‘Hey! You shouldn’t be looking at that.’ Bette was annoyed. ‘Screens are notoriously bad for headaches.’ She moved to the bedside, picked up the laptop, crossed the room and put it on the dressing table. ‘Trying to get on the internet? I’ll give you the password tomorrow. There’s plenty of time for that. I honestly don’t think you should look at that this evening. Now then, here’s a couple more ibuprofen. The head seems to be better which is great news. That ginger trick is brilliant, isn’t it? Come down and join us for some supper. It’s only soup and cheese. We’re holding back for tomorrow’s feast.’
Sara said quickly, ‘Bette, my head is slightly better but I’d rather spend the evening up here if that’s okay with you. Moving around can stir it up again. I want to be okay for tomorrow.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ Bette was clearly miffed. ‘Such a shame, especially as you’ve driven all this way and it’s Christmas Eve. Still, if that’s how you feel…’ She sat down on the bed and leant towards Sara. In a confidential tone she asked, ‘This may sound odd but I wondered if the headache had something to do with meeting Mike. You seemed fine until then.’
Exasperated, Sara answered her. ‘Of course not. What an absurd question, Bette.’
‘If you say so. I just wondered whether your bad experience meant you find dealing with any man tricky.’
‘No, no. Honestly, it was the drive that caused the headache. One hundred per cent. It’s hard for people who don’t experience migraines to understand them. They are not headaches. Much, much worse.’
‘Okay, okay, if you say so.’
The hint was in the words and the tone that Bette didn’t believe her. Sara wondered why she didn’t accept her word. A contest was starting.
‘I’ll bring you up a bowl of beef consommé, very good for invalids. Won’t be long.’
Sara was about to remind Bette that she wasn’t a meat eater but Bette shut the door rather louder than necessary.
Beef! Had she really forgotten that Sara avoided red meat? She had already discovered that Bette was not a woman to be thwarted. But then, Sara reminded herself, neither was she.
24 December 2017. Bette Davies’ Five-Year Diary
How I wish it were this time last year when little Lucy was nestling inside me and we were still so happy here. But I must try to carry on and make the best of it. Sara’s here so that should be fun. Wish Mike would cheer up a bit. He’s so angry all the time. Perhaps he will tomorrow. It’s Christmas!
16
25 December 2017. Cliff Edge
Bette yawned. She glanced at her watch. It was 7.42am and it was Christmas Day. The past few Christmases had been the happiest she had ever had. Her parents had been far too stingy even to get a turkey. She remembered that New Year’s Eve when she and Mike had had the first of what had gone on to be many nights of wonderful sex. And now, here they were, a miserable three stuck in the middle of nowhere. Mike was either still asleep or pretending to be. That’s what they both did a lot nowadays.
She got out of bed, showered in their en-suite bathroom, dried herself, threw on a thick towelling robe, slipped her feet into a pair of furry slippers and went downstairs.
Brynn greeted her with his usual enthusiasm and as she bent down to give him a cwtch while he licked her face, she thought he was the only good thing in her life and she thanked an invisible God (that she had absolutely no faith or belief in) for bringing him to her.
She went upstairs with a mug of tea and a packet of paracetamol and down the balcony to Sara’s room. She quietly opened the door and popped her head round it.
‘Oh, you’re awake. Oh great. You must be feeling better. Ginger helped, did it? I’m so glad. Brought you a cup of tea. Happy Christmas!’
Sara swore she had said coffee when Bette had asked her the previous evening whether she preferred that or tea in the mornings. But hey, she thought, who am I to grumble when my kind friend is taking such good care of me?
Bette went back to her bedroom. She sat on the bed. She smiled. She was enjoying herself for the first time for a while. ‘Happy Christmas, Mike. Your present is under the tree. But we’re opening them later.’
He stretched his long body, sat up and checked his watch. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said and for the first time in ages leant forward to give Bette a quick kiss on the lips. ‘Yours is, too.’
‘Sara seems to be better so I’m happy to say she’ll be joining us. Apparently, she gets migraines quite a lot. But then I suppose it’s not surprising when you consider what she’s been through this year.’
Mike got out of bed and wandered towards the bathroom. ‘What’s that’s then?’
Leaning on the bathroom door frame, Bette told her partner Sara’s story about the lover and the miscarriage that had followed.
Then Bette piled her thick blonde hair up on top of her head, a look she knew Mike loved, and put on a tight red dress over navy leggings tucked into red, pointed, stiletto ankle boots and went downstairs to make breakfast.
As Sara came downstairs the smell of cooking bacon wafted toward her and she felt mildly nauseous. Bette was swaying along to a Christmas playlist coming from a smart speaker as she cooked. She waved to Sara to come and sit down.
Sara had pulled on a beige jumper and a pair of black trousers and the moment she saw how glamorous Bette looked she wished she’d dressed up a bit more. After all, she had packed the blue sequin blouse and the blue high heels but had not felt it would be fitting to wear them, having had such a bad start to her stay.
‘How many bits of bacon do you want?’ asked Bette.
‘Oh…’ said Sara awkwardly. ‘I don’t… I don’t feel up to bacon. So just eggs for me.’
Bette banged a plate of eggs and some sort of green mush down on the table before Sara. Sara did not like to ask about the mush, but she tasted it and then forced it down. The atmosphere grew tense before Mike joined them a while later.
Mike seemed edgy and glum, and spoke little, except to ask for more laverbread.
So that’s what the green mush is, thought Sara.
‘Cheer up, you lot. It’s Christmas.’ Bette turned up the volume so that festive pop songs filled Cliff Edge’s high rafters. Her ebullience was at odds with the mood and demonstrated that if no one else was, she was clearly enjoying herself.
Mike wiped his mouth with his napkin, pushed the finished plate forward and left the table. ‘I plan on a long walk. Is it okay to leave the washing-up to you? I must chop up some more wood later.’
‘You seem out of sorts, darling. What’s up? You feeling all right?’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit of a tummy.’
‘Oh, you poor love. Should you go out? Why not stay here and let me care for you.’
‘No, I think a walk will help settle it.’
‘Okay then, if you’re sure. No problem, us girls can cope. Snow’s forecast to hit us sometime during the next forty-eight hours, you know.’
But that didn’t put him off. He put on his big brown parka, his beanie and gloves, took his trekking poles and left Cliff Edge, Brynn at his side. A cold blast hit her as Bette opened the door and called after him, ‘What about Gin? Wont you take her with you?’
He stopped walking, looked back, clearly exasperated. ‘But I don’t know the dog… I didn’t know if it would want to come with me.’
‘Oh yes, she’d love it – she’s great friends with Brynn and will stick near him.’
But when Bette called Gin to her, Sara looked worried.
‘I’m really not sure Gin will be happy to go.’
‘She’ll be fine. You must stop worrying, Sara. You fret too much. It’s Christmas. Relax and enjoy yourself.’
When Bette reopened the front door again, Mike had already set off.
‘Hey! Wait!’ she shouted. ‘Call Gin, Mike.’
As so often he did, Mike complied with Bette’s instruction and whistled to the dog who ran to join Brynn where they immediately romped in the frosted field.
‘L
unch at 1.30!’ she shouted after him. He didn’t reply but she presumed he’d heard her. She watched him walk over the field down toward the coastal path.
‘Help me prep lunch, sweetie? No turkey, I’m afraid. We’d be eating it for weeks afterwards. Instead I got a fillet of beef and it’ll be Yorkshire puddings, gratin potatoes, brussels sprouts, carrots, celeriac puree, roast chestnuts and then we’ve got a traditional Christmas pudding with my home-made brandy butter which doesn’t skimp on the brandy.’ Bette flashed her most attractive smile. ‘Not too over the top, is it?’
Her ironic tone spoke volumes. In spite of the beef, Sara shook her head and laughed.
‘No, not at all. Sounds lovely.’
‘It’s going to be a real blockbuster meal. No walks for us today, just eating, boozing, flopping and watching television. That’s what Christmas should be, don’t you think?’
What Bette had described was what Sara’s parents and many people in her hometown would have called gluttony, wickedness and idleness. Sara was torn about how to feel. Although she approved of and wanted to share Bette’s enjoyment of good things, she also had a deeply instilled puritanical streak that told her it was wrong. But she said, ‘I certainly do.’
‘Time for some champagne.’ That Bette was in celebratory mood was clear.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for er… Mike to get back?’
‘No, he can have some later.’ She took a bottle out of the fridge and fetched two champagne flutes from a cupboard. ‘I for one, intend to start the day as I mean to go on.’
When she had heard what was for lunch today, Sara told herself she must simply get on with it. It was Christmas and why, on her behalf, should her hosts eat anything they would not normally have had on that day. Bette had been so kind to her and had no idea how deeply disturbed she was feeling or why.
But she couldn’t help thinking back to her dour childhood Christmases where the family spent most of the day in church or at prayer. As she cut the celeriac in half and peeled the tough skin away, she realised one of the big differences between herself and her friend was that if she felt something, she was unlikely to voice it whereas Bette would say what she thought.
While Bette studied a cookbook and prepared thin slices of potato for a gratin dauphinoise and Sara chopped the peeled celeriac into chunks, the deep-seated, usually well-hidden jealousy of Bette surfaced and gnawed at Sara’s mind. She gripped the fierce chopping knife.
In the darkest depths of her being she felt a long-forgotten urge rise in her that had to be repressed. As she threw the pieces into water to boil, she added a large amount of salt. Whether she had done so deliberately or not, she was not certain. But she knew the puree Bette was so keen on having would taste very far from the delicious accompaniment she imagined.
Venom in her heart, she cut the tops off the brussels sprouts while Bette poured double cream and then hot milk over the sliced potatoes, garlic and nutmeg before going on to make the Yorkshire pudding mix and prepare the carrots ready for roasting around the joint in the oven.
‘I won’t put the beef in until the master returns. It should only take about half an hour as we love it pink and rare – oops! Sorry – I should have asked before – hope you like it that way? Rare, I mean, but if you don’t, we’ll make sure you get the outer slices, they’ll be the best done.’
Sara’s stomach heaved at the thought of the bleeding red meat she would not only have to see but force down. She contemplated reminding Bette that she wasn’t a red meat eater. She wanted to be bold and say she’d rather not have any but she was determined not to give Bette any more ammo against her since her hostess had seemed so annoyed with her the previous evening.
She would be even more upset if she knew that the beef consommé had gone down the bathroom sink, Sara thought, a touch of satisfaction in her churning brain. All she had eaten the previous evening had been the hunks of bread Bette had brought up with it. She also knew that if she refused the meat, that oh-so familiar guilt would rise up and permeate her being. In the complexity that was Sara, her desires clashed with a forcibly imbued idea of morality.
But when having refused a second glass of champagne, Sara watched Bette’s enjoyment as she quaffed her own second glass, then she changed her mind and decided that today she would wave those inhibitions out of the window.
‘On second thoughts… I should love another, please.’
‘That’s the spirit, darling.’ Bette refilled Sara’s glass.
They chinked glasses and Bette laid the table for lunch, putting jolly red napkins and home-made black Christmas crackers with tiny red nametags around each place setting.
‘Looks lovely. Well done, Bette.’ Sara struggled to suppress vile thoughts.
Mike returned a bit later than Bette had said and she rushed the beef into the oven as she heard the front door open. In half an hour, she was serving up the lunch.
‘Carve, would you.’ No mistaking this command as a question.
‘Of course. This looks like a delicious lunch. Sorry I haven’t been here to help.’
‘You’re not, but you should be,’ Bette snapped. ‘We worked hard enough, didn’t we, Sara?’
Embarrassed by Bette’s rudeness, Sara mumbled, ‘Well, it wasn’t too hard really.’ She had gone quieter than ever now the man was around again.
Before they sat down at the table, Bette produced her iPhone, inviting them to pose in front of it. They both stood awkwardly beside one another. ‘Hey, come on you two, smile. Mike, put an arm round Sara. I want some happy Christmas pics.’ She snapped a few then moved to stand next to Sara where she took a few selfies of their three faces. The others managed strained grins while she gave her flashiest, whitest smile.
Sara thought she should reciprocate and try at least to look as though she was enjoying herself so she snapped some photos of the table and Bette and Mike with the dogs around whose necks Bette had tied red bows.
The salty celeriac puree that had been Sara’s contribution almost spoilt the main course. They each had a taste. Highly irritated, Bette pulled a face and said, ‘The puree’s far too salty. I suggest we leave it. Never mind, Sara, you tried your best.’
The implication was not lost on Sara who was quietly pleased her plan had worked but seethed at Bette’s suggestion that her best was so poor.
The salt wasn’t the only taste in their mouths. Conversation was stilted and most of the talking was done by Bette who continued to present a cheerful front, drinking quite a bit as she went. But then they all were. Mike knocked back more red wine than he usually did and Sara, a generally moderate drinker, was well on her way to becoming drunk.
Bette produced a dessert wine from the fridge to go with the brandy-spiked Christmas pudding, with which they ate brandy butter. They just about managed to eat this before sitting back in their chairs almost unable to move for being so satiated.
Unused as she was to indulging her appetite to such a degree, Sara had by now thrown all her cares away. She had not drunk so much alcohol in years but was now experiencing a mixture of elation and confusion, both of which helped her through what she would have considered the most gluttonous, stressful meal of her life.
Bette poured everyone another glass of the delicious French, sweet white wine.
‘Time for the crackers.’ She looked as excited as a kid. ‘You each have your own. I made them myself. Pretty aren’t they?’ The others murmured their approval. ‘Ladies first. Here’s yours, Sara.’
Hesitantly, Sara attempted to pull the unpromising black cracker with both hands but unable to manage, Bette took one end and they pulled it apart together. It snapped with a bang and out fell a woman’s pink thong and a Father Christmas hat.
‘See what it reads on your thong then.’ Bette was insistent. Sara stretched the front triangular piece of pink fabric out to find black text that read:
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS
SEX
(WITH ANYONE).
Normally, she would have been
mortified with embarrassment, but now Sara barked with laughter. She put the hat on and the thong over her trousers and walked about giggling and swaying her hips in an unlikely provocative fashion. Disconcerted by Sara’s gift and more so her behaviour, Mike couldn’t watch her.
‘Go on, Mike, your turn.’ The red-faced man snapped his cracker. It contained a Father Christmas hat and a strange little black cotton bag with a thin elastic strap attached. In red text a caption on the black piece read, ‘DYING FOR IT’.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘A posing pouch. You pop your meat and two veg in it – like a thong for men.’
Bette and Sara cackled with drunken laughter while Mike could not contain his anger. Red with wine and annoyance, he jumped to his feet and threw the thong on the floor. ‘What kind of a joke do you call that?’ he bellowed.
‘Oh darling, really. Why are you taking it so badly? I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I thought you would laugh about it.’
Bette looked downcast and stopped laughing while Mike’s fury turned to awkward humiliation. He mumbled something of an apology before sitting down at the table again. Then, thinking better of it, unexpectedly leapt to his feet again. He slammed a fist down on the table. ‘Actually, you’ve gone too far, Bette. I don’t know what you were thinking giving us such ridiculous, childish, dirty-minded gifts.’
Bette was now clearly remorseful. Like a ticked-off kid she hung her head in shame before lifting it up again and looking Mike directly in the eyes. ‘I didn’t leave myself out, you know. Look what I’ve got.’ She tore open her own cracker. She glanced up at Mike. ‘I’m only trying to have a bit of fun, mun.’
On the table lay a flimsy red bikini. Bette held it over her chest. Over the right breast a message in black read DROP, on the other, DEAD and on the bottom half, GORGEOUS.
Now Mike felt bad. So did Sara who got up and hugged her poor pal who, after all, had had a horrible year and was only trying to enjoy life again. Besides, if it did rub up Mike’s sensibilities, all the better as far as she was concerned. After all, Bette didn’t mean anything by it.
Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery Page 13