Bella's Christmas Bake Off (7 page)

‘Lads, come over here,’ I shouted, still flailing on the floor with Stanley spread eagled underneath me now singing ‘Strangers in the Night.’

He knew every bloody word and he sang each one. Loudly.

‘Lads, lads,’ I called again from under the tree over Stanley’s crooning.

‘No thanks, we’re alright miss,’ one of them said and they all roared laughing.

‘I need you to come and give us a hand,’ I insisted, before landing on top of Stanley and seeing Josh Rawton – the little sod – film the whole scene. Great, that would no doubt be around the bloody school tomorrow along with the one of me hurling cake and abuse at my husband. This one would be new and different though – me pissed under the town Christmas tree straddling a homeless Frank Sinatra.

Once those little sods had got their shots and had a good laugh they were off leaving me and Stanley to fend for ourselves. Eventually I got Stanley back on the bench and handed him my bottle of brandy which he clearly needed more than my cakes did.

‘You okay, Stanley?’ I asked when he’d taken a glug.

‘Keeps me warm, love,’ he explained.

I nodded. The residents weren’t permitted inside the shelter until 6 p.m. and so with nowhere else to go were forced to walk the streets all day. The cold was biting and I didn’t blame him for finding what little comfort there was in a sip of brandy – what else did he have?

I sat a while with Stanley and after a few more numbers – with a rousing ‘My Way’ finale – I watched him stagger down the road, pissed and precarious on the ice. The town Christmas lights spelling out ‘Happy Christmas’ were swinging above him as the wind got up and spittles of rain hit my face and landed on the icy ground. I thought about Bella and my mum and the cosy Christmases we’d had round the kitchen table, with plenty of love and laughter. And I gazed at the Christmas tree and thought how life can change in an instant.

I
t had been
two days since my live call to Bella’s show and as I wrestled with Pythagoras and 10B I wondered if speaking to me had had any impact on her life at all. Did she feel guilty for not returning my calls in the early days, never acknowledging my notes and Christmas cards? Had she realised the affect she’d had on me by writing that book filled with Mum’s recipes and saying the work was all her own? Was she getting me back for what I’d done to her all those years ago? I was torn between wanting revenge and wanting to see her and to talk things through like we used to.

The following day was the final school day before we broke up for the Christmas holidays and I was getting ready to leave for work when I had a phone call from Crimson. I was surprised to hear from her and she was as mysterious and monotone as ever, ‘We’ve now got the shortlist down to three ‘Mums’, and don’t wet your pants, but you’re on that list,’ she sighed.

What?

‘I have no intention of wetting...’

‘Apparently Bella requested you personally,’ she carried on talking over me. ‘You must have convinced her you are a true life-long “Bella-ette”,’ she sniggered.

I was amazed. I’d assumed once Bella realised who I was and what I was accusing her of she’d have gone out of her way to keep me away from her precious programme. So why had she requested me? I didn’t want to play her silly games and was about to tell Crimson that Bella could stick her Christmas, when I thought of poor old Stanley staggering through the town through a halo of Christmas lights.

‘That’s great news,’ I said, playing along.

‘So the winner will be announced during the show at 10.07 this morning,’ she continued. ‘You around?’

‘Yes... I’ll be on my mobile,’ I said, wondering what the hell I was going to do with my ‘challenging’ Year Ten maths group who had already clocked off for Christmas in their heads.

‘Okay you’ll be called later...and by the way, it’s live so don’t say fu...’

‘No, I won’t say the F-word or wet myself – thank you,’ I said and put down the phone, feeling mixed but knowing if by some miracle I won a Bella Christmas, she’d better be ready for an Amy Christmas too... because it wouldn’t be the cosy day in my suburban semi slum they were all expecting.

W
hen I arrived in school
, Crimson had already emailed asking if I could send a photo of myself so they could put it up on screen during the call. This was real, and if I was going to be on the phone on TV during school time I needed to let my colleagues know.

I went straight in to see Sylvia who was beside herself with excitement when I told her about the competition. I didn’t go into too much detail, as far as Sylvia was concerned Bella Bradley was an old school friend I hadn’t stayed in touch with – but she was very impressed.

‘I’ll look after your class and you can take the call in my office,’ she said excitedly. ‘It will be declared a student no-go and Bella Bradley HQ from 9.30am.’

This was a great relief as I didn’t fancy having a difficult conversation with 10B shouting obscenities in the background. Some of the boys had recently taken to calling out varied and colourful words representing the male member and I doubted that would be allowed live on air. After several difficult sessions the previous week while trying to explain equations over a barrage of ‘willy’ words and associated sniggering, I’d decided if you can’t beat them join them and harnessed their enthusiasm for the penis into a maths game.

‘Okay – so if a willy is three quarters and a knob is fourteen, multiply this by a penis, which is one sixth – write down the equation and the answer,’ I suddenly announced over the racket of a particularly difficult lesson.

I had been greeted with blissful silence, their faces were a picture, and their deep shock was soon replaced with uncharacteristic fervour for the subject, which as a teacher is all I ever wanted. This went on for the whole lesson until Mr Jones the head teacher popped in. I wasn’t initially aware of his presence, but looking back I can see that opening a classroom door to hear a member of the maths department reeling off a list of words signifying male genitalia must have been a shock (bearing in mind our last encounter was him finding me in a stationery cupboard with a brown paper bag over my mouth). I turned to see him standing, rooted to the spot, staring at me as I looked straight back, causing much merriment in class. He made an enquiry as to the whereabouts of some textbooks and I smiled sweetly and answered his question like I hadn’t just been multiplying three quarters of a willy by fourteen knobs for Year Ten. Consequently, the idea of Year Ten live and unleashed while I called in to a daytime Christmas cookery programme had made me even more nervous. So after the first lesson, where I’d blindly forged ahead with fractions, I popped outside into the freezing cold for a breath of iced air.

‘Ooh they’ve all got it on them today haven’t they?’ Marie the French teacher hissed from her position by the back wall. She wasn’t just a caffeine addict she also smoked about forty a day and could often be found sheltering round the back doors for a quick one. The psychology teacher said Marie had an addictive personality, but I reckoned I’d be mainlining more than coffee and fags if I had to teach a foreign language to Year Ten.

‘Yes, I’m not in the mood for their antics, they’re already swearing and switching off but there’s still two long days left before we break up,’ I sighed.

’I feel like getting flu and doing a sickie. Billy McBride in 10R has memorised every French swear word ever invented – I’ve just had to listen to an hour of French filth.’

‘Hey, that’s a romantic night in for some people,’ I joked.

She sniggered. ‘Yeah, I guess. But I feel violated and stressed...then there’s bloody Christmas,’ she dropped her cigarette to the ground and stepped it out with her shoe. ‘Only a few shopping days left, Amy, have you done all yours?’

‘Some,’ I nodded. I hadn’t, but I couldn’t admit it even to myself – I’d been desperate to buy presents, but too scared to put any more on the credit card and was waiting for my salary to go in my account the following week. I planned to give the kids money and I’d already popped in with some talc for Auntie Ann in her retirement home. I always tried to get her visit out of the way early because it was usually stressful and surreal, and this year was no different. Once she’d excitedly ripped open the talc she began hurling it at me accusing me of being a terrorist and when I’d tried to take it off her she’d shrieked and pushed the panic button. I don’t know the link between talc and terrorism but within seconds security arrived in the form of two burly men who manhandled me to the floor while Auntie Ann accused me of flying planes into buildings. It wasn’t pretty, talc everywhere, Auntie Ann screaming and me lying there covered in white powder denying Islam while being straddled by two men.

‘Yeah...I’ve still got lots of shopping to do, only given one present so far,’ I said, marvelling at just how much Lily of the Valley talc was inside one tub. Suddenly the double doors whooshed open and an effervescent Sylvia appeared all breathless and excitable. I screamed. I always leaped at sudden noise or people appearing from nowhere but today this was heightened.

’Come on, Amy,’ she said, flicking her bleached blonde fringe back off her face with a chunky, manicured hand. ‘Time for your close-up.’

‘What’s this?’ Marie asked.

‘Nothing – just...something,’ I muttered, wanting to keep the whole thing quiet. I didn’t want everyone knowing what I was about to do just yet, I wasn’t sure myself. It was one thing airing Bella’s dirty linen to a million morning viewers, but I needed to keep it to myself until it happened – if Year Ten got hold of it they’d have put me all over YouTube...again. The internet has changed teaching as we know it, everything is out there now for the world to see and judge thanks to those little techno sods.

I’d been fuelled by anger when I’d called Bella’s show, but now I was wondering how on earth I’d got myself into this. I didn’t only have the issue of Mum’s recipes to deal with, I’d started to think about that prize, and was putting myself under pressure thinking just how much I wanted to win for St Swithins.

Sylvia opened her office, ushered me in and went off to set my class some work and keep them calm until my call was ended. After a few minutes alone I was just starting to relax when she suddenly appeared at the glass of the doorway, making me jump for a second time that morning.

‘Oooh it’s so exciting!’ she said, putting down two paper cups of coffee and squeezing my arm while doing a little dance. I smiled gratefully, noticing she’d put fresh lipstick on ‘for the telly’ despite it only being a phone call. That she wasn’t even involved in.

At exactly four minutes after ten the phone call was put through from reception on Sylvia’s instructions. Judging by the two large cups of macchiato and the way Sylvia was nestling down into her seat, it seemed she was staying with me for the duration of the call. She clearly had no intention of slumming it with sex-obsessed Year Tens and missing out on this, but I dreaded to think what they were up to. I felt a twinge of guilt, then fear that in the absence of authority they may run rampant and take their current obsession with male genitalia to a new and dangerous level and storm the building like a hormonal SAS. Then, suddenly the phone rang, which caused me to leap about three feet in the air and Sylvia to do the same, covering us both with a gallon of hot macchiato.

‘Christ!’ I yelled down the phone.

‘No...it’s not Christ, it’s Bella Bradley, but close enough...’

‘Oh, hi...’

‘Hi Amy. We aren’t on air yet, this is a pre-call, I do a pre-call to warm up the callers.’

Silence.

If I ever needed a brown paper bag it was now – or a fully fledged panic attack would take me over and turn this situation into even more of a circus than it already was. I grabbed the brown paper bag I had waiting on the desk and breathed into it building up the carbon dioxide in my body and filling me with calm.

‘Amy... are you still there?’

The sound of her smug voice overwhelmed me with fresh anger, replacing the calm and sweeping me up. ‘So you can call me now, after all these years,’ I said, knowing that my comment about the stolen recipes was the only reason she’d bothered to ring me. I saw Sylvia do a double-take from behind her macchiato mess, she wasn’t expecting this, and if I hadn’t been so angry I would have laughed.

‘Look I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you for a while...I’ve just been...busy,’ Bella said dismissively.

‘Busy? For twenty years?’ I spat.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh no you haven’t.’

‘Oh yes I have.’

‘This isn’t a bloody pantomime, Bella!’ I snapped.

‘Well you’re trying to turn my show into a bloody pantomime, calling up live on air, pretending to be a fan and accusing me of all sorts.’

I felt tearful, and the only thing stopping me from crying was Sylvia’s shocked face and red lips in an O shape, wondering what the hell was going on. Like the rest of the country she was in love with Bella and was completely taken aback by what she was hearing.

‘Look, you and your family have always taken advantage of me and mine, and my poor mother was like a mother to you. What you’re doing…it’s just not fair, Bella.’

‘Life’s not fair, but if you continue to blackmail me about this, I will have to get lawyers involved.’ Clearly there was going to be no attempt to build bridges or make amends.

‘So will I,’ I bluffed. ‘My lawyer is reading through the recipes as I speak.’ This was followed by silence on both sides, neither of us wanting to be the first to speak. I watched Sylvia watching me, her mouth open.

‘So what do you want?’ Bella said, almost in a whisper.

‘I want to win a Bella-tastic Christmas…and I want you to acknowledge my mother’s work,’ I answered.

Silence again.

‘All the years I’ve sent Christmas cards and letters asking if you forgave me and not once did you put me out of my misery. You couldn’t even be bothered to answer me. You sent the odd postcard early on to show me how wonderful your life was but you couldn’t just send a note to say, “It’s okay, Amy, I forgive you.” If you had I could have got on with my life and shaken off this terrible guilt. Well, now we are equal, because you’ve taken something from me,’ I heard myself say.

‘Okay, okay just calm down. I can’t wave my wand and grant you a Bella Christmas like that – I’m not your fairy God Mother Amy. But if ... and only if, you were to win this prize, you would have to promise not to say a word to anyone about anything – and no little surprises live on air.’

‘Okay,’ I said after a few seconds, I wanted to make her wait, make her sweat.

‘I’ll see what I can do. My agent Felicity will email you a contract and we want your signature all over it,’ she continued, just as Crimson had, ignoring what I was actually saying.

‘Bella?’

‘I need you to read the part of the contract that states there will be no more slanderous remarks on air. This includes any conversations with any third party regarding my past, present and future
i.e.
newspapers or, God help me, those witches at Gossip Bitch.’

‘Okay, if you agree to what I want,’ I said, sounding as cheesy as a criminal in a B movie. This was greeted by silence.

I thought she’d put the phone down and was about to swear profusely, assuming she’d gone, when I suddenly heard an intake of breath on the line.

‘Now, when I come back to you we will be live on air. And all you need to say is you want for Christmas is a Bella Bakes Christmas, you are DESPERATE for Bella to pay a visit to your little kitchen in the provinces. Okay?’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

‘I would. And we don’t have time to argue because I will be back on air in thirty seconds and we will come to you in less than a minute. We can both play hardball - so lots of Bella love and a salty sprinkle of gratitude should get you exactly what your sweet little heart desires.’

I just know she wanted to add ‘bitch’, but she had to restrain herself because I was calling the shots now.