Bella's Christmas Bake Off (17 page)

‘Oh, you’ve always been happier around people than I have, Ames... I’ve never been comfortable sharing, and now it’s even worse because I have to be so careful what I say in case it gets back to the tabloids. They are relentless, they even did a story on Pussy Galore last week – did you see it? They said she’d been shagging the local Tom Cat “in the walled garden of Bella’s £3m Cotswold mansion” – they didn’t even get that right, Dovecote is worth far more than that.’

‘Poor Pussy Galore having her honour besmirched by the press,’ I giggled. Bella’s white Persian cat was almost as famous as her owner, often joining her on the sofa during filming, adding to the glamour. She’d even done some cat fashion shoots, modelling cat dresses and collars. And in the previous year’s Christmas special she’d worn a designer gown and a handmade tiara... both costing more than my monthly pay cheque.

‘Where is Pussy anyway? I haven’t seen her about the house?’

‘Oh he died... two weeks ago. Terrible timing given that we had this big Christmas Special.’

‘Oh no, you loved that cat...’

‘No I didn’t... he made me sneeze. It wasn’t even mine. Pussy Galore was an animal actor called Bert, we hired him for the show. I was bloody furious when he dropped dead like that... Fliss tried to stop the cheque, but it was too late.’

‘So you read everything on autocue, you rarely bake, and now you’re telling me that Pussy Galore... is a boy...?’ I said, feeling like I was suddenly in a Christmas mystery – ‘The Secrets of Dovecote Hall.’

‘Yeah. But not a word, about any of it. Fliss ordered another Pussy Galore to be delivered this afternoon but he scampered off and Fliss is distraught, she’s been chain smoking since it happened – didn’t you hear her shouting ‘‘where’s my pussy’’ all afternoon?’ I nodded – I’d been only too aware of Fliss making like a chimney and shouting about her pussy, but quite honestly this wasn’t anything unusual where Fliss was concerned.

‘Anyway, the new Pussy Galore – the one who escaped – is called Keith,’ she giggled and rolled her eyes at the madness of it all. ‘I told you, Amy, there’s no place to hide. As if my life’s not hard enough, I now have pussy problems,’ she spluttered into her coffee.

‘How funny. TV is a strange and magical world, isn’t it?’ I said, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland after she’s taken the potion – nothing was what it seemed. ‘Are you really Bella?’ I laughed. ‘Or... are you an actor called Fred wearing a wig and dentures?’

She smiled at this, but in an ironic sort of way. ‘I don’t think there’s an actress anywhere who could play me, I play the part too well...but yes, you guessed it – I wear a wig, my hair’s not as thick and lustrous as it was, whose is?’ I didn’t say anything, it was yet another confirmation of how tough it was to stay at the top – and how many lies she had to tell to stay there.

‘I couldn’t live like you, Bella, in a world where everyone wakes up for the camera and then falls back to sleep as soon as it’s turned off,’ I said as we got up from our chairs and headed out into the darkness. I linked her arm in mine like we used to as girls as we walked back up the long gravel drive to the house. ‘I’d feel like I was losing myself.’

‘Bella lost herself a long time ago, love. And don’t get me started on the Silver Fox...’

‘What do you mean?’ I swallowed, I could take a wig and a fake ham and even a Pussy Galore called Bert... but Peter, the husband who couldn’t get enough of Bella’s delicious titbits? Was he not everything he seemed either? ‘You and Peter are happy... aren’t you?’

‘Oh I can’t really talk about it. If anything got out I’d be ruined... mind you, like I said to Fliss, I could write one hell of an autobiography. The stuff I’d tell would stun the world.’

‘About your marriage, you mean?’

‘My marriage is some of it, yes – my marriage isn’t about love, it’s about money,’ she sighed. ‘Then there’s the other thing...’

Suddenly Tim appeared at my elbow and I wanted to swat him away because Bella was just beginning to open up to me, but Bella seemed almost relieved that Tim’s arrival had stopped her from saying too much.

‘I love your hat, Tim,’ she said, referring to his headwear – bunny ears and a sprig of holly.

‘Yes, darling, Kevin Spacey bought it for me when we did Shakespeare together in London... “Tim,” he said, “you are literally
the
best director I have ever had the privilege to work with”.’

‘Well, I think you’re the best director I’ve worked with too – compared to Kevin, I’m nothing, but it’s not all about the biggest and the best, you know, Tim,’ Bella teased.

I had to smile at this.

‘Thank you, my love. Can I walk you ladies back to the big house for bedtime?’ he said, grabbing my arm with one hand and Bella’s with the other and guiding us both back to the house. My heart sank– what on earth had Bella been about to tell me?

B
ack inside Dovecote
it was clear Bella didn’t want to talk any more, and she rushed upstairs two at a time, presumably to see Peter. Meanwhile, my head was fizzing with our last conversation and what she could possibly mean about her marriage... and she said there was other stuff too – it would ‘stun the world’, she’d said. I tried to put it from my head, there was nothing I could do and would have to wait and see if, at some point in the next day or two, she would tell me. I’d seen a glimpse of the old Bella that evening, I’d seen her vulnerability which she rarely revealed to anyone. Who knew what might happen in the future with our friendship, but just spending time with her and laughing like we used to lifted some of the heavy weight of guilt I’d been carrying around all these years. Her mother had forced her into that abortion and I’d always wondered if it had affected her fertility. Hearing that it had been her and Peter’s choice not to have children was a huge relief.

Back in my room I closed the door and breathed deeply. It smelt of vanilla and Christmas, the sting of pine fragrance from the huge Christmassy flower arrangement creating a delicious Christmassy cocktail of scent. The whole conversation with Bella about being childless had made me think how lucky I was. I longed to hug my kids and couldn’t wait to see them after Christmas, but for now a text would have to do. I sent them both the same one, asking if they were ok, and that I was having an amazing time and loved them very much.

Jamie’s was typical, with just an ‘All good, see u Boxing Day. x’ but Fiona’s was more ‘Fiona’, asking me about Bella ‘what’s she really like Mum? Have you two made friends now? I can’t wait to hear all about it. Love you. X’

I held my phone to my chest, both my children were happy and well and nothing else really mattered in the great scheme of things. I gazed around the lovely room, feeling very lucky - the beautiful bedspread had been turned down by Bella’s housekeeper and those soft pillows and high count cotton were inviting. But first – a steaming hot bath in the lovely tiled bathroom. My fingers ran along the Molten Brown bath products lining the shelf above the bath, all in the same shade of gold and chocolate. I chose Black Peppercorn body wash, which exuded a warming aromatic spiciness as I poured it under the running tap. As I undressed and sunk into the deep, hot bath, I knew I was tasting a little flake of Bella’s life and I lay there for a while, the bubbles melting as I wondered some more about her secrets. Perhaps it wasn’t a physical inability to have children... but an emotional one after what happened? And I wondered again if she regretted not having children and if it was more Peter’s idea than hers. Climbing out of the bath, I wrapped the fluffy robe around me, thinking how money must make Bella feel cosseted and cared for. It was easy for Bella to mistake material luxuries for love, because she’d never known real love from her parents, just beautiful things instead.

I imagined now that the soft robes, silky bubbles and deep luxurious cream carpets offered a kind of loving for Bella. Her feet were hugged in the carpets, her body caressed in designer fabrics by day and cashmere and silk by night. Being Bella must be like living in a luxury hotel permanently, I thought – all her needs catered to and every sensory pleasure at her fingertips.

The hot bath and the peppercorn bubbles had re-awakened me and instead of flopping straight into bed I did some exploring. I padded around the bedroom casually opening draws and squirting ‘Christmas Heaven’ room scent everywhere and imagining this was my home, my life – it felt good. The bedroom even had a bowl of jelly beans and a one-touch lighting/sound system, which I decided I’d steer clear of. I wasn’t sure about sound systems and it was a little late to be experimenting with noise when everyone else was probably asleep. My trouser suit was hanging on the door frame – the steam from the bathroom had softened the creases slightly by now, so I popped it in the wardrobe.

As I did, I spotted a lovely hatbox in the corner of the wardrobe floor and moved the few coats in there so I could see it better. The box was Tiffany blue with a scrawled figure of a woman in a hat – very fifties, very designer, very Bella. I imagined the hat inside was probably quite beautiful and expensive and she’d probably worn it only once, knowing her.

Reaching in to pull it out, the box was slightly heavier than I’d anticipated and it suddenly occurred to me that it might not actually contain a hat at all. I reminded myself it wasn’t mine to open and I was being very nosy and intruding on someone else’s stuff – but still, I pulled it out of the wardrobe, sat on the floor and slowly lifted that beautiful lid.

Inside the box were notes and cards. On top were postcards from various glamorous locations and underneath were Christmas and Birthday cards. There was no semblance of order, they’d all just been put in randomly. But delving deep and looking at some of the dates, the further down I went, the older the notes and cards were. Among the cards were old photos of Bella as a little girl with her parents, on Father Christmas’s knee and one of the two of us in the kitchen at home. We must have been about seven, both smiling widely, big gaps in our teeth, icing on our faces, so happy. Mum must have taken the picture with Bella’s camera – I couldn’t help but be pleased she’d kept it all these years.

I delved deeper and deeper, postcards, receipts, more photos, and then I came across them, my Christmas cards to Bella. She’d kept each one and not just the ones with recipes inside. I was touched to find them in this box full of mementoes she’d obviously kept for years. Then I saw the postcard she’d mentioned, the one from her mother saying, ‘I’ve moved to Sydney.’ As Bella had said, it was short and sweet, no kisses or declarations of maternal love and longing saying how she was missing her – how very Jean, I thought. I rummaged a little deeper but was beginning to feel uncomfortable – I was in Bella’s home rifling through her personal stuff. It might feel like I was staying in a hotel room, but that didn’t make it right, so I stopped myself from looking any further and carefully put everything back in the box. As I gathered everything together, a card slipped out from inside another one, and I couldn’t resist picking it up. The pale pink of the card was pretty and on the front of the card was a message in pink that said, ‘On the Birth of your Baby Girl.’ I was intrigued, I knew I shouldn’t, but I opened the card and read it... ‘Congratulations Bella, and welcome to the world baby Cressida, from all at the Hostel.’

I
sat
on the floor for a while reading and re-reading the card, trying to work out if there was a different interpretation to the obvious one – that perhaps Bella hadn’t had an abortion after all? Turning the card round there was a date written in ink on the back – 25
^th
August 1992. That would tie in with Bella’s pregnancy. My head was everywhere – and kept coming back to the same question: if Bella had the baby, where was she now?

I lay in bed, knowing that despite the lovely soft sheets and sumptuous pillows I wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. My head was full of so many questions. What had happened to Bella all those years ago? Her mother had told me when I’d called that she’d made ‘the appointment’ for the termination, but had Bella refused to go? Is that why her mother had thrown her out onto the streets?

It must have been about an hour later when I heard the sound of raised voices in the hallway. One sounded like Bella, the other voice sounded deeper – like a man’s... the Silver Fox perhaps?

I wondered if he knew about Bella’s past, about the pregnancy? That explained why Bella was so worried I’d go to the press, a few stolen recipes was one thing, but a child out there somewhere was something else entirely. Here was a woman who presented a perfect picture of female happiness and accomplishment, the perfect life, the perfect wife. A teenage birth wouldn’t quite fit into the story Fliss and Bella had created over the years, and as for Peter, who knew where he fit in? I was intrigued by their relationship, and had always wanted a taste of that wave-crashing love that they clearly had... but what challenges they must have faced. I pressed my head against my own bedroom door to catch snippets of conversation. I couldn’t help it, I felt like I was in the middle of a reality show, wanting a peek into their private lives, longing to know their secrets and what would happen next. I knew the master bedroom where they slept was round the corner, so I could open my own door without being spotted, and I couldn’t resist. I slowly, carefully, turned the handle and leaned out into the hallway, which made the door creak and a floorboard complain. These lovely old houses had their disadvantages, especially if you fancied yourself as a bit of a Miss Marple. I needn’t have worried, any creaking noises I made were soon drowned out by the increasingly loud argument now coming from the master bedroom.

‘Bella, I’ve told you. I won’t go through the charade again, we’ve been telling lies for too long, it’s got to stop...’

‘But Peter give it another year... please darling. You know how much it will hurt me, think of the show...’

‘I’m sorry, Bella, it’s not just about you and me, it’s not fair... there’s another person to consider here too.’

Lies? Hurt? Three people? This wasn’t what their love story was all about – where were the white lace and promises? And more importantly who was the third person Peter was referring to? Did he mean Bella’s child... or, God forbid, another woman? Oh dear, I suddenly felt as I had with the hatbox, like I shouldn’t be doing this... like a child who’d come upon unsavoury adult stuff she didn’t understand. Yet... I couldn’t tear myself away. Bella had been trying to open up to me and each time we were interrupted – perhaps her marriage wasn’t so happy after all, and if I listened I might get some clue as to what the problem was. I looked at the whimsical drawings of a Dickensian Christmas on the landing wall by the huge festive flower arrangement as I listened to the urgent bickering coming from the master bedroom. Bella’s perfect Christmas, her wonderful life, was turning out to be quite different from the one I’d imagined. God only knows what was going on, but the conversation between her and Peter was clearly private and serious and I really shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But I crept out onto the landing, causing the bloody door to squeak loud and long and they must have heard it because they stopped talking. After a brief interlude, I heard more angry mutterings and the sound of someone storming from the master bedroom, and slamming another bedroom door. From my hallway vantage point I could hear Bella continuing to shout at Peter something about ‘tramp camp,’ which I assumed meant our war hero was now in the Nigella room. I had to smile, imagining the rugged Silver Fox lounging sulkily in a black silk fringed boudoir after a silly row with his wife. I waited a few minutes and as I moved slowly backwards against the wall I felt something move behind me and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I tried not to scream and slowly turned round to see Pussy Galore II had returned from wherever he’d escaped to earlier. I wondered if he answered to his stage name or was merely Keith out of hours but whatever it was he was rubbing himself up against my legs and purring loudly. I looked down and a big white fluffy face looked up and meowed so loudly I was worried someone might hear him... and find me loitering outside other people’s bedrooms like a weirdo. So I picked Keith up, wrapping him gently in my dressing gown to turn his volume down and slowly backed along the hall in the direction of my room. I was bent down, moving backwards at some speed when I suddenly became aware of someone watching me. Fliss was standing in the hall, spiky hair on end, in a black silk dressing gown decked in black and white marabou trim and frou-frou slippers. One had to wonder how many muppets had died to make that gown.

‘Amy dahling, are you in pain?’

She was bending down to my level, probably trying to check my pupils to see if I was on medication – and who could blame her? I doubt many other houseguests at Dovecote had been found stalking the hallways backwards in the middle of the night with a cat in their cleavage.

‘Pussy! It’s Pussy... you’ve found her?’

‘Well, he ... it’s Keith.’

‘Ssshhh dahling, it’s Pussy Galore, not a word to anyone regarding his real identity or we’ll all be ruined,’ she said theatrically placing her finger on her own lips.

‘Yes, yes of course. It’s just that he was rubbing himself against me and next thing is he’s snuggling into my chest.’

‘That’s what they all say, dear,’ she guffawed, reaching into my cleavage to ruffle Keith’s fur, which was disturbing for both me and the cat. ‘Pussy only arrived this afternoon, didn’t you gorgeous,’ she was nose to nose with Keith... and my breasts. ‘One minute he was a fluffy bundle of love the next a pinwheeling ball of hate and kitty claws before disappearing into thin air,’ she giggled.

I just prayed Keith wasn’t about to repeat the afternoon’s ‘pinwheel’ performance up against my breasts - my décolletage would never be the same again.

‘Yes, Bella did say he’d escaped,’ I said, trying to extricate him from my chest, but even as I bent down to put Keith on the floor he clung for dear life and I felt it safer to let him have his own way.

‘Ha, I assume Pussy’s with you tonight?’ she said, smiling at his stubbornness. ‘Do keep an eye on him, dear, we don’t want him running off again, I don’t think my heart could take the stress.’

I nodded, I’d conceded to his demands and he was back purring in my arms, his head rubbing up against my chin and I was cat-sitting for the rest of the night.

‘Now you and Pussy Galore had better get some sleep,’ she said, gathering up her gown. ‘You’re both required for filming in the morning – and one of you is wearing a Santa’s Little Helper ra-ra skirt,’ she teetered off, back to the Martha Stewart room on her fluffy mules, giggling to herself.

I watched her go, silently stroking Keith and hoping to God the ra-ra skirt planned for tomorrow was his and not mine. Once she’d disappeared round the corner I returned briskly to the Mary Berry room, putting on the bedside lamp and lying back on the plaid quilt, where Keith happily joined me. My heart was pounding... it was all too much, what with Bella and Peter screeching at each other, and Fliss stalking the hallways in the middle of the night. What the hell was going on at Dovecote? You couldn’t make it up – and Bella was right, the tabloids would love a snapshot of her life – marital rows, mad agents and errant pussies.