New Beginnings. Fern Britton
colourless liquid from a large brown bottle into a preserving pan.
‘What are you all doing?’
‘We found a bird’s skull and some spine bones!’ Fred gabbled. ‘Olly and I are trying to work out what kind of bird from this book. You have to look at all the different shapes of beak. We think it might be a kestrel. See how hooked theirs are?’
‘We’re soaking them in hydrogen peroxide to sterilise them so they can take them into school,’ Richard said, putting the pan safely at the back of the wooden draining-board and screwing the top back onto the bottle. ‘Jigger, no!’ Said too late as a black Labrador rushed through the door and jumped up at Christie, almost bowling her over. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s not meant to do that but he’s young and very stupid.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Christie was laughing as she took the cloth he offered and wiped at the paw prints on her jeans, turning away from the disobedient dog, which was now refusing to be shooed out by Olly.
‘Mum, we’ve been learning to track in the woods too. And I know how to tell the time without a watch now.’
‘Really? How can you do that?’ she asked, giving the cue for a torrent of incoherent explanation from the two boys, who talked over each other as they described something involving the sun, a stick and some stones. ‘Come and see.’ They rushed out of a second door at the end of the room into the garden, Jigger chasing after them, jumping up and catching their sleeves with his teeth as they ran.
‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but I guess we haven’t got time.’ Richard let her go out of the door first. ‘Wouldn’t Libby like to see too?’
‘She’s wrapped up in her music. Besides, anything Fred gets up to is way beneath her. She’ll be fine provided we’re not too long.’
They followed the boys across the garden to a stick that was standing with a circle of stones placed evenly around it.
‘Go on, Mum. Ask me the time,’ said Fred.
Christie obliged.
‘Half past five,’ he yelled, triumphant.
‘That’s amazing and completely right.’ She knelt down to have the elementary sun-dial explained to her. When she looked up, Richard was gazing in her direction. She got to her feet. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘This is just what Fred needs. He absolutely loves coming here.’
‘And we love having him. Don’t we, Jigger?’ He bent to pat the dog that was wagging around his legs, shivering with delight at the attention. ‘We were lucky today, not having any team-building groups in. Some companies want to come at the weekend – they simply can’t waste a minute of the working week – and then it all gets a bit hectic on the childcare front.’
‘Perhaps I could return the favour on those days,’ Christie offered, as they began to head back to the car. ‘Fred! Come on.’
‘If Caro’s away, I’ll hold you to that.’
‘Oh, sorry, how stupid of me.’ She kicked herself for forgetting that his situation was not the same as hers.
‘Nothing to be sorry about. But there is one thing I was wondering, which is . . .’ He paused, as if nerving himself to say something. ‘There’s a pub quiz next Saturday and one of the regulars on our team can’t make it. I don’t suppose you’d like to come? Would you?’
Christie froze. Was he actually asking her on a date? She dismissed the idea as fast as it had entered her head. Of course he wasn’t. They had the kids in common and he probably didn’t have anyone else he could ask at such short notice. Mates, that’s what they were. But then she remembered Mel’s comment about tuning her radar. Perhaps they could be more. Perhaps she was failing to read the signs. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Provided I can find a babysitter.’
As they reached the car, Fred hurled himself onto the back seat while Jigger, having jumped in after him, was hauled out from the other side by Richard. ‘Bloody animal! That’s terrific. I’ll pick you up at about six. We’ll eat there.’
As they said their goodbyes and thank-yous and set off for home, Christie became aware that Libby had removed her headphones when Jigger made his unscheduled entrance and exit and was now staring at her with a look of disdain cut with horror. ‘You’re not going on a . . .’ she could barely say the word ‘. . . date with him, are you?’ She mustered all the scorn at her disposal. ‘Aren’t you a bit old? And, anyway, what about Dad?’
‘You’re never too old, Libby. Never.’ Christie smiled at her daughter. ‘And Dad would be proud that we’re all getting on with our lives, you know. He really would.’
Her eyes on the road, she didn’t see the two spots of colour that appeared on Libby’s cheeks or the single tear she dashed away as she turned to stare out of the window.
Chapter 8
Thirty minutes before her first programme, Christie was looking in her dressing-room mirror, studying the professional makeup on her face. Not bad. The photo-shoot (in a beautiful coral body-con dress that Mel had picked out for her) had been good, and the accompanying articles in the papers that day were positive.
There was a knock on the door of the tiny dressing room. It opened to reveal Gilly Lancaster, balancing a hand-tied posy on her pregnant stomach. In the flesh, she was smaller than she appeared on TV. A sleek mane of immaculately blow-dried blonde hair framed her face, and twinkling arrangements of gold and silver stars hung from her ears. Not a wrinkle showed above her neat, pointed nose or beside her wide mouth – all beaten into submission with Botox and filler, no doubt. For the umpteenth time, Christie swore she would stay out of the hands of cosmetic doctors and surgeons, whatever the cost to her new career. Gilly’s welcoming smile revealed a mouthful of perfectly capped and whitened teeth. She was wearing an elegant dusty pink crêpe-de-Chine trouser suit with a jacket cut low enough to reveal a hint of pregnant cleavage, with a wide front bow, its ends long enough almost to disguise her bump. Looking longingly at Gilly’s towering strappy shoes, Christie couldn’t but remember her own pregnancies and her constant longing for comfortable slippers and tracksuits. She could no more have dressed like this than fly to the moon.
Today had been the first day they’d met and, following that encounter, Gilly was here with what must be a peace-offering. Earlier, Christie had walked into her first production meeting two minutes early to discover that everyone bar Vince, the programme editor, was already there. Gilly had been sitting on the far side of the large table strewn with newspapers, most of which were open at the page on which Christie’s glamorous photo stood out beneath headlines such as ‘NEW GIRL MAKES NEWS! LANCASTER LYNCHED’, with flattering accounts of her suitability for the job and photos showing Gilly’s burgeoning figure. There was an empty chair beside Gilly. She had put her hand on the back and nodded at Christie, saying, ‘Come and sit here.’ Grateful for the friendly gesture, Christie had sat down. Just then, the swing doors had banged open and Vince burst in. He took one look across the table, his face reddening. ‘You’re in my chair,’ he said, with quiet menace. Mortified, Christie had moved to the other empty one at the end of the table. She had seen Gilly give Vince a look, as if to say, ‘I warned you she was an idiot,’ then glance at her with a one hundred per cent smirk.
Things had not improved when Vince then championed Christie and insisted she was given the second-lead interview with Jack Brown, one of the few firemen who had survived an oil-refinery blaze. Despite Gilly’s furious objections, he was adamant that he wanted Christie to make a mark on her first show.
Christie remembered the glare Gilly had shot in her direction, yet now she was standing in front of her with a floral apology. The last thing Christie wanted to do was get off on the wrong foot with any of her new colleagues, especially on her first show.
‘I didn’t get a chance to give these to you before.’ Gilly passed the flowers to Christie who thanked her and looked vainly for a vase in which to put them. The only one there held the wilting good-luck flowers that Libby and Fred