Fern Britton Summer Collection: New Beginnings, Hidden Treasures, The Holiday Home, The Stolen Weekend. Fern Britton

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СКАЧАТЬ discuss whatever the problem was. Tomorrow she would learn what Mrs Snell had to say and then she would decide how to play it. She followed Libby into the kitchen and slipped Queen’s Greatest Hits into the CD player. Ever since the children were babies, Nick and she had played this on car journeys, singing along at full volume, and most of the songs had become family anthems. She opened a drawer, passed a handful of knives and forks to Libby, and they began laying the table, screaming out the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. And as they sang in and out of tune, Christie gave herself up completely to the pleasure she took from their togetherness. Her own anxieties about her work, the house and their future almost receded into the distance – even those concerning the loan with which Nick had saddled her.

       Nick was a good man but no saint. The small things that drive husbands and wives to rows flourished in their house too. The loo seat being left up and his clothes draped around the house were high on Christie’s list of annoyances. Nick’s greatest grievances were continually being asked to take the rubbish out, and the smell of fake tan when she came to bed. The row about the fake tan was the worst they had ever had until the Big One.

       One morning, Christie opened a letter from the bank addressed to them both. It was confirming a bank loan of £500,000 that had been requested earlier that week. The interest rate and final amount to be paid off after twenty-five years was very high. The letter went on to add that the equity in their house and its current market value were sufficient collateral.

       She phoned Nick at work. ‘Darling, I’ve got a letter from the bank here about a half-million pound loan. Do you want me to ring and say they’ve got the wrong people or will you drop in there this afternoon?’

       No, no. Don’t do anything.’ Nick sounded unusually flustered. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll explain when I get home.’

      That night, supper was washed up and put away and the children in bed before the two of them had a chance to sit down and talk. Christie’s mind had been in overdrive all afternoon.

       Handing him a glass of wine she said, ‘What’s going on? You can tell me anything, you know. Why do you need all that money? Are you in trouble? In debt? Ill? What is it?’

       He explained, and the subsequent row was nuclear. They didn’t speak, touch or share a bed for days. Gradually she understood his reasons but neither of them could have foreseen how far the ripples of one small pebble tossed into the pool of their lives would spread.

12

      The café tables were busy with yummy mummies chatting and laughing, their attention only half on the toddlers who were playing loudly among the tables that were scattered with half-empty baby bottles, bibs, rattles, toys and teacups. One small boy who was clearly just learning to walk wobbled slightly, then, with bent knees, dropped onto his very full nappy. A smelly miasma of poo escaped. Christie groaned inwardly. Ramsay’s Tea Rooms was her favourite place for coffee but not when it was overrun like this. She checked herself. How mean-spirited she was being. She remembered how stir-crazy she had felt trapped in the house when the children were small, as well as the fantastic relief she had gained from being among like-minded women who understood exactly what she was going through. She ordered an Americano and an almond croissant and went to sit at a small table for two in an out-of-the-way corner by the window where she could think about what Mrs Snell had had to say an hour earlier.

      She had arrived at the school with Libby and Fred at eight thirty. To her relief Miss Whittle, the deputy head, was already in so Christie had been able to nab her in the main corridor and give her lame excuse for her previous afternoon’s no-show. She knew no one would be really convinced by a delayed train out of Marylebone, even though it was almost the truth, but equally she didn’t want to reveal herself as someone too weak to extricate herself from a lunch. Miss Whittle’s disapproval was almost palpable but she had said nothing and checked the head’s diary to find there was a slot free at nine fifteen, after assembly.

      Sitting on the second chair in a regimented line along the corridor outside Mrs Snell’s office, Christie had felt as if she was queuing for a punishment, having been disobedient in class. By the time Mrs Snell ushered her in, she was feeling quite repentant.

      ‘Come in, Mrs Lynch. I did wait yesterday but I gather from Jenny that your train was delayed.’

      Christie was almost sure she could see a curl in the head’s lip marking her disbelief.

      ‘Such a nuisance,’ she went on, brusque and businesslike as she always was when dealing with parents. ‘But never mind, you’re here now. Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

      Tea? That must mean she was about to say something upsetting or at least something that merited more than a couple of minutes of her time. Anxious to get on with the conversation, Christie refused. Mrs Snell ushered her into the room that always surprised her: its apparent disorganisation was so at odds with its occupant. She moved a pile of fancy-dress costumes from a chair so that Christie could sit down, then piled them onto the top of a filing cabinet already occupied by a set of dusty NatWest piggybanks. The rest of the room was crowded with the paraphernalia accumulated from years spent in the same school. Personal mementoes kept company with photos of sports days and fancy-dress parades, childish drawings, tea-towels printed with images of children’s self-portraits, boxes of Christmas decorations, books, a map of the world and various unidentifiable clay models. Every surface was crammed with stuff. A sharp growl announced the presence of Meryl, a tiny Chihuahua, tethered by a long lead to a leg of the desk. Both women ignored her.

      ‘Right, let me tell you of my concerns.’ Mrs Snell walked round her desk to sit so that she was half obscured by a vase containing five burnt-orange chrysanthemums. Christie edged her chair across so that she could see the head teacher over the piles of paper and books.

      ‘First of all, I wondered if there was anything in Libby’s behaviour that was concerning you?’ Mrs Snell put her elbows on the desk and leaned forward to concentrate on Christie’s reply, her eyes like polished agates.

      ‘No. Nothing more than what usually comes with being a teenager. You know, a bit moody, difficult. Though my mother …’ She stopped, not wanting Maureen’s observation to be part of this conversation. At least, not yet. She didn’t want her to have noticed something that had escaped her. If Maureen was proved right, she’d never hear the end of it.

      ‘But she’s not a teenager yet, is she?’ Mrs Snell reproved her. ‘And that’s what’s worrying us. She used to be such a happy little girl, but her class teacher has told me that she’s becoming increasingly withdrawn. Instead of being one of the main contributors to class discussions, she now rarely speaks. I wondered if she’d said anything to you.’

      ‘Nothing. But we haven’t been able to spend quite so much time together recently. I’ve got a new job that’s been quite demanding.’

      ‘Yes, I heard. Congratulations.’ Never had the word sounded so hollow.

      Christie was racking her brains, turning over Libby’s recent behaviour in her mind, searching for clues that might explain her apparent change of personality at school. Certainly she had withdrawn at home too, but not so much as to cause any real worry. When Christie had been that age, she had liked nothing more than retreating to her bedroom where she could curl up on her bed with a good book, a secret stash of biscuits and a couple of parentally approved oranges. Once she’d been given a stereo, she’d hidden away practising her dance moves and singing in front of the mirror, experimenting with the makeup that Mel had shop-lifted СКАЧАТЬ