Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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She made a face at the sweetness. ‘Unlike sugar, which, if you ever bothered to listen to me, I’ve given up.’
‘Well, if you get a move on and stop being beastly, you won’t miss English,’ said Christie, through gritted teeth. ‘Fred’s been sitting in the car for the last five minutes. Do hurry up.’
‘Oh-kay-er.’ She managed to drag the simple phrase into three syllables. ‘I’m ready.’ Libby threw on her jumper and jacket before grabbing her bag, which was now so heavy that she stomped outside with one shoulder higher than the other.
Christie sighed as she locked the house behind them. They had argued over the visit to the doctor last night but she had stood firm. Neither had she gone into the reason for the appointment, masking it as a routine check-up. If Libby got wind of Maureen’s anxieties, she would refuse point-blank to go. To be truthful, Christie was sure Maureen was making a fuss where none was needed. But if this kept her quiet …
Having dropped Fred at school, they drove to the surgery on the edge of town where they sat on sticky plastic seats surrounded by posters offering help to smokers, drinkers and the overweight, advertising clinics for sexual health, diabetes, babies, and advising flu jabs, regular smears and breast checks. After twenty minutes, regularly punctuated by Libby’s sighs and irritated tuts, Dr Collier put his head round his surgery door and invited them in. He was a gruff, kindly man who had been at the practice for years and had helped Christie start to find a way through her grief and depression when she had first arrived in the area. He had listened to her and she trusted him implicitly. More twinkly Dr Finlay than ER’s smooth Doug Ross, he was tweed-suited and waistcoated, a stethoscope around his neck, rimless half-specs sitting low on his nose. He gestured them to the two chairs beside his desk, catching Christie’s eye and nodding to reassure her, before directing his attention to Libby.
‘Now, Libby. Can I ask you to hop on the scales?’
Without saying a word, she kicked off her shoes and obliged.
He played around with the weights until he was satisfied, then asked her to stand where he could measure her height. He raised one bushy grey eyebrow as he made a brief note. ‘Are you eating enough, my dear? You really need to put some meat on those bones.’
Libby returned to her seat without answering, earning herself a nudge in the ribs from Christie. ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.
‘Let me check your blood pressure too. Roll up your sleeve.’ He turned away and started unfolding a dark grey cuff attached to a monitor. Libby sat there, not moving, picking at a cuticle.
Christie nudged her again. ‘Come on, Libs. The sooner Dr Collier’s done, the sooner we can get you to English.’ She wished her daughter would behave as well in public as other people’s children seemed to. Why had she been blessed with a small thundercloud?
‘Your sleeve?’ Dr Collier held out the cuff.
Impatient, Christie tried to help her. Libby pushed her away and defiantly pulled up her shirt-sleeve. Between her left wrist and elbow there was a row of four parallel angry scratch marks. They were quite distinct. Christie could tell from the doctor’s expression that he was as taken aback as she was. ‘Libby!’ she gasped. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’ Libby wrenched her sleeve down again. ‘I haven’t done anything. I was just playing with Sophie’s kitten.’
Dr Collier peered sagely at her over his glasses. ‘I’d stop playing with it, if I were you, my dear. You might do yourself some lasting damage.’ He shook his head at Christie, advising her not to say any more. They would speak later. ‘Now, if I can just do this …’
Libby reluctantly bared her arm again and let him tighten the cuff above her elbow while Christie sat, her eyes fixed on the marks, far too regular to be cat scratches. They could only have been made deliberately, but with what? And why? Could Libby be self-harming? She was only too aware that countless young girls did, but had never knowingly come across one. But why would Libby want to do such a thing? If only she could get inside her daughter’s head and find out what was going on in there.
Before they left, the doctor cleared his throat but Libby kept staring at her lap. ‘Look at me, Libby.’
She did so, her eyes large and insolent in her pale face.
‘I think you should come back to see me in a week’s time. If you’ve lost any more weight, I might need to run some blood tests. And stay clear of that kitten.’
*
Christie parked outside the empty playground. On the drive back to school, she had been running through what she wanted to say to Libby and what she should say. Three people – Mrs Snell, her mother and Dr Collier – had noticed something was wrong with her daughter, but not her. She ached with the knowledge that she had let her daughter down. She longed for the help and advice of Nick who had loved and known Libby so well. He would have have had an idea what to do, who might help them. But … she stopped herself … was this the same girl he had understood and loved? Libby seemed to have changed in so many ways since he had died. This was something Christie had to deal with alone.
‘Libs. I don’t know why you don’t want to talk to me at the moment,’ she began gently. ‘I miss you and our little chats. I love you very much, you know.’
Libby turned to her and Christie could see the tears welling in her eyes.
‘Oh, come here.’ She held out her arms and they hugged awkwardly as the gearstick dug into her hip. ‘I know things aren’t easy with my long hours and your schoolwork. Is that what’s upsetting you?’ She rested her cheek on the top of her daughter’s head, inhaling her familiar smell, never wanting to let her go. There was a small sniff. ‘Whatever is it? Libby, tell me.’
Libby’s voice was so muffled, Christie could only just make out what she was saying. ‘Why do you have to be on TV?’
Her heart sank as she judged her reply, but Libby carried on.
‘You’re not ours any more,’ she gulped. ‘You’re everyone else’s too. Everyone at school talks about you. I liked it better when you were ordinary and no one knew you, and when Dad was here.’ She pulled away from Christie’s arms and sat hunched in her seat, picking at another cuticle.
Christie so longed to come up with a quick-fix for her daughter’s pain. If only life were that easy. So her mother and Mrs Snell had been right. ‘Believe me, Libs, I wish Daddy were here every minute of every day. I miss him so much – we all do. But he’s left me in charge, so this job is just to help me fill the coffers and then I can go back to peace and obscurity. You’ve changed too, my darling. You’re growing up and I have to let go of my baby Libby, don’t I?’
‘I know. But that’s different.’
‘It’s not really, you know.’
They sat in silence, each considering what the other had said. Unable to bear the sight of her daughter’s red-raw fingertips, Christie took her hand, stroking it with her thumb. ‘Libby. If something else was wrong, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?’
Libby leaned her head against the window. The first spots of rain began to run down the glass behind her.
‘Why’ve you given up sugar in your tea? Are you trying to be … healthy?’
‘Ye-es … and Sophie says I need to lose weight.’
Christie opened her mouth to speak but Libby got there first.
‘And before you say anything, I do. I need to get rid of my fat thighs and hips.’
Christie hugged her. ‘And were those scratches really from Sophie’s cat?’
Her daughter’s face crumpled as the tears began to fall. She tried to wipe them away with her free hand.
‘What happened?’ Christie pressed her, then waited.
‘You won’t tell Sophie’s mum?’