by Sue Watson
I gazed out of the open car window at huge, twirling snowdrops now falling heavily from the whitest skies, slowly turning the golden Cotswold stone to sparkly white. The buildings were a lovely cliché of a Christmas shortbread tin – the kind you can never throw away even when it’s empty. It was like a film set of Dickensian England, with tumbledown tea rooms and gift shops selling stuff you will never need but can’t resist buying just because you’re there. I spotted a lovely deli and imagined Bella shopping there for artisan breads and Italian olives, before popping into the gorgeous little tea rooms for hot Earl Grey and designer scones. We swept past the fabulously expensive interiors shop at the end of the high street and I just knew Bella would have an account there. It housed some of the most beautiful but expensive stuff I’d ever seen – a cushion cost as much as one of our sofas – I bet those cushions were scattered everywhere at Dovecote. Oh yes, this place was unreal, beautiful, and from what I’d seen of her on the telly over the years it was very, very Bella.
‘Looks like this snow’s going to stick,’ Frank the driver predicted from his front seat and I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to say, how to address him – I’d never been chauffeur-driven before and I felt quite uncomfortable. I suppose it was something Bella was used to, she must be driven everywhere. There you go again, I thought – I had to move on, stop comparing our lives and just enjoy the ride – literally. It was nice being able to sit back and enjoy the scenery.
‘Some of these buildings date back to the sixteenth century and even earlier,’ the driver said, coming over all tour guide-ish.
‘Gosh,’ I responded, ‘I feel like we’re back there – it’s so different, like driving into the past…’ which was just what I was doing by going to see Bella.
Bella’s family might have had money, but her parents were always at work in their business and they had little time for their only child. One year when we were both ten, her mother asked if Bella could stay with us for Christmas. I’d overheard Mum telling my nan in a slightly angry voice that it was because they wanted to go somewhere warm for a holiday and didn’t want ‘the hassle’ of a child. As we’d never had a holiday apart from the odd day out at Weston, I thought of warm places as ovens and fires and in my childlike way thought they wanted to leave Bella with my mum for Christmas because it would be safer and happier than this furnace-like holiday location. But Mum said to Nan she was shocked any parent could leave their child at Christmas and told me to pretend to Bella it was me who asked if she could stay with us to spare her feelings.
‘But Mum, that’s not true,’ I’d said, frowning and confused at the mixed messages adults sometimes gave us. ‘You said I mustn’t tell lies.’
‘There are some lies that you can tell,’ she’d explained, stroking my hair, ‘and this is a good lie because it will stop Bella from being upset. This is our secret Amy – and you must never tell anyone a secret.’
When Mum ‘broke it’ to Bella that she wouldn’t be having Christmas in her own home we both waited for the tears, but after a moment to process the information, Bella was delighted. She was needy, attention-seeking and lonely – and in the absence of her own family around the kitchen table, she had mine. This is just one of the many reasons why I was finding her theft of Mum’s recipes so hard to take. How could she take my mother’s kindness and use it for profit? I didn’t understand how she could do this to someone who’d done so much for her, but I was determined that one way or another spoiled brat Bella was going to pay for this.
Sweeping past the high street on the way to Dovecote, we were suddenly surrounded by fields. They were patchy now, but soon a blanket of white would cover them completely, the driver was right, this snow was sticking, and ten minutes later when we pulled in to Bella’s sweeping drive, her enormous Cotswold-stone home was virtually white.
It looked just like the cover of a Christmas ‘House Beautiful’. She couldn’t have planned it better for her TV show, the snowy exterior, lights twinkling in the bay, trees on either side of the huge double doors, and a golden glow coming from inside the kitchen. As we drove around the side, we were greeted with a bustling scene of TV vans parking up, cameras and crew being unloaded and even a small marquee being erected on the acres of lawn. I took everything in, eager for my first glimpse inside Bella’s world.
‘What’s that?’ I asked the driver, pointing to the large white tent almost disappearing in the snow.
‘Canteen, for the crew to eat…the food truck’s round the back, out of shot.’
‘Oh…I would have thought as it’s a cookery show the crew would eat what’s cooked in the kitchen.’
‘Ha ha, oh no, love. It doesn’t work like that…besides, I’m not sure I’d want Bella’s cooking!’
I thought that was perhaps a bit rude, she wasn’t a great cook when I’d known her, but she seemed very competent and creative on screen - when she was using her own recipes. The world of TV was a mystery to me so I didn’t ask any more. I supposed Bella was busy cooking for the cameras and didn’t have time to make meals for the TV crew while she was filming. I didn’t blame her either, there were too many mouths to feed – as the TV crew congregated on the front lawn I was amazed to see just how many people were involved in the making of one programme.
I almost felt my legs give way as I climbed out of the car, it all felt so unreal, I was here at Dovecote and finally about to meet Bella after all these years. As I waited for the driver to unload my bags I was suddenly accosted by a rather anxious woman who introduced herself as Felicity, Bella’s agent. ‘Dahling,’ she squealed, bundling me into the house before I could even say hello.
‘Hi Felicity…’ I started.
‘Call me Fliss, it saves time,’ she said brusquely, running her hands through her short blonde hair, her face beautifully made up but not concealing the stress around her eyes. As she ushered me in, I was able to take in her bright pink outfit with matching kitten heels, which seemed quite out of balance for her short, wide stature.
Standing in that huge hallway with stone floor and an impossibly high ceiling, I had to stop and stare. I’d seen it many times on the TV, but here, now, I couldn’t believe I was actually standing there. ‘Wow, it’s so beautiful,’ I gasped.
‘It’s not a bad old bothy, is it?’ Fliss sighed, looking around. ‘It’s swallowed up half my life and all of Bella’s – this kind of real estate comes at a high price, my dear,’ she looked at me then looked away quickly.
‘Now, we want you to enjoy your stay’, she said, suddenly moving on, with one foot on the stairs. ‘Whatever you may think, and for whatever reason you’re really here, we want you to enjoy this whole Christmas experience. But I beg you, please keep anything you may see or hear to yourself.’
‘Like what?’ I asked puzzled, but before she could answer I heard Bella’s voice.
‘Do you like my home then?’
I looked up to the top of the huge staircase where the voice was coming from and nodded.
‘It’s lovely… hello Bella.’
She was standing at the top of the stairs peering through the weight of holly boughs and mistletoe. I saw the arm of a red cashmere robe and below were slippers shaped like elephants (I’d seen them online, they cost as much as last year’s family holiday). Eventually she peered round the boughs of holly and our eyes met for the first time in over twenty years.
‘It’s you, Amy… it is you, after all these years.’ Her arms were out to welcome me, but the rest of her body language was saying something quite different. Her smile wasn’t reaching her eyes and she wasn’t moving towards me – the message was clear – she wasn’t coming downstairs to me, I had to go upstairs to Bella.
There was an awkward silence where I didn’t move and we just looked at each other. It felt less like two old friends and more like a stand-off in a western. What did I expect? She was being forced to entertain me here in her beautiful home and she simply didn’t want me around. I was the past, her past – and I knew too much. This
was purely about her ‘playing nicely’ to keep me quiet and keep her secrets and lies concealed from her adoring public, including her staff and the TV crew. It must have been a strange situation for Bella, who’d never done anything she didn’t want to do in her life. As a kid her parents had spoiled her with money and ‘things’ to compensate for their absence and now she was indulged by everyone around her because of her fame. It must have been quite a shock having me suddenly reappear like the ghost of Christmas past.
I was still looking up the stairs and she was still looking down. It might have stayed that way for hours, but she suddenly seemed to remember why I was there – and put on her TV Bella mask.
‘Let me show you your room, Amy,’ she said, her face lit with false brightness. ‘You’re in the Mary Berry room, follow me.’ She headed off down the landing and I was clearly expected to follow – one nil to Bella.
Fliss galloped behind Bella up the thickly carpeted stairway on those poor kitten heels, no doubt keen to keep her PR eye on proceedings, while I went to grab my bags, but a young man appeared at my side and took them. Bella had staff! There were various people milling around who looked like they belonged here, a woman was polishing mirrors, another was running upstairs with a breakfast tray, no doubt for Bella. Wow, I thought – I have to carry my own bags and make my own breakfast – how far she’s come.
‘Come on Amy, we’ve got a programme to make my love,’ Bella was now calling me from the top of the stairs.
I nodded and took my time, I didn’t rush - Bella may be calling the shots, but I didn’t have to dance to her tune.
‘All the bedrooms are named after famous TV chefs. The Jamie Oliver is a butch, rough-and-ready rustic style, Martha Stewart is clean and fresh – nice plaids and contrasting New England shades…’ Bella was saying.
‘But no bars on the windows!’ Fliss added, roaring with laughter as she staggered up the final step.
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 h
er 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.