Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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didn’t remember. Libby must have thrown the information into another conversation when her mind was elsewhere. That was her tried-and-tested method for getting what she wanted. Get a yes when her mother was preoccupied with something else. Then wait until the maternal guilt factor was sky high to bring the request up again as a fait accompli so Christie couldn’t refuse. Always worked. Crushed by her daughter’s rejection, racked by her failings as a mother, frustrated by the demands made on her by Julia and TV7, ashamed of her pointless feelings of rivalry with Gilly, Christie retreated downstairs. She opened the fridge, poured herself a large glass of Sauvignon, sat down and sent up an accusatory message to Nick (‘This is all your fault!’), made a mental note to stop drinking and picked up the phone.
‘Julia? Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to wait until I was at home.’ She ignored her agent’s attempt to cut in. ‘I will work next week, but please don’t agree to anything like this again without asking me first. My family’s going to suffer and I don’t know how I’m going to persuade my mother to pitch in. She’s bound to have her own plans.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
Christie double-took. Was that contrition she heard in Julia’s voice? Surely not.
‘I should have asked you, I know. But I was forced to make a quick decision on your behalf. I thought I was acting in your best interest.’
‘Next time, you must remember that there’s my family to think about too,’ said Christie, taken aback by Julia’s apparent change in attitude.
‘I will. I promise. Now, I must fly, darling. Dinner with the director of programmes at Space TV.’
There was nothing left to be said, except goodbye. Christie hung up, feeling much better about the balance of their relationship. Julia couldn’t walk all over her whenever she wanted. She wouldn’t let her. After all, who was working for whom here? She knew what her agent’s answer would be.
She looked ahead to the following week with foreboding. Julia was driving her up the wall, exactly where Maureen would go when she heard the news, while Libby was already up there. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. How would Nick have advised her to deal with their prickly young daughter? He would be so surprised if he knew how much their adorable baby had changed.
‘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.’
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