by Sue Watson
‘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 Bellatastic 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.
‘I want a special Christmas…’ I started.
‘Look, just say your lines, and keep schtum and I will be coming down your chimney with a bag of money, because that’s clearly what you’re after.’
‘I don’t…that’s not…’
‘Oh there’s a swearing clause too – don’t say f….’
‘Yes, I fucking know,’ I snapped.
It seemed everyone assumed I wanted money and was threatening to take my story about Bella’s murky past and stolen recipes to the tabloids…and that I was compelled to say the F-word live on air.
The phone went dead for a few seconds then star
ted playing ‘The First Noel’ again…and again.
I looked at Sylvia uncertainly.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Do you need me to say anything on air?’
‘No…thanks,’ I smiled. I really didn’t need to add an excitable Sylvia to the surreal conversation I was about to have in front of the nation with my former best friend.
Listening to ‘The First Noel’ as I waited on the line, the situation had made me think about the past and what might have been. Years after her death, my mum was being exploited by someone she’d cared for, and it broke my heart. I couldn’t help but wish she’d had more self-belief and used her cooking talents for herself not for others.
I remember one New Year’s Eve the Pilkingtons were returning from their holiday home in Switzerland and had asked my mum to provide and serve a buffet for forty people on their return. Mum worked tirelessly for a couple of days and I found her slumped on the bathroom floor when I came home from school. I was really scared, but she told me she was just tired. The next day her face was pale and I could tell she was in pain, but she wouldn’t admit it to either me or the rest of the family. I saw her taking three paracetamol, and although she still didn’t seem herself, by the evening of the buffet she seemed brighter. ‘I’ll be fine, I think it must have been something I ate,’ she’d told me when I’d asked.
I was still worried about her as she was packing all the stuff in containers and waiting for the driver to come and get her and my sisters and the food. My sister was helping out as a waitress and I’d have given anything to go too but Mum said I was a bit young.
‘Let her go with you,’ Dad said from his chair. He was worried about Mum too and I think he wanted another family member there looking after her. It was testament to how weakened she felt that she gave in and agreed.
I was delighted, I felt so grown-up, and when we arrived I was excited and surprised to see Bella and her mum and dad were there as guests. I felt so proud to be a waitress I waited until I was wearing my pinafore and carrying a tray of canapés before I went over to say hello.
Bella screamed for joy when she saw me, ‘Ames…look at you – how fabby!’ she squealed, hugging me and almost knocking the tray out of my hands. Her father was always very formal and muttered, ‘Hello Amy,’ but her mother just smiled coldly in my general direction and turned away. I didn’t understand her reaction, she’d never been warm and welcoming like my mum, but she knew me well and we’d chatted when she came to collect Bella from my house. Bella seemed oblivious to this coolness and was asking if she could help out too. ‘I want to wear an apron like Ames…please can I be a waitress too?’
Her mother looked from Bella to me and back again, and staring directly at me said, ‘No, Bella – you’re better than that.’
I was devastated, my throat closed up and I spent the rest of the evening quietly serving. Bella barely spoke to me and when Mum asked if I was okay I didn’t have the heart or the vocabulary to explain what had happened and how it made me feel. But that night I learned a valuable life lesson: we’re not all the same, and friendship doesn’t always cross boundaries as it should. Sadly I didn’t see this for what it was at the time – a couple of judgemental snobs who felt I was good enough for their daughter when they were too busy, but when it came down to it I was socially inferior. They loved my mum when she could provide the fancy canapés they could show off to their friends, but none of them even came to see her when she became ill.
Now I felt like I’d let her down further by sending those recipes only for her to be exploited again. I felt foolish and was determined to make damn sure I got what I wanted from Bella by fair means or foul, if only to avenge my mum and give St Swithins a Christmas they’d never forget.
As I’d grown up and become a mum myself I’d realised how hard life and death had been for her, but she kept smiling. Mum never had anything, she struggled most of her life and no one ever really acknowledged everything she did. We all loved her but perhaps took her for granted. I’d spent years feeling guilty about Mum and how I’d never been able to do anything for her, improve her life, take away her pain. And now this final insult from Bella had brought it all to the surface. I had to see her and make her realise what she’d done to me – and to my mum’s memory.
6
Let them Eat Cake
While I was waiting to be put through to Bella, Sylvia had managed to pilfer a flat-screen TV from the headmaster’s office so we could watch the show when the call came through. She’d asked Mr Robinson, the caretaker, to come and set it up, but there was no sign of him and time had run out so she was now grappling with it. I was just about to get up and give her a hand when ‘The First Noel’ stopped abruptly (thankfully) and a rather shrill voice said, ‘Hello is that Amy? Little Amy Lane?’ It was her. Bella Bradley… this time in TV personality mode, all posh speak and girly giggles.
I could barely talk, so quickly breathed into the paper bag for a few seconds. Yes I was nervous, I was live on air, but I was also distracted by the circus going on around me. Sylvia was trying to get the TV to work by twiddling with the connections, and in order to reach them at the back she’d had to virtually mount it. Sylvia was short and quite round and was now having problems fitting herself around the huge TV. Then just at the point where she was virtually on top of it with one leg wrapped round, Paul Watkins from 10B appeared through the window in the office door. He was videoing the whole spectacle. I couldn’t leave the phone to stop him, so waved my paper bag frantically and shouted for him to STOP THAT NOW!’ which alarmed Sylvia who thought I was addressing her, and almost lost her footing. She was now straddling the TV while I kept shouting and waving – and Paul continued shooting.
‘That’ll be on YouTube in ten minutes,’ I said, as he eventually put down his phone, laughing. I communicated one of my ‘furious’ looks at him.
‘You Tube?’ the voice said, followed by tinkling fake laughter. ‘I think we have a crossed line.’
‘Hi yes…no, it’s all fine, sorry this is Amy,’ I finally said, trying to calm myself while shaking my fist at the sniggering teen.
‘It’s lovely to speak with you little Amy – now tell us all about yourself.’
I was half-listening, I could barely concentrate with Paul still standing there. And if he got his phone out again and filmed me, he could really drop me in it with the headmaster. I hadn’t planned to advertise the fact that I was skipping class to be on the telly.
Unable to extricate herself from the TV set up, Sylvia was also shouting and waving at Paul to stop. But what we were doing in reality was providing pure comedy gold for his little video. This was a Christmas gift to Paul Watkins.
‘Don’t play that game with me…’ I yelled, as Paul lifted his phone to continue filming.
‘Oh dear…I’m not playing any games…is that little Amy?’ said the voice on the other end.
‘Yes…hello, Bella, I’m so sorry. Yes it’s Amy,’ I said, waving my fist at a departing Paul while Sylvia slid slowly down the front of the screen, her feet desperately waggling until they reached the ground.
‘Yes…so, lovely Amy, tell me what a Bella Christmas would mean to you?’ I wondered what she was thinking, she seemed so bright and breezy, like we hadn’t just had a hissed conversation about blackmail. I looked at the screen, which Sylvia had miraculously brought to life, and noticed the red mottle slowly creeping up Bella’s neck.
I swallowed hard, ‘My husband has gone,’ I said, through dry lips. ‘And this is the first time my kids will be away…and…’
‘Fabulous!’ she said, clasping her hands together. It was clear she wanted to keep this short and sweet in case I suddenly blurted anything out.
‘So you want a great big bird and all the Bella trimmings?’ she was saying, and looking into the camera, winking.
‘Yes…and it would be good to see you too. We have stuff to talk about,’ I added, giving her the message that I wanted more than just a stuffed ‘Bella’ bird and a masterclass in
goose fat.
Silence.
‘Ha, you’re obviously desperate for help, you NEED a Bella Christmas and…’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘I am DEEEElighted to inform you that you are the winner, lovely Amy Lane!’ the voice chorused down the phone.
‘Thank you,’ I was saying while nodding at Sylvia who did a little dance.
‘You deserve it, lovely Amy. Your husband’s abandoned you for a topless dancer and your kiddies are going hungry, goodness you must be exhausted, not to mention worried to death about Christmas.’
‘Well, he didn’t…it’s not quite…’
‘I can only imagine the hardship, the heartache…your little ones’ faces when they come downstairs to an empty fireplace…where Santa hasn’t been.’ Her lips were quivering, the camera was closing in, she was milking this for all it was worth.
I refused to be patronised and exploited by her, I wasn’t ‘poor little Amy’, I was the one holding all the cards here for once in my life. ‘My children are adults,’ I said. ‘They won’t be wondering where Santa is…’
‘Oh…yes, but whatever age our children are, they still expect a visit from the man in red,’ she said, clearly shaken by my refusal to join in.
‘I think at the age of twenty, they may be a little bit disturbed at the sight of an old man dressed in red creeping through their house ,’ I responded, now cool as a cucumber, but still clutching the paper bag, just in case a panic attack overwhelmed me at the wrong moment.
She laughed that false laugh again and I wanted to smash the phone. I felt strangely offended that she’d use this laugh on me – after all these years she was using her TV voice and only speaking to me because she was scared I might tell.
‘I’m delighted to have won – but I don’t want the prize,’ I suddenly heard myself say.
Sylvia had just taken delivery of two more coffees and having taken a huge mouthful spat it everywhere. She was destined not to get any coffee that day.
