Bella's Christmas Bake Off (6 page)

‘
I
’d
like to speak to Bella Bradley please,’ I said, brusque and business-like.

I’m sorry you can’t speak directly to Bella,’ the voice sounded young, disinterested.

‘But it’s important.’

‘Is it about the prize? If it’s about the Bellatastic Christmas – then I can take your details and if you’re very lucky you might get to speak to the queen herself.’

‘No, I don’t want a Bella-whatever Christmas, thank you. I’m an old friend and I need to speak with her immediately, it’s a matter of the utmost importance,’ I said. In my panic I’d morphed into high melodrama circa 1930’s and had to stop myself saying ‘post haste’.

‘Sorry?’ She seemed confused.

‘I’m a friend...’

‘You can’t be,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Because Bella doesn’t have any friends,’ she sniggered at this. ‘Are you the woman who sent her pants in the post last week?’

‘No I am not,’ I snapped indignantly. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ I asked, desperately trying not to sound like the kind of woman who sends her pants to people on the telly.

‘I’m Crimson, Bella Bradley’s star researcher,’ she said, and with that the phone went dead.

‘Damn...damn,’ I spat, redialling, thinking I may have to use some cunning to get past the charming Crimson. I waited as the phone clicked on and played ‘The First Noel’. On an endless loop. For twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds.

‘Hello Bella Bradley Show, are you calling about the prize?’ It was the same monotoned disinterest I’d previously encountered. Crimson, again. Not perhaps the star researcher – the
only
researcher?

‘I’m a huge Bella fan,’ I gushed, changing my approach, trying to make my voice sound different so she wouldn’t get wind of my shrewd Trojan Horse-style plan to speak to Bella. ‘I watch her every Christmas and Christmas was my mother’s favourite time of year and...I miss her. There’s nothing I would love more than to have Bella provide a wonderful Christmas...just like my mum used to.’ I tried not to get too upset saying this, but my throat tightened just thinking about Mum and what Bella had done.

‘Are you deserving?’ she asked, and I could almost hear a smirk in her voice.

‘Yes...my husband’s abandoned me for a pole dancer and I have no money to buy food or gifts for my children.’ Hearing myself I thought, yes I’m just the type of vulnerable person these shows love to exploit. If only I could sing I’d be a perfect X Factor contestant with my heart rending back story. Mind you the lack of singing talent had never stopped anyone being on the X Factor up until now.

‘Hubby’s run off and left you and the kids penniless at Chrimbo! This is good,’ Crimson said, with no hint of sympathy. ‘Okay I’ll need your deets.’

‘My what?’

‘Your details?’ she said slowly, incredulously, like I was very deaf and very stupid. ‘We’re making a shortlist so Bella can choose which lucky “Mum” is going to have a “Bella Christmas”,’ her voice was heavy with sarcasm or boredom – or both. ‘So we need to interview you live on the show.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure...’ Did I really want to go this far? It was beginning to feel a bit too real and I almost put down the phone.

‘Don’t get all excited, it’s only been a few minutes since we announced the prize and we’ve already had loads of emails and tweets...and poison pen letters...heavy breathers, naked photos and death threats – so you’ve got fierce competition.’

I wasn’t bothered about winning, I just wanted Bella to see my name and contact me – out of shame for stealing recipes if nothing else.

I took a breath and lied, ‘I
am
excited – I can’t help it, I just love Bella.’

‘Yeah I bet you do,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway Bella wants the Mum that we choose to live somewhere that won’t make her itch...so give me your name and address.’

I reluctantly gave her my details and she put me back on hold and another bloody round of ‘The First Noel,’ which by now it really wasn’t, it must have been the twentieth at least.

‘Hello Amy,’ she eventually came back on the line. ‘I’m just Googling your address to make sure you don’t live somewhere undesirable.’ Silence while she did her ‘research’. I was tempted to give them the address of the hostel, after all there weren’t many people more deserving than them - but I probably would have found myself cut off again.

‘Your house looks okay and a quick Google of your name suggests you haven’t murdered anyone, yet – mind you that could all change once you get to Dovecote..’

‘Thank you,’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘When I said your house looks okay, that’s
all
I meant. It’s not like it’s amazing or anything. We can’t film anywhere really cool because Bella’s fans would be scared shitless by anything more than a three-bed semi...but we can’t film in a slum either. You tick the box though – it’s somewhere in between, a sort of semi-slum.’

‘I’m glowing with all these compliments...better not let them go to my head,’ I said, forgetting the gushing girlishness for a moment.

‘You don’t sound too looney tunes so I’ll put you on the long shortlist and you might, if you’re
really
lucky, get a call from Bella, okay?’ This all said in a hyper-sarcastic tone.

‘Okay,’ I nodded, knowing from her voice that the promise from a phone call from Bella was an empty promise they were making to everyone, just to give those pants-sending fans something to hold on to. I didn’t stand a chance. My only hope was that Bella saw my name, which I hadn’t changed when I got married because I liked being Amy Lane and it saved bother changing everything. This had all been so futile, who was I kidding? Bella and I now occupied two very different worlds and there was no way she’d reach out into the past to get in touch with me again.

I was about to put the phone down when Crimson said, ‘Oh and...I meant to say, your Christmas will be paid for by the TV company and they pay a facility fee for filming in your house, from about £500 a day.’

‘Oh... really?’ I’d had absolutely no intention of really entering this ridiculous competition, I just wanted access to Bella, but this was suddenly very tempting – I might as well try and get something positive out of all this. A paid for Christmas lunch and a facility fee – I could think of some people who would be very grateful for that.

Crimson was still talking, ‘...I’ve put a tick by your name, not because I think you’ll be any good, but because I’m bored of talking to desperate housewives and Googling suburbia. So wait on the line and when Bella comes to you, tell her everything you just told me about your mother blah blah and how you’re really into her, she’ll love that. Just be yourself and be all orgasmic and whiney about Bella and her baking.’

‘Okay.’ This was a little disturbing, I had clearly done the gushing ‘crazed fan’ a little too well and Crimson apparently found me suitably cringey. Neil’s departure had definitely had an effect on my sanity.

‘Yeah...oh and one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s live, so don’t say fuck.’

‘I have no intention of saying fu... the F-word,’ I snapped indignantly, forgetting my crazed fan persona once again. I had no idea it was live, I assumed I would have to go through a battery of calls and it would be recorded later, but watching it unfold on the screen in front of me I could see Bella was taking calls. I hadn’t thought this through, I’d just made that phone call in anger and I was about to be launched onto live TV. I rummaged around in my handbag, I might need a brown paper bag for this one.

Then the line went dead and ‘The First Noel’ started up again. I sat nervously waiting for a few minutes, working out what I would say after all this time – in front of millions of viewers. I had never envisaged my first real communication with Bella to be like this – live on air - but she’d given me no choice.

By the time she eventually came on the line I’d wound myself into a ball of stress – I was angry, hurt and so damned nervous I couldn’t speak.

‘Are you there...is that Amy?’ she was saying. I could see her on screen, but it was hard to reconcile the two things. Bella Bradley the TV star was talking to me but showing no signs she knew who I was. I couldn’t take it all in, I was very hot and bothered and providing a one-woman show of what I think is known in the business as ‘dead air’.

‘Oh dear...I think we have a technical hitch,’ she was saying. ‘I can’t hear lovely little Amy...and her story’s so sad,’ she pulled her mouth downwards in a fake sad shape.

That made my hackles rise. She hadn’t a clue who I was and was being so bloody patronising. She hadn’t even bothered to check my surname, if she had she’d have known it was me. Then again, I was obviously so unimportant to her, would she even remember my married name?

‘I would love a Bella Christmas,’ I started. ‘My mum always made Christmas special for me – and I’m particularly interested to talk to you about your new book, “Christmas at My Mother’s Table”.’

‘Oh yes, my mother’s wonderful recipes,’ she sighed, brightening visibly at the unexpected joy of book promotion which would mean more sales and more money for her. Bella clearly didn’t recognise my voice, but then after twenty years I supposed it had changed slightly.

‘
MY
mother’s wonderful recipes,’ I snapped.

If she now realised it was me, she wasn’t letting on, but I suddenly saw a flash of panic in Bella’s beautifully made-up eyes. ‘You must remember me, Bella, we used to be best friends,’ I began, my voice fading, my mouth so dry I could barely get the words out.

On screen, I glimpsed Bella’s perfect composure momentarily falter, but she gave a sickly sweet smile and regained herself, ‘How lovely...an old friend...I’m delighted that you called.’

‘Yes, I’ve been trying to get in touch for years,’ I said.

‘I...let me put you through to our switchboard, Amy. I am DESPERATE to meet up and chat about old times, but this line is for the competition. We’ve had so many calls and lots of Bella fans are waiting to have their chance to win a Bella Christmas,’ she said, desperately trying to take control of the situation.

I knew I was about to be cut off, so I said simply, ‘How could you, Bella? How could you steal my mum’s recipes…’

I
looked
up at the TV on the kitchen wall. I had been instantly disconnected and Bella was now taking another call. She was smiling but the tell-tale flushing of her mottled neck above those frolicking red reindeers told me she was rattled. It always gave her away as a child when she was flustered and it gave her away now despite all of the make-up and clever lighting. I had to give it to her though, apart from the flushed skin, there was no indication that she was shaken and as she ended the next call the show continued seamlessly. She peeled a banana like a porn star with a seductive smile playing across her lip-glossed mouth. And I was reminded of the girl behind the bike shed selling kisses for chewing gum.

‘I NEED my five a day, during the festive season,’ she added, cheekily, and I had a strong desire to plunge her head into some ‘severely whipped’ cream.

I couldn’t take any more, so turned off the TV and threw away the dregs of my coffee. It was still early, but I just wanted to go to bed and cry myself to sleep. My husband had left me for a new life of exotic sex, and on top of this, I’d discovered my oldest friend, who hadn’t acknowledged me for years, had stolen my own mother’s recipes. Initially I’d been hurt and tearful about both betrayals, but now I was just angry and didn’t feel I could trust anyone ever again.

I contemplated what to do next. There was no way I’d ever get to talk to Bella now, and even if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference. The book was published and her theft would go unchallenged. I had to take my mind of this or I would drive myself mad with the injustice of it all and after that phone call St Swithin’s wouldn’t be in receipt of a £500 location fee or a ‘Bella-bloody-tastic Christmas!’ Meanwhile, I had promised to provide Christmas cakes for the hostel, which took my mind off the Bella situation and gave me a sense of purpose. I was going to give them the best cakes I could bake, better than any Bella cake with her plump fruits and exotic spices. I knew we couldn’t go too strong on the alcohol given that some of the residents were a little too fond of the stuff, but my cake budget would stretch to a small bottle of brandy to ‘feed’ the cakes so they’d be moist and delicious. I popped out to the local Sainsbury’s to buy the brandy and was just walking back with my miniature bottle when I saw Stanley, the Frank Sinatra guy from the shelter. He was sitting on a bench next to the town Christmas tree singing ‘My Way’ under the twinkly lights strung through the huge branches. He was happy enough with his backlist of Old Blue Eyes and his own miniature bottle of cheap brandy just like mine, and he waved me over.

‘Amy, Amy, Amy... how are you?’ he said, delighted to see me.

I went over to say hello and he patted the seat next to him so I sat down, and spotting that I was clutching a small bottle of brandy too he offered me his bottle to drink from.

‘Cheers, love,’ he was saying and pushing the bottle to my mouth.

I smiled, ‘Oh no Stanley, thank you but I haven’t joined you to have a drink. I’m on my way home, I bought this to put in my Christmas cakes,’ I held my bottle up as I explained.

‘For me?’

‘No Stanley – it’s for my cakes,’ I said as he reached for it. He nodded, confused, and took the bottle out of my hand before embarking on a torch song medley from Frank’s early career. I didn’t quite know how to handle this, so gently pulled my bottle away from him, but he seemed to think it was a gift and as hard as I held it, the more he seemed to pull it back from me.

‘No Stanley!’ I said, firmly now. There was no point explaining again about the bloody cakes, he didn’t understand or care – he merely saw kind Amy sitting next to him with a nice bottle of brandy.

He stood up and as we were both holding on to the bottle I moved with him, I wasn’t letting go, I had no money for more brandy and was determined to keep this bottle and make the best bloody Christmas cakes ever. But Stanley was now singing loudly, and swinging the bottle back and forth, with me still clutching it, and being drunk he wasn’t very co-ordinated. I couldn’t believe I’d got myself into this ridiculous situation and decided to end it once and for all by pulling the bottle back with force. I heaved it towards me, but as he wasn’t expecting this I caused poor Stanley to lose his balance. He fell to the floor as I shouted, ‘Stanley. Oh Stanley, I’m sorry,’ and got down on the pavement to try and pick him up. But it was a frosty night, the ground was slippery and within seconds we were both sliding around, falling over each other, clutching on to our respective bottles. Just at this moment, four lads from school appeared from behind the Christmas tree, and I was so relieved, they’d come to my rescue and get Stanley and I back on our feet.