Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton
what it’s like. Libby’s not well, I’m having to treat Mum with kid gloves, Julia’s on my tail and I’ve had a letter from the bank saying I’m reneging on the loan repayments. On top of that, I’m trying to handle being recognised in the street and written about in the papers. You haven’t a clue about the pressure I’m under.’
‘Oh, poor old you. And who chose the fucking job? Not us. Not Libby or Fred. Not me or Mum. You did. You wanted it and all the crap that comes with it. And we were all thrilled for you because you wanted it. But now you’re turning into a selfish, thankless cow because of it.’ Mel’s eyes glittered with fury.
‘If we’re talking thankless cows,’ snapped Christie, ‘look at yourself for a moment. With you, it’s number one all the way and nobody else to think about. Any man you want, no kids, just a stupid self-indulgent worthless job as a fashion guru.’
Standing in the doorway, Richard gave a quiet cough. Christie whipped round, her eyes stinging with tears, her head spinning, horribly conscious that their argument had spiralled way out of control and that the others must have heard everything.
‘Erm … I think it’s probably time for us to go,’ he said quietly. ‘Ted and Maureen have asked me to give them a lift home. Ted’ll collect the car tomorrow.’
‘But don’t you want coffee?’ They couldn’t leave now – the day wasn’t over.
‘I don’t think we should. Maureen says she’s very tired.’
‘Perhaps you could take me too,’ Mel demanded.
‘Mel! You can’t go yet.’ Both of them had spoken out of turn and they needed time to straighten all this out.
‘Think not? Watch me!’
Before Richard had time to agree to her request, Mel had dashed upstairs, taking them two at a time, and returned with her case. Within what seemed like moments, awkward goodbyes and thank-yous had been exchanged, and the Land Rover carrying half her Christmas party was turning from the drive onto the road as the first flakes of snow began to fall. Christie stared after them, not quite able to believe what had just happened, feeling as if she had walked onto the set of some excruciating Mike Leigh film. She snatched up Smudge, who was making his own small bid for freedom, and shut the front door, but not before a blast of freezing air had entered the house.
Behind her stood Libby, her kohl-rimmed eyes making her face look even paler than usual. In her hand was the single sheet torn from the News. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Where did you get that?’ Christie tried to take it from her. ‘I told you never to go into my office without asking first.’
‘I was looking for Smudge and the door was open.’ Libby stood her ground. ‘So, are you? Are you satisfied with what you’ve done? Everyone’s gone home and now I’ve found this.’ She threw the paper onto the hall floor. ‘You promised me. You promised me no one would know and now everyone does. I hate you.’
Christie grabbed her arm. ‘Libby, darling. It’s not like that. I don’t know how they got the story but there’s nothing there to suggest that me seeing Angela has anything to do with you.’
Ignoring her, Libby pulled out of her grip. ‘This is all your fault. If you hadn’t taken that job, none of this would have happened. And we’d still be having Christmas.’
‘Libs, don’t do this. It’s not my fault. You know I love you more than anything.’
‘No, you don’t. If you did, you’d be at home with us like before. You’ve ruined everything.’ With that, she seized Smudge from Christie’s grasp and ran upstairs. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed. The only noise in the house was the murmur of voices from the TV. Fred had sensibly chosen to tune out of the domestic mayhem and immerse himself in whatever was on the box.
Christie went into the kitchen and poured herself an enormous glass of wine – right up to the brim – took a huge gulp and sat with it at the table, her head in her hands. As she wondered whether she should go to Libby or leave her to calm down before trying to talk to her, the phone rang. Mel! It must be Mel wanting to make up. She ran into the sitting room, anxious to answer before her sister hung up. As she reached for the phone, she knocked into the side table, sending Nick’s photo flying towards the fireplace where it smashed against the grate. Cursing, she put the phone to her ear, at the same time crouching down to pick up the pieces. ‘Mel?’
‘Darling! Happy Christmas.’ Julia. Of course, Mel would be far too stubborn to call so soon. What had she been thinking? She tuned back into Julia’s voice.
‘I’m having a marvelloushly relaxed time all on my own but I couldn’t get through the day without wishing all my clients the compliments of the sheason.’
‘Sheason’? Had she been drinking? Cristal Champagne probably, accompanied by a suspicion of calorie-free caviar, thought Christie, crossly, but managed, ‘That’s so sweet of you, Julia. Thank you. And thank you too for the glorious McCartney bag.’ She began clearing the shards of glass into a piece of wrapping paper.
‘My pleasure, darling. Just keep up the good work into the New Year.’
‘I’ll try.’ And she would.
‘’Bye, then. Hippy Chrishmas.’ And Julia had gone.
Whatever anyone said, Christie determined to stick to her guns and do her best to prove the others wrong. She had to, to show herself and them that she had it in her to achieve something of her own. That this was all worth-while. Nick’s death didn’t mean she had no place in the wider world. She picked up the broken frame, unpinning the back so she could take out the photo. As she removed the backboard, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Curious, she picked it up. Her stomach lurched as she recognised Nick’s handwriting. It was one of the messages he used to leave hidden around the house for her. She’d thought she’d found them all. Sometimes they were little expressions of love, sometimes just an observation. This was both.
If you’ve found this one, don’t forget: the best bit about fighting is the making up afterwards. I’ll always love you. xx
She was overwhelmed by a sense of loss so extreme that she struggled to catch her breath. He must have written this after they’d disagreed about something but she had no memory of what. She sat down, bending over her knees until her head cleared. What had she just done? Not only had she lost him but her stupid, selfish behaviour had driven her family away too. Mel had never spoken to her like that before. Maureen had never looked so disappointed – and that was saying something. After what Christie had said, Mel had every right never to speak to her again. Who would blame her? Somehow she had to put matters right, although she knew Mel could be so intractable if she set her mind to it. She might not be able to bring back Nick, but she had to make amends with the others, Richard included. If she could. Watching the embers of the fire, she suddenly felt horribly alone.
She sat for a little longer before picking up her mobile again. She ran down her contacts list, watched as the numbers appeared on the screen, then dialled. After a few rings, someone answered.
‘Frank?’ As she said his name, she began to cry. ‘Could you come over? Please.’
When Christie had called Frank, he had just got back from Christmas lunch with his aged mother and was only too willing to abandon his evening alone with a DVD of It’s a Wonderful Life and a bottle of whisky. By the time he reached Christie’s, both Libby and Fred had gone to bed, upset by the way the day had ended, an exhausted Smudge was curled up asleep by the Aga and Christie was finishing the clearing up, mascara-smudged streaks of tears on her cheeks. Frank took one look, led her into the sitting room and sat her down, gave them both a large brandy and revived the dying embers of the fire, making the sparks fly as he tossed on another log. In return, Christie poured out the whole story exactly as it had happened. He didn’t interrupt,