‘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 She used to be such a happy little girl, but her class teacher has told me that she’s becoming increasingly withdrawn.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 Certainly she had withdrawn at home too, but not so much as to cause any real worry.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 from Boots. Was Libby doing anything different from her? She’d felt she was doing the right thing as a mother by respecting her daughter’s privacy, but perhaps she was wrong. Had she missed any signs that were more disturbing?
‘Is something wrong here in school? Is she being bullied?’ Suddenly panic possessed her. Not her beautiful daughter – she had always had such a strong personality. ‘A force of nature’, Nick had called her. Why would anyone dislike or want to hurt her?
‘I don’t think so. We’ve kept a careful watch in the playground and at lunchtime and there’s no evidence of that.’ Mrs Snell sat up straight in her chair. ‘We have a strict anti-bullying policy here. She isn’t the most popular girl in her class – that’s usually reserved for the sporty or naughty ones – but she has friends she’s very close to.’
‘Aren’t anger and introspection normal for girls her age? What else could it be?’
‘That’s why I wanted to see you, Mrs Lynch. I’d like you to go home and talk to her, try to draw her out and find out what’s bothering her, if anything, so that you and I and my staff can help her. She doesn’t appear to be thriving. Is she eating enough?’ She paused as if to give Christie time to think before continuing. ‘I don’t like to let anybody slip through the net. It may just be that she’s missing you being at home most of the time. And children don’t like their parents to stand out from the other parents, you know. To have a celebrity as a parent can, I imagine, be mortifying. I’m very proud of Libby and I can see you’ve got your work cut out as a single working mum but I’m sure that together we can get the old Libby back again. After all, she has to start her GCSE preliminaries next year.’
Christie felt as if her guts were twisted in a vice. A dead father, a minor-celebrity mother and a prickly grandmother to greet her after school. Poor, poor Libby. At that moment Christie had felt like the worst parent in the world.
A loud crash brought her back to the present. Another stray toddler had tripped and fallen against a chair leg. The crash was followed by a long silence before a deafening yell pierced the air, alerting a mother who came hurtling to the rescue. Watching her made Christie think. She was just as guilty of taking her eye off the ball as this woman. Nick had always had such a close relationship with Libby. When he came home from work, he’d sit on her bed every night and read a story, working his way through the childhood classics. At first he had done the reading, but then, bit by bit, he had begun to share it with Libby. When he came downstairs afterwards, he would tell her the funny things Libby had said to him, and they would laugh together. Tears pricked at her eyes.
Don’t do this. Do not cry.
‘Excuse me.’
Christie blew her nose and looked up to see a middle-aged woman, quite oblivious to her distress, holding out an open magazine, a napkin and a pen. ‘We watch Good Evening Britain every night. We think you’re so good. Would you mind signing these?’
Not now, please. Go away. But Christie smiled. ‘Of course not. I’m glad you enjoy the show.’ She signed her name quickly, desperate to be alone with her thoughts again. After a couple of minutes, the woman shuffled off to rejoin her companion at a nearby table. A couple of the mothers were staring at Christie now, obviously discussing her. She acknowledged them with a nod of awareness that made them turn away. Fixing her gaze on the table, she felt horribly exposed as they, no doubt, picked her to pieces. But she wasn’t going to be driven out of her favourite café, whatever was being said about her. She sipped her Americano and slipped back into her memories.
It had been so easy to let Libby’s bedtime story go after Nick’s death. Her own grief had knocked her sideways for so many months, and trying to cope with Fred’s demands had meant that Libby was forgotten and had stopped being in the centre of the family. Well, no longer. Bedtime stories might be a thing of the past but on the nights she was home Christie would make the effort to be more interested in Libby’s schoolwork and try to inveigle her downstairs so they could do something together. A direct conversation would be too confrontational. Instead, she would find out what was troubling her daughter by using more circumspect methods. She had agreed to meet Mrs Snell again in six weeks, assuming nothing more significant happened meanwhile. By then, she would be on top of the situation. And in the first place, she would go to the library and see if she could find any books that might help with Libby’s term project on the Romans. That was something they could look at together tonight.
*
The library was almost empty. The ripple of a gentle snore barely disturbed the hush. The only other sounds were the gurgling of the old-fashioned radiators and the rustle of newspaper pages being turned. Christie inhaled the comforting musty smell of used books that never failed to bring back childhood Friday evenings when her father would take her and Mel to their local library after school. She walked through the adult section into the children’s, where she had to be reminded of the way to the reference section. Working her way through the history books, she became aware of someone standing right behind her. One step too close. Anxious, she turned, only to find Richard reaching for a book over her head.
‘Oh, it’s you. Hello.’ She felt a sudden pleasure in seeing him, having him stand so near to her.
‘None other.’ He pulled the book towards him. ‘Not working today?’
‘Yes, but trying to be a good parent as well.’
‘Snap.’ He looked at the book Christie had open in her hand. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Roman myths and legends. I used to love them. It’s such a shame that kids don’t read them any more. I thought Libby might be interested for her school project.’ She said it like a question, not absolutely certain that Libby would show any interest at all. ‘What are you after?’
‘Dinosaurs. What else? But then I saw you. Got time for a coffee?’
‘I wish I had.’ She lowered her voice in response to a loud ‘Sssh’ from the librarian. ‘But I’ve got to dash home.’ She didn’t want to explain that she had to be there for a short phone interview that Julia had set up with one of the women’s magazines about what was in her fridge. How was she going to make that even remotely interesting or out of the ordinary? Perhaps she should stop at the supermarket on the way home. Yes, the two sides of her life were better kept separate if possible.
‘Shame,’ he whispered, as they walked towards the exit. ‘But we’ll see you at the weekend? Olly’s got his heart set on making a Fimo version of Jurassic Park so we need Fred.’
She laughed. ‘Well, we can’t let him down, then.’ She watched as he crossed the