Mel had left The Times and the News on the bed beside her. She idly opened the News, thanking God she no longer had to write for them. Of course, the editor’s dismissive attitude to her had changed the moment she’d landed the Good Evening Britain job. What a pleasure it had been to be able to refuse his entreaties to stay on. On page three there was a picture of Gilly and Derek celebrating the birth of their triplets and a short feature taken from the huge photo-shoot, which occupied at least ten pages of the Christmas edition of OK! ‘CHRISTMAS BRINGS THREE CHEERS FOR GILLY’. The babies, Aphrodite, Melissa and Oscar, born on 13 December, lay on a white fur blanket: tiny things dressed in baggy red Babygros, their faces scrunched and pink, their fingers curling and uncurling. Gilly, dressed in a white silk robe, with flawless hair and makeup, was gazing out at the camera wreathed in a beatific smile, while Derek, his arm around her shoulder, looked down at his children, totally focused and adoring. And the babies, for all their newness, were sweet. Rather her than me, though, thought Christie. One baby at a time was exhausting enough. But those early days would be different for Gilly, who would be nannied, spoiled and supported to the hilt, unlike most new mothers who braved that precious time alone with their partners.
Christie flicked over the page and stopped dead. There was no mistaking the next photograph either. The photographer had caught her at her worst. Little makeup didn’t help but the angle at which she was holding her head made her face look pinched and anxious, her hair lank and unbrushed. She was clutching her coat collar tight against the freezing weather with her shoulders hunched up around her ears. Worse still, as she studied the photo with mounting horror, she realised she was walking out of Angela Taylor’s consulting room. Appalled, she read the accompanying text.
CHRISTIE IN CHRISTMAS CRISIS?
Exhausted Christie Lynch (42) emerges from a session with a family counsellor near her Buckinghamshire home. Has being thrust into the public spotlight become too much to bear? A friend says that Christie, whose husband Nick died over two years ago, is concerned that her family aren’t taking easily to her new-found stardom. Other friends are also concerned that TV7’s new star presenter may not be coping with the additional pressure as well as television executives hoped.
The piece went on to use quotes from ‘close friends’ and ‘programme sources’ to hint that Christie wasn’t exactly popular at the studio and was becoming a tearful foot-stamping diva. Who hated her enough to make this stuff up? Downstairs the phone was ringing again. She took no notice, re-reading the piece, thanking God there was no direct mention of Libby, although the reference to ‘her family’ could mean only one thing. Who the hell were these so-called ‘friends’ who apparently knew her so well? Only Maureen, Julia and Frank (he’d winkled the truth out of her one evening, intuiting that she needed a friendly ear to confide in) knew the full story and she was certain that none of them would break their silence. Would they? Beyond that, Julia had assured her of Sarah Sterling’s discretion.
Shortly after their conversation, Christie had seen an exclusive with Sarah’s byline on Tart Talk’s Marina French and her clandestine affair with co-presenter Grace Benjamin. At the time, Christie had been as astonished as the rest of the British public and wondered whether the claims were true, given the vehemency of Marina’s denial. Unable to bear the idea that her stupid slip of the tongue was responsible for this and the subsequent feeding frenzy in the other red tops, she had phoned Julia to ask if this was the story she had traded for Sarah’s silence. Her agent’s curt, ‘What you don’t know won’t harm you,’ was enough to confirm her suspicions. She had been both ashamed and horrified. Still was. Although Libby’s privacy was vital, this dog-eat-dog method of survival was completely alien to her and she didn’t like it one bit. She looked at the snapshot on her bedside table of Nick and the smiling children building sandcastles on Constantine Bay and sighed. Oh, Nick, why did you have to die? Come back to me, please. She closed her eyes, willing him to walk up the stairs. Nothing.
She examined the newspaper photograph again. Caught by a paparazzo she hadn’t even noticed. The clinic was on a busy road and he must have been sitting in one of the cars parked opposite, waiting, having followed her there. Could the paper, despite her previous relationship with them, have put a reporter on her tail who had just got lucky? Her next thought was for the children. They mustn’t see this, especially not Libby. Their Christmas mustn’t be spoiled. Afterwards, Christie would sit her daughter down and try to explain what might have happened and how no one would know Libby was involved.
Oblivious to the cold now, she leaned out of bed, fished her mobile from her bag and switched it on. As she dialled Mel, a sequence of buzzes alerted her to a number of missed calls.
‘Mel. It’s me. I’ll explain later but whatever you do, don’t let Libby see a copy of the News. Yes, I know it’s unlikely but just don’t. I’ll explain when you get back. No, I’m fine.’
She checked the missed calls. All from Maureen. Shit! She’d obviously seen the paper and reacted like an Exocet missile, immediately homing in on her reprobate daughter. Christie decided to call her after she’d spoken to Julia. By this time, her fury had been replaced by an icy calm. She would sort this out and she and Libby would weather the fallout – if there had to be one.
Julia picked up immediately. ‘Have you seen the piece in the News, darling? Not looking your best but all publicity is good publicity.’
Christie took no notice. ‘Nobody is supposed to know that we’re seeing Angela. How the hell did they find out?’
‘I’ve no idea. The press have their methods. But look on the bright side. We know you’re fine, really; Libby’s not mentioned and the speculation will you keep you in the public eye while Good Evening Britain’s off air. Glass half full, darling. Remember?’
Christie felt like throttling her. Julia had never expressed any genuine interest in Christie’s life outside her work unless it impinged on some arrangement she had made. Whatever she said, she would never understand the potential internal damage a story like this might do to her family. There was no point in arguing. Christie would just have to keep a wary eye open for photographers in future and continue to keep her children out of the limelight. She cut the conversation short, suddenly desperate to be up and dressed, ready for the children when they got back. No newspaper was going to spoil the weekend ahead of them, and neither would the togetherness of Mel and Richard.
She went downstairs and relaid the big open fire with each scrumpled page of the day’s News but, at the last moment, kept the page with her photo and took it up to her study. She made two more calls, one to her mother to reassure her that the story was a vindictive fiction, that she was fine and that, no, Libby would not find out about it. The second call was to Angela who listened and asked, in time-honoured therapist manner, what Christie was going to do. They discussed the pros and cons of telling Libby. Angela was all for telling her immediately, but Christie didn’t want to risk ruining Christmas. They compromised by agreeing that she should be told before New Year, and keep an appointment with Angela, who would catch the fallout. Finally, Angela asked how Christie was.
‘Please don’t be nice to me. I’ll cry,’ Christie muttered. Then amid tears and nose-blowing, she poured out her upset and hurt over the article, her fears for Libby, for the security of her family, and for her financial mess. After about fifteen minutes, she felt a lot better and thanked Angela, whose last suggestion was for her to have a shower, put on some makeup and enjoy Christmas with her loving family.
By that evening, everything was as perfect as Christie had hoped. She, Mel and the kids had spent the afternoon in the kitchen, singing along to Christmas carols from King’s College, Cambridge, and getting ready for Christmas Day. Mel struggled with the instructions on the packet of instant stuffing while Libby and Fred (briefly, in his case) helped peel the veg. Christie decanted the M&S pudding into a white mixing