Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
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I’m trying.’ Richard groaned before the sound of whisking took over.
Standing in the chilly corridor, Christie was suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible sense of exclusion from what was going on in her own kitchen. Mel had been back for five minutes and already everything was happier families than it was when Christie was around. The thought was fleeting but it hurt. She told herself not to be so bloody stupid, took a breath and walked in to see the three of them busy making supper. Libby was watching the chops under the grill, Richard was rapidly stirring something on the Aga while Mel was checking a pan of boiling water.
‘Chris!’ As soon as she saw her, Mel replaced the saucepan lid and rushed over to hug her. She was looking fabulous, sun-kissed and, despite the December temperatures, wearing a floaty aquamarine dress that did everything for her tan. Her hair had lightened by several shades and was cut to frame her face, accentuating her high cheekbones. ‘You’re back already. I wanted to have this cauliflower cheese done for you, but Libby and I got into such a muddle.’
Christie looked over at Libby, her face pale but happy as she smiled at them both and gestured with despair towards the table where a casserole dish sitting next to a wire-rack of mince pies contained what was obviously their incinerated first attempt.
‘So that’s the smell?’ Christie hugged her sister back and planted a big kiss on her cheek.
‘’Fraid so. Luckily I asked Richard in for a coffee when he gave me a lift from the airport so help was at hand. What a man!’
Richard had turned so he was standing with his back to the Aga, holding on to its rail. Christie looked at him, liking how the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled, how the ends of his mouth slightly turned up even when he didn’t. She experienced a sinking sensation that came with the realisation that something she thought she didn’t much want was no longer available to her. Suddenly she wanted him more than anything.
‘Gave you a lift from the airport,’ she echoed.
‘Yes, Maureen mentioned Mel was getting an expensive taxi and, as I was in town at a business lunch, it was easy to reroute via Heathrow.’ Richard picked some dog hairs off his beige sweater and smiled as her sister nudged him aside so she could return to the cooking. Mel had been right. He was gorgeous.
Christie thought fleetingly of Sam. She felt no flip of the stomach when she saw him. And now I fancy Richard, she thought. Oh, Christie, get over yourself. Why does it matter to me that he and Mel click? I should be pleased.
She didn’t need long to work out the answer. Of course he isn’t gay. You never really thought he was. He just doesn’t fancy you. He fancies your sister. Get over it.
‘Anyway, I’ve asked him to supper since he’s virtually cooking it. That’s OK, isn’t it?’ Mel took the pan off the Aga and crossed the room to drain the cauliflower.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ No, no. Actually, it’s not. I want you on your own to find out exactly what’s been going on.
‘Do you know what?’ Mel looked as if she was receiving divine inspiration. ‘I’ve had an even better idea. Why don’t you come to Christmas lunch?’ She didn’t notice either Christie’s or Richard’s look of alarm, or she ignored it. ‘He was just saying, it’s him and Olly on their own before they go to his mum’s on Boxing Day. They aren’t even having a turkey or Christmas pudding. It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it, Chris?’
‘It’s rather short notice for you, though?’ Richard sounded unsure.
‘Come! Come!’ shouted Fred, thrilled with the idea. ‘Say they can, Mum. Go on.’
Christie pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, feeling as if her world was spinning off its axis. How could Mel be so insensitive? Then she remembered how she had denied all interest in Richard. She had no one to blame but herself. At the same time, she had imagined that she might still be in there with a chance. She was willing to square up to opposition – but unknown rivals for love were one thing. Her own sister was quite another. The last thing she wanted was to spend Christmas Day with them cosying up to each other, leaving her in the cold. She was aware that all eyes were on her, waiting for her decision: Mel and Fred’s demanded she say yes; Richard’s were questioning, and Libby’s dark and unreadable.
‘There’s always way too much food and Mum adores him,’ Mel urged, as if he wasn’t there. ‘And it would make such a change.’ She spun round, almost knocking Libby off her chair. ‘What d’you think, Libs?’
‘Whatever.’ Libby’s demeanour had inexplicably changed. She got up and disappeared through the door, leaving the chops to Mel. They heard the sound of the TV switched on in the sitting room. Mel shrugged in a that’s-teenagers-for-you way. Christie desperately wanted to go after her daughter but knew the mood meant she’d be cold-shouldered. Now was not the moment. What would Angela advise her to do?
‘Why don’t you ask the mystery man you hinted about in your email?’ Mel was bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Then it would be a real party.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said sharply, aware of Richard studying her with new interest. ‘I haven’t got a mystery man.’
Mel looked confused. ‘But you said …’
‘Mel!’ She stopped her in her tracks, saying firmly, ‘No, I didn’t. You must have misunderstood. Too much sun and too many rum daiquiris, I bet.’
‘Probably.’ Mel deflated, then recovered herself quickly. ‘But I thought … Well, what about Rich and Olly, then?’
‘Of course,’ said Christie, making sure she sounded more welcoming than she felt. ‘If you’re not doing anything else, we’d love it.’
*
The next morning, Christie lay in bed, half dozing while a cup of tea grew cold on her bedside table. Mel had put it there, then given her a chance to have a much-needed lie-in by taking the children into town to get some last-minute bits and pieces. She went over the previous evening. Richard hadn’t hung around, saying he was sure they had plenty to catch up on without needing him there. But when she finally had Mel to herself, Christie couldn’t bring herself to ask her what was going on between them. Apart from not wanting to spoil the mood, she found she didn’t want to know the answer. Instead she listened to Mel’s adventures in the Caribbean, which mostly revolved around her affair with the photographer, and in turn regaled her with stories from work, interviews she’d done, her growing friendship with Frank and Sam and, of course, the night in Rillingham. Mel had listened with a mixture of astonishment and delight on her face. When Christie finished, she put her arms round her and nearly squeezed her to death. ‘What an amazing guy! It’s the best thing you could have done. You don’t really fancy him, though, do you?’
‘No,’ she said decisively, not even having to think about her answer.
‘Pity,’ Mel murmured. ‘Imagine the headlines.’ She dodged, laughing, as her sister had tried to push her off the sofa.
Christie stretched, revelling in the warmth of the duvet but bracing herself for the moment when she would have to get up. She pushed herself up against the pillows, keeping the duvet as close to her chin as she could, then inched her left arm out into the cold to pick up the mug. She’d hoped to have the central-heating in by now, courtesy of Drink-a-Vit, but thanks to the delay in payment, she’d only been able to afford to get the conservatory windows and the chimney done. The up-side of that was that the sitting-room fire drew beautifully now, no longer smoking and exacerbating her mother’s theatrical cough. The down-side was that, although she was hardly skint, she still didn’t have money to burn – at least, not until she’d paid off more of Nick’s bloody loan. Around her, the house was silent. She sighed, contented. No one was there to demand anything of her. The mile-long list of self-inflicted Christmas chores could wait for another couple of minutes, she told herself, screwing up her nose at the taste of the tea. No sugar. Downstairs, the phone was ringing. She ignored it. The only reason she had to leave the