by Fern Britton
The swell of relief that almost swamped Christie was tempered by a swirl of anger. ‘Put her on. I could kill her.’
‘Take it easy,’ Mel warned. ‘She’s upset. She thought I wasn’t coming home and she’s scared. Giving her an earful isn’t going to help.’
‘Mum?’ Libby’s tearful voice came on the line.
‘Libs! Thank God. Are you all right?’ Her anger vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me. I’m coming to get you.’
Libby didn’t challenge her. She sounded tired and vulnerable, like the twelve-year-old girl they all sometimes forgot she was.
When she put the phone down, Christie could imagine her sister and daughter sprawled together on the floor cushions in Mel’s tiny green bohemian living room, surrounded by the weird and wonderful bits and pieces she’d gathered together over the last few years. She could imagine why Libby loved being there, with such easy access to the city, compared to being in their draughty old house, stuck out in the sticks – but, like it or not, this was her home: the place where she belonged. Selfish child. Why hadn’t she thought to call anyone? When she looked down, her hands were shaking.
Richard picked up her car key from the table. ‘I’ll take you. But you’d better tell Maureen the good news first while I deal with the police.’
They were soon heading towards Chiswick, Fred slumped asleep on the back seat. The calming sound of Radio 3 filled the car although, above it, Christie could hear Mel’s voice in her ear, as clear as if she were sitting right behind her. ‘Come on, sis. This is your chance. Libby’s been found. There’s nothing you can do about the interview with the PM now. So for God’s sake say something. He’s right beside you. A captive audience, if ever there was one.’ But as the adrenalin wore off, Christie was overcome by sleep, her eyelids so heavy she couldn’t stop them closing before she had time to say anything. She woke twenty minutes later, by which time they were on the motorway. She turned towards Richard, watching his profile strobed by the light of oncoming cars. The light accentuated the planes of his face, his slightly bent nose. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. He stared ahead, absorbed in the music, giving no clue to what he was thinking. Mel’s voice returned: ‘Now! Say something now! You won’t get another chance like this.’
‘Who’s Marianne?’ she blurted, and kicked herself for such a random opening gambit.
He glanced at her, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Just curious.’ Come on, Christie, she encouraged herself. You can do better than this.
‘My sister. She’s been staying and helping look after Olly while Tom and I have been setting up some new endurance programmes for the unsuspecting punters.’
So Maureen’s innuendoes had been way off the mark. Christie still might be in with a chance, after all. Encouraged, she covered her small smile with a hand and looked out of the window. But, she corrected herself, harbouring hopes that Richard would change his mind was pointless. What had happened this evening could only have confirmed to him that he’d been right to disengage himself. This family’s too much trouble for any man, she thought sadly.
‘How did you know about her?’ he asked.
‘Mum mentioned her. She thought she was my competition. She’ll be so disappointed.’
He laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘I’m glad.’ She turned to him again. ‘I’d hoped we weren’t quite done, although I know tonight must have confirmed your . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence because he lifted a hand to stop her. His eyes didn’t leave the road.
‘It’s hard for me, Chris. It’s taken me such a long time to get to this point and I don’t want to mess things up for you or for me.’ He stopped as if he was working out what to say next.
She waited.
‘I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me or to put you off. A screwed-up ex-soldier is impossible to live with – as Caro will tell you. Being in the services changed everything for me. After what I did, what I saw in Iraq, I used to wonder whether I’d ever be able to make contact or communicate with real people again. No one understands what goes on in a war zone. You see and experience such dreadful things. So you carry them round in your head. The nightmares take years to go.’ He paused.
Christie said nothing. He had never opened up to her like this before. The darkness in the car and the sense of intimacy felt as she imagined a church confessional must.
‘Christie, these are things I’ve kept to myself for a very long time. Caro really tried to help me when I got back, but I couldn’t find myself, let alone her hand of love to hold on to.’
Christie sat very still, every nerve tuned in to him.
‘Caro and I were childhood friends, always kept in touch after school, and once I’d joined up. But I let our corres pondence drift while I was in the Gulf . . .’ He stopped and was silent for a full minute. Still Christie didn’t speak.
‘After I was demobbed, I came home and we bumped into each other at a friend’s house – the rest is history. We married, which pleased our families. But, if I’m honest, marrying was just an easy option. I was numb inside and it felt like the right thing to do. Poor Caro. She deserved so much more. It’s testament to her that we’re still friends. When she had Olly, I kind of woke up. Here was a perfect miniature human I was responsible for. I tried to be the husband Caro wanted but it was too late. A colleague of hers fell in love with her and she left me.
‘Thank God we never argued over the sharing of Olly. Eventually I did see someone, a therapist, who helped me find my way back to me. He said it was very common for soldiers to have a form of post-traumatic stress syndrome – horrible label, but there you are.
‘So, I know what it’s like to be scared and not quite handling things. I got frightened when I saw what a mess we could make of Libby’s life, and I didn’t handle that well either, did I? When we met, you’d obviously had your own problems, and I had no idea what you thought about me. You seemed way out of my league, running your own life, starting a new career in TV.’
She gave an ironic laugh.
‘To be honest, if Mel hadn’t persuaded me at Christmas . . . Well, you know the rest. But . . . however much I want to be with you, and I do, I’ve messed up enough lives without adding Libby’s to the list.’
The pieces of the jigsaw fell into place. ‘But Libby’s problem isn’t really with you. Can’t you see that? It’s with me,’ Christie said, tentatively placing her hand on his thigh. How was she ever going to get him to understand? ‘You were right. She’s pissed off with me, like any teenager is with their mother, but at the same time she’s scared that I’ll love you more than I love her.’
‘Love me?’ He sounded so hopeful. ‘Even when I’ve been such an idiot?’
‘You haven’t. I love the way you think of the children and . . . I love you.’
For a few moments they said nothing, letting the music flow round them as they thought about what had been said.
‘Christie Lynch, I’ve fallen in love with you too, big-time. These last few weeks have been as painful as I can remember. I really thought I’d blown everything. You, Libby and Fred, Mel and even your mother have got under my skin. I’ve missed you so much, missed making love to you, missed sitting in your bloody cold house, missed just seeing your silly face.’
‘Does that mean Olly and me are going to be brothers, then?’ piped up a small voice from the back seat.
Richard and Christie exchanged a secret smile in the dark.
Chapter 29
The first thing Christie noticed as Mel opened her front door was the scent of cinnamon and cloves from a candle burning on the hall table. Then she noticed something sweeter in the air. She took a second to recognise the smell of toasted marshmallows, the nostalgic stuff of many a wet Saturday afternoon in their childhood. She hugged her sister and went into the sitting room to find Libby kneeling on a cushion in front of the fire, holding two wooden skewers over the flames, each hol
ding two marshmallows. She looked untouched by the distress and upset she had caused as she turned to give Christie a sheepish grin. The tears of earlier on had disappeared.
‘Can I just finish these off? They’re nearly done.’
Christie sank down beside her, putting her arm around her shoulders and kissing her temple. Feeling her daughter relax against her drove home her immense relief at finding her, and simultaneously made real her fear of never seeing her again. She would never have recovered had something more serious happened.
‘Never, ever run away again without telling me, Libs. You scared us all to death.’
‘If I’d told you, then it wouldn’t have been running away, would it?’ Nick’s unarguable logic once again. Libby removed the caramelised sweets from the fire and put them on a plate, then hugged her mother, repentant. ‘But I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to see Mel. I needed to talk to her. My phone battery ran out and then it was dark and I thought Granny’d be cross.’
‘She probably would. But that would have been better than making her so worried we had to call the police.’ She squeezed her hard. ‘And I had to leave work and miss out on my big interview with . . .’ She heard Mel quietly clearing her throat: a not-so subtle reminder of what was important here. As if she needed that! When she looked round, Mel was standing in the doorway, staring at the floor. Behind her, Richard was taking in the shabby-chic Moroccan-brothel look that was Mel’s sitting room.
‘We just had to finish off some things we began talking about last time,’ Mel said. ‘That was all, wasn’t it?’ She crossed the room and picked up the plate to offer everyone a marshmallow. ‘Libby’s a bit clearer now about some things than she was, aren’t you?’
Self-conscious, Libby nodded as she concentrated on loading another pair of skewers. ‘Kind of. Yes.’
‘Have you guys had any supper?’ Christie wondered, the taste of the marshmallow making her realise how hungry she was.
‘Not exactly.’ Mel gestured towards the packet of sweets and two almost empty hot-chocolate mugs. ‘Libby had a cheese and strawberry jam sandwich first, though.’
‘Well, let’s go home and get something.’ said Christie. ‘Smudge is missing you, Libs.’
‘Thanks for having me, Auntie Mel. Can I come back soon?’
‘Of course you can.’ Mel kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Just remember to tell someone where you’re going next time. Including me.’
*
In the car, Christie sat in the middle of the back seat holding Fred’s hand on her left side and Libby’s on her right. She watched the houses they were passing, registering the number of for-sale signs, so happy that the kids were being brought up in the fresh air of the country rather than at the side of an arterial road out of London. Then the abandoned interview with the PM drifted into her mind. How had Gilly done it? Let it go, she said to herself. Just let it go. Some things are more important than work. Much more. She gave Libby’s hand a little squeeze.
‘Why couldn’t whatever you wanted to say to Auntie Mel have waited until the weekend?’ she asked.
‘I told her about what you said to Granny,’ Libby replied, soft but accusing nonetheless. ‘All about you being stuck with me and me making choices for you.’
‘Oh, Libs. You know I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded.’
‘That’s what Mel said, too. She said I should let you decide about your life because you wouldn’t do anything without thinking of me and Fred first.’
‘But I’ve told you that time and time again.’
‘It’s different coming from her.’
Christie had nothing to say to that, but she understood. Sometimes the same words took on a new significance when they came from another direction. A fresh point of view could shed light on a familiar problem, if you let it.
‘I think it’s time I said something. May I?’ Richard caught Christie’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
She nodded, realising he hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived at Mel’s.
‘Perhaps I should have said this earlier, but now seems as good a moment as any. Libby, you know your mum loves you and Fred more than anything, and anybody?’
Libby made a face, then grunted and looked out of the window, but left her hand in Christie’s.
Richard refused to be deterred. ‘And tonight’s made me realise how very fond I am of you too.’ He stopped, momentarily embarrassed by his own straight speaking.
Christie sat rigid, wishing he’d picked a better time for this, unable to anticipate Libby’s reaction.
‘Not just of Fred but of you,’ he continued. ‘I’ll never be your dad and would never try to be him, but I do love your mum . . .’
She gave a little gasp.
‘. . . and I love you two kids, so . . .’ He glanced at Christie in the mirror again as if assuring himself of her encouragement. ‘. . . I’d be honoured if you think Olly and I could be part of your family. There. I don’t expect you to say anything now but have a think about it.’
As he finished, his shoulders relaxed and, even though the car’s interior was no longer lit by streetlights as they hit the motorway, Christie thought she detected quiet satisfaction on his face. She glanced at Libby, who was staring at him, clearly as surprised as Christie was by this unexpected confession.
‘Yeah, well, OK,’ Libby muttered, self-conscious. But she left her hand in Christie’s. That must be a good sign.
‘Thanks. That’s all I ask.’ He returned his concentration to the road, tapping his fingers against the steering-wheel in time to a tune he had begun to hum under his breath.
Libby shifted across the seat, and manoeuvred herself so her head rested on Christie’s lap. She closed her eyes as her mother lovingly stroked her hair. Within minutes, she had dozed off.
As soon as they got home, Christie made them all scrambled eggs, then encouraged Libby and Fred straight to bed, even allowing Libby to take Smudge with her – an unprecedented treat. Instead of returning to work, Richard called Tom to say he wouldn’t be back until later. While he cleared the table, Christie went upstairs to say her good nights. Fred was already sound asleep, lying on his bed still in his school uniform. He half woke to be cajoled into his pyjamas, then went straight off again the moment his head hit the pillow. Libby was lying on her back in bed, eyes shut, Smudge curled in a ball on her chest, purring loudly.
As Christie tiptoed through the clothes strewn over the floor to turn off her bedside light, Libby’s eyes opened. ‘Mum?’ she whispered. ‘I am sorry. And I’m sorry you had to come home from work. You won’t get into trouble, will you?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Christie straightened the duvet without dislodging the kitten. ‘You’re way more important to me than some silly interview. I’ll be fine. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Love you.’ She kissed Libby’s forehead and switched off the light, at the same time dislodging a pile of hair slides and nail varnish from the bedside table.
‘And you know what?’ Libby’s face was hidden as she fumbled around on the floor, attempting to pick up her bits and pieces in the faint light from the landing. ‘I do think Richard is kind of OK. You’re not going to marry him, though, are you?’
If the question hadn’t been asked so seriously, Christie would have laughed. As it was, she said, ‘We’ve got a long way to go before anything like that. And if it was ever a possibility, you, Fred and Olly would be the very first to know. Pinky promise?’ They twined their little fingers in the family gesture.
She had just got downstairs and was taking a longed-for glass of wine from Richard, bursting to tell him he had been granted Libby’s grudging approval, when her mobile rang. Worn out by the day’s events, she was about to disconnect when she saw Sam’s name on the screen. After answering all his questions about what had gone on since she’d left the studio, she asked about the interview with the PM.
‘Haven’t you seen the news?’ he asked, evidently astonished that she hadn’t.
�
�I haven’t had a chance. What’s happened?’
‘Turn on Sky News right now, then call me back.’
Mobile in hand, she dashed into the sitting room and turned on the TV to find a report showing a major train crash outside Leeds that had happened in the late afternoon. Local hospitals were working flat out to cope with the injured. There had been twenty-five fatalities, with another ten people on the critical list and countless others injured. The prime minister had flown north to support the victims and their families, and on the day of her controversial speech announcing the dismantling of the NHS, she was discovering for herself exactly how vital the health-care system was to the country. She was filmed looking extremely shaken, refusing to answer the shouted questions of journalists. In the studio, the political editor and various pundits including the shadow health minister discussed the tragedy, speculating that the prime minister would surely be forced now to find the necessary funding for the NHS, thus making a spectacular U-turn in recent government policy. If she didn’t, she was surely hammering the last nails into her political coffin.
Intrigued, Christie rang Sam back immediately. ‘So? The interview? What happened?’
‘Postponed,’ he said, triumphant. ‘Gilly was spitting tacks. I wish you’d seen. She was so pissed off at missing her big chance that she stormed off as soon as the show was over. Didn’t even visit the green room to say thanks to the poor sods who were drafted in at the last-minute to fill. We had the runner-up from Britain Can Sing and Brando Black, who’s just completed a world record for walking on his hands. No one from the government would step into the PM’s shoes. And, of course, there was plenty of live reporting direct from the scene.’
‘But you said “postponed”?’ She took a first sip of her wine.
‘I’m guessing she might agree to come on again when she decides whether or not the lady’s for turning. Whatever she decides to do about the NHS is going to need some spin, if she’s going to save any face at all.’
