Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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it made her feel better. So I thought I’d try. But it didn’t make me feel better.’
Christie thanked God.
‘It hurt and I didn’t go anything like as deep as Soph.’
‘So you won’t be doing it again?’ She had never felt so out of her depth.
‘No.’ Libby sniffed, while Christie fumbled in her pocket for a grubby Kleenex to share with her. ‘It didn’t stop me thinking about Dad, except for a second.’
Christie hugged her again. ‘Libby, we must sort this out.’ An extraordinary sense of calm came over her as she took control. ‘I had no idea you felt so bad. I think perhaps we should try to get some help. No, wait …’
Libby was shaking her head as she tried to open the car door. But Christie kept a firm hold of her other hand so she wouldn’t be able to escape.
‘We aren’t in the right place to talk about this but I will find someone who’ll help us both understand what’s happening here. Perhaps I should have done that when Dad died.’ Her words provoked another outburst of sobs. ‘But I didn’t. It’s not too late, though. We’ll get through this together, and you will feel better.’
Libby’s tears slowed and she blew her nose. Her body visibly relaxed and her face showed the relief she felt. ‘D’you promise?’
‘I promise.’ Christie drew her child to her again, feeling how the tension had left her. Libby was relying on her and she wouldn’t let her down. ‘Now, you’d better go. Or you’ll miss English altogether. Splash some cold water on your eyes in the cloakroom and no one will notice anything. We’ll talk more tonight.’
A kiss on the cheek and Libby was gone, leaving Christie staring after her, wondering what the hell she should do next. Remembering the Telegraph interview, she checked the time on the dashboard. Oh, fuck! Ten minutes to get home and do her hair and makeup. As she drove, she considered to whom she should turn: Mrs Snell or Dr Collier? She decided the sympathetic doctor was the more attractive of the two. She would call him as soon as the interview was over.
*
Sarah Sterling was charming. If anything, slightly too charming. In her forties, smart in black, with straight, streaked hair and an inquisitive gaze, she arrived with a photographer. They decided to photograph Christie in the kitchen, even though she had tidied the sitting room specially. Sarah helped clear the breakfast things into the dishwasher, chatting all the while. I know the routine, Christie reminded herself. Get the interviewee to relax, make sure you’ve got enough material for the piece then, when they’re off their guard, go in with the killer question. She held herself ready. When the table was clear, she followed the photographer’s directions and posed, smiling, until he was satisfied he’d got the shot he wanted. Only then, she realised her coffee mug had been in every shot – the one Mel had given her with ‘SEX BOMB’ in large letters on its side. When she had finally succeeded in persuading them that this was not the image she wanted to convey to Telegraph readers and he had agreed to airbrush the words out, she was left alone with Sarah.
They quickly covered the obvious subjects of her growing up and her early career, peppered with a few throw-ins about her philosophy of life (make the most of what you’ve got), her favourite possessions (my photo of Nick and the pottery pig made by Libby), greatest weakness (my quick temper), what she hated and liked most about herself (I try not to hate anything, and my optimism), then her thoughts on town (negative) and country (positive) living. That led inexorably to her marriage and Nick’s death, which had so radically changed her life. Sarah was pleasant, interested, and Christie found herself warming to her as they chatted. She had no problem with talking about Nick. Writing about their marriage and about him had rehearsed her in what she did and didn’t want to say. Thinking about him for the second time that morning she wondered again how he’d advise her to deal with Libby.
‘How do you find Julia?’ A question from left-field.
‘Great. She’s a fantastic agent and person to have on-side.’ Christie was not going to let Sarah trip her up.
‘Not too domineering? One or two of her ex-clients have complained that she can be too pushy. That children’s presenter, Katie Belstead, swears she lost the children’s Saturday show job thanks to Julia demanding too high a fee even though she’d asked her not to.’
Neither was she going to be tempted into indiscretion. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Certainly hasn’t happened to me.’
Realising she was getting nowhere, Sarah changed the subject. ‘Being left with two young children must have been hard?’ She helped herself to another Jammie Dodger from the tin.
If only you knew, thought Christie, but instead gave her stock reply: ‘To begin with it was, but I’ve had amazing support from my mother and sister.’
‘How have the children – Libby and Fred, isn’t it? – managed? It must have been hard for them too.’ Sarah had eaten the top of her biscuit and was now nibbling at the filling, leaving the jam button till last.
‘They’ve been fine.’ Christie studied the pointed toes of Sarah’s black knee-high boots as she closed the subject. Her children were a no-go area.
Sarah looked thoughtful. ‘I only ask because a friend of mine was in a similar position – well, divorced, not widowed – and although her daughter seemed to be coping at first, my friend’s just realised that she’s being bullied at school and has started self-harming. She doesn’t know what to do.’ She took her last bite of biscuit.
Suddenly she had Christie’s full attention.
‘It’s so difficult for kids these days,’ Sarah went on, helping herself to another. ‘They have so much to cope with at that age that we didn’t. I watch Milly, my thirteen-year-old, like a hawk to make sure she’s eating enough. I worry she’s too thin. A couple of my friends’ daughters are anorexic,’ she went on anxiously, no longer the journalist but a mother. ‘It’s been incredibly difficult for them. But cutting themselves – I don’t understand why they do that or how one wouldn’t notice.’
‘Oh, I can.’ The words slipped out almost without Christie noticing. To her horror, she felt her chin wobble.
‘Can you?’ Sarah leaned forward, concerned, her eyes intent on Christie.
‘I’ve just come back from the doctor with Libby. I’m so worried about her.’ Immediately she knew she’d said too much. She drew back, appalled that she’d fallen straight into the journalist’s trap. ‘That’s off the record.’
‘Of course.’ Sarah clicked off her tape-recorder, but looked as though she wanted to carry on talking.
‘I think we’ve finished, haven’t we?’ Christie stood up and took the mugs to the sink.
Sarah nodded, glancing at her watch. She had all she needed. ‘God! Is that the time? I’ve got to be in Covent Garden for two thirty and you’ve got to get to the studios. I must go. I’m sorry, but good luck with your daughter. Who said being a mother was easy?’ She laughed, the professional again, before letting Christie see her out. She’d got her story and was leaving her interviewee in a blind panic.
*
In the chauffeured car to the studio, Christie spoke to Mrs Snell, assuring her that Libby’s problems were being looked after. After that, she had a long reassuring conversation with Dr Collier, who said he’d refer them to a family therapist. Christie had one more call to make.
‘How did it go, darling? Sarah’s good, isn’t she?’
‘Very,’ she replied, looking out of the car window. ‘Julia, I need you to do something for me. I stupidly fell into the trap of saying something about my daughter that absolutely must not be made public. I need you to make sure she doesn’t use it.’
‘I’m sure whatever it was can’t have been that bad.’ Julia had switched into soothing-client mode.
‘It