped. She didn’t want to stoke up more alarm by communicating her own panic. If there was any news, Maureen would have let her know. But if Libby wasn’t with one of her friends, where on earth could she have got to? The thought of losing her was unbearable. Christie shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady herself. If she didn’t master her worst fears, she’d be in no shape to help Libby, wherever she was. What about Fred and Maureen? They needed her to be calm and to take control. She looked down to see her fists clenched tight on her lap, the knuckles white.
By the time they turned off the motorway, she was praying that by the time she reached home, Libby would be there or at least on her way.
But that wasn’t how it was at all.
Chapter 28
As soon as Christie shut the front door, Fred ran down the hall and flung his arms round her, fastening himself to her like a limpet. ‘Libby’s disappeared,’ he wailed. ‘Maybe she’s not going to come back. Just like Dad.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She ruffled his hair, wondering in passing what she’d done with the nit-comb, as she struggled to walk towards the kitchen, slowed down by his weight. ‘Of course she’s coming back. All we’ve got to do is find her.’
‘Suppose she doesn’t want to come back?’ He squeezed tighter.
‘Don’t worry, she will.’ Whatever she was feeling, she had to be positive for them to get through this. Scaring Fred wouldn’t help.
‘But if she doesn’t, can Olly and Richard come round like they used to?’ His face was hopeful under the hall light.
‘Freddie! I’ve come home to find Libby, so let’s do that. Come on, you can help.’
‘How?’
‘Well, stop thinking the worst for a start!’ She kissed his forehead, unhooked his arms and held his hand, aware that there was something unpleasantly sticky on his palm. They entered the kitchen to find Maureen sitting at the table, the phone list from the fridge door and her diary in front of her, the phone in her hand. She gave a wan smile of welcome. To Christie’s shock, she saw that her mother’s eyes were glassy with tears and there was a slight but definite wobble to her chin. Maureen’s struggle to stay in control was betrayed by the catch in her voice as she said, ‘Thank God you’re back at last.’
Christie let go of Fred’s hand and went to the sink to wash off what turned out to have been a large smear of strawberry jam sandwiched between them. She inhaled, staring into the gathering dusk outside, trying to muster the strength she needed. Going to pieces wasn’t an option.
‘Right, Mum,’ she said, adopting a brisk, positive approach that she hoped would brace Maureen. ‘Show me who you’ve called.’
‘Everyone, Christine. I’ve called everyone.’ Maureen gestured towards the list of numbers. ‘She’s been missing for over two hours. We should call the police.’
‘Mum! Stop it! I’m sure she’s not missing. It’s just a question of finding her. I’m going to start by ringing them all again.’ She could feel her panic returning.
‘She’s been upset ever since Saturday when she overheard you say you were stuck with her.’ Maureen sniffed quietly. ‘She’s run away, I’m sure.’
Christie didn’t respond to the accusation. ‘Well, then, I’ll run after her,’ she said, simultaneously wondering how much Libby’s no-show might have to do with Maureen’s old-school ways of bringing up children. Perhaps she’d fancied an evening without being made to eat everything on her plate for once. But suggesting this would hardly help the situation. Instead, she added, ‘Why don’t you do Fred some fish fingers or something while I ring round?’
Twenty minutes later, she’d spoken to every parent and child she could think of who might know Libby’s whereabouts and had drawn a blank. She refused to let herself dwell on the worst-case scenarios, involving online grooming, violent strangers or secret boyfriends, that were crowding at the edge of her mind. While Fred and Maureen argued about how much tomato ketchup he could have, she ran through all the places again where Libby might have gone. There must be something or someone she hadn’t remembered. As the argument at her elbow grew louder, she longed for a sane adult with whom she could share this, someone who would be clear-headed in a crisis, who would help her decide what to do. All at once, she knew who she had to phone.
She ran up to her office to escape the frayed tempers downstairs. The number was branded into her memory. She dialled quickly. Her heart missed a beat when she heard Richard answer. A feeling of blessed relief swept over her as she heard his voice, warm and measured. Gripped by a terrible fear for her daughter that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now, she began to cry. She ignored his obvious surprise when he heard who was calling and quickly, tearfully, explained what had happened.
When she finished, he didn’t say anything for a second. Then he took control. ‘Hang up and call the police immediately, Chris. We’ve got thirty people here tonight so it’ll take me a few moments to pass over to Tom the night-time manoeuvres we’re running for them. Then I’ll come straight to you.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
But he had hung up. She looked at the phone, paralysed by the jumble of emotions that were chasing round her head. Then she roused herself and dialled 999 to report a missing child.
*
Richard arrived a couple of minutes before the police. Christie was waiting for him, watching the drive through the sitting-room window. As soon as she saw the lights of his Land Rover, she tore out of the house. He drew up, leaped out and, without shutting the driver’s door, ran towards her. As he enveloped her in a great bear-hug, his familiar smell, the comfortable feel of his jacket against her cheek, brought more tears to her eyes. She fought them back, not wanting him to see.
The dark quiet of the lane was shattered by the screech of a police car’s siren and a flashing blue light. With a rattle of gravel, the car swerved down the drive and pulled up next to the Land Rover, missing the open door by an inch. Two uniformed police got out, a man and a woman. Christie and Richard broke apart, and Christie showed them inside.
The next half-hour assumed a nightmarish quality. The police were brisk, thorough and sympathetic, but their presence gave an unwanted significance to Libby’s disappearance, now she was being recorded as officially missing. As they talked to Maureen and Christie, Fred’s eyes were wide with unease. Questions were asked. Replies were given. Calls were made to the local station. Walkie-talkies crackled. Notes were taken. Libby’s room was searched, her laptop switched on. Christie poured her mother a stiff brandy, hoping it would calm her. Ted arrived to take her home. Promises were made to let her know as soon as they heard anything. Richard said little, but his presence gave Christie the courage to cope.
While the policewoman took Fred off so he could show her how to play tennis on his Wii, Richard and Christie remained at the table with the policeman, mugs of cold tea and an untouched plate of biscuits in front of them. Random awful possibilities churned through Christie’s mind: she could no longer hold at bay various newspaper stories she’d read, and the desperate parents of missing children she’d interviewed or seen giving grief-stricken press conferences. She picked up a biscuit, thought better of it and returned it to the plate.
‘You don’t think someone might have . . . ?’ For the first time, she began to articulate her worst fear.
‘No,’ Richard stopped her. ‘No,
I don’t. I’m sure there’s an explanation we haven’t thought of.’
‘Thank you for coming.’ How small her voice sounded.
He put his hand over hers. ‘What did you think I’d do?’
‘I don’t know.’ All she had known was that he would do the right thing, whatever that was. And, unlike her, he hadn’t hesitated. He had dropped everything at work and come round immediately. She was aware that the policeman beside her had begun to fidget in his seat. He cleared his throat and excused himself to join his colleague.
Left alone, the two of them sat in a silence that was broken by the tick of the station clock and Fred’s triumphant shouts from the sitting room as he won point after point.
‘This is impossible,’ said Christie, standing up. ‘I can’t sit here doing nothing. Perhaps we should go out, drive around and look for her.’ She reached into her bag for her car keys.
Richard caught her hand. ‘You’re in no state to drive. I’ll go.’
The idea of sitting alone, waiting for news, was even more unbearable. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ve missed something in her bedroom. We could look together.’
He nodded. As they left the kitchen, the phone rang. Christie stared at it, unable to move, wanting but not wanting to hear whatever news there was. Richard took a step back and picked it up. ‘Mel? You have? Thank God. I’ll pass you over.’ With a relieved smile, he held the phone out to Christie. ‘She’s got Libby.’
Christie grabbed the phone. ‘Mel? Where are you?’
‘At home. I went for a drink after work and got back ten minutes ago to find Libby sitting, almost frozen to death, on my doorstep.’
‘How the hell did she get there?’ Never had it crossed her mind to call Mel or even to consider that Libby might have gone to London.
‘You brought her here the first time you did Top of the Class – she remembered the way. I told her she could come whenever she wanted, so she has!’