FINGER FOOD
HELEN LEDERER
Chapter 1
Bella knew the signs of stress. The tight feeling across her chest, her pulse racing so fast she could feel it in her neck. And this morning there was something new. A tic by her eye.
On the other end of the phone, Sharon at Flair 4 Living TV seemed to take too much pleasure in saying, ‘I’m afraid Yvonne’s in a meeting at the moment, Bella. But I’ll just go and check.’
Then came the added insult of having to listen to a mix of James Bond themes for five long minutes before the receptionist returned. This time her voice was full of fake regret.
‘Shame! You’ve just missed her, Bella! Try again tomorrow perhaps?’
‘I certainly will, Sharon.’ Bella forced a smile into her voice but had to keep the phone under her ear. She had no spare hands to end the call – what with holding her umbrella, the phone, her newspaper and her small handbag. She thought she could hear Sharon chuckling as she fumbled to disconnect. Cow.
Bella shook the rain off her umbrella. She had been phoning her old boss Yvonne daily for the last six months. If she couldn’t get her old job back she might at least be annoying.
Bella preferred to tell people she had been ‘let go’ rather than sacked from her job as researcher at Flair 4 Living daytime TV channel because it sounded better. She had spent years working at the channel, chopping vegetables, wiping surfaces and coming up with some great ideas. One had been called ‘When Vicars Attack!’ which was turned down, as was the one called ‘How Clean is your Nostril Hair?’ as well as ‘Ready Steady Cheese’. In fact they’d all been rejected almost immediately. But Bella was not put off. At the back of her mind was the dream that one day she would be invited to present her own show. She just needed to come up with the right idea. One that was more food-focussed.
Unfortunately, Flair 4 Living’s controller Yvonne did not agree. On the day of her sacking Bella had presented her brilliant proposal of a new pilot idea. ‘Finger Food’ was to be a low-brow digital-TV food and chat programme. After an hour of pitching the idea, Bella had gone home with the quiet confidence that this show would be taken up. And she would be cast as the presenter she had always dreamed of being.
Instead, Yvonne had personally dropped a letter through her letter box only hours later, saying that ‘due to various changes at the channel’ Bella would have to be ‘sacrificed’. While they ‘valued her ability to develop ideas and respected her talent as a “stand-in presenter”, with a particular skill for table displays, they’d have to let her go’. Yvonne added she was ‘so sorry to say goodbye to Bella, especially as they “went back”’. (They’d been at Guides together a long time ago.) Bella knew that of course Yvonne wasn’t sorry at all. In fact she sounded pleased to have finally got rid of her.
Ever since then Bella had been trying to make sense of her life as an unemployed person and had even bought a self-help book called Making Sense of Being Sacked. This gave instructions on how to get out of bed in the morning to avoid ‘moping’ (jumping was one idea), how to talk to at least one person a day (this could include a policeman) and how to have a vision of something nice in one’s mind (pretending to be on a date with George Clooney was offered as a helpful example). So Bella had created a new routine. She would leave the house at 8.30 a.m., walk to the newsagent to buy a newspaper and then walk to the local cake shop. The cake-shop visit she did every day except Sundays because that was the owner’s late start. She didn’t buy women’s magazines to read because the recipes made her upset and irritable. They weren’t up to her high standards. Bella loved food. She loved arranging it, talking about it, eating it and making table displays to show it off. This was her passion and when she had no outlets for it she was lost. And hungry.
Still juggling her bag and umbrella she kicked open the door of Carmel’s Cake Emporium and felt a wave of relief wash over her. Out of the rain and in range of cake she was safe.
The rain had plastered her pudding-cut hairstyle to her face, giving her the look of a wet seal. Her eyeliner had leaked on to her over-rouged cheeks and her streaked highlights were sadly now almost as dark as the rest of her hair. Bella caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored cake counter and wished she hadn’t. She released the tight belt of her old raincoat (Harrods sale) from around her largish middle and was pleased to note that at least the new floral smock top (Top Shop) and khaki three-quarter trousers had survived the dampness. She hadn’t been sure about the trousers. They had slightly annoying ties around the hems. And after months of cake-eating they were also getting a bit snug ‘around the la la’, as Sharon would say. But they could pass as stylish leisure wear on a budget, which was the look she was adopting.
Bella tapped her fingers on the counter to make sure Carmel knew she was hungry and that she was there. She could see Carmel’s back in the inner kitchenette area, shaking with the effort of buttering another customer’s scones.
Bella coughed. She wanted to say ‘Hurry up, Carmel. I’m very depressed. I need cake urgently’. Instead she called out a casual, ‘Morning!’ trying to make the single word sound bold and important. Surely Carmel would understand the urgency of serving her rather than some other less needy customer who’d had the bad manners to order scones?
Bella turned to view the rest of the tea room, checking if her usual seat was vacant. She hoped she hadn’t left it too late. Ever since she’d got sacked, Bella had become more superstitious and a bit obsessive. It was taking her longer and longer to get out of the house. She’d checked the light switch five times that day, which was one more time than the day before.
There was one other customer, seated in the corner. An old lady who must have ordered the scones.
Bella was in luck. The window seat was vacant. From there, she’d have a clear view of The Dress, still shimmering and glinting across the road in the window of Bride 2 B. This was no ordinary dress. It was not an A-line everyday shift dress that you might pick up in a charity shop. This was a dress that spoke to Bella.
The rose and crystal clasp sewn on to the neckline was surely a sign. The diamante sparkle of the brooch and pretty satin rose entirely echoed the crystal and rose theme of the three-tiered wedding cake that Bella had triumphantly designed on the fateful day of her sacking.
The dress and the cake could have been made for each other. The cake had been designed for Yvonne’s last-minute demand for another programme. The audience had even written in for the recipe. Bella would never have guessed that this particular dress would have the same features as her cake. Let alone be winking at her from across the road when she sat in the window seat in Carmel’s Cakery.
Chapter 2
Carmel finally left the kitchen with a plate of scones and a warm freshly baked carrot cake.
‘Hello you!’ she said to Bella, and proudly placed the cake on a display stand on the counter. Bella moved in for a closer look. She could almost lick the icing from here. This was her absolute, most favourite cake in the land. Surely a happy day lay ahead. A cosy carroty scent enveloped her like spring rain. She decided she could quite happily die from carrot cake inhalation.
If Carmel found it unusual for a customer to be crouched over the counter and smiling at cake, she didn’t show it. Instead she and the buttered scones headed over to the lady in the corner with the shopping trolley.
Bella felt her heart sink a little. She hoped they would not start a long conversation. She needed to get Carmel’s attention.
‘Miserable morning!’ Bella called out as the scones were set down. ‘Is that a new carrot cake?’ she added, to keep Carmel focussed on her.
‘Course it is. Up at five I was. Done a coffee ’n’ walnut and all. Fancy a slice of each, do you?’
‘I’ll go for the
carrot if I may.’ Bella wanted to be very clear. Nothing worse than being given the wrong cake. Although she might try a slice of coffee and walnut before returning for seconds on the carrot.
‘You sit down. I’ll bring it over when I’m done over here.’ Carmel’s firm tone suggested Bella should no longer hang around the counter, coughing over the cakes and dripping her wet umbrella everywhere.
Bella stepped back from the counter with a sigh. She couldn’t control the timing of her order now and the annoying old lady with the scones might be wanting extras. Or she might take out a wallet of photos of grandchildren to show to Carmel. All of which would hold up the arrival of cake.
Bella retreated into her familiar world of make-believe to cope with the fact she had no such family snapshots of her own to show off. Images of Bella with a husband, Bella with a family, Bella the centre of attention at happy family gatherings, played out like a Hollywood film in her mind. Though deep down she knew it was pointless. Forty-year-old women like her didn’t get two chances at life and she’d already messed up one. Pregnancy at sixteen had been an accident, but giving up the baby had been deliberate. Her mother had insisted on it. And since then it had just seemed easier to throw herself into the make-believe of daytime television than risk a real relationship. On TV, perfect families appeared on perfect sofas and talked about their perfect lives …
Bella’s attention was caught by a bowl of gingerbread men biscuits on the counter, usually reserved for troublesome children who couldn’t wait for a glass of milk or Ribena.
‘Can I just take one of these? For now?’ Bella raised her voice and shook a biscuit at Carmel.
‘Help yourself.’
Carrying the biscuit Bella swiftly plonked her umbrella across the window seat. She tapped it to make sure it left a damp patch to discourage any other users. Then she guiltily wiped the worst off with a napkin.
As the comfort of the tangy dough soothed away her worries, Bella looked again at the bridal shop opposite. She needed to see The Dress. The book Making Sense of Being Sacked had indeed ‘made sense’. By finding a ‘vision of something nice’ (even if it wasn’t George Clooney) she had helped herself focus on the positive. Fantasies of a crystal-and-rose-themed wedding suddenly took over. There would be crystal and rose nameplates for the women guests and for the men she’d design … Well the men didn’t matter, did they? Men always disappointed in the end. But this dress would never do that. It could never be like a man, or worse, her stupid misguided mother. This was a dress that was a sparkling beacon of hope, of beauty and lasting happiness, and of everything that wasn’t horrible. She could even hear herself humming something like the wedding march. It must have been quite loud because she suddenly caught sight of the old lady staring at her. Bella shook herself. She must get a grip.
She took out her glasses and put them on. Then she took out the local paper from her bag and settled down to read. She would do what other people did on their coffee breaks. Maybe there was a crossword puzzle?
Front page first. A youth had been stabbed in a chip shop in the centre of town, but they had already arrested another youth so there wasn’t much more to report. Katie Boyle’s cousin had opened a dog beauty salon which took up a few more columns than the stabbing. On the opening night one dog had eaten the owner of the shop’s handbag but the owner didn’t seem to mind, according to the newspaper report.
Bella took a bite of the gingerbread man. She told herself the carrot cake would be with her soon. Carmel had disappeared into the kitchenette. How long did it take to cut a slice and shove it on a saucer?
Bella’s gaze wandered back to the bridal shop. A week ago the dress had shared window space with a monster: a ‘mother of the bride’ dress, in beige, which would have been more suitable for a ‘nan of the bride’, in support tights and sensible shoes.
But the ‘beige’ had now been bought (presumably by a nan with no taste) leaving The Dress to twinkle and feed Bella’s dreams. The clasp was not too brash and not too flash. Just big enough to sparkle over the white layer of antique lace which fitted neatly round the bodice. From under this cloud of lace dropped the palest cream and pink layered chiffon.
Bella let herself melt further into a fantasy where admiring crowds would all be staring at her in the dress, straining to notice every detail.
Chapter 3
Carmel slammed the carrot cake down on the table. ‘Still there then?’ she asked Bella.
‘I am, yes,’ Bella agreed, confused. She hadn’t been given her cake yet. Carmel too looked confused for a second. ‘The dress. It’s still there. The suit’s gone, thank goodness. Horrible that was. Muddy parsnip, didn’t you say?’
Bella turned her round, streaked face to Carmel’s square and sweaty one. She was solemn.
‘If I was a mother of the bride I’d shoot myself before I wore a parsnip coat-dress to my daughter’s wedding.’
She quickly picked up her fork to cut herself the first chunk of the carrot cake, thinking she’d probably said too much about herself. Too often she lingered on thoughts of the daughter her mother had decided she should give away, wondering what she might be missing.
Carmel caught the note of sadness and hovered by the table.
‘My mum wore a borrowed tent dress with flowers on for my wedding. Bit loud but different,’ she offered.
‘It would be,’ agreed Bella.
‘What about your mum? What would she go for if you ever …?’
‘My mother’s not the kind of person you should include in … important events.’ Bella tried to limit her ‘mother thinking’ time to birthdays and Christmas. These events were not the happy occasions that she was sure other, normal, people experienced.
Childhood memories of her mother sprang into focus. She would wait for Bella to get home from school, but only to check who she was walking home with. She’d go through Bella’s satchel to see if there were any notes from people who shouldn’t be writing notes. Her mother must have been on her side once … maybe. But she couldn’t remember when.
‘Not that you would tie the knot, would you?’ concluded Carmel, filling in the silence. ‘Being as you’re one of them career ladies.’
‘Past tense.’
‘You never know what’s round the corner, do you though? Coffee?’
‘Go on, then.’
Bella forced herself to return to the newspaper rather than wallow in memories. She turned the page to find a large photograph of Yvonne and a group of Bella’s ex-colleagues. They were cutting a small cake with the words ‘Finger Food’ on it, in bright yellow icing.
Bella felt sick. Worse was to come. Below the photograph she read the words ‘Flair 4 Living TV launches its new flagship programme in the form of a TV pilot. A low-brow food and chat show called Finger Food. Tickets still available. Recording this Friday.’
What was her pilot idea doing in the paper?
Bella must have let out a strange wail of anguish, since Carmel came over to her table. Even the old lady stopped to stare. This scream was louder than the humming.
‘You all right, dear?’ asked Carmel. ‘Went down the wrong way?’
‘No. Look. Look.’
Bella was beside herself. She pointed at the page.
Carmel squinted at it. ‘I see what you mean. That cake looks a bit squashed and undersized – especially for a party.’
‘That’s Yvonne. The woman who … let me go.’
‘She looks smart.’
‘Anyone can look smart in black.’
‘Not everyone. Mrs Green, do you think this lady’s smart?’ Carmel was put out that Bella didn’t agree and wanted back-up.
Mrs Green looked pleased to be involved and shuffled over. She appeared to recognise the subject matter.
‘It’s that TV channel, isn’t it. Can’t stand it,’ she said very definitely.
Bella warmed to her. ‘I used to work there. Yvonne’s the bossy old cow in black,’ she said with feeling. This was lost on Carmel who said mil
dly, ‘Looks well on her, though. Look at that necklace! Bigger than the cake!’
‘So she should look well. Yvonne’s nicked all my programme ideas and made a fortune. Finger Food was my last one. That’s my idea of a low-brow …’ Bella then read out her own stolen words from the paper, outraged.
‘She’s even nicked my description of the title for the pilot.’
‘Which pilot?’ asked Carmel.
‘Why would a pilot want a title as well? Don’t they get paid enough?’ Mrs Green added.
‘A pilot is a try-out television programme,’ explained Bella. ‘The one they’re doing …’ she looked at the paper again. ‘God, it’s today. Today! They’re doing my programme idea today!’
‘Yes, we got that.’ Mrs Green turned back to Bella. ‘Well, it won’t be any good, dear. Those presenters should be shot. I saw one silly girl trying to bone a trout and put her lip gloss on at the same time. Making a right hash of both.’
‘That was my chance,’ said Bella. ‘Finger Food was my chance to try out as a presenter. I’m sure they would have given me the job if they’d seen me.’ She slumped at the table.
‘Have another little looky at the dress again,’ said Carmel kindly. ‘Wonder who bought that beige number? Wouldn’t it be funny if it was your own mum who bought it and it really was a “nan of the bride’s dress”, like you said? You got any sisters?’
‘No. I’m an only child. Her one great hope,’ replied Bella.
‘Oh. No pressure then.’
‘But …’ Bella felt like talking now. The strain had got to her. ‘My mother had the chance to be a … a …’ she couldn’t quite say the word.
‘A nan?’ offered Carmel, who had seen all types pass through her tea shop and had a very good sense of when they needed to talk and when they didn’t.
‘Yes, she could have been a “nan”. But being sixteen … it wasn’t done. Well she said it wasn’t done so I had to …’
‘You had to do what, love?’ Carmel asked more intently.
Finger Food Page 1
