Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend

‘You’re going to be fine, dear. Keep breathing and push when I tell you and Baby will be here soon.’

But the soothing voice of the West Indian midwife was getting on Christie’s wick. ‘I don’t want to be here. I want to be on the beach reading a book,’ she moaned.

Nick picked up the damp, lavender-scented flannel and patted her forehead with it.

‘Don’t do that. Don’t touch me. This hurts and I’m tired.’ Another contraction swept through her. She felt nauseous. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

‘Pass me a paper bowl, please.’ The midwife pointed with her eyes to where they were piled up. ‘Come on, dear. One more big push, I can see Baby’s head. There.’

Libby slithered into the world and Nick and Christie fell in love. She was called Libby after her paternal grandmother and she smelt like sheets that had dried in the sun. Eventually, she latched on to Christie’s swollen breast. Then, when she’d fallen asleep, she was passed to Nick. He carried her to the window, like a precious parcel, speaking quietly to her: ‘I don’t mind what you do in life, Libby my love, as long as you respect yourself.’

‘I’ll remind you of that when she’s thirteen with dreadlocks and an unsuitable boyfriend.’

No chance. I’m not letting her out till she’s thirty-five.’

14 (#ulink_0a83f82d-3cdf-52b3-bfb5-a7beca94bc15)

The weekend seemed never-ending. On Saturday morning, Libby punished Christie by behaving as if she weren’t there. She answered questions, but as tersely as possible, and otherwise refused to talk at all. As soon as she could escape to Sophie’s, she did. Fred went to stay with Olly and Caro, who was briefly back from Brussels. Maureen agreed to help out during the following week but made it clear that she didn’t approve of arrangements being changed at such short notice and that no amount of gratitude would be enough. By Monday, Christie had never been so glad to get into the car and be driven up to TV7 for her first full week.

Over the weekend, the feedback from her interview with Gilly had been better than good. The tabloids had responded with features on the older mother accompanied by quotes from and pictures of Gilly. Christie enjoyed a certain delight when she thought of how furious Gilly would have been when she saw them.

But on Thursday she took greater pleasure in an interview with Josh Spurrier, a comedian at the top of his game who had recently suffered a breakdown. The previous week she had written a personal note to him inviting him to be a guest on Good Evening Britain, guaranteeing an interview that would be compassionate but honest. The tabloids were full of the news that he had been seen leaving the Priory, but rumours as to why he had taken a near-fatal overdose were all unsubstantiated. Knowing the truth, Frank had suggested to Christie that Josh might want to put the facts straight: that he had gone into freefall following the death of his gay lover – a lover who had been kept secret from the public for years. Following his advice, Christie had written with all the understanding of a bereaved partner, offering a sympathetic platform on which Josh could come out publicly, before the press started digging and drawing their own conclusions. Josh’s agent had emailed agreeing to Christie’s suggestion, asking if they could run the interview on Thursday evening and that she be the sole interviewer. At least she’d get something out of working over half-term.

*

‘Chris, you were brilliant,’ said Mel, as she ripped the covers off their Indian takeaway. Christie swept the pieces of costume jewellery strewn over the table into a box and got some forks out of the drawer.

‘Josh was brilliant, not me.’ She remembered the quietly spoken comedian who had outed himself with dignity, then had the generosity to go on record admitting he had never been so open and honest in public. He had ended by saying, ‘I must thank you and TV7 for handling me so fairly.’ There were few celebrities who would stop to acknowledge that an interviewer had done a decent job for them, and Christie was touched that he had bothered.

‘Did anyone else notice?’

‘My God, yes. The great god Jack himself came down and said, “Not many others could have done it so well. Not even Gilly.” Then the press office went mad and put the press release on the wires, along with a quote from Josh about how relieved he was to be able to grieve openly at last. Poor man. I so feel for him.’

‘It’ll make the papers tomorrow. Bound to.’ Mel tore off a bit of kitchen roll to mop up the dhal she’d spilled during her frenzied opening of the cartons.

Christie sipped her wine. As the sisters began to talk, time was forgotten. Relaxing with Mel, Christie thought, was the best treat in an otherwise difficult week. Her sister’s flat was like a safe haven where no demands were made on her. She loved being in the small kitchen with its bright red walls covered with photos of the places where Mel had travelled: clichéd palm-fringed beaches; an African village; a Mexican church; grinning Asian children. Her sister definitely had a photographer’s eye. One row of stainless steel units was home to odd souvenirs from her travels: the dark wood fruit bowl from Botswana and the wooden carving of the Indian god, Ganesh to bring luck. On a swing over the table just big enough for two hung a bright green papier-mâché parrot from Brazil. Whenever she was here, she felt as if the two competing sides of her life were put on hold for a few hours, and for that time, she was answerable to no one. She had switched her mobile off, the better to enjoy their time together, so when Mel’s landline rang she knew it wasn’t for her. While Mel answered it, Christie helped herself to another spoonful of chicken korma.

Mel held out the phone. ‘Chris, it’s for you. It’s Mum.’

Christie made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘Mum, hi. Is everything OK? I’m running a bit late. Do you mind staying on for an hour or so? I was just about to call.’ She closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness for the lie.

‘You said you’d be home at eight thirty.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘More importantly, you told Libby that. Fred’s in bed but I’ve got Libby here. She wants to have a word with you.’

‘Didn’t I say I was having a quick supper with Mel?’ Christie defended herself.

‘Not in my hearing,’ snapped her mother. ‘Sometimes you take me too much for granted.’

Christie grimaced as Maureen put Libby on the phone.

‘When are you coming home, Mum? You said we’d do the pumpkins. And Fred wanted you to help him with his costume.’

Shit. She’d forgotten all about the Hallowe’en preparations she’d promised she’d do for the weekend’s fun.

‘I’m so sorry, Libs. I stopped at Auntie Mel’s but I’m on my way now.’ Her eye fell on a new addition to Mel’s collection of kitsch: a smiling Hawaiian hula doll complete with green grass skirt, white and yellow lei and a strategically placed ukulele. Right at that moment, she envied her sister’s freedom.

‘Well, I’m not going to bed till you get back. You promised.’ Having pressed every single guilt button in Christie’s battery, Libby passed the phone back to Maureen.

When Christie hung up, Mel put an arm around her. ‘Everything OK?’

‘I’m the worst mother, that’s all. I’ve let Mum and the kids down and now I’ve let you down as well, because I’ve got to go. I’m not sure I can manage juggling family and work. The magazines have got it wrong. You can’t have it all.’

‘It’s early days, Chris. Everyone’s happy to rally round and we know it’s not for ever. Mum’s enjoying being needed and I had a great time taking Libby to see that ghastly vampire movie yesterday. Even though I hated it.’

‘I know. And I’m incredibly grateful to both of you. But whatever I do isn’t right by Libby. Why can’t she be just a tiny bit pleased for me? Instead, she’s as difficult and uncommunicative as possible. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t know her at all. I need to be around her more.’

‘Being around isn’t always the best thing. You’ve been putting every hour God sends into the job, you’re exhausted and it’s good for you to have a bit of time out. Mum loves being with them, whatever she says. Anyway, look on the bright side. Your kids are terrific …’

Christie shook her head.

‘Yes, they are. I won’t hear a word against my nephew and niece. You’ve got a great job. Shame about the agent – but you can’t have everything. And you’ve got Richard in tow. What more do you want?’

‘In tow? I have not!’ Christie felt herself getting hot.

‘Christine Lynch! You’re blushing. You do fancy him, don’t you? I knew it.’

Christie knew that if she even half admitted that she found him slightly attractive, Mel would never let her hear the end of it. In truth, she still wasn’t sure what she felt. All she knew was that her feelings hadn’t subsided into the friendship that was expected of her. ‘Actually, I don’t,’ she said, pouring cold water on Mel’s ideas before they took root.

But at home later that night, when everyone else was in bed, Christie lay alone in hers watching the green figures on her alarm clock flick away the time as she listened to the sounds of the night, thinking of her and Mel’s conversation, unable to sleep.

*

The following morning, relieved to be at the end of a difficult week, she picked up the papers that Tony, her driver, always left on the back seat of the car for her with a Starbucks. The front page of the News showed Gilly being rushed to hospital, then waving as she was returned home in an ambulance after a scare. Trust Gilly to steal the limelight from Christie’s interview with Josh Spurrier. Truth to tell, she was more than a little relieved to be buried on pages eight and nine, but her professional side knew that more exposure would have pleased Julia. She read on to find out what Gilly had had to say. As Tony turned into the busy traffic on the M40, her mobile rang. Julia.

‘Darling. Just to let you know that Gilly and I watched your interview with Josh. You did a good job.’

‘Thanks. How is Gilly?’

‘Behaving like the little trouper she is, though sickened not to have been able to do the interview with Josh herself, of course.’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t bother explaining her own responsibility for the interview, knowing it would be ignored.

‘She won’t be back at work now until after the babies are born – so you’re full-time from now on.’ She sailed on. ‘But I’m calling for three reasons. One, I’m sending over another batch of publicity shots for you to sign and send back, and two, I’ve fixed an interview for you with the Daily Telegraph. Sarah Sterling will be at your house by ten next Monday. With a photographer. Your first big profile. OK?’

‘Er, yes. OK. What do they want to interview me about?’

‘Oh, Christie, just be creative and dazzling. They’ll love you. And wear something pretty. And, three …’ Julia paused for effect. ‘The boys from Drink-a-Vit have come back to me. You are going to be the face of their press campaign. I’ve just got to negotiate the fee. Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘Yes, fantastic. Actually, Julia, how much do you think—’