by Sue Watson
I was about to put the phone down when Crimson said, ‘Oh and…I meant to say, your Christmas will be paid for by the TV company and they pay a facility fee for filming in your house, from about £500 a day.’
‘Oh… really?’ I’d had absolutely no intention of really entering this ridiculous competition, I just wanted access to Bella, but this was suddenly very tempting – I might as well try and get something positive out of all this. A paid for Christmas lunch and a facility fee – I could think of some people who would be very grateful for that.
Crimson was still talking, ‘…I’ve put a tick by your name, not because I think you’ll be any good, but because I’m bored of talking to desperate housewives and Googling suburbia. So wait on the line and when Bella comes to you, tell her everything you just told me about your mother blah blah and how you’re really into her, she’ll love that. Just be yourself and be all orgasmic and whiney about Bella and her baking.’
‘Okay.’ This was a little disturbing, I had clearly done the gushing ‘crazed fan’ a little too well and Crimson apparently found me suitably cringey. Neil’s departure had definitely had an effect on my sanity.
‘Yeah…oh and one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s live, so don’t say fuck.’
‘I have no intention of saying fu… the F-word,’ I snapped indignantly, forgetting my crazed fan persona once again. I had no idea it was live, I assumed I would have to go through a battery of calls and it would be recorded later, but watching it unfold on the screen in front of me I could see Bella was taking calls. I hadn’t thought this through, I’d just made that phone call in anger and I was about to be launched onto live TV. I rummaged around in my handbag, I might need a brown paper bag for this one.
Then the line went dead and ‘The First Noel’ started up again. I sat nervously waiting for a few minutes, working out what I would say after all this time – in front of millions of viewers. I had never envisaged my first real communication with Bella to be like this – live on air - but she’d given me no choice.
By the time she eventually came on the line I’d wound myself into a ball of stress – I was angry, hurt and so damned nervous I couldn’t speak.
‘Are you there…is that Amy?’ she was saying. I could see her on screen, but it was hard to reconcile the two things. Bella Bradley the TV star was talking to me but showing no signs she knew who I was. I couldn’t take it all in, I was very hot and bothered and providing a one-woman show of what I think is known in the business as ‘dead air’.
‘Oh dear…I think we have a technical hitch,’ she was saying. ‘I can’t hear lovely little Amy…and her story’s so sad,’ she pulled her mouth downwards in a fake sad shape.
That made my hackles rise. She hadn’t a clue who I was and was being so bloody patronising. She hadn’t even bothered to check my surname, if she had she’d have known it was me. Then again, I was obviously so unimportant to her, would she even remember my married name?
‘I would love a Bella Christmas,’ I started. ‘My mum always made Christmas special for me – and I’m particularly interested to talk to you about your new book, “Christmas at My Mother’s Table”.’
‘Oh yes, my mother’s wonderful recipes,’ she sighed, brightening visibly at the unexpected joy of book promotion which would mean more sales and more money for her. Bella clearly didn’t recognise my voice, but then after twenty years I supposed it had changed slightly.
‘MY mother’s wonderful recipes,’ I snapped.
If she now realised it was me, she wasn’t letting on, but I suddenly saw a flash of panic in Bella’s beautifully made-up eyes. ‘You must remember me, Bella, we used to be best friends,’ I began, my voice fading, my mouth so dry I could barely get the words out.
On screen, I glimpsed Bella’s perfect composure momentarily falter, but she gave a sickly sweet smile and regained herself, ‘How lovely…an old friend…I’m delighted that you called.’
‘Yes, I’ve been trying to get in touch for years,’ I said.
‘I…let me put you through to our switchboard, Amy. I am DESPERATE to meet up and chat about old times, but this line is for the competition. We’ve had so many calls and lots of Bella fans are waiting to have their chance to win a Bella Christmas,’ she said, desperately trying to take control of the situation.
I knew I was about to be cut off, so I said simply, ‘How could you, Bella? How could you steal my mum’s recipes…’
I looked up at the TV on the kitchen wall. I had been instantly disconnected and Bella was now taking another call. She was smiling but the tell-tale flushing of her mottled neck above those frolicking red reindeers told me she was rattled. It always gave her away as a child when she was flustered and it gave her away now despite all of the make-up and clever lighting. I had to give it to her though, apart from the flushed skin, there was no indication that she was shaken and as she ended the next call the show continued seamlessly. She peeled a banana like a porn star with a seductive smile playing across her lip-glossed mouth. And I was reminded of the girl behind the bike shed selling kisses for chewing gum.
‘I NEED my five a day, during the festive season,’ she added, cheekily, and I had a strong desire to plunge her head into some ‘severely whipped’ cream.
I couldn’t take any more, so turned off the TV and threw away the dregs of my coffee. It was still early, but I just wanted to go to bed and cry myself to sleep. My husband had left me for a new life of exotic sex, and on top of this, I’d discovered my oldest friend, who hadn’t acknowledged me for years, had stolen my own mother’s recipes. Initially I’d been hurt and tearful about both betrayals, but now I was just angry and didn’t feel I could trust anyone ever again.
I contemplated what to do next. There was no way I’d ever get to talk to Bella now, and even if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference. The book was published and her theft would go unchallenged. I had to take my mind of this or I would drive myself mad with the injustice of it all and after that phone call St Swithin’s wouldn’t be in receipt of a £500 location fee or a ‘Bella-bloody-tastic Christmas!’ Meanwhile, I had promised to provide Christmas cakes for the hostel, which took my mind off the Bella situation and gave me a sense of purpose. I was going to give them the best cakes I could bake, better than any Bella cake with her plump fruits and exotic spices. I knew we couldn’t go too strong on the alcohol given that some of the residents were a little too fond of the stuff, but my cake budget would stretch to a small bottle of brandy to ‘feed’ the cakes so they’d be moist and delicious. I popped out to the local Sainsbury’s to buy the brandy and was just walking back with my miniature bottle when I saw Stanley, the Frank Sinatra guy from the shelter. He was sitting on a bench next to the town Christmas tree singing ‘My Way’ under the twinkly lights strung through the huge branches. He was happy enough with his backlist of Old Blue Eyes and his own miniature bottle of cheap brandy just like mine, and he waved me over.
‘Amy, Amy, Amy… how are you?’ he said, delighted to see me.
I went over to say hello and he patted the seat next to him so I sat down, and spotting that I was clutching a small bottle of brandy too he offered me his bottle to drink from.
‘Cheers, love,’ he was saying and pushing the bottle to my mouth.
I smiled, ‘Oh no Stanley, thank you but I haven’t joined you to have a drink. I’m on my way home, I bought this to put in my Christmas cakes,’ I held my bottle up as I explained.
‘For me?’
‘No Stanley – it’s for my cakes,’ I said as he reached for it. He nodded, confused, and took the bottle out of my hand before embarking on a torch song medley from Frank’s early career. I didn’t quite know how to handle this, so gently pulled my bottle away from him, but he seemed to think it was a gift and as hard as I held it, the more he seemed to pull it back from me.
‘No Stanley!’ I said, firmly now. There was no point explaining again about the bloody cakes, he didn’t understan
d or care – he merely saw kind Amy sitting next to him with a nice bottle of brandy.
He stood up and as we were both holding on to the bottle I moved with him, I wasn’t letting go, I had no money for more brandy and was determined to keep this bottle and make the best bloody Christmas cakes ever. But Stanley was now singing loudly, and swinging the bottle back and forth, with me still clutching it, and being drunk he wasn’t very co-ordinated. I couldn’t believe I’d got myself into this ridiculous situation and decided to end it once and for all by pulling the bottle back with force. I heaved it towards me, but as he wasn’t expecting this I caused poor Stanley to lose his balance. He fell to the floor as I shouted, ‘Stanley. Oh Stanley, I’m sorry,’ and got down on the pavement to try and pick him up. But it was a frosty night, the ground was slippery and within seconds we were both sliding around, falling over each other, clutching on to our respective bottles. Just at this moment, four lads from school appeared from behind the Christmas tree, and I was so relieved, they’d come to my rescue and get Stanley and I back on our feet.
‘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.
5
A Hot Macchiato and a Hormonal SAS
It 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.
When 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.
