Bella's Christmas Bake Off: A fabulously funny, feel good Christmas read

by Sue Watson

  I sipped on my coffee allowing the sweet gingerbread taste to wash away the residue of sadness and regret still on my tongue after all these years.

  Of course Bella hadn’t always been this raven-haired baking idol who tweeted daily about her latest recipes and instagrammed her table settings on the hour. As a young girl Bella wasn’t particularly good at ‘Home Economics’ and I had to help her bake the lemon meringue pie for her final exams. But, like me, I think she enjoyed the comfort of baking, and together we’d often spend weekends making cakes and pastries at my house.

  Bella would ask her mum for money and when other teenagers were buying drugs and drink, we’d buy jars of mincemeat and paper cases for Christmas fairy cakes. Then, entrepreneurial Bella had the idea to take our bakes into school to sell. She’d worked out how much to charge so we could make a profit and the money we made kept us in sweets and lip gloss throughout our time at school.

  Bella didn’t need the money, she just liked making it, whereas I was always the sensible one. By seventeen, Bella was becoming wild, she didn’t want to bake cakes any more, she wanted to chase boys and smoke cigarettes. I didn’t blow my money, I didn’t smoke, I just stood by and watched in awe as she ran through life easily. Bella learned to charm her way out of trouble and get just what she wanted. Despite her wanton ways as she grew up, Bella was a kind friend, who often put me first. She went from a little girl with great toys to a teenager with great clothes and make-up – and she shared it all with me, her best friend.

  Throughout my childhood Bella was always there – confident, funny, a bit selfish but you could forgive her everything, because when Bella was around, life was fun. I laughed at her jokes and I think I provided some kind of grounding. She loved spending time at our home with me and my mum – she was an only child and I had two sisters, but as they were both older than me their presence in the house was merely music from a bedroom stereo or a lingering waft of perfume. Bella envied me my sisters as much as I envied her only-child status. I wanted peace and quiet to do my homework but Annie and Gill filled the house with music and hairspray and I remember Bella saying, ‘I just love all the noise at your house’, which I thought was bonkers because sometimes I couldn’t think straight because of the chaos.

  Even now, watching her on TV and reading about her wonderful, glamorous life in magazines, I still felt our connection, even if it was only one-sided. I sipped at my spicy coffee, which I liked with gingerbread syrup this time of year and as I swallowed the warm, fiery liquid a wave of Christmas nostalgia ran through me and I was reminded again of Mum’s gingerbread. The kitchen would be filled with sweet, comforting warmth throughout December, and on gingerbread day – as we used to call it – Bella and I would sit excitedly at the kitchen table waiting, just waiting, our legs waggling up and down in anticipation of the gingerbread’s emergence from the oven.

  ‘No touching until it’s cool,’ Mum would warn, ‘…or you’ll turn into gingerbread men!’ And to avoid turning into gingerbread men, we’d lay off the sweet slabs and Mum would distract us by asking us to select our icing colours while it cooled. Finally, after what seemed like ages breathing in the tantalising scent of warm, buttery gingerbread filling the tiny kitchen, Mum helped us stick the walls together with icing ‘glue’. Mum was always so patient with Bella, who could be quite demanding and needy, constantly interrupting with questions or problems. Sometimes she’d start crying and feigning ‘tummy ache’ if she wasn’t receiving the attention she so desperately craved. She didn’t get much love from her own parents and Mum was the adult she reached out to when she was feeling vulnerable or sad. My mum was always able to calm her down, and if she was ever frustrated with the demands of this child, she never let it show.

  Bella’s parents were very different from mine, they were rarely home and when they were they’d argue terribly. Bella told me she would go to bed early with the TV on in her room to shut out their screaming. Mum had taught me to imagine myself in another person’s shoes and said this particularly applied to Bella. I knew Mum did the same when Bella had one of her tantrums.

  Within minutes Bella would be calmed and sweet, back to her old self and Mum would be there in the background, like nothing had happened. She’d just gently guide us through the wonderful process of mixing different coloured icing, turning the flat squares of gingerbread into brick walls, tiled roofs and little windows and doors. Sometimes as a special treat Mum would buy a quarter of boiled sweets and we’d melt them in the oven to use as stained-glass windows. Once melted, the vibrant pinks and yellows and greens of the fruity confections created the most beautiful glass-like jewels, which we carefully applied to the houses, tongues out, our faces contorted with concentration and flushed from the heat of the kitchen. I remember Bella once saying she wished she could stop time and stay in our kitchen for ever – I’d laughed at this, but a few years later I wished I could too.

  Of course Bella wasn’t perfect, she was as flawed as the rest of us and no friendship is without its ups and downs. Bella stole my boyfriends, had temper tantrums, and her dramas always outdid mine because she played them to the hilt. There were times when I think she found my sensibleness quite tedious, ‘Sensible is boring, Ames,’ she’d say, and accuse me of being ‘too straight’. Perhaps I was – even now – but then there wasn’t room in Bella’s life for anyone who might compete for the limelight, so in essence we were the perfect best friends.

  On screen, Bella was bringing the tray of gingerbread out of the oven and I wanted to make some too. So I rummaged around and found Mum’s recipe along with the one for leftover dough which made the most divine gingerbread truffles.

  I found the truffle recipe at the back of the folder, it was written in long hand on paper stained with coffee and crusty with icing – a well-used recipe, I thought with a smile. I decided to make a gingerbread house and would take it to the hostel. But my real reason was pure selfishness – I hadn’t made gingerbread for years and I wanted to smell that sweet hot gingerbread baking and conjure up that old feeling of pure childish joy for the season – I so desperately needed a Christmas baking fix.

  I put flour and butter into a bowl with sugar, thinking how like old times it was, me and Bella making gingerbread together, even if we were in different worlds on separate sides of a screen.

  I rewound the TV, I’d missed the beginning, but luckily always recorded Bella and was keen to see how she made her gingerbread. Looking at Mum’s recipe I was surprised to see Bella used the exact ingredients and measurements, even the same method. I rewound the TV again – and to my amazement, Bella was even using the same wording: ‘when you melt the golden syrup, butter and brown sugar in the pan, take a deep breath and be transported back to the Christmases of childhood.’ I’d written that in the Christmas card I’d sent to Bella along with the recipe.

  So she had received some of my cards after all. I couldn’t believe it – I’d sent those recipes as a private and personal reminder of our times together, a shared memory of Christmas, an olive branch even. I hadn’t sent them for her to use on her bloody TV programme, word for word like they were her own. I stood in the kitchen mouth open, stunned, and when she then announced that she would be making gingerbread truffles with the leftovers I knew – she’d received every single Christmas card I’d sent over the years. I was shocked and hurt to think that not only had Bella ignored my cards, but she was passing my mother’s recipes off as her own.

  I gazed at the TV in shock as she continued to wax lyrical about her ‘idyllic’ childhood. ‘Of course my own family Christmases as a child were spent around the kitchen table with my parents, and aunts and uncles and cousins,’ I heard her say. ‘This gingerbread and these truffles are just a flavour of my mother’s Christmassy cooking. She was an amazing cook – the two of us would make a gingerbread house together on the big table in our kitchen every Christmas,’ the camera moved in, her eyes sprung with tears. ‘Don’t even dream of touching it until it cools, Bella,’ she’d sa
y. ‘If you do you’ll turn into a gingerbread man!’

  My heart lurched…this was like some weird culinary version of single white female…she was copying my mum’s recipes and my lines…and adopting my childhood. That was bad enough, but at the same time she was erasing me out of it.

  But now, I was shocked, unable to take this in and understand what was happening. She was shaking her head at her ‘memories’, stopping a moment for full dramatic impact to wipe away a tear. My shock was now turning into anger, as hot as the gingerbread and I could feel myself beginning to panic. ‘The stained-glass windows from boiled sweets are featured in this year’s Christmas book called “Christmas at my Mother’s Table”, and is the first part of a series of recipes from my mother’s kitchen – available from all major outlets and online. I recently rediscovered Mum’s recipes and though she hasn’t been with us for a long time I want to bring her into the kitchen, and share her recipes with my friends…you,’ she gestured to the camera, a salt tear, a golden syrup smile. She was looking straight at me and as I applied the brown paper bag to my mouth I glared straight back. Mum had always tried to help her, understand her and guide her - why was she doing this to someone who’d been so good to her?

  ‘I want to share her kindness, her warmth and her wonderful, imaginative ways with food, starting with her Christmas recipes.’ She lifted the book up again to the camera, the cover was a faded photo of herself as a child with her mother holding a Christmas cake. Both were smiling into the camera. I paused the TV to look more closely at the white icing, topped with fresh holly leaves – it was the Christmas cake my mother had baked for them all those years before! I felt the blood rise up through my body, the anger and injustice surging along with it. How dare she?

  I pressed play on the TV again, my blood boiling as I watched her make Mum’s white chocolate gingerbread truffles…and telling her viewers; ‘I know white chocolate and ginger isn’t a traditional combination – but try it, it’s a revelation and I promise you won’t be disappointed!’ Again the exact same words I had written on the card.

  I felt like I was in some made-for-TV movie – my stolen life flashing before me on the screen.

  ‘So it’s Christmas – just like Mum used to make…’ she continued, with a little pause. ‘I am so very excited, but forgive me for my tears, by using her recipes again after all these years, I feel like…she’s back here with me, in the kitchen.’ She took out a handkerchief and I wanted to throw something at the screen. The camera came in for a close-up then panned back to her face, tears now trickling shamelessly down that lying bitch’s botoxed cheeks.

  Your mother’s table? Really? I thought, all hope of forgiveness dissipating into the spicy gingerbread air. I turned up the volume and listened closely to every single word she said, and whichever way I tried to work it out there were no grey areas here. Bella Bradley had stolen my dead mother’s recipes – and not only was she passing them off as her own, she was selling the book!

  Why would she do that?

  All these years she’d been receiving my Christmas cards with recipes meant as a shared memory from me, a little aside about Mum, a moment from our childhood to smile about. She’d never acknowledged them, just stowed them away until she had enough to write a cookery book and Bella bloody Bradley was about to make a fortune passing the recipes off as her own. Over my cold, dead body.

  ‘So in memory of my wonderful mother at Christmas,’ she was saying, ‘I’m inviting all you lovely Mums out there to call in, email, tweet and tell us what Christmas means to you. And wait for it…the best one will win a week of Christmas …with me! Yes it will be fabulous – I will show you how to cook the most delicious Christmas Dinner, how to set your table, and dress that tree – all in my own home. One lucky lady will win herself and her family a truly Bella Christmas! And that’s not all – on Christmas Eve, when not a soul is stirring, I will come to your home and hold your hand and guide you through the best possible Christmas ever – just like my Mum used to for me.’

  Right Bella Bradley – I thought – the gloves are off! I took the brown paper bag from my mouth and as she started on her ‘No Nonsense Bloody Banana Trifle’, I was on the phone.

  4

  Desperate Housewives and Postal Pants

  ‘I’d like to speak to Bella Bradley please,’ I said, brusque and business-like.

  I’m sorry you can’t speak directly to Bella,’ the voice sounded young, disinterested.

  ‘But it’s important.’

  ‘Is it about the prize? If it’s about the Bellatastic Christmas – then I can take your details and if you’re very lucky you might get to speak to the queen herself.’

  ‘No, I don’t want a Bella-whatever Christmas, thank you. I’m an old friend and I need to speak with her immediately, it’s a matter of the utmost importance,’ I said. In my panic I’d morphed into high melodrama circa 1930’s and had to stop myself saying ‘post haste’.

  ‘Sorry?’ She seemed confused.

  ‘I’m a friend…’

  ‘You can’t be,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Bella doesn’t have any friends,’ she sniggered at this. ‘Are you the woman who sent her pants in the post last week?’

  ‘No I am not,’ I snapped indignantly. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ I asked, desperately trying not to sound like the kind of woman who sends her pants to people on the telly.

  ‘I’m Crimson, Bella Bradley’s star researcher,’ she said, and with that the phone went dead.

  ‘Damn…damn,’ I spat, redialling, thinking I may have to use some cunning to get past the charming Crimson. I waited as the phone clicked on and played ‘The First Noel’. On an endless loop. For twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds.

  ‘Hello Bella Bradley Show, are you calling about the prize?’ It was the same monotoned disinterest I’d previously encountered. Crimson, again. Not perhaps the star researcher – the only researcher?

  ‘I’m a huge Bella fan,’ I gushed, changing my approach, trying to make my voice sound different so she wouldn’t get wind of my shrewd Trojan Horse-style plan to speak to Bella. ‘I watch her every Christmas and Christmas was my mother’s favourite time of year and…I miss her. There’s nothing I would love more than to have Bella provide a wonderful Christmas…just like my mum used to.’ I tried not to get too upset saying this, but my throat tightened just thinking about Mum and what Bella had done.

  ‘Are you deserving?’ she asked, and I could almost hear a smirk in her voice.

  ‘Yes…my husband’s abandoned me for a pole dancer and I have no money to buy food or gifts for my children.’ Hearing myself I thought, yes I’m just the type of vulnerable person these shows love to exploit. If only I could sing I’d be a perfect X Factor contestant with my heart rending back story. Mind you the lack of singing talent had never stopped anyone being on the X Factor up until now.

  ‘Hubby’s run off and left you and the kids penniless at Chrimbo! This is good,’ Crimson said, with no hint of sympathy. ‘Okay I’ll need your deets.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your details?’ she said slowly, incredulously, like I was very deaf and very stupid. ‘We’re making a shortlist so Bella can choose which lucky “Mum” is going to have a “Bella Christmas”,’ her voice was heavy with sarcasm or boredom – or both. ‘So we need to interview you live on the show.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure…’ Did I really want to go this far? It was beginning to feel a bit too real and I almost put down the phone.

  ‘Don’t get all excited, it’s only been a few minutes since we announced the prize and we’ve already had loads of emails and tweets…and poison pen letters…heavy breathers, naked photos and death threats – so you’ve got fierce competition.’

  I wasn’t bothered about winning, I just wanted Bella to see my name and contact me – out of shame for stealing recipes if nothing else.

  I took a breath and lied, ‘I am excited – I can’t help it, I just love Bell
a.’

  ‘Yeah I bet you do,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway Bella wants the Mum that we choose to live somewhere that won’t make her itch…so give me your name and address.’

  I reluctantly gave her my details and she put me back on hold and another bloody round of ‘The First Noel,’ which by now it really wasn’t, it must have been the twentieth at least.

  ‘Hello Amy,’ she eventually came back on the line. ‘I’m just Googling your address to make sure you don’t live somewhere undesirable.’ Silence while she did her ‘research’. I was tempted to give them the address of the hostel, after all there weren’t many people more deserving than them - but I probably would have found myself cut off again.

  ‘Your house looks okay and a quick Google of your name suggests you haven’t murdered anyone, yet – mind you that could all change once you get to Dovecote..’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘When I said your house looks okay, that’s all I meant. It’s not like it’s amazing or anything. We can’t film anywhere really cool because Bella’s fans would be scared shitless by anything more than a three-bed semi…but we can’t film in a slum either. You tick the box though – it’s somewhere in between, a sort of semi-slum.’

  ‘I’m glowing with all these compliments…better not let them go to my head,’ I said, forgetting the gushing girlishness for a moment.

  ‘You don’t sound too looney tunes so I’ll put you on the long shortlist and you might, if you’re really lucky, get a call from Bella, okay?’ This all said in a hyper-sarcastic tone.

  ‘Okay,’ I nodded, knowing from her voice that the promise from a phone call from Bella was an empty promise they were making to everyone, just to give those pants-sending fans something to hold on to. I didn’t stand a chance. My only hope was that Bella saw my name, which I hadn’t changed when I got married because I liked being Amy Lane and it saved bother changing everything. This had all been so futile, who was I kidding? Bella and I now occupied two very different worlds and there was no way she’d reach out into the past to get in touch with me again.