White Christmas Read Free

breakfast shows.
    Instantly the screen was filled with a large graphic
emblazoned with the words Last Ditch Weather in fluorescent yellow writing.
Then the camera switched to a presenter with curly brown hair and a shy smile
she’d never seen before. Unlike most male weather forecasters, in their boring
grey suits and crisp white shirts, this man looked like he was off on a country
stroll. He wore a scarlet shirt, black jeans and socks tucked into walking
boots. His forecast was even more startling than his attire. Instead of
focusing on weather patterns and cloud formation, this man was wittering on
about ‘spits and spots’ of rain and ‘brolly weather’ and advising viewers that
it was ‘time to turn up the central heating.’ He had a lovely voice, deep and
sonorous, but as far as she was concerned, his weather forecast was the most
basic she’d ever heard. A five-year-old could have made a better job of it.
    Lizzie grimaced as she watched him. Presenters like this did
her profession no favours at all. She’d spent her entire career trying to
convince people that being a weather forecaster was a serious business. She’d
studied physics at Cambridge, and then trained at the Met Office. Forecasting
the weather was supposed to be about science, not showbiz.
    She was so irritated that she decided to watch the bulletin
right till the end, keen to check who on earth this new weatherman was. But
before she could find out, the phone rang in the kitchen and she dashed to
answer it. As always, she half-hoped it might be Rob, ringing to say that their
break-up had been a horrendous mistake and begging her to give it another go.
    But it wasn’t Rob. It was her mother.
    ‘Darling, I hate to ring this early but it’s the only time I
can be sure of catching you,’ said Diana Foster. ‘You work too hard, you know.
I wish you could get out and about more, have a bit more fun.’
    Lizzie groaned out loud. She was convinced her mother came
out with stuff like this just to provoke a reaction. But for once in her life
she decided to rise above it and change the subject completely.
    ‘How are you, Mum? Is everything OK at home?’
    It was funny, reflected Lizzie, how even though she was
twenty-seven, with a decent job and a place of her own, she still called the
house in Dorset where she’d grown up ‘home.’ It wasn’t as though there was
anything of hers there any more. Her parents had had a massive tidy-up a couple
of years back and made Lizzie sort out her belongings. Lizzie hadn’t really
minded. In fact she’d had a brilliant weekend clearing a lifetime of junk from
the attic. She’d found her old Brownie badges, her first watch, some Biff and
Chip reading books and even her university thesis, grandly titled Flows,
Fluctuations and Complexity.
    ‘Busy, busy, busy, darling. And Dad sends his love too.’
    Lizzie smiled to herself. Her mother was definitely the
dynamic one in her parents’ relationship. Her dad had been a physics professor
– a typically vague academic – but now that he was retired he spent most of his
time at the local gliding club. He was obsessed with the weather – so she’d
clearly followed in his footsteps there.
    ‘Now darling, the reason I’m calling is that I need to talk
to you about something very important. Christmas.’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘Have you made up your mind what you’re doing? I’m desperate
for you to come home. And so’s your father. I know it won’t be the same now you
and Robert have… er, gone your separate ways, but you will come, won’t you?’
    Lizzie wondered why Christmas had turned into such a
delicate issue this year. For the last two years she’d spent Christmas with Rob
so her mother hadn’t put her on the spot like this. But they’d only split up
three months ago and she wasn’t sure she was ready for a jolly family Christmas
quite yet.
    ‘The thing is, Mum,’ she began, her voice tentative.
    ‘Come on, darling, spit it out.’ Diana had