New Beginnings

by Fern Britton

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 14

  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 sid
e. 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—’

  ‘No need to thank me. Must dash. Taxi waiting. ’Bye, darling.’

  ‘—you’ll get for me?’

  The only answer was the dialling tone.

  *

  After the show that evening, Christie refused Sam and Frank’s offer of a drink in the bar. Sitting in the back seat of the Mercedes on the way home, she had the thinking time she needed. Half-term was over, so work would be more manageable from now on and she would devote what time she could to Libby and Fred. At least they’d all have a proper routine for the few months she had left with the show.

  Lights were blazing from the house when she finally arrived home. The rich smell of baking potatoes and chicken stew filled the kitchen. Maureen was washing up and smiling at something Richard was saying. In front of him sat four large orange pumpkins, their chopped flesh scattered on the newspaper that covered the table. Fred and Olly were concentrating on cutting ghoulish faces into the hollowed-out skins. Next to them, Libby and a girl Christie didn’t recognise were cutting cats and broomsticks out of black paper. Dressed in uniform black, their nails painted green (Libby) and black (friend), they made a witchy pair, bent over with their hair shielding their faces as they concentrated on the task in hand.

  ‘Welcome home.’ Richard was the first to notice her. ‘Maureen asked me if I’d help with the lanterns. So here I am.’

  Christie bit back her surprise that Maureen had involved Richard, a man she didn’t know, before she registered that of course she did know him. They often helped one another out in the week. She could see from the beam that lit up Maureen’s face that Richard had made a hit.

  ‘Mum!’ Libby looked up, pleasure on her face for once. ‘Come and see what Chloë and me are making. We’re going to stick them on the windows for tomorrow night.’

  ‘They’ll look great.’ Christie was relieved that the Libby she knew and loved was back. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘We need some witches’ hats. Could you cut those?’ She passed over a spare pair of scissors and a sheet of black sugar paper.

  ‘But I need you to help me with these teeth,’ Fred wailed. Before an argument began, Richard grabbed the knife and began chipping away at a gaping pumpkin mouth.

  ‘Christine, before you do anything, could we have a quick word?’ Maureen nudged her towards the sitting room. Christie could see that she was burning to get something off her chest.

  Her mother was brisk. ‘Look, Christine. As you weren’t here, I’ve booked an appointment at the doctor’s for Libby.’

  ‘Why?’ Christie’s maternal hackles rose. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s very pale, she didn’t touch her packed lunches last week and she’s only been picking at her meals over half-term.’ Maureen softened with concern before becoming more definite again. ‘She’s going first thing next Monday morning. With you.’ She ran her hands over her hips to straighten her skirt and mark the end of what she had to say. ‘And I’m going home now to try and catch up with my own life.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, and thank you, but on Monday morning I’ve got a Daily Telegraph interview at ten o’clock.’

  Maureen looked straight into her daughter’s eyes. ‘Then it’s a good job that the appointment’s for ten to nine. You’ll have plenty of time to do both. I’ve seen these.’ She picked up a women’s magazine and one of the TV listing guides that Christie had left on the floor. Each ran a story on her, celebrating that she was a new face on a popular show and was rapidly establishing a strong and positive rapport with the viewers. ‘I hope you won’t be getting above yourself.’ Before Christie could reply, she had turned back to the kitchen, said her goodbyes and left the six of them busy finishing their preparations.

  Christie felt the familiar guilty twist in her stomach. ‘’Bye, Mum. And thanks,’ she called after her.

  Eventually the children drifted off to their own devices, leaving Christie and Richard to pour themselves a glass of wine while they tidied up. Then they lit the lanterns and put them in the sitting-room windows before settling themselves in front of the fire.

  ‘Busy week?’ As she asked, Christie noticed for the first time the razor-thin scar to the right of his upper lip and wondered how he’d got it.

  ‘Not bad. We had three companies in this week so it’s been quite full on. Luckily Caro was around so it didn’t affect Olly. He was thrilled she was back and loved taking Fred over there to show off his other bedroom and his other lot of games and toys. How was yours?’

  ‘Mmm, OK. I can’t thank you enough for helping out. I’ve been worried about Libby. Mum’s just said something too, but she doesn’t seem too bad tonight. Hormones, I hope.’

  They let the conversation take them round their children, school (she didn’t mention Mrs Snell), TV7, the new assault course Richard was designing. Lulled by the warmth, the wine and the easy sense of companionship, Christie found herself relaxing, comfortable in his company. It was only when they sat down that she realised just how much she was enjoying being with him. She looked at his face, seeing what Mel must have noticed on their first meeting.
But he had more than just good looks. She saw a vulnerability in his face that intrigued her. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. Realising how little she knew about him, she wanted to ask about his background but at the same time she didn’t want to intrude on his privacy. Did she fancy him? And, more pertinently, did he fancy her? Just a bit?

  When he eventually got up to go, she followed him to the door. He called to Olly and stood in the hall, waiting for his son to appear. They were standing so close she could smell the faint scent of him.

  She leaned towards him to kiss his cheek. As she did so, he turned and, unintentionally, her lips met his. He tasted of red wine with the slightest hint of cinnamon. She suddenly felt an intense longing for her past life. For Nick. For someone. Forgetting herself, she leaned into him and closed her eyes for just a second. He jerked back as if he’d been stung. When she looked up she saw panic in his face.

  ‘Ooops,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said awkwardly, holding the pumpkin lantern between them. At that moment, Olly and Fred tore down the stairs, Fred bumping into Christie and almost knocking her off balance. Richard reached out to steady her but she stepped back from his hand, not wanting to make the situation worse.

  ‘Come on, boy. Let’s get you home.’ He put his hand on his son’s head and shepherded him out of the house. ‘I’m sure we’ll see you soon. Thanks for the wine,’ he said, sounding horribly formal all of a sudden.

  Christie watched the tail-lights of the battered Land Rover disappear down the drive. What had she done? How could she have misread the signs so badly? She might be out of practice but she was sure he’d felt as comfortable with her as she had with him. She’d obviously been quite wrong. The kiss had been just an accident, she told herself. Or had it? She shut the door behind them. Well done, Mrs Lynch, she congratulated herself. Another bloody cock-up. She walked into the sitting room where the candle-lit pumpkins flickered in the window, sat down and looked at Nick’s photo. He was laughing at her. Picking it up, she spoke aloud: ‘I don’t know, Nick. Have I lost my touch? You’d have kissed me, wouldn’t you?’ She touched the glass. ‘I loved you so much but I’ve got to move on now. I need more than your memory to keep me going. He’s a nice guy, you know. I think you’d like him. And I thought he liked me. Oh, well, I guess I was wrong. No accounting for taste, eh?’ She gave a sad little laugh. ‘Still, you know me. I’ll live to fight another day. And at least I’ve got the kids.’ She put the photo down, gave her husband a last look, and went to round up Libby and Fred for bed. Who knew what was going on in Richard’s mind, what he was keeping hidden? Men were strange creatures. After all, even Nick hadn’t been entirely straight with her until she had prised the information about the loan from him and promised to keep its existence secret.