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

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СКАЧАТЬ house, its bricks a warm red in the spring sunshine, its windows glinting, especially the large ox-eye above the front door that let light flood onto the landing upstairs. She remembered the day they’d arrived, when she had felt so angry with Nick for not being alive to help her with the move, the fuse boxes, the over-excited children and the bloody DVD player. That night, after Libby and Fred had gone to bed, she had opened a bottle of wine, poured the first glass and sobbed. The next day, she had woken up, ignored the booze-induced headache and unpacked the silver frame with her favourite photo of Nick. In it, he stood squinting slightly into the sun, with the campo of Siena behind him. With the children to help, she had chosen to put him in pride of place on a side table in the sitting room where they would see him every day.

      As she parked, she made a mental note to re-pot last year’s pansies and geraniums that were straggly and half dead by the front door. Letting herself in, she dumped her bag on the hall chair and marched into the long kitchen. This was the one room on which she had splashed the money she’d had left over from buying the house, knowing it would be the heart of the home where the three of them would spend most time together. She’d had the grimy old kitchen units replaced with neat off-white cupboards, oak worktops, a heavy porcelain sink. The chimney-breast had been taken out to make space for the second-hand Aga, something Christie had always lusted after, its blue echoed in the check curtains. In the centre, an island provided an extra work area, with a two-ring gas hob for emergencies.

      At the opposite end of the room a battered old sofa sat under an old school clock, but it was the long oak refectory table she had bought at auction that dominated. This was where everything and anything got done, be it eating, drinking, homework, painting, making things, chatting or good old family arguing. The windows and french windows on the long wall opposite the Aga gave onto the well-stocked if increasingly disordered garden. Whenever she came into the kitchen, looked at the kids’ pictures framed on the walls, heard the thrum of the Aga and the hum of the large fridge (second-hand again), Christie always experienced a frisson of pleasure. This was home, and Nick would have loved it.

      The clock told her she had half an hour before the kids were dropped by the school bus at the end of the drive: half an hour in which to put the kettle on for a cup of tea before getting supper on the go. Still infuriated by the way Maureen had managed to pour cold water on her mood and her achievement, she began to sort out the recyclable rubbish for collection. To hell with it! With a savage pleasure, she hurled the lot into one bag and dumped it outside the back door, delighting in the knowledge of how outraged Maureen would be if she found out. Going back inside, she sneaked a packet of blue Silk Cut from the glasses cupboard on the wall above the worktop, pulled one out and put it between her lips. Flicking the gas lighter for the hob, she lit it and took a drag. She opened the french windows and blew the smoke into the warm spring air. Loathing but relishing every last puff, her head swam as she pictured her mother’s disgusted face. Tough shit. This is the new Christie Lynch: fearless, hard-working and top mum.

      Expecting food, Mrs Harbord and Mrs Shrager, her two speckled Sussex chickens, ran to greet her. She had given in to the children’s pleas and bought them as Easter presents. They watched her for a second, their busy button eyes reminding her of Maureen’s. Disappointed when no grub was forthcoming, they walked very precisely over to the flowerbed, looking as if they were wearing new shoes and didn’t want to get chewing gum stuck to the soles. They wiggled down into a dust bath, sending up a small cloud of dirt as they fussed and flurried their feathers. Leaving them to it, Christie stepped outside. Her garden had been tended lovingly by the previous owner but now Mother Nature had woven a natural magic all of her own.

      As she wandered, she went through the pros and cons of work. Should she stay with the paper she’d come to hate? The list of pros was pitifully short. She liked the deputy features editor. That wasn’t enough. Her days of investigating and exposing dodgy businessmen were long gone. The paper had been moving downmarket in a bid to increase its circulation and it was becoming clear that Christie’s style and character were no longer such a close fit. As a result, the commissions were becoming less frequent as the younger freelancers were given the jobs.

      In some respects, that had come as a relief. After all, there were only so many bread-makers, bicycles and dishwashers a woman could compare without going round the bend. Her last two budget assignments had been fish slices and cat food. She sighed. There must be more to life. Occasionally she got thrown the odd family piece, such as when she, Libby and Fred had trialled a low-cost holiday weekend in Llandudno (never the Maldives, of course) or a celebrity-oriented feature that no one else wanted, but her heart was never in them. They certainly didn’t give her anything like the adrenalin high she had felt that morning on Tart Talk. They paid the bills but had no impact on the bank loan Nick had left her. Moreover, she still missed the headiness of the early days of MarketForce when she had worked in a more investigative arena and was able to exercise her brain. When she attempted to move into writing more meaty opinion pieces that would demand research, suggesting as possible topics the anonymity of rape victims or the future of inner-city children excluded from school, she had been told firmly that the News was no longer the paper for that sort of thing. She stopped to pull out a rogue sycamore seedling. Yes, the cons were far outweighing the pros.

      If Nick were here, he’d say she had to follow her heart – but he wasn’t. And because he wasn’t, she had to earn some cash from somewhere so she could sort out her finances and begin to lavish much-needed attention on the house. Besides which, she knew she couldn’t/shouldn’t let life pass her by. What had happened to the girl who used to make Nick rock with laughter? It was definitely time to give her career a kick-start. If she could do that, everything might change. She thought of Julia’s card in her pocket, took it out and read the details: ‘White Management: Britain’s Number One Talent Agency’. An agent of that calibre wouldn’t give out her cards on a mere whim, surely.

      She turned it over in her fingers and reached for her mobile. How strange that Fate should have led her to Julia just when she needed her, exactly as it had led her to that first chance encounter with Nick. Perhaps this was a sign. From him?

       ‘Oh, God! I hate weddings.’ Christie looked up at the stoic lines of the Victorian church, which sat on a grassy island in Ealing, surrounded by large, graceful Edwardian houses. Overhead, there was enough blue to ‘make a pair of cat’s pyjamas’, as her mother was fond of saying, but the wind had got up, chasing white clouds across the sky. Christie was forced to hold on to her wide-brimmed hat as she progressed with the other guests through the churchyard and into St Stephen’s.

       As she stepped into the church, the organist was playing something she knew well but couldn’t identify. Church music’s a little like lift music, she thought, immediately familiar but impossible to name. She caught a whiff of incense, lavender and beeswax, none of them quite overwhelmed by the scent of the lilies that decorated the aisle and pew ends.

       This was the third wedding she had been to in almost as many months. She had reached an age when all the girls she knew were getting married – except her, as her mother liked to point out with a sharp little glint. ‘Darling Christine. You’ll never meet a man unless you try harder. You career women will learn eventually that old age without a man is just … old age.’

       Christie smiled as she accepted an order of service from a young boy swamped in his hired tailcoat, and went to find a seat. She spotted her sister about halfway down the aisle, sitting at the end of an almost full pew – Mel turned and called Christie’s name, the single ostrich plume bouncing wildly in her hair as she waved. A flamboyant fashion-design student, she was everything that her shy, neutral-coloured sister was not.

       ‘Christie, I’ve saved a seat for you.’ She turned to the rest of the pew, encouraging them to shuffle along to make more room. ‘Can you squish up? Sorry, what’s your name?’ she asked the slightly reserved man sitting on her left.

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