by Fern Britton
Oblivious to the cold now, she leaned out of bed, fished her mobile from her bag and switched it on. As she dialled Mel, a sequence of buzzes alerted her to a number of missed calls.
‘Mel. It’s me. I’ll explain later but whatever you do, don’t let Libby see a copy of the News. Yes, I know it’s unlikely but just don’t. I’ll explain when you get back. No, I’m fine.’
She checked the missed calls. All from Maureen. Shit! She’d obviously seen the paper and reacted like an Exocet missile, immediately homing in on her reprobate daughter. Christie decided to call her after she’d spoken to Julia. By this time, her fury had been replaced by an icy calm. She would sort this out and she and Libby would weather the fallout – if there had to be one.
Julia picked up immediately. ‘Have you seen the piece in the News, darling? Not looking your best but all publicity is good publicity.’
Christie took no notice. ‘Nobody is supposed to know that we’re seeing Angela. How the hell did they find out?’
‘I’ve no idea. The press have their methods. But look on the bright side. We know you’re fine, really; Libby’s not mentioned and the speculation will you keep you in the public eye while Good Evening Britain’s off air. Glass half full, darling. Remember?’
Christie felt like throttling her. Julia had never expressed any genuine interest in Christie’s life outside her work unless it impinged on some arrangement she had made. Whatever she said, she would never understand the potential internal damage a story like this might do to her family. There was no point in arguing. Christie would just have to keep a wary eye open for photographers in future and continue to keep her children out of the limelight. She cut the conversation short, suddenly desperate to be up and dressed, ready for the children when they got back. No newspaper was going to spoil the weekend ahead of them, and neither would the togetherness of Mel and Richard.
She went downstairs and relaid the big open fire with each scrumpled page of the day’s News but, at the last moment, kept the page with her photo and took it up to her study. She made two more calls, one to her mother to reassure her that the story was a vindictive fiction, that she was fine and that, no, Libby would not find out about it. The second call was to Angela who listened and asked, in time-honoured therapist manner, what Christie was going to do. They discussed the pros and cons of telling Libby. Angela was all for telling her immediately, but Christie didn’t want to risk ruining Christmas. They compromised by agreeing that she should be told before New Year, and keep an appointment with Angela, who would catch the fallout. Finally, Angela asked how Christie was.
‘Please don’t be nice to me. I’ll cry,’ Christie muttered. Then amid tears and nose-blowing, she poured out her upset and hurt over the article, her fears for Libby, for the security of her family, and for her financial mess. After about fifteen minutes, she felt a lot better and thanked Angela, whose last suggestion was for her to have a shower, put on some makeup and enjoy Christmas with her loving family.
Chapter 19
By that evening, everything was as perfect as Christie had hoped. She, Mel and the kids had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, singing along to Christmas carols from King’s College, Cambridge, and getting ready for Christmas Day. Mel struggled with the instructions on the packet of instant stuffing while Libby and Fred (briefly, in his case) helped peel the veg. Christie decanted the M&S pudding into a white mixing bowl and, with string, secured some greaseproof paper over the top – to howls of derision from the others who swore they would tell Maureen that it wasn’t homemade. Finally, the turkey was taken out of the fridge and put in the cool of the newly repaired conservatory so the space could be filled with everything they’d prepared. There, done.
At last, they all dispersed to wrap the remainder of their presents, Libby and Fred giggling and whispering together. Christie went to her study to find the kitten curled up asleep on her favourite cardigan. She’d kept the radio on to drown the sound of any miaowing that might spoil the surprise, but the little thing seemed blissfully content, his black and grey tiger-stripes rising and falling with his rhythmic breathing. Christie sat in the old leather armchair that had once belonged to her father, heaving a sigh of satisfaction. She half tucked the offending page of the News down the side of the cushion, wishing she could forget its contents while telling herself to dismiss them as just a hiccup in proceedings. Maybe, just maybe, this evening was going to be all right after all.
Half an hour later, she was woken by Mel tapping on the door.
‘Chris! Can I come in?’ She twisted round the door, careful that the kitten shouldn’t escape, holding a blue and grey silk head square. ‘Do you think Mum will like this?’ She flicked it in half, put it over her head and tied it under her chin.
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment.’ Christie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. ‘But it is lovely. Beautiful colours. What about this?’ She pointed towards a pot containing a few apparently moribund stems.
Mel pulled out the label and read aloud, ‘“Sweet Dream, a small apricot-coloured rose bush, double bloomed and lightly scented, perfect for the patio”.’ A pause, then: ‘Christine! It’s very pretty,’ she mimicked, snorting with laughter, ‘but I’ve decided that all the flowers on the patio this year are going to be white. Ted might like it, though.’
‘You’re joking?’ Christie sat up. ‘She hasn’t?’
‘No, not really. But I wouldn’t put it past her.’ She picked up a pencil and began waving it in front of the kitten, which stretched out a lazy paw to trap it. ‘Libby’s so going to love you, though.’
Every year, Christie and Mel went through the same ritual of trying to second-guess their mother but, however hard they tried, they never got her quite the present she wanted. Brooches were the wrong shape, gloves not the right colour, clothes inevitably the wrong size, Champagne too extravagant, chocolates too fattening, and candles smelt too strong, too sweet, too flowery. They both knew that the scarf would somehow fail to meet her expectations, as would the rose Christie had once been so sure was the perfect gift.
They heard Fred shout from downstairs. Carefully shutting the study door behind them, they barged each other out of the way, like schoolgirls, racing along the corridor and down the stairs to find him in the sitting room, trying to attach an old rugby sock of Nick’s to the mantelpiece with Sellotape. ‘Every time I put it up, it just falls off,’ he complained.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Mel took the sock and hung it over the fifties wooden clothes horse that Libby had pulled out of the loft to hang her Christmas cards on. ‘That way, Father Christmas can’t miss it. Suppose he comes down the chimney and forgets to look up. He might not see it on there.’
‘S’pose not.’ Fred looked doubtful.
After supper they sat together watching Home Alone (yet again). Fred lay sprawled across Christie’s lap, helpless with laughter, while Libby sat by Mel’s feet, casting the odd withering glance at him and smiling when she thought no one was watching. But Christie was. They were surrounded by their usual Christmas decorations: the over-decorated tree in the window; cards pegged unevenly to red ribbons pinned across the two alcoves on either side of the fireplace; pieces of holly just beginning to dry out and curl over the picture frames; paper chains made by Maureen and the kids criss-crossing the ceiling in two vast swags, held up in the centre by a rainbow-coloured tissue-paper ball. On top of the bookcase stood a green fabric wind-up Christmas tree that sported pink high-heeled button boots and wriggled and sang ‘Santa Baby’ on demand. Abandon taste, all ye who enter here, thought Christie wryly. But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was what family life should be: togetherness and time-honoured pleasures. If only she could maintain the status quo through the next ten years. She caught Fred’s hand sneaking towards the Christmas tin of Celebrations. ‘Enough, Freddie. You’ll be sick.’
At last the film was over, the brandy, carrot and mince pie left out for Father Christmas and Rudolph, an over-excited
Fred had been packed off to bed and Libby, playing it cool this year, had followed soon after. Mel and Christie quietly filled Fred’s sock and Libby’s fishnet stocking, then made a pile of presents under the tree before turning the lights out, checking the kitten for the last time, then kissing one another good night.
*
A grey dawn was stealing through the gap in her curtains when Christie was suddenly woken by the icy touch of Fred’s feet on her leg.
‘Mum!’ he hissed, his mouth over her ear. ‘Can I go downstairs?’
She groaned, rolled towards him and reached out an arm for him to snuggle under. ‘Stay here and let’s wait for Libby.’
With a sigh of disappointment, he curled into her but for the next half-hour wriggled and fidgeted so much that by the time Libby came in Christie was well and truly awake. As dictated by family tradition, the kids fetched their stockings, and when the bed was buried under a mound of ripped wrapping paper and presents, it was time to get up.
They found Mel already in the kitchen making coffee. Christie pulled out a chair, wishing she’d had another hour’s sleep. ‘Oh, Libs, I’ve just remembered. I think I left the radio on in my study last night. You wouldn’t switch it off for me?’ She kissed the top of her daughter’s head. ‘I’m dying for this coffee.’
‘If I must.’ They heard her tramping upstairs and, as her footsteps sounded down the corridor, they tiptoed after her, shushing a puzzled Fred. The study door clicked open, and then they heard Libby’s huge gasp. ‘Mum!’
Christie took the remainder of the stairs two at a time to find Libby walking towards her, cradling the kitten, her face alight with joy and disbelief. ‘Is he really for me?’
‘He really is.’ Christie put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Now all you have to do is think of a name – oh, and bring the litter tray down with you.’
‘What about me?’ piped up Fred, engulfed by a sense of unfairness.
‘Don’t worry, Fred. It’s your turn now.’ She took him by the hand leaving Libby to debate names with Mel. From under the tree she pulled out a box and watched the excitement in his face fade. He picked at the paper, his eye on the other presents as if hoping another pet was going to materialise from one of them. Then his eyes widened and he gave Christie a grin that almost split his face in half.
‘A Wii! That’s wicked, Mum. Can I phone Olly and tell him now?’
‘No, he can see it later. Let’s have some breakfast, then Mel can help you set it up while I get lunch on the go so we’re ready when everyone arrives.’
‘Gee, thanks, sis.’ Mel laughed.
The rest of the morning sped by, Fred and Libby occupied with their presents while she laid the table and got on with lunch, and Mel zipped back and forth between the three of them. As Christie prepared the meal, she couldn’t stop her thoughts circling round as she anticipated everyone’s arrival. She was still annoyed with herself for feeling jealous over Mel and Richard’s new friendship and for being miffed that Mel hadn’t said anything even though she hadn’t exactly been upfront herself. Still disheartened over his reaction to her kiss, she reassured herself again that they could at least be good friends if nothing else.
‘Anyone in?’ The sound of her mother’s voice brought her back to the here and now. Christie glanced up at the old station clock at the far end of the kitchen. One thirty already. The smell of the roasting turkey, sausages and bacon, potatoes and parsnips filled the kitchen. On the Aga, the pans of water were coming to the boil, steaming up the window over the sink. At the other end of the room, the table was looking its best, dressed in a red cloth with crackers at every place. The glasses glittered and the silver gleamed, while the centrepiece of holly and gold balls that Christie and Libby had made together looked as if it might even stay the course of the day without collapsing.
As soon as she saw Maureen, Christie knew they were in for a bumpy ride. In her mother sailed, looking ever so slightly tiddly, with Ted a few paces behind, carrying two hessian bags of presents. Her mauve beret had slipped to one side, giving her an unusually jaunty look that sat well with the belted mac (more Parisian prostitute than country chic, as Mel would later point out), which was removed to reveal a tweedy suit. They had obviously been down to the Legion for Maureen’s favourite tipple on high days and holidays: a large schooner (or two, by the look of things) of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’ Christie embraced her. ‘Why don’t you go through to the sitting room?’
Mel took a bottle of Champagne from the fridge. ‘Shall I open this now?’
‘Perhaps we should wait until—’ Christie began, but Maureen interrupted her.
‘That would be lovely, Melanie. So extravagant.’ She led the way through and stood by the roaring fire, her sharp eyes checking the signatures in the Christmas cards while she waited to be given a drink. Ted plumped himself on the sofa, undoing the gold buttons on his blazer and releasing his paunch. He loosened his tie, presumably to clear a passage for some oxygen to get through to his disconcertingly puce face, and scratched about what hair he had left before reaching towards the glass Mel was offering.
‘So Richard’s coming, a little bird tells me.’ Maureen looked her most mischievous. ‘Such a charming man. I really thought he’d be perfect for you, Christine, but am I to gather that Melanie’s got there first?’
Both her daughters stared at her, speechless. Mel was looking uncomfortable, fiddling with the row of tiny buttons that ran down the front of her dress. Christie couldn’t move, knowing that if she did, she’d take a swing at her mother. Both Libby and Fred stared at their grandmother, shocked.
‘I thought a little match-making was all that was required.’ She smiled, all innocence but clearly aware of the effect she was having. ‘That’s why I asked him to pick you up from the airport, dear.’
Christie banged down the plate of smoked salmon and brown bread on the side table, making Maureen jump. ‘Have I said something to upset you, Christine?’
‘Mum! Please don’t make silly, embarrassing assumptions. Richard’s a friend. Of all of us,’ interrupted Mel. ‘Yes, I like the man. So does Chris. But it’s not a competition. And I think we’d both prefer it if you didn’t get involved with our love lives. We’re grown women and quite capable of managing them on our own.’
Ted shuffled uneasily on his seat and sank half of his Champagne in one. Libby and Fred left the room to look for the kitten, which had taken advantage of the situation and skittered out of the door when no one was watching.
‘But you’re not, dear, are you? Or, at least, neither of you are making a very good job of it.’ She nodded knowingly, so the beret slipped a little further over her left ear, and settled herself into a chair. ‘A mother often knows her daughters better than they know themselves.’
Christie instantly thought of Libby. As the two of them struggled to come to terms with Libby’s growing up, neither of them seemed to know her better than the other. But that was not something to dwell on today. Nothing and no one, not even Maureen, was going to spoil this Christmas. She forced a smile and, to everyone’s obvious relief, changed the subject as Libby returned with her kitten.
‘Have you met Smudge yet, Mum?’
With Maureen’s attention distracted, Christie excused herself to finish off the lunch. She took the turkey from the oven and set the roasting tin on the worktop with a crash. Peeling away the tinfoil, she stabbed the skewer into the turkey, checking it was cooked through. Shaking the pan of roast potatoes vigorously to make sure they were evenly cooked before they went back into the oven, she imagined Maureen’s neck between her hands.
Mel joined her. ‘Take no notice. You know what she’s like.’
‘Do you know what?’ Christie said, through gritted teeth. ‘I really don’t care. Who you do or don’t see has nothing to do with me.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ Mel was taken aback by Christie’s sudden hostility. ‘You know I’d tell you if anything was going on. Here, le
t me help with the veg.’ She was about to tip the carrots and peas from the chopping board into a pan but Christie took the board from her.
‘Do I?’ Christie challenged, surprising herself. Then, remembering her resolution, she changed her tone. ‘Actually, I’d rather you entertained the old bag. I’m fine in here on my own. Really.’
They stood, staring at one another, uncertain what to say next. Mel looked anxious as if she still wanted to defuse the situation while Christie tried to control the resentment, envy and guilt that were warring for first place. The moment had come when she could ask the questions she’d held back over the last couple of days. At the same time, she knew that the timing couldn’t have been worse. She rarely fell out with Mel but when she did it was never pretty. They hadn’t spoken for days after one Fireworks Night, years ago, when, without asking, Christie had borrowed a necklace given to Mel by her then boyfriend and lost it during some vigorous snogging in the back of a taxi.
‘I don’t know what you’re thinking,’ Mel broke the silence, ‘but don’t let Mum ruin everything. It’s just not worth it.’
Before Christie had a chance to say anything, there was a knock and in walked a well-muffled Richard and Olly.
Chapter 20
‘Happy Christmas! We let ourselves in. Hope that’s all right?’
Mel and Christie turned together to see Richard already unwinding his scarf and shedding his thick blue coat. Beside him stood a pink-cheeked Olly, clutching a shiny red remote-controlled car to his chest.
‘Of course it is. Come on in. Happy Christmas.’ Mel flung her arms round a somewhat startled Richard before she turned to Olly, admired the car and demanded to see it in action immediately.
Christie hung back, unsure whether to follow suit, but Richard solved the problem for her by stepping forwards, simultaneously spiriting a bunch of red gerberas and white roses from behind his son’s back. ‘Happy Christmas. I wasn’t sure what to get you.’
