Bella's Christmas Bake Off (8 page)

‘I want a special Christmas...’ I started.

‘Look, just say your lines, and keep schtum and I will be coming down your chimney with a bag of money, because that’s clearly what you’re after.’

‘I don’t...that’s not...’

‘Oh there’s a swearing clause too – don’t say f....’

‘Yes, I fucking know,’ I snapped.

It seemed everyone assumed I wanted money and was threatening to take my story about Bella’s murky past and stolen recipes to the tabloids...and that I was compelled to say the F-word live on air.

The phone went dead for a few seconds then started playing ‘The First Noel’ again...and again.

I looked at Sylvia uncertainly.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Do you need me to say anything on air?’

‘No...thanks,’ I smiled. I really didn’t need to add an excitable Sylvia to the surreal conversation I was about to have in front of the nation with my former best friend.

Listening to ‘The First Noel’ as I waited on the line, the situation had made me think about the past and what might have been. Years after her death, my mum was being exploited by someone she’d cared for, and it broke my heart. I couldn’t help but wish she’d had more self-belief and used her cooking talents for herself not for others.

I remember one New Year’s Eve the Pilkingtons were returning from their holiday home in Switzerland and had asked my mum to provide and serve a buffet for forty people on their return. Mum worked tirelessly for a couple of days and I found her slumped on the bathroom floor when I came home from school. I was really scared, but she told me she was just tired. The next day her face was pale and I could tell she was in pain, but she wouldn’t admit it to either me or the rest of the family. I saw her taking three paracetamol, and although she still didn’t seem herself, by the evening of the buffet she seemed brighter. ‘I’ll be fine, I think it must have been something I ate,’ she’d told me when I’d asked.

I was still worried about her as she was packing all the stuff in containers and waiting for the driver to come and get her and my sisters and the food. My sister was helping out as a waitress and I’d have given anything to go too but Mum said I was a bit young.

‘Let her go with you,’ Dad said from his chair. He was worried about Mum too and I think he wanted another family member there looking after her. It was testament to how weakened she felt that she gave in and agreed.

I was delighted, I felt so grown-up, and when we arrived I was excited and surprised to see Bella and her mum and dad were there as guests. I felt so proud to be a waitress I waited until I was wearing my pinafore and carrying a tray of canapés before I went over to say hello.

Bella screamed for joy when she saw me, ‘Ames...look at you – how fabby!’ she squealed, hugging me and almost knocking the tray out of my hands. Her father was always very formal and muttered, ‘Hello Amy,’ but her mother just smiled coldly in my general direction and turned away. I didn’t understand her reaction, she’d never been warm and welcoming like my mum, but she knew me well and we’d chatted when she came to collect Bella from my house. Bella seemed oblivious to this coolness and was asking if she could help out too. ‘I want to wear an apron like Ames...please can I be a waitress too?’

Her mother looked from Bella to me and back again, and staring directly at me said, ‘No, Bella – you’re better than that.’

I was devastated, my throat closed up and I spent the rest of the evening quietly serving. Bella barely spoke to me and when Mum asked if I was okay I didn’t have the heart or the vocabulary to explain what had happened and how it made me feel. But that night I learned a valuable life lesson: we’re not all the same, and friendship doesn’t always cross boundaries as it should. Sadly I didn’t see this for what it was at the time – a couple of judgemental snobs who felt I was good enough for their daughter when they were too busy, but when it came down to it I was socially inferior. They loved my mum when she could provide the fancy canapés they could show off to their friends, but none of them even came to see her when she became ill.

Now I felt like I’d let her down further by sending those recipes only for her to be exploited again. I felt foolish and was determined to make damn sure I got what I wanted from Bella by fair means or foul, if only to avenge my mum and give St Swithins a Christmas they’d never forget.

As I’d grown up and become a mum myself I’d realised how hard life and death had been for her, but she kept smiling. Mum never had anything, she struggled most of her life and no one ever really acknowledged everything she did. We all loved her but perhaps took her for granted. I’d spent years feeling guilty about Mum and how I’d never been able to do anything for her, improve her life, take away her pain. And now this final insult from Bella had brought it all to the surface. I had to see her and make her realise what she’d done to me – and to my mum’s memory.

W
hile I was waiting
to be put through to Bella, Sylvia had managed to pilfer a flat-screen TV from the headmaster’s office so we could watch the show when the call came through. She’d asked Mr Robinson, the caretaker, to come and set it up, but there was no sign of him and time had run out so she was now grappling with it. I was just about to get up and give her a hand when ‘The First Noel’ stopped abruptly (thankfully) and a rather shrill voice said, ‘Hello is that Amy? Little Amy Lane?’ It was her. Bella Bradley... this time in TV personality mode, all posh speak and girly giggles.

I could barely talk, so quickly breathed into the paper bag for a few seconds. Yes I was nervous, I was live on air, but I was also distracted by the circus going on around me. Sylvia was trying to get the TV to work by twiddling with the connections, and in order to reach them at the back she’d had to virtually mount it. Sylvia was short and quite round and was now having problems fitting herself around the huge TV. Then just at the point where she was virtually on top of it with one leg wrapped round, Paul Watkins from 10B appeared through the window in the office door. He was videoing the whole spectacle. I couldn’t leave the phone to stop him, so waved my paper bag frantically and shouted for him to STOP THAT NOW!’ which alarmed Sylvia who thought I was addressing her, and almost lost her footing. She was now straddling the TV while I kept shouting and waving – and Paul continued shooting.

‘That’ll be on YouTube in ten minutes,’ I said, as he eventually put down his phone, laughing. I communicated one of my ‘furious’ looks at him.

‘You Tube?’ the voice said, followed by tinkling fake laughter. ‘I think we have a crossed line.’

‘Hi yes...no, it’s all fine, sorry this is Amy,’ I finally said, trying to calm myself while shaking my fist at the sniggering teen.

‘It’s lovely to speak with you little Amy – now tell us all about yourself.’

I was half-listening, I could barely concentrate with Paul still standing there. And if he got his phone out again and filmed me, he could really drop me in it with the headmaster. I hadn’t planned to advertise the fact that I was skipping class to be on the telly.

Unable to extricate herself from the TV set up, Sylvia was also shouting and waving at Paul to stop. But what we were doing in reality was providing pure comedy gold for his little video. This was a Christmas gift to Paul Watkins.

‘Don’t play that game with me...’ I yelled, as Paul lifted his phone to continue filming.

‘Oh dear...I’m not playing any games...is that little Amy?’ said the voice on the other end.

‘Yes...hello, Bella, I’m so sorry. Yes it’s Amy,’ I said, waving my fist at a departing Paul while Sylvia slid slowly down the front of the screen, her feet desperately waggling until they reached the ground.

‘Yes...so, lovely Amy, tell me what a Bella Christmas would mean to you?’ I wondered what she was thinking, she seemed so bright and breezy, like we hadn’t just had a hissed conversation about blackmail. I looked at the screen, which Sylvia had miraculously brought to life, and noticed the red mottle slowly creeping up Bella’s neck.

I swallowed hard, ‘My husband has gone,’ I said, through dry lips. ‘And this is the first time my kids will be away...and...’

‘Fabulous!’ she said, clasping her hands together. It was clear she wanted to keep this short and sweet in case I suddenly blurted anything out.

‘So you want a great big bird and all the Bella trimmings?’ she was saying, and looking into the camera, winking.

‘Yes...and it would be good to see you too. We have stuff to talk about,’ I added, giving her the message that I wanted more than just a stuffed ‘Bella’ bird and a masterclass in goose fat.

Silence.

‘Ha, you’re obviously desperate for help, you NEED a Bella Christmas and...’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘I am DEEEElighted to inform you that you are the winner, lovely Amy Lane!’ the voice chorused down the phone.

‘Thank you,’ I was saying while nodding at Sylvia who did a little dance.

‘You deserve it, lovely Amy. Your husband’s abandoned you for a topless dancer and your kiddies are going hungry, goodness you must be exhausted, not to mention worried to death about Christmas.’

‘Well, he didn’t...it’s not quite...’

‘I can only imagine the hardship, the heartache...your little ones’ faces when they come downstairs to an empty fireplace...where Santa
hasn’t
been.’ Her lips were quivering, the camera was closing in, she was milking this for all it was worth.

I refused to be patronised and exploited by her, I wasn’t ‘poor little Amy’, I was the one holding all the cards here for once in my life. ‘My children are adults,’ I said. ‘They won’t be wondering where Santa is...’

‘Oh...yes, but whatever age our children are, they still expect a visit from the man in red,’ she said, clearly shaken by my refusal to join in.

‘I think at the age of twenty, they may be a little bit disturbed at the sight of an old man dressed in red creeping through their house ,’ I responded, now cool as a cucumber, but still clutching the paper bag, just in case a panic attack overwhelmed me at the wrong moment.

She laughed that false laugh again and I wanted to smash the phone. I felt strangely offended that she’d use this laugh on me – after all these years she was using her TV voice and only speaking to me because she was scared I might tell.

‘I’m delighted to have won – but I don’t want the prize,’ I suddenly heard myself say.

Sylvia had just taken delivery of two more coffees and having taken a huge mouthful spat it everywhere. She was destined not to get any coffee that day.

‘Don’t?’ was all Bella said on the other end of the phone, I looked up to see her large face on screen, lips still quivering, eyes now darting around. Even I knew this would make good TV.

‘Yes...’ I cleared my throat. ‘I was inspired by you,’ I started, before going in for the kill, ‘I read once in an interview that you said you spend most Christmas Days at a homeless hostel near where you live.’

She nodded, uncertainly, clearly worried where this was going.

‘The thing is, I recently started to volunteer in my spare time at a local homeless shelter too – sadly there have been massive cuts made this year...’

She put her hand to her mouth in mock horror and I almost laughed.

‘...and there won’t be any money for Christmas dinner...’

‘Oh, aren’t you lovely?’ she gushed all over my words, mouth smiling, eyes dead, her voice filling the air with such sticky-toffee sweetness it made my jaw ache. ‘What a wonderful human being you are, Amy, fancy giving up your own time to help the homeless when you’re almost homeless yourself.’

‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I don’t have much, but I have enough. It’s crazy to say I’m almost homeless, I’m a teacher, I have a roof over my head, I’ve had a tough time but I’m not destitute. Me and my kids will eat at Christmas, my mum taught me how to make a wonderful Christmas dinner on a shoestring, she was a wonderful cook,’ I added pointedly. ‘Therefore I would like to donate my prize to the St Swithin’s Shelter for the homeless...where I would like you to come and spend some time cooking Christmas dinner with us all.’

The shock on her face was pure joy to see. ‘No, no, no,’ she blurted, too quickly, ‘we want this Christmas to be all about you. I want to give YOU a Bella Christmas,’ the camera closed in on her face, a study in horror.

‘But Bella, these people have nothing, and nothing to look forward to except Christmas dinner at the shelter...’

‘NO,’ she almost shouted.

‘Okay...it’s your call, you can make that happen. Or not.’

She looked like she was about to collapse. Someone was obviously giving her instructions in her ear and she huffed and puffed. ‘A percentage of the proceeds from Bella’s Books is always donated to deserving charities at this time of year,’ she suddenly piped up, her composure coming back as if she’d been given the lifeline she needed to get out of this.

‘Yes, but having you there, helping them cook and give them back some dignity will mean so much more than a cheque in the post. We can show the country their plight at Christmas...well
you
can Bella...surely this isn’t asking too much of a woman who gives so much.’

‘No, I’m sorry ...’

‘Not only could you provide 100 homeless people with Christmas dinner, but if you bring your cameras, with your celebrity we can draw attention to the problem. You can give them the Christmas gift of a future,’ I said, completely over-dramatising.

I heard voices in the background, saw her anxiously shaking her head on screen. She was listening to instructions in her ear again.

‘Look, Amy,’ she started, her voice as steely as her kitchen knives. ‘If you
insist
on doing something for the...
homeless,’
she said through gritted teeth, ‘then let me send them some of my Bella’s Bakes? They are now available online,’ she added brightly, giving out the website address without missing a chance to plug the merchandise.

‘So what are you saying...let them eat cake – Christmas cake perhaps?’ I asked, knowing this comment wouldn’t be lost on the public, or any bloggers and journalists watching.

‘No...no...’ she stared at the screen, panic rising in her eyes, lips twisting into a grimace. She’d never encountered conflict or questioning on her cosy cookery programme, she’d only ever been feted by fans, and faced with me she was lost.

‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful,’ I went on, ‘but anyone can cook a family lunch, and Christmas lunch for under ten people is like a Sunday lunch with knobs on. But Bella, this lunch could involve up to a 100 people – maybe more, all hungry, all poor, all probably cold – and
all
deserving.’

‘Oh no... oh, hang on, my producer’s telling me...oh fuck!’ she said, giving an audible gasp, as did Sylvia.

‘It’s live, please don’t say “fu...”’ I started.

‘Oh God, stop... no. Oh yes, yes,’ she cried, looking almost tearful.

‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘So that’s a yes. Thank you, Bella, I’m so looking forward to this...’ But I’d already been cut off, and when I looked at the screen Bella was now talking about ‘swollen fruits’ in her Christmas pudding like she hadn’t just said the F-word live on air.

I put down the phone, feeling slightly uncomfortable about what I’d just done. It wasn’t in my nature to be so forceful, so assertive, but anger was driving me – I just kept thinking about my mum and the people of St Swithin’s. I’d also thought about the Neils and Bellas of the world, who’d hurt me and left me behind without even looking back, and felt justified. I was determined to turn the tables for once and make some of my own demands on behalf of me and my mum, who’d always been a doormat for the likes of Bella’s family.

‘You bloody dark horse,’ Sylvia said, hugging me like I’d just run a marathon (I felt like I had). ‘I don’t know what that was all about, I bloody love you right now. Beatrice is going to have a heart attack when she finds out and the residents are going to think they’ve won the lottery. I don’t believe it.’ And after mauling me into another bear hug she preceded to jump around the postage-stamp size office like a woman possessed. Fortunately Paul Watkins wasn’t around to film this - or the moment the TV fell off the wall.

Later that day I received a call from Crimson. ‘Lucky girl,’ she started, sarcasm dripping down the phone. ‘A car will pick you up at your home tomorrow morning at 7 a.m. and bring you to Dovecote – it’s only about twenty miles, so you should be here by 7.30. It will take a couple of days to film, so bring something to wear. Bella’s looking forward to a big old catch-up.’

I bet she is, I thought, and so am I. ‘That’s good, because there’s a lot to talk about,’ I said, and put down the phone. I immediately texted Sylvia to confirm it was all happening, then I texted the kids, who said ‘Go Mum!’ (Jamie) and ‘OMG that’s fantastic! What are you going to wear?’ (Fiona). I hadn’t even had chance to think about clothes – perhaps it was time to treat myself to a couple of TV outfits after work?

I wandered around the local retail park that evening, fighting with frenzied Christmas shoppers just to find something to wear. I wanted something understated but colourful to wear for my TV debut, but it wasn’t easy amid the mass consumer panic. I couldn’t concentrate on shopping, I just kept wondering how Bella would greet me after all these years. What would the dynamic be? If the phone call was anything to go by I reckoned she might push my face in one of her ‘naughty’ custard tarts! Whatever happened, I couldn’t wait to see Bella Bradley unplugged, in her own home without cameras and make-up. Perhaps under all that slap and botox I’d be able to dig deeper. Who knows, I might find my old friend in there somewhere?