Bella's Christmas Bake Off (10 page)

Bella was standing in the doorway of ‘The Delia Smith’, and as we reached her she smiled at me and I almost glimpsed the old Bella. ‘The Delia’s all about team colours, yellow and green and bloody footballs everywhere, I can’t stand it – but Delia would love it,’ she winked. I smiled, bemused by her apparent friendliness, was she thawing so soon? I hoped so – perhaps it was a sign she would concede to my ‘demands’ and not just her way of charming me so I gave up and went home.

‘I love Jamie and Nigella and Mary,’ she sighed, drifting back into TV Bella voice, ‘and I live in hope that one magical night they will all come to stay in their own rooms at the same time – imagine.’

‘That would be good,’ I said.

‘Good?’ Fliss interrupted. ’Dahling, it would be a PR feat of epic proportions – imagine the ten-page spread in Hello for that one? No...no, scratch that, it would be a PULL-OUT, or a souvenir special at least...oh be still my beating heart. Dahling, it’s the kind of spread an agent like me dreams of.’

Fliss was such a drama queen you couldn’t ignore her – but Bella was obviously used to this high-octane performance, she just rolled her eyes and carried on down the hall. I simply followed, feeling the soft carpet beneath and drinking in the panelled walls, the beautiful artwork and the clever lighting, illuminating the beautiful bits while hiding any flaws. As much as I hated decadence I was fascinated by Bella’s world– and the sheer luxury of being able to devote empty rooms to named culinary celebrities was amazing to me. Especially now I’d have to downsize when I sold the house.

‘You’ll love The Mary Berry,’ Bella was saying. ‘It’s safe and secure, and sleeping in there is like being wrapped in a mother’s arms...don’t worry, I don’t mean
my
mother’s arms,’ she giggled. ‘I wouldn’t do that to anyone – not even my worst enemy,’ she said, holding my stare a little too long. I looked away awkwardly, her mother’s coldness was obviously still an issue in Bella’s life. She hadn’t been lucky like me – I suppose the parents we’re born to is all down to luck and poor Bella got the short straw on that one. ‘Nigella’s lovely,’ she said, quickly moving on, anything remotely distasteful was quickly disposed of in Bella’s world. She was gesturing towards a black painted door on the other side of the hall: ‘Scarlet velvet walls, black silk, huge pendulous chandelier...but the whole concept’s a bit tramp-camp for my tastes,’ she added, turning up her nose.

By now we’d arrived at yet another huge landing bedecked with Christmas arrangements, a large wooden banister decorated in green garlands and framed pictures of Dickens’ book titles decorated the walls.

‘I’m doing Dickens this year,’ Bella gestured towards the pictures.

‘Yes, I read about your Dickensian Christmas in The Radio Times,’ I smiled. The smell of pine was spiky and strong, laced with oranges and cloves, it was so Christmassy and despite everything I couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver of anticipation. ‘It’s very festive,’ I remarked as she ushered me along the corridor to The Mary Berry Room.

She asked Fliss to arrange some coffee and when she’d gone Bella opened the door. ‘Sometimes I just have to get Fliss out of my face,’ she sighed, dropping her TV persona temporarily, for which I was very grateful.

‘Yes, I can see she is quite a face full,’ I smiled.

‘So, here you are, the Mary Berry Room,’ she said, waving me in.

Walking into the room, I was suddenly so rapt by the interior I almost forgot why I was there. The walls were pale buttermilk, and I don’t think I’d ever seen a bed quite so huge – circular, like a ginormous wedding cake, piled with enormous cream cushions dotted with rosebuds. The carpet was thick and expensive and there was a huge portrait of Mary Berry over the fireplace, looking like European royalty in a tiara and off-the-shoulder gown. A large bookcase lining the wall was stuffed with Mary Berry cookery books, and on the bedside table Mary’s autobiography lay by a signed, framed photo of the veteran kitchen goddess in pastel cardigan and pearls. It really was the most elegant style and I couldn’t help thinking that Mary Berry would have very much approved.

‘Ames...’ Bella said, bringing me back into the here and now.

I looked at her and detected panic in her eyes, pleading in her voice as she spoke, ‘I can’t say too much out there, in front of everyone, but I was surprised when you called. I did want to see you, after everything happened, you disappeared and...I couldn’t trust anyone ever again after what you did...’

‘I know, but I couldn’t find you.’

‘I sent you some postcards years ago, did you get them?’

‘Yes, I wrote back, but you kept moving...’

‘I had to Amy...’

I was about to respond, but just at that point a man popped his head round the door.

‘Ladies,’ he said.

‘Oh...hi Tim. Amy, this is tiny Tim, the director, he’s short with an attitude but he gets there in the end,’ Bella laughed, consummately covering her frustration at his ill-timed arrival. I was irritated too – I was just getting somewhere with Bella and maybe we could have cleared the air a little – our conversation was awkward and stilted and I doubted we’d resolve anything if it stayed that way.

Tim looked quite put out at Bella’s ‘Tiny Tim’ reference, but I suspect he was a little scared of Bella who was after all the presenter and queen of Christmas.

He held out his hand. ‘And you’re our “real person”, as opposed to all the fakes around here,’ he said, looking at Bella, who smirked and turned away.

‘Yes – I’m real. I’m Amy – I won the prize.’

‘Mmmm and
what
a prize,’ he said. I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or sarcastic. ‘I must tell you... Amy?’

I nodded.

‘I don’t normally do these gigs... I’m usually treading the boards, I’m a born thespian...’

‘A born what?’ Bella was teasing him, gently but with edge, she’d always had a wicked sense of humour.

‘Theatre to you,’ he snapped back. ‘Sorry Amy, but Bella only understands TV baking,’ he winked at her but I could tell he meant it.

‘Amy, I’ve just spent the last two weeks in Eastern Europe serving some salty Shakespeare,’ he smiled as Bella headed off down the hallway back to the stairs. Any inroads that had been made had been undone by Tim’s arrival and the way he was now monopolising me. Bella couldn’t seem to get away fast enough.

‘I’m good with a camera, but I’m better with a proscenium arch...’ he was saying, as we followed Bella in hot pursuit, ‘give me the smell of the greasepaint every time.’ I tried to look impressed. I didn’t want to know about this stranger, I wanted to see Bella, talk to her properly after all this time, but Tim was in my face and now Fliss had reappeared with a cameraman.

Standing on the bottom stair and leaning against the wall, barring my escape, Tim was determined to tell me all about himself. Warming to his theme, his eyes meeting mine, his hands were in an over-the-top wringing gesture; ‘It’s all about performance, Amy.’

Bella appeared again having swept through the kitchen on her way to make-up. ‘The nearest thing you’ll get to “a performance” is Widow Twanky and a six-week stint in Cinderella in Margate,’ she laughed.

He was hissing, she was spitting, but it was all in good humour – Tim seemed to enjoy being teased by Queen Bella.

‘I‘m about to take Amy into the sitting room and give her a quick debrief about how everything works,’ Fliss said, giving me a sideways look. I imagined she wanted to read me the riot act about what I could and couldn’t say and do. Yes, I’d no doubt given them all the impression I was on the verge of singing like a canary to the tabloids – but in my heart I could never do anything like that. Nevertheless, Bella and Fliss obviously didn’t trust me – which was fair enough, I didn’t trust anyone myself these days.

‘Amy and I have lots to catch up on...you can’t take her away from me,’ Bella said, like a little girl whose favourite toy was about to be snatched.

‘Yeah, but before you get your baubles in a twist we need to talk about what exactly you two are catching up on.’

‘Fliss, please, Amy’s only just arrived, she doesn’t want to find herself in the middle of a “domestic”, we have standards.’

‘I may be a PR genius but there are some things even I can’t cover up with Pan Stik and a double-page spread in Woman and Home,’ Fliss snapped back. ‘I need to be the first one to talk to Amy – she needs to know the score...’

‘There is no score!’ Bella said, with a familiar sulky look. ‘I know the script because you’ve told me a million times. As far as the crew are concerned she’s an old friend, to you and I she’s an old friend who’s threatening to blackmail me if I don’t go to some filthy hovel and spend Christmas Day making slop. But to our viewers she’s lovely Amy, who won the prize of a big, Bella Christmas,’ She said, turning on the TV cheer as if already on camera.

I started to protest, but couldn’t get a word in.

‘Yes – and all I need YOU to remember,’ Fliss said, pointing at me, ‘is that what happens in Dovecote stays in Dovecote... or the homeless starve.’

‘Charming,’ I said, thinking how like a pantomime villain she was – but before I could add anything, Fliss was off again.

‘I don’t need any of this. I could be in Aspen this Christmas, but instead I’m stuck here trying to make a silk purse out of the proverbial sow’s ear,’ Fliss was saying. ‘As if I don’t have enough to do, it’s looking like a great big “happy damage limitation Christmas” for me while I untangle your twisted youth – which just popped up like the Ghost of Christmas Past,’ she said, gesturing towards me. I’d been called some things but ‘Ghost of Christmas past’ was a new one.

‘Oh, take no notice of grumpy old Fliss,’ Bella smiled her charming smile. ‘You and me have lots to talk about Amy, so come through,’ she said, coldly, steering me out of the hall and into the elegant sitting room.

I heard Felicity’s voice grumbling and fading as we entered the room, which was cosy and ‘antiquey’ with duck-egg blue velvet sofas, enormous lamps and a huge hearth with a crackling log fire. Bella gently guided me to an armchair near the fire, the blast of heat was welcome after standing in the rather chilly hall, and as she took a seat opposite me she asked if ‘anybody anywhere’ was bringing her the coffee she’d asked for.

‘You have a lovely home,’ I started, feeling awkward, like I was talking to a complete stranger.

‘It
should
be lovely, it cost me a bloody fortune to buy, and even more to maintain, and it’s all real, no fake antiques at Dovecote,’ she said, gesturing to an old clock on the mantle.

‘Lovely,’ was all I could say. There was something about her demeanour, brittle and cold like her mother, the old Bella who’d appeared briefly upstairs, the one I’d known since childhood, wasn’t in the room.

I was upset, I’d only come to Dovecote for St Swithin’s and my mother – but meeting Bella again I realised that deep down I’d naively hoped it would be like old times. I suppose I’d hoped that when we finally met at Dovecote we’d just collapse into giggles immediately reverting to our younger selves, slipping back into that easy friendship of our youth. Perhaps that’s what I was looking for... my youth? I longed to see the real Bella, my old friend who I used to laugh with, the girl who was honest and open and hilarious. Yes, the old Bella had the potential to be annoying and a bit of a show-off sometimes, but this new TV Bella was an annoying show-off
all
the time. She pulled her robe around her, ‘I have to say, Amy, I didn’t expect to ever see you again,’ she started.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want you to feel I can’t be trusted.’

‘But you can’t be trusted,’ she said, looking incredulously at me.

‘Yes I can, Bella. Look, I know I came on a bit heavy about the recipes, but they’re important to me... and you took them.’

She stared at me through glassy eyes, but before she could answer the door of the sitting room swung open and a young girl dressed in rather dark clothing trudged in carrying a tray of coffee. She was what my kids would call ‘a Goth’ – her hair was dyed jet black and backcombed up, her eyes painted with thick, black eye-liner and her lips dark. I was surprised Bella had employed someone who looked like this, but perhaps this girl was good at her job?

‘Put it down there, Crimson darling, we’ll pour our own,’ Bella said, crossing her long legs and leaning forward.

‘Oh, Crimson?’ I said. ‘You’re the researcher I spoke to on the phone..?’

‘Yes... that’s right,’ the girl answered slowly like I was a child.

Bella ignored her and picked up the coffee pot. ‘Mother?’ she was smiling at me with an enquiring look on her face.

‘Yours or mine?’ I said. ‘Where shall we start?’ I was relieved and surprised she wanted to get down to the elephants in the room so quickly.

‘Oh...no, I meant the coffee. Shall I be mother and pour it for you?’ she said, like I was a complete idiot. I flushed and Crimson left the room sniggering.

‘Yes... you pour for me, thank you,’ I said, feeling stupid and trying not to sound tense... which was making me tense and stupid. I pulled my handbag towards me and discreetly checked to make sure I had a brown paper bag while hoping to God I wouldn’t need it. Imagine the scene, me and Bella meeting in her beautiful sitting room after all these years with so much to say, her sitting there all manicured and glossy and me dribbling into a brown paper bag.

This wasn’t how I’d imagined our first meeting. I’d hoped we could thrash out the past and get on with the present, but I suppose my hostel demands, accusations of theft and veiled threats of public exposure had put paid to that. Besides, Bella’s world was all so stage-managed now, the messy stuff of our youth, our mothers, stolen recipes and the homeless was probably deemed unmentionable in a room like this. Sitting here in her expensive world of privilege, I doubted Bella and I could ever pick up where we left off and be friends again. Just looking around at the antiques, the huge sash windows, the high ceilings and the Farrow and Ball wall shades was confirmation – if I needed any – that we now lived in very different worlds.

Bella poured black coffee into china cups from the ornate silver coffee pot, holding it high in her elegant hand, steam rising, a spectacular diamond glinting from her ring finger. As she handed me a cup and saucer, her perfect, scarlet nails touched my own unvarnished bitten ones and we both pulled away quickly.