LITMIR.BIZ

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      At that moment, Libby skulked into the kitchen and presented herself to Christie for a hallo kiss. She stared at the hamburgers and wrinkled her nose. ‘Yeuch – what is that?’

      ‘Libby!’ Christie sympathised but had to draw the line at insolence. ‘Don’t be so rude. Mel’s very kind to come over so that I could go out. Why don’t you help by laying the table?’

      Looking as if every movement was a huge effort, Libby took the knives and forks from the drawer and flung them in the direction of the mats before banging down four glasses.

      ‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ Christie said, as encouragement.

      ‘Yeah, right.’ Clearly sensing that her mother agreed with her, Libby added, ‘Thanks, Auntie Mel. Laters.’ Before anyone could say anything else, she slipped out of the room and upstairs.

      Mel was unperturbed. ‘What do you think of these?’ She lifted a foot, rotating her ankle to show off a pair of pale grey ankle boots.

      ‘Very practical,’ Christie observed caustically, before pulling out a stool and settling herself in a position where she could supervise the last of Mel’s culinary efforts, which was to open a tin of baked beans. But she couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Right. Want to hear my news?’

      ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Mel sang, anticipation written across her face. ‘Please. Every possible scenario has gone through my mind since you left this morning from the white slave trade to Jack Bradbury falling madly in love with you and proposing. I can’t bear it another minute. Tell me!’ She shouted the last two words.

      ‘He only wants me to test as a replacement for Gilly Lancaster on Good Evening Britain.’ Christie’s voice rose to a shriek of excitement as Mel flung her arms round her, squeezing her till she could hardly breathe, the baked beans forgotten.

      ‘I knew it! You’ll be the best presenter ever and I’ll make it as your brilliant personal stylist.’ Mel was laughing. ‘Let’s celebrate. I snuck a little something into the fridge just in case.’ She opened its door and pulled out a bottle. Christie watched her, touched by her sister’s support. Then, while Christie went to the cupboard for two glasses, ignoring the temptation of her secret cigarette stash, Mel set about opening the cava. Just as the cork shot into the air, there was a tap at the door.

      ‘Is this a private celebration? Or can anyone join in?’

      Afterwards, Christie would remember the apparent dislocation of Mel’s jaw as her eyes took in the outdoor type standing at the back door. He was wearing khaki fatigues topped by a checked shirt, open at the neck and with rolled-up sleeves. Tall with dark curly hair, square-jawed with high cheekbones and wide brown eyes, he was a dead ringer for one of those rugged models in the mail-order catalogues that kept dropping through the letterbox.

      ‘Richard! Come in.’ Christie waved a champagne glass at him. ‘Meet Mel, my sister. We don’t normally drink so early but this is special.’

      ‘She’s about to take the world of TV by storm.’ Mel was exultant as she put her hand on Christie’s shoulder.

      ‘How exciting! Don’t let me stop you.’ Richard hesitated, then stepped into the kitchen. ‘I’ve come for Olly. Sorry I’m early but I finished work so I thought I’d come straight over.’

      ‘Mel, could you go and see what those boys are up to?’ Christie asked, and Mel, giving her sister a knowing look, obligingly disappeared into the garden. ‘Won’t you have a drink while they have supper? It’s just about ready.’

      When he accepted, she led the way into the sitting room. The last thing she wanted was the embarrassment of him witnessing the burned offering that Mel was about to serve up to his son.

      Olly and Fred had been number-one friends ever since Fred had come home from school and told her he had felt sorry for a new boy standing alone in the playground and had asked him to play. Her heart had swollen with pride at this evidence of her son’s generous spirit. Since then, she had occasionally seen Richard at the school gates where she was aware he had set several mums’ hearts beating faster. And with some reason, she thought, as he made himself comfortable on the sofa. A good-looking man with an air of mystery was bound to arouse interest. So far, school-gate gossip had it that he was divorced and had been in the army before recently setting up his own company, some sort of outward-bound executive-training business outside Aylesbury. Olly seemed to shuffle happily between Richard and his ex-wife, who also lived locally but was seen less often.

      She caught him looking out of the window at the garden, still bright in the sunshine. For a moment he seemed lost in a daydream but, abruptly, he snapped back into the present. ‘So, can I ask how you’re planning to take the world of TV by storm? Sounds intriguing.’ He put his glass on the coffee-table, before leaning back and waiting for her to speak.

      Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, wishing she’d had time to change back into her usual uniform of jeans and top, she gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m afraid Mel was exaggerating. As usual. I’ve just been invited to try out for a presenting job. It probably won’t come to anything.’

      ‘Why on earth not? Be positive.’ He lifted his drink and toasted her. ‘Here’s to your success.’

      She smiled back. ‘Thanks. To positivity!’ And raised her glass.

      At that moment there was a shout as two small boys raced into the room, skidding on the large rug. ‘Dad, I’m Jenson Button and I’ve beaten Lewis Hamilton – that’s Fred!’ Olly squealed to a halt in front of his father, narrowly avoiding Richard’s raised glass. His tow-coloured hair was threaded with leaves, his hands and flushed cheeks streaked with mud, his eyes bright with excitement. Bits of grass clung to his sweatshirt.

      ‘No, you’re not. My McLaren’s much faster than yours.’ Just as dishevelled, Fred ran a circuit of the room and disappeared again in the direction of Mel’s shout of ‘Supper!’

      ‘Easy.’ Richard ruffled his son’s hair, sending a couple of leaves spiralling to the floor. ‘I don’t want you to break anything. Remember, this isn’t our house where things aren’t so precious.’

      Looking round the room, Christie looked for something precious. Apart from Nick’s photo, there was nothing except the pieces of wonky pottery that Libby had made at school and presented to her with such pride. Seeing it through Richard’s eyes, she was suddenly aware of how makeshift the room looked. The furniture – the ancient three-piece, the coffee-table, two battered armchairs, the TV cabinet, a large free-standing bookcase – seemed small, worn and lost in this generous space.

      ‘Is Mummy back yet?’ Olly asked his father, with such hope that Christie had to fight the urge to hug him.

      ‘Not yet.’ Richard squeezed his son’s shoulder. ‘We’ll ring her when we get home, though. Promise.’

      Satisfied with the answer, Olly careered after Fred with a screech of brakes and a roar of engine noise.

      ‘Caro’s in Brussels,’ Richard explained to Christie. ‘She’s a translator and is there more often than not these days.’

      ‘Single-parenting’s difficult, isn’t it?’ Christie sympathised.

      ‘Actually, I don’t find it that bad,’ he contradicted her, with an apologetic smile. ‘My work’s pretty flexible.’

      ‘I don’t think I really know what you do.’

      ‘I put overgrown schoolboys masquerading as company execs through team-building experiences. It’s actually great fun and they really get something out of it. So do the women who, I’m happy to report, are very resilient. The farmland and woods we use are a paradise for kids. Fred must come over. In fact, Olly and I are camping out on Saturday night. Do you think Fred’d fancy that?’

      ‘He’d love it. If you’re sure.’

      ‘Completely. Two boys are much easier than one.

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