by Sue Watson
I imagined now that the soft robes, silky bubbles and deep luxurious cream carpets offered a kind of loving for Bella. Her feet were hugged in the carpets, her body caressed in designer fabrics by day and cashmere and silk by night. Being Bella must be like living in a luxury hotel permanently, I thought – all her needs catered to and every sensory pleasure at her fingertips.
The hot bath and the peppercorn bubbles had re-awakened me and instead of flopping straight into bed I did some exploring. I padded around the bedroom casually opening draws and squirting ‘Christmas Heaven’ room scent everywhere and imagining this was my home, my life – it felt good. The bedroom even had a bowl of jelly beans and a one-touch lighting/sound system, which I decided I’d steer clear of. I wasn’t sure about sound systems and it was a little late to be experimenting with noise when everyone else was probably asleep. My trouser suit was hanging on the door frame – the steam from the bathroom had softened the creases slightly by now, so I popped it in the wardrobe.
As I did, I spotted a lovely hatbox in the corner of the wardrobe floor and moved the few coats in there so I could see it better. The box was Tiffany blue with a scrawled figure of a woman in a hat – very fifties, very designer, very Bella. I imagined the hat inside was probably quite beautiful and expensive and she’d probably worn it only once, knowing her.
Reaching in to pull it out, the box was slightly heavier than I’d anticipated and it suddenly occurred to me that it might not actually contain a hat at all. I reminded myself it wasn’t mine to open and I was being very nosy and intruding on someone else’s stuff – but still, I pulled it out of the wardrobe, sat on the floor and slowly lifted that beautiful lid.
Inside the box were notes and cards. On top were postcards from various glamorous locations and underneath were Christmas and Birthday cards. There was no semblance of order, they’d all just been put in randomly. But delving deep and looking at some of the dates, the further down I went, the older the notes and cards were. Among the cards were old photos of Bella as a little girl with her parents, on Father Christmas’s knee and one of the two of us in the kitchen at home. We must have been about seven, both smiling widely, big gaps in our teeth, icing on our faces, so happy. Mum must have taken the picture with Bella’s camera – I couldn’t help but be pleased she’d kept it all these years.
I delved deeper and deeper, postcards, receipts, more photos, and then I came across them, my Christmas cards to Bella. She’d kept each one and not just the ones with recipes inside. I was touched to find them in this box full of mementoes she’d obviously kept for years. Then I saw the postcard she’d mentioned, the one from her mother saying, ‘I’ve moved to Sydney.’ As Bella had said, it was short and sweet, no kisses or declarations of maternal love and longing saying how she was missing her – how very Jean, I thought. I rummaged a little deeper but was beginning to feel uncomfortable – I was in Bella’s home rifling through her personal stuff. It might feel like I was staying in a hotel room, but that didn’t make it right, so I stopped myself from looking any further and carefully put everything back in the box. As I gathered everything together, a card slipped out from inside another one, and I couldn’t resist picking it up. The pale pink of the card was pretty and on the front of the card was a message in pink that said, ‘On the Birth of your Baby Girl.’ I was intrigued, I knew I shouldn’t, but I opened the card and read it… ‘Congratulations Bella, and welcome to the world baby Cressida, from all at the Hostel.’
I sat on the floor for a while reading and re-reading the card, trying to work out if there was a different interpretation to the obvious one – that perhaps Bella hadn’t had an abortion after all? Turning the card round there was a date written in ink on the back – 25th August 1992. That would tie in with Bella’s pregnancy. My head was everywhere – and kept coming back to the same question: if Bella had the baby, where was she now?
I lay in bed, knowing that despite the lovely soft sheets and sumptuous pillows I wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. My head was full of so many questions. What had happened to Bella all those years ago? Her mother had told me when I’d called that she’d made ‘the appointment’ for the termination, but had Bella refused to go? Is that why her mother had thrown her out onto the streets?
It must have been about an hour later when I heard the sound of raised voices in the hallway. One sounded like Bella, the other voice sounded deeper – like a man’s… the Silver Fox perhaps?
I wondered if he knew about Bella’s past, about the pregnancy? That explained why Bella was so worried I’d go to the press, a few stolen recipes was one thing, but a child out there somewhere was something else entirely. Here was a woman who presented a perfect picture of female happiness and accomplishment, the perfect life, the perfect wife. A teenage birth wouldn’t quite fit into the story Fliss and Bella had created over the years, and as for Peter, who knew where he fit in? I was intrigued by their relationship, and had always wanted a taste of that wave-crashing love that they clearly had… but what challenges they must have faced. I pressed my head against my own bedroom door to catch snippets of conversation. I couldn’t help it, I felt like I was in the middle of a reality show, wanting a peek into their private lives, longing to know their secrets and what would happen next. I knew the master bedroom where they slept was round the corner, so I could open my own door without being spotted, and I couldn’t resist. I slowly, carefully, turned the handle and leaned out into the hallway, which made the door creak and a floorboard complain. These lovely old houses had their disadvantages, especially if you fancied yourself as a bit of a Miss Marple. I needn’t have worried, any creaking noises I made were soon drowned out by the increasingly loud argument now coming from the master bedroom.
‘Bella, I’ve told you. I won’t go through the charade again, we’ve been telling lies for too long, it’s got to stop…’
‘But Peter give it another year… please darling. You know how much it will hurt me, think of the show…’
‘I’m sorry, Bella, it’s not just about you and me, it’s not fair… there’s another person to consider here too.’
Lies? Hurt? Three people? This wasn’t what their love story was all about – where were the white lace and promises? And more importantly who was the third person Peter was referring to? Did he mean Bella’s child… or, God forbid, another woman? Oh dear, I suddenly felt as I had with the hatbox, like I shouldn’t be doing this… like a child who’d come upon unsavoury adult stuff she didn’t understand. Yet… I couldn’t tear myself away. Bella had been trying to open up to me and each time we were interrupted – perhaps her marriage wasn’t so happy after all, and if I listened I might get some clue as to what the problem was. I looked at the whimsical drawings of a Dickensian Christmas on the landing wall by the huge festive flower arrangement as I listened to the urgent bickering coming from the master bedroom. Bella’s perfect Christmas, her wonderful life, was turning out to be quite different from the one I’d imagined. God only knows what was going on, but the conversation between her and Peter was clearly private and serious and I really shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But I crept out onto the landing, causing the bloody door to squeak loud and long and they must have heard it because they stopped talking. After a brief interlude, I heard more angry mutterings and the sound of someone storming from the master bedroom, and slamming another bedroom door. From my hallway vantage point I could hear Bella continuing to shout at Peter something about ‘tramp camp,’ which I assumed meant our war hero was now in the Nigella room. I had to smile, imagining the rugged Silver Fox lounging sulkily in a black silk fringed boudoir after a silly row with his wife. I waited a few minutes and as I moved slowly backwards against the wall I felt something move behind me and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I tried not to scream and slowly turned round to see Pussy Galore II had returned from wherever he’d escaped to earlier. I wondered if he answered to his stage name or was merely Keith out of hours but whatever it was he was rubbing himself
up against my legs and purring loudly. I looked down and a big white fluffy face looked up and meowed so loudly I was worried someone might hear him… and find me loitering outside other people’s bedrooms like a weirdo. So I picked Keith up, wrapping him gently in my dressing gown to turn his volume down and slowly backed along the hall in the direction of my room. I was bent down, moving backwards at some speed when I suddenly became aware of someone watching me. Fliss was standing in the hall, spiky hair on end, in a black silk dressing gown decked in black and white marabou trim and frou-frou slippers. One had to wonder how many muppets had died to make that gown.
‘Amy dahling, are you in pain?’
She was bending down to my level, probably trying to check my pupils to see if I was on medication – and who could blame her? I doubt many other houseguests at Dovecote had been found stalking the hallways backwards in the middle of the night with a cat in their cleavage.
‘Pussy! It’s Pussy… you’ve found her?’
‘Well, he … it’s Keith.’
‘Ssshhh dahling, it’s Pussy Galore, not a word to anyone regarding his real identity or we’ll all be ruined,’ she said theatrically placing her finger on her own lips.
‘Yes, yes of course. It’s just that he was rubbing himself against me and next thing is he’s snuggling into my chest.’
‘That’s what they all say, dear,’ she guffawed, reaching into my cleavage to ruffle Keith’s fur, which was disturbing for both me and the cat. ‘Pussy only arrived this afternoon, didn’t you gorgeous,’ she was nose to nose with Keith… and my breasts. ‘One minute he was a fluffy bundle of love the next a pinwheeling ball of hate and kitty claws before disappearing into thin air,’ she giggled.
I just prayed Keith wasn’t about to repeat the afternoon’s ‘pinwheel’ performance up against my breasts - my décolletage would never be the same again.
‘Yes, Bella did say he’d escaped,’ I said, trying to extricate him from my chest, but even as I bent down to put Keith on the floor he clung for dear life and I felt it safer to let him have his own way.
‘Ha, I assume Pussy’s with you tonight?’ she said, smiling at his stubbornness. ‘Do keep an eye on him, dear, we don’t want him running off again, I don’t think my heart could take the stress.’
I nodded, I’d conceded to his demands and he was back purring in my arms, his head rubbing up against my chin and I was cat-sitting for the rest of the night.
‘Now you and Pussy Galore had better get some sleep,’ she said, gathering up her gown. ‘You’re both required for filming in the morning – and one of you is wearing a Santa’s Little Helper ra-ra skirt,’ she teetered off, back to the Martha Stewart room on her fluffy mules, giggling to herself.
I watched her go, silently stroking Keith and hoping to God the ra-ra skirt planned for tomorrow was his and not mine. Once she’d disappeared round the corner I returned briskly to the Mary Berry room, putting on the bedside lamp and lying back on the plaid quilt, where Keith happily joined me. My heart was pounding… it was all too much, what with Bella and Peter screeching at each other, and Fliss stalking the hallways in the middle of the night. What the hell was going on at Dovecote? You couldn’t make it up – and Bella was right, the tabloids would love a snapshot of her life – marital rows, mad agents and errant pussies.
I gazed at Mary’s huge portrait on the wall. I doubt her life was quite such a circus.
I wondered if Peter had, by now, crept back to the master bedroom, declared undying love and they were now having rampant make-up sex, while I sat on the bed with a Mary Berry Cookbook and a gender-confused cat called Keith.
Despite being desperately tired I lay awake for ages intrigued by everything I’d overheard. None of it made sense. Had Bella put the show first and Peter was now feeling neglected? That would be terrible for her – he was such a handsome, successful guy, the first hint of a crack in their marriage and women would be forming a queue for a shot at the Silver Fox.
It must have been about two a.m. when I heard it… the hissed conversation, the raised voices again.
It seemed Bella and the Silver Fox were resuming their earlier argument, so I carefully got out of bed and opened my door slightly. I loitered in the doorway a while praying Fliss wasn’t on the prowl, but things seemed to have quietened down. I was just about to close the door when I saw the Silver Fox sweeping down the stairs, past the huge Christmas tree and outside, slamming the front door as he went.
Where the hell was he off to? I hung around trying to listen, and after about a minute I heard Bella sobbing. It looked like they’d had a real humdinger this time – especially as he’d rejected the silky seduction of Nigella and walked out. It made me think about my own marriage and the terrible rows that gave me hangovers the next morning. Neil and I hadn’t been happy for a long time, and it was only since he’d gone I realised how peaceful life could be at home.
Knowing just how she felt and falling into my old mode of best friend I had to comfort Bella, so I knocked on her bedroom door and asked if she was okay. After a little while she appeared in the doorway, wig askew, her face wet with tears.
‘I heard you crying,’ I started.
‘Amy, I’m so sorry, did we wake you?’
‘No, no, I was just passing… I was just going to the toilet…’ I lied.
‘But you have an ensuite…is that not something you’re used to? Would you like a bucket?’ she said and started to laugh.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, I heard noises coming from your room and heard you crying.’
‘Ahhh thank you,’ she seemed touched at my concern. ‘Yes well, the old Silver Fox can be a little… vigorous in the bedroom,’ she laughed and looked at me, standing there a crumpled mess, none of the designer clothes and grooming that made her what she was – or what she seemed.
‘You’re not okay are you, Bella?’ I asked gently.
She shook her head like a little girl about to burst into tears and I reached out my arms to hug her while she sobbed on my shoulder. After a while she composed herself and, pulling her dressing gown around her, I saw that old twinkle in her eye.
‘Sod them all,’ she smiled. ‘I need a drink – fancy one?’ She was beginning to walk down the stairs regardless of whether or not I was going, so I followed her down and into the kitchen where Crimson was perched on a stool.
‘It’s the middle of the night, shouldn’t you be in bed, my darling?’ Bella smiled.
‘Shouldn’t you?’
Bella ignored this and opened up her huge fridge, which seemed bigger than my car. It contained only a couple of bottles of wine and champagne and what looked like a platter of cheese - it was a beautiful showpiece, just like Bella. She opened a bottle of cold white wine and poured it into two Christmassy glasses decorated with hand-painted holly.
‘Drink?’ she asked Crimson.
‘No thanks, one of us has to be sober in the morning.’
Bella smiled and pulled a face like we were the teenagers and Crimson our mother.
‘Fancy a bit of Stinking Bishop, Amy?’ Bella asked.
‘Oh God is that some kind of middle-aged sex thing?’ Crimson piped up from under her hair before I could speak.
‘No, it’s a washed rind cheese,’ Bella said, like Crimson had made a genuine enquiry.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Crimson huffed, picking up her iPhone and leaving the room. Bella called goodnight and turned to face me; ‘I will do it,’ she sighed, ‘the homeless thingy. I don’t want to and I worry my viewers will want glitz and glamour instead of filth and Fair Isle jumpers – but I’ll do it. Tim recced the place last week and says it’s ‘tragic,’ but then – he would.’
‘It is pretty tragic really,’ I said, ‘even Tim isn’t over-dramatising when he says that.’
Bella pushed a domed lidded cheese plate towards me and I lifted the lid.
‘I wouldn’t normally dream of eating cheese in the middle of the night,’ I said, ‘but this looks beautiful.’ There wer
e several wedges of fabulous cheese, vine-leaf covered, rich blue-veined and soft, salty goat’s, with little glass pots of chutney and a scattering of figs and nuts. It was Christmas on a plate for me and I pulled up a stool, took the glass of wine from Bella and tucked in.
‘Yes, this time of year I always have a winterscape of cheeses made up for Peter when he gets home from a war zone,’ she smiled.
‘How lovely for him. No wonder Neil left me, he was lucky if I left a lump of stale cheddar in the fridge when he came home from work,’ I laughed.
I thought I saw a hint of sadness in her eyes as she looked at me; ‘what happened… with you and Neil? I remember you writing to me just after you were married, you both seemed so happy.’
‘Aren’t most people happy just after they get married?’ I smiled. ‘It’s all new and wonderful and everything they say is magical and amazing, but wind on a few years and the stuff you thought was magical is boring and ridiculous and they make loud chewing noises over romantic dinner a deux and say crass things in front of your friends. And then they run off with a pole-dancing legal assistant, leaving you high and dry at Christmas. Well, she’s welcome to him.’
‘Oh, how I envy you,’ she sighed.
‘You envy me? I just told you about my unhappy marriage and how he is now wrapped round a pole with another woman… there’s nothing to envy, Bella.’
