Bella's Christmas Bake Off (15 page)

‘I’m not talking about toys and cars - when we were young I envied you – your mum always home after school, watching TV with your Dad in his chair every evening, your sisters always laughing. When I wasn’t at yours I’d go home to a dark, empty house, where my parents were either at work or screaming at each other.’

I looked at her, I’d never really considered myself someone to be envied, but then I’d never really considered my life from Bella’s perspective.

‘Ames, when you wrote to me offering the recipes and reminding me of all the good times I had with your family, I honestly thought you were giving them to me.’

‘I was. I was giving them to
you
not your publisher or your accountant, not for the world to pay for and pore over. They were private memories, Bella...’

‘I didn’t think of it like that. Nothing in my world is private, everything I do or have done is open to interpretation, and if it’s not the press it’s social media. When I had something as lovely and innocent as the perfect recipe for Chocolate brownies and Christmas gingerbread along with those memories, I just wanted to share them with the world. I suppose I also wanted to pretend I was you and had the kind of childhood you had. I never really thought about your mum or what it would mean to you – and... I’m sorry.’

‘I can kind of see why you might feel like that,’ I heard myself say.

Bella and Fliss seemed to be paranoid about ‘secrets and lies’ and I knew what it would mean if Bella’s past was suddenly ‘out there’. She’d sold herself as this perfect woman we all aspired to and her whole life depended on that image being maintained. She was as flawed as the rest of us, unable to bake in her own kitchen, unable to even say the words she wanted to, relying on autocue for her thoughts and opinions. Everything (almost everything) was laid bare, and as much as she was feted by her fans she was open to criticism from every corner and even her happy times must have been tainted. Like me she’d found the cosiness of our childhood a comfort and just wanted to relive the memories through baking.

‘I’m sorry too, Bella,’ I sighed. ‘I can see it’s not all mistletoe and fairy lights, but you might think of how other people are affected by what you do.’

She gave me a look. ‘Seriously? You’re lecturing me on how my actions might affect others?’

We seemed to take two steps forward and one step back. I had just apologised, acknowledged her life was hard - yet the only thing she took from my words was the criticism.

‘Look, I only told your secret because I thought it might help you.’

‘Yeah and I only put your mum’s recipes in my book because I thought they were wonderful... and yes, I also implied your mother was my mother, because I wished she was!’

I suddenly felt deeply sorry for her, the little girl I’d always envied, the one with the beautiful clothes and toys had, all the time, been envying me. I reached out to her and touched her shoulder, but she pulled away and I glimpsed two faint track marks down her face, a single tear perched on her chin, ready to fall.

‘My mascara,’ she said, as she went off to find Billy. Even her emotions have to be covered up with make-up, I thought, looking round the beautiful gadget-filled kitchen that suddenly seemed so empty.

‘
H
ate to say it
, but Amy has a point,’ Fliss said as we reconvened for the afternoon’s filming. ‘It doesn’t make sense if Bella suggests Amy donates her prize to a homeless hostel – it has to come from Amy.’

‘But it’s in the script, so I have to say it,’ Bella huffed.

‘I’ll change it quickly now,’ Fliss sighed. ‘Tim’s script reads like something from Charles Dickens anyway... it’s a cookery show, not “A Christmas Carol”,’ she said, glancing at Tim.

‘I’m wasted in telly. My Dickens doesn’t play well to a working-class audience anyway,’ he snapped back.

Bella wasn’t happy, and the tears she’d shed only minutes before were now gone and the bitch was back. ‘It’s my programme and we’re going to pay for everything, so why not just give in, Ames. I can’t believe you would risk the chance of those poor, filthy homeless people not being fed, just so you get the credit.’

‘I won’t be railroaded by you, Bella’ I sighed. ‘I came here so the hostel would get the dinner... but I also wanted to see my old friend.’

I swear she softened ever so slightly at this. And Tim wiped an eye, ‘If only I had caught that moment on camera,’ he gasped. ‘Could we go for it again?’

‘You can’t, no one knows they’re friends... she won the prize remember, Tim?’ Fliss was rolling her eyes and finishing off the few lines of script. ‘Right – okay the script is loaded in the autocue and we can go now.’

Bella and I took our positions behind the huge pink turkey and judging by the mottling on her neck, I think she was surprised at how I’d fought back. As a child I gave in to most of her demands. In fact the more time I spent with her, I was beginning to think I had probably remembered our friendship as far better than it really was.

‘You’ve got more feisty in your old age,’ she whispered.

‘Yeah and you’ve got more mean,’ I replied.

We then filmed a scene where she patronised me so much over the simple cooking of a turkey, I couldn’t play nice any longer.

‘The turkey has to be organic, bronze... sweet, succulent meat, delicious...’ she tore at the turkey – yes this one was real, apparently the home economist had been up all night cooking in her own home sixty miles away and had driven it down that morning.

‘Does it really have to be organic...?’ I started.

‘Taste the turkey, Amy,’ she demanded, pushing a lump of white meat into my face. ‘Taste it!’

The hot meat was at my lips, she was grimacing and thrusting and I had no choice but to taste her bloody turkey. I smiled and chewed as she waited for a response.

‘Mmmm it is delicious, but you know, Bella, so many of us watch your programme and listen to your advice about buying the best ingredients, but for those of us who can’t afford a turkey costing upwards of £60 might I suggest a small frozen turkey? When cooked properly, with love and the right seasoning, it can taste just as good – and it’s a fraction of the cost of this one.’

‘Don’t be silly, Amy, it’s Christmas, you have to have the best at Christmas!’ She was winking at the camera, and fondling her organic bird, confident, beautiful and spoiled – and that was just the turkey.

‘You really don’t get it, do you Bella? It doesn’t matter what time of year it is – if you can’t afford it, you can’t afford it!’ I snapped.

‘Cut! That won’t be going in,’ she shouted to Tim. ‘Don’t want Ames banging on about the bloody poor again – BORING!’ she was pouring herself a glass of champagne.

‘It’s not boring, you selfish, self-obsessed Prima Donna,’ I snapped. ‘You’ll see just how far Christmas dinner on a budget can go, and how grateful people are.’

‘Yes I’m sure my viewers can’t wait to take a break from vintage champagne and the best Maine lobster this year,’ she snapped.

‘It’s not about what it costs or where it’s from – my simple Christmas food tastes better than your expensive, overrated shop-bought rubbish!’

‘Oh rubbish is it? You come into my kitchen and call my cooking rubbish now – go back to your little hostel, Amy,’ she slurped on champagne. ‘Oh no, you’re filming this?’ she suddenly said, glass halfway to her lips.

The camera lights were on. Tim and the rest of the crew were engrossed – they were filming it.

‘Keep going, they’ll sort it out in the edit, dahling,’ Fliss was saying.

‘Sweetie, I’m loving this salty chemistry – it’s amateur hour but it’s real,’ Tim enthused.

So we continued to ‘work together’ for the rest of the afternoon. Bella contradicting me, patronising me and telling me how I should cook my sprouts, roast my potatoes and clean my bloody crystal, and me informing her that like most of her viewers, ‘I have no crystal’ and ‘everyone knows how to cook a damn sprout.’

I wasn’t allowing Bella to boss me about anymore – it might be her show and her kitchen but I refused to be patronised. I wasn’t her assistant or a token ‘poor person’ that she could humiliate – I was Amy Lane, I was a great cook, a brilliant baker and I wasn’t some fake TV chef playing at it – like Bella was.

B
y early evening
we were both exhausted and extremely prickly. And though I knew much of what I said would end up on the cutting room floor, I had to have my say. Poor Tim would get to the edit and have to cut three hours of Bella and I at each other’s throats – he’d probably need post-trauma therapy.

‘That’s a wrap until tomorrow,’ Tim announced.

‘Jeez it’s like watching Fanny Craddock and Jonny,’ I heard Fliss remark to Tim when she thought she was out of earshot.

‘More like Fanny Craddock and Fanny Craddock,’ Crimson added, and they all laughed and headed for the food truck... where a decent meal awaited them, which was as well, because they wouldn’t be getting anything from Bella’s oven.

As there were just the two of us left in the kitchen, I didn’t want to walk away leaving her alone so asked Bella if she was coming to supper.

‘I don’t eat supper,’ she snapped, banging dishes into the dishwasher, something she would normally leave for the home economist to do, surely. She was obviously annoyed with the way I’d behaved on set and now the cameras were off I have to admit I felt a little awkward.

‘Bella, I was just being myself. I love your programme, but if you want my opinion, you’ve been out of touch for the past couple of years...’

‘Out of touch? You came here looking like one of the bloody Waltons – John Boy to be precise – and you tell me I’m out of touch. You want to take a look at yourself in the mirror, love.’

‘Yes and you need to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, Bella. You think it’s okay to spend hundreds of pounds on one bottle of champagne, you throw gold leaf around like it’s sprinkles and, Christ Bella, you eat beef that was
massaged
daily when it was a cow. It probably had a pedicure and a day at the spa before it was chauffer driven to the abattoir. Your food is treated better than some people!’

‘Oh do shut up with your sanctimonious comments. Yes, I eat good beef and that’s because I can.’

‘No, it’s because you’re selfish and spoilt, always have been,’ I heard myself say. I waited for a snappy response, but instead I was greeted with silence and wondered if perhaps I’d gone too far.

She closed the dishwasher and stood leaning on the worktops, looking straight at me.

‘I have never had the family I wanted, never loved like you, never been able to – I’ve never enjoyed a gaggle of my own children like you have. The only time I have ever had a big, loving family Christmas was when I was at your house, with you and your family as a child. So yes, perhaps I am spoiled and selfish and buy the best beef and drink myself into financial oblivion. I earned it, and I need it – but what I don’t need is you waltzing back into my life reminding me of what I never had and lecturing me on what I shouldn’t have now.’ With that she turned away from me and walked slowly into the conservatory, just watching the snow fall.

I was shocked. Bella’s feelings ran deep, it seemed she wasn’t as happy and fulfilled as I’d imagined. I’d always been concerned that she couldn’t have children... and now I felt sick just thinking about the agony she must have gone through. I couldn’t imagine a life without Jamie and Fiona – they were everything to me. On the surface Bella had everything, and she kept buying more, wanting more – but I realised now that was just to fill up the hole of sadness in her life. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had to mind other people’s feelings – and walk a mile in their shoes?

T
he Christmas Bella
and I made the shoebox dolls’ house, she received a real one from her parents on Christmas Day. When I saw it I was transfixed and I have to admit tinged green with envy as I ran my hands along the brick facade, looked through the windows, and opened the little front door. It was decorated inside with gift wrapping which looked like real wallpaper and the front opened up to reveal life-like figures sitting around in chairs and leaning against fireplaces. Tiny cups and saucers sat on the dining room table, along with a teapot, and the smallest frying pan I’d ever seen was on the tiny oven hob. The curtains wafted and the windows opened, and on the rare occasions I visited Bella’s home I always asked if we could play with it. Sometimes Bella would allow it, other times she refused, like little girls do – enjoying the power their toys have over others.

I was thinking about this now as she stood in the conservatory, the snow falling thicker and instead of heading out into the dark for supper I walked into the conservatory. I didn’t realise, but Crimson was in there, they were talking quietly, none of the TV speak Bella usually adopted when talking to her staff. I was intrigued, but as soon as she realised I was there Bella immediately changed the tone of her voice and ‘performed,’ for me. ‘Crimson, I need you to twatter – ready?’ Before Crimson could answer she was off. ‘Okay...shimmery flakes of twenty-four carat gold leaves and the world’s most expensive olive oil are the only things to toss on one’s salad this Christmas.’

She looked at me defiantly, but for once I wasn’t interested in what she was tossing or how much it cost. I was too intrigued by the scenario I’d just walked in on. What had she and Crimson been talking about in such quiet voices? They seemed conspiratorial even. But Bella was now egging the pudding and expanding on her largesse for my benefit by wandering over to the fridge – still ‘twattering’ – and uncorking a bottle of champagne. She wanted me to know she deserved this, that I had no right to criticise her and I was the last person who could take it from her. I understood how she felt, I’d taken something from her a long time ago and I could never replace that.

‘Sounds like a delicious salad,’ I smiled, still standing in the kitchen doorway. She shrugged; ‘I thought it would be too expensive for your frugal tastes... all that nasty gold leaf?’ She poured the champagne defiantly into a crystal flute and looking straight at me, she took a good, long drink.

I didn’t want to argue any more, I was tired of the confrontation, and despite the front she was putting on, I guessed she was too.

‘Can I have one of those?’ I asked, climbing onto the kitchen stool next to where Bella sat.

‘I thought you didn’t drink before the sun was over the yardarm, Miss Goody Two Shoes?’ she hissed. Okay, perhaps I was wrong, perhaps she bloody loved the confrontation?

‘Well, you’re a bad influence,’ I shrugged my shoulders as she grabbed another flute from the cupboard and poured me a glass.

‘Bella, do you remember the lovely doll’s house you had that one Christmas?’ I asked, taking the proffered glass and nodding in thanks.

She put down the bottle and stood for a moment. ‘I do... I loved that doll’s house...’

‘Me too,’ I sighed, remembering the brickwork and the frying pan sitting on the hob.

‘And we made it out of an old shoebox,’ she smiled.

We were obviously remembering different dolls’ houses, and saw the past and our own lives in different ways. I’d envied Bella the beautiful house her parents had bought her, but she’d had more fun with the shoebox we’d made, which said it all really.

It seemed like the mention of the doll’s house had softened her slightly – or perhaps it was the champagne – but she touched my glass with hers.

‘Cheers Ames! And happy Christmas.’

‘Are you okay with me being here?’ I asked, taking a sip and allowing the ice-cold fizziness to tingle down my throat.

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘You are annoying and I didn’t like you contradicting me on camera earlier, but if I’m honest... I’ve missed you. Ames, I don’t really have any friends any more – I don’t even think I have a life outside of the TV programmes.’

I nodded.

‘I mean, I sometimes make a ham sandwich and talk through the process like the bloody camera’s there when I’m all on my own.’

‘That’s weird,’ Crimson said from under her black plumage. I’d forgotten she was there.

We both laughed.

‘I have to say I wasn’t keen on the initial idea of you being here, knowing about everything, but... oh you know what I mean, I can’t think when I’ve had a couple of these,’ she held up her flute and took a large gulp.

‘Don’t drink then,’ I said, trying not to sound like a teacher.

‘Yeah... well, like I say, I can’t think when I’ve had a drink. And that’s how I like it. I can forget about everything.’

I wasn’t sure how to respond, but before I did she continued.

‘A journalist once asked me the secret of my success and I said: “Three things; planning, planning and planning...” I should have said “Drinking, drinking, and drinking”.’ She laughed. I felt so guilty, I knew why she was drinking, she was trying to dull the pain from all those years ago. I had to say something, but before I could her mobile rang and she threw it over to Crimson who caught it with one hand without looking up.

‘I hate answering the phone... why do people still call me? I mean, what can you say on the phone that you can’t say in a quick text? I give five minutes to friends and family and the rest get a short sharp thirty seconds or I pass the phone to Crimson or Fliss,’ she smiled, sipping her champagne, she was finally relaxing.

‘If close family only get five minutes on the phone, no wonder you never responded to my Christmas cards,’ I said, pointedly.

‘Oh darling, Christmas cards are so bloody provincial – who has the time to read them, let alone write them? I’m far too busy. Fliss sends out the corporate Christmas cards and a few crates of champagne or whatever...who cares?’

‘Some people care.’

‘Oh... sorry Ames, I didn’t realise.’ So she did have a conscience in there, somewhere – however small.

‘It’s the same when people try and call me at Christmas,’ she continued. ‘It’s my busiest time – I invariably have a new book to promote or am working on a Christmas Special. As the Queen of Christmas I don’t have time for anyone – I just wish they’d understand.’

‘It seems like you’re so busy doing the TV Christmas you don’t have time for the real one,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ she said, missing the irony completely at first, then looking at me and twisting her mouth. ‘Oh Ames, I’ll be honest I’ve resented you for so long for what you did, seeing it as a betrayal, that you weren’t a good friend, but I wasn’t a good friend to you either. I never responded to your calls or emails or cards because I wanted to forget everything, I didn’t want the past crowding in. You know how unhappy I was as a kid, and then it all got so messy...’

‘I know and it was my fault...’

‘Not just you, I reckon Mum can take some of the blame for almost everything that’s gone wrong in my life. She was a terrible mother, still is – but then I haven’t been a great daughter. She moved to Sydney, you know?’

‘I didn’t realise...’

‘Ha, neither did I until I got a bloody postcard from halfway around the world. Then she called me and after five minutes I said, ‘Sorry, Jean, your time is up.’ She never had any time for me when she was working – and I’ve no time for her now while I’m working. I’m a busy lady and don’t have a spare moment to waste on friends, family or phone calls – I’ve got a business empire to run.’

I nodded. It was clear Bella was now living the life her parents had – workaholics, fiercely ambitious, constantly striving. Their business plans had consumed them so much they lost sight of the goalposts and never realised their lives were going by and their daughter was shrivelling up from lack of love and attention. Bella had grown up virtually alone – which is why when we were teenagers we’d bonded even more. I’d lost my mum – and in effect she’d never had one because hers had never been there for her. But the one time her mum could have helped her she’d simply thrown her out.

L
ater that evening
, when the first day’s filming was over I tried again to talk to Bella. She was explaining to me what a brilliant assistant Crimson was, which I found hard to believe, but looking at Crimson, half-smiling into her iPad, it clearly made her happy to be described as ‘an online genius’.

‘She’s fabulous, and saved me from myself,’ Bella said. ‘I used to do all my own online media – I Facebooked daily, “liking”, “sharing” and congratulating myself on everything from a good show to a well-made cup of coffee. But I was cheating,’ she giggled, putting her hand to her mouth like a naughty girl. ‘I would put someone else’s photos on my tweets, bragging about a delicious dish I’d “whipped up” for supper – or a fabulous restaurant I’d been to – which of course I hadn’t,’ she threw her head back and laughed. ‘Too busy filming and tweeting about it to actually eat in restaurants aren’t we Crimson?’ she laughed and Crimson rolled her eyes.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, after a quick slurp, ‘I was having so much fun until one day I tweeted to Fliss about a couple of other celebrities without realising tweets were public, not private. It wasn’t long before my less than complimentary tweets were retweeted and sent directly to the said celebrities. Only when the newspapers called Fliss for a comment from me and she phoned me to make it stop did I realise the enormity of the situation. I was physically sick. Apology emails, Jane Packer Rose Sundae Hatboxes and magnums of Dom Perignon eased the pain for those lovely, forgiving souls, but some of them have never spoken to me since. I’m hoping one day at least one of them will forgive me and accept my invitation to stay at Dovecote,’ she smiled.

So it did matter to her what people thought – she still wanted to be liked, forgiven. Perhaps there was hope for her after all?

‘I should have trusted my instincts and left well alone... it was like when I texted my producer, Delia. She is very posh and quite fierce and I was flattered to think I’d reached the inner sanctum when she sent me a light-hearted text about foie gras...’

‘As you do,’ I said, sarcastically.

‘Quite,’ she answered. ‘So I immediately texted back saying, “Oh Delia you are such a joker,” but predictive texting had turned joker into “hooker”. Delia was quite understandably offended to receive a text from one of her lovely presenters saying “Oh Delia you are such a hooker,” so I tried to rectify this. Unfortunately I merely ended up informing everyone of Delia’s “hookery” by pressing the wrong button and sending the message to everyone in my contacts list.’

‘Don’t tell me... the great Delia Smith was in your phone book too?’ I said.

She nodded, almost unable to speak about it.

I was mortified on Bella’s behalf. ‘Oh dear... it’s not easy being you, is it?’ I smiled sympathetically, as the old, disorganised, more frantic and funnier Bella emerged from under the perfect make-up. It’s like she’d suddenly remembered it was okay to laugh at herself sometimes.

‘Fliss said to prevent any future online mishaps and faux pas I had to get a young person to do my social media and manage my texts... so I did. Crimson’s in her early twenties and like the rest of her generation prefers the virtual world to the real one so it was a no brainer to involve her in the all aspects of text and twittery.’ She poured us another drink, and though I was tempted to put my hand over my glass I thought ‘If you can’t beat them.’

‘Meanwhile, I’m living to tweet another day... well, Crimson is,’ she laughed. ‘I now don’t understand a word of what I’m saying online, but thank God she does,’ she said, leaning over to rub Crimson’s arm.

‘God Bella, it’s not rocket science,’ she muttered from behind a Himalaya of hair.

I had to smile, Crimson was like my own kids, she’d probably grown up with an iPod in her hands. It was all so new and different for people mine and Bella’s age, and like her I knew the perils of Twitter all too well; ‘I’ve been there too Bella, you’re not alone,’ I laughed. ‘ Last year the headmaster thought it might be a good idea for us all to “get down with the kids,” and for a while it was nice to be able to communicate outside school hours with the odd maths query. But the pupils soon saw the potential for public humiliation and when they weren’t hacking teacher’s accounts, they were abusing us under Twitter pseudonyms. It was a levelling experience to be told by a stranger that I was ‘a minger’ and a ‘stupid old cow’.’

Bella laughed. ‘Kids eh?’

I laughed too and sipped on my champagne, thinking how this was just like being with a lovely, old friend.

I finished my glass of champagne with Bella, feeling quite warm and comforted – yes it was partly due to the alcohol, but I had sensed a thawing from her and felt much happier about everything. As Crimson had now left the kitchen to go and have some food, I decided to take advantage of our time alone together.

‘Bella...you and Peter haven’t had children... is it because of what happened?’

Bella’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t, please don’t, Amy. I’m sorry...’ she stood up and touched my arm, then left the kitchen, tears streaming down her face.

I watched her walk away, wishing she’d stayed and talked to me, but she was obviously too upset. I’d read every interview she’d ever done but she’d never mentioned having or wanting children and I wondered... was it my fault she now couldn’t have children?

It all happened such a long time ago – twenty-two Christmases had gone by since then – but it still felt like yesterday. We were eighteen and it was mid December. I wasn’t really looking forward to Christmas, it hadn’t been the same since mum had died, but I planned to bake and revise (in that order!) for my mock A levels. Bella hadn’t been herself for a couple of weeks and I wondered if she was having problems with her boyfriend, Chris. At nineteen, he was older than her and they’d been together a few months and she was crazy about him but constantly worried he was cheating on her. She kept saying how boys only liked slim girls and had gone on a crash diet, so when I’d caught her being sick in the toilets I waited outside the cubicle to confront her. Girls were squealing and chatting, toilet doors were banging and we stood among the wet confetti of paper towels and teenage hormones.