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

  Everyone was glued to the TV as ‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’ had just started, and the contrast between her environment and this one couldn’t have been starker. Bella was standing in her beautiful, state-of-the-art kitchen gathering together the raw ingredients for Christmas cake and waxing lyrical, ‘Ooh they are soft, plump and swollen, just how I like them,’ she peered into the camera triumphantly clutching a handful of pale, bloated sultanas. Her mouth was quivering, eyelashes fluttering, and I stared at her, waiting for the Christmas hit. Around this time of year the programme had always made me fizz with Christmas anticipation, but here in this setting I suddenly felt uncomfortable about Bella’s Christmas largesse. I was embarrassed by her organic bird, hand-reared beef and bloody oysters flown in from Galway that morning. Maisie and her friends were staring open-mouthed at the feast of expensive Christmas goodies laid before them in Bella’s gleaming kitchen, her ingredients as unreachable to them as the moon.

  ‘I always, always buy the best I can afford,’ she was saying.

  ‘Eeeeugh, so do ay,’ said Stanley in a mock posh voice. Everyone laughed.

  ‘Always buy what you can afford, Stanley dear,’ said a woman laughing in between coughs.

  ‘If I bought the best I could afford, that would still be nothing,’ he roared. To these people, Bella’s programmes were like something from another planet – where ingredients were like priceless jewels and everything she suggested was so impossible it was hilarious.

  ‘And for a light Christmas Eve buffet lunch and those unexpected guests, I will now show you my amazing Fontana cheese and prosciutto ciabatta,’ Bella was saying.

  ‘Ooh what’s she making now?’ an elderly lady asked as she wandered into the room.

  ‘Cheese and ham sarnie,’ someone said. I had to laugh – because in spite of all the foreign words and expensive ingredients, that’s exactly what Bella was making.

  As she shone from the screen, her beautiful home glittering out like a star onto St Swithin’s bare, shabby room with worn-out sofas, the difference was almost painful. These people were living with nothing, and here was a woman on the telly showing them the kind of Christmas they could never have. I’d always admired and envied Bella’s home on TV, but now I realised the cost of her beautiful artisan kitchen gadgets alone could keep the shelter in food for a year.

  By 11 p.m. we’d finished washing and drying all the pots. I’d helped Beatrice make some bread and Sylvia and I had scrubbed the kitchen until it gleamed…well, the bits that weren’t rusty and worn anyway. Putting on our coats to leave I said goodbye to Maisie and Stanley and waved to a group of older men sitting in the corner playing cards. When I’d arrived at the hostel earlier I’d been dreading going home to an empty, husbandless house, but climbing into Sylvia’s warm car I was grateful to have a home to go to.

  ‘I’m exhausted, but feel good for doing it,’ I sighed as Sylvia drove me back through the icy roads.

  ‘Yeah, it’s cathartic,’ she smiled, ‘reminds you what Christmas is all about.’

  Meeting these people had immediately made me see life on a much wider canvas. We are all born the same, we all embark on the same journey, but somewhere along the way some lives get derailed. It can happen to any of us, I thought as we passed the huge Christmas tree in the square. One minute you think you have everything planned out and your future is secure then wham, you’re blindsided. I would never have dreamed I’d be spending Christmas without Neil this year, my future changed forever. With only my income I’d have to sell the house and though I wouldn’t be homeless I’d have to live somewhere else and wouldn’t be enjoying the future I’d envisaged.

  That night changed me – it was simply tragic that these people had been dealt such bad cards. And in the depths of a freezing winter they didn’t even have the basics most of us take for granted: warmth, food and shelter. My heart went out to them, especially at Christmas with no decorated tree, and no hearth to sit by, yet still they remained upbeat and Stanley seemed to have a song for everyone.

  Back home, I shivered with relief as I opened my front door and walked out of the icy cold and into warmth and sanctuary. I thought about how Maisie had shivered when she talked to me and immediately ran upstairs to rummage around my wardrobe. I gathered together a pile of old clothes, including a warm coat I’d had for ages but never liked, and felt bad when I realised I’d bought another winter coat in a more flattering style, which felt decadent now. There were also some very wearable, very warm jumpers that were actually quite nice, I just didn’t need them and told myself I had enough. I also picked out a glitzy jumper covered in silver sequins, a gift from Neil the previous Christmas. It was glittery and fussy, and not me at all – which said it all about how much my husband knew me.

  The Christmas before, Neil presented me with a bright pink woollen scarf and mittens covered in big woolly flowers – again, so not me. I found the horrific scarf at the back of my chest of drawers and wondered why he would give me such a thing. I wore dark colours, but he was always buying me bloody sparkly things in vivid shades…well, he’d now run off with a very sparkly thing, perhaps he’d get all his excitement from her. I had another unwelcome image of her sliding up and down that bedroom pole like a Vegas showgirl and tried to unsee it. I knew Neil well and after a while the novelty would wear off and it wouldn’t matter what she did on that pole, he’d be distracted by something far wilder on The Discovery Channel.

  I folded the winter coat carefully with the jumpers and scarf. I would give these to Maisie, she seemed so quiet, perhaps a little sparkle and colour was just what she needed. These were things I didn’t need, they had simply accumulated at the back of my wardrobe, but for Maisie they would provide basic comfort, warmth and, who knew, even a little shimmer of hope?

  The first thing I did after packing Maisie’s parcel was put the kettle on and turn the TV on in the kitchen. As much as I was determined to move on with my life and leave Neil to his pole-dancing destiny, I wasn’t yet used to the silence, and the TV filled the void. I saw Bella’s face in a trailer for tomorrow’s show, she was all over the TV and press this time of the year wearing her ‘Queen of Christmas’ crown and red silk apron and I couldn’t help but think about the girl she’d been, my role in her destiny and hers in mine.

  Although our lives had been dramatically torn apart when we were eighteen, and I hadn’t seen her since, over the intervening years she’d remained the only link with my past. Mum and Dad were both dead and I rarely saw my two older sisters who’d both moved away as soon as they got the chance. Having Bella around (if only on TV) reminded me of when we used to cook together as kids in my mum’s kitchen. Each year as soon as Bella’s face came on that screen, I was taken straight back to that cosy kitchen of our childhood – before everything fell apart.

  After sending Bella a Christmas card for years with no response, a few years before I’d decided to add something more personal – one of Mum’s recipes. I had included various Christmas recipes each year since, from gingerbread to chocolate and cranberry brownies – Bella’s favourite as a child. I saw these as a reminder of the good times we’d shared and hoped she’d feel the same. Just writing down those recipes reminded me of Mum in her kitchen – the soft, wobbly fold of flour into butter, the grit of sugar, the heady fragrance of chocolate, sweet vanilla and the warmth of ginger. But most of all the recipes brought back the sheer excitement of two little girls – best friends – waiting for Christmas. It was a time of carol singing and jingle all the way – life was all glitter and sparkle for those little girls back then…what a shame it fizzed away within a few short years.

  I wrote the recipes and sent the cards as much for me as for Bella. The older we get the more we think about the past and I wanted to share my memories with the only person who had really known me apart from Mum.

  Every year I’d added all my contact numbers, photos of the twins and snippets of my life – trying to reach out to my old friend. And every year I was disappointed n
ot to receive a response. But Bella was now a big star and probably had someone else read her Christmas cards. I hoped Bella would eventually forgive me and naively thought that if we could just meet up again, we might be able to carry on where we’d left off at eighteen.

  But Bella had obviously chosen to cut all ties with her past. I didn’t blame her – but it still hurt. I just wanted to tell her that her secret was safe with me and I would always be her friend.

  I turned the volume down on the TV, even in the programme trailers Bella’s tinkling laughter grated on me this year. I just couldn’t embrace her Christmas baking plans as I had before – because this year her perfect Christmas seemed more unattainable than ever – just like her.

  Neil and the kids used to laugh at me and my own ‘Christmas tradition’ of recording ‘‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’ to get in the mood from early December. They knew we’d been friends in another life but didn’t really understand how Bella was the link to all the Christmases of my childhood, shared with my parents now no longer with us. Those memories of Christmas baking were so vivid for me still – Bella and I weighing out the almonds for marzipan, stealing mandarin oranges from the bowl and sharing their sweet, tangy fruit when Mum wasn’t looking. ‘I know what you two are up to,’ she’d laugh, the spray of citrus permeating the air, and exposing our crime. Mandarin oranges were only ever around at Christmas when we were young and like everything else they were scarce in our house. But Mum never told me and Bella off for helping ourselves, and even now the sweet, citrusy hit of a juicy Mandarin orange says Christmas and Bella to me.

  I was smiling to myself about this when the phone rang. It was Jamie, my son, telling me he’d been invited to his girlfriend’s in Kent for Christmas, I told him he must go and though I was disappointed I tried to hide it, thinking it would just be a girly Christmas with Fiona and I.

  Then the following day, Fiona called to say she’d been offered the chance of a lifetime to go on a research trip to the Arctic over Christmas with her boyfriend Hans. I pretended to be elated for her and urged her to grab the opportunity, avoiding any references to her father. When she said jokingly ‘sorry to leave you on your own with Dad,’ I just laughed.

  ‘We’ll have a late Christmas…our own special Christmas,’ I said, desperately trying to cover up the sound of my scorched throat and my eyes threatening tears. I ended the phone call quickly saying my Christmas cake was burning and Fiona said she loved me and hung up. They had no idea their father had left, they never asked to speak to him when they called home which was telling - he’d never really been present in their lives. The only silver lining to the grey cloud of spending Christmas alone was I wouldn’t have to tell the kids about our break up until after Christmas. I was determined not to say anything; I didn’t want them to feel obligated to come home just because I was alone. I put the phone down after talking to Fiona amazed at how life can change in minutes – and I’d gone from a big family Christmas with kids, their partners and my husband to just me. Even Auntie Anne had declined my offer of escaping the old people’s home and coming to mine for Christmas lunch. Mind you, she was under the impression I was Margaret Thatcher when I’d asked her, so I didn’t blame her for saying no.

  A couple of days after my visit to St Swithin’s with Sylvia I asked her if they might need help serving the lunch on Christmas Day, if indeed the budget was going to stretch to lunch.

  ‘Need people to help? Do birds fly? We always need people,’ she said.

  ‘Then count me in,’ I smiled and, to my surprise began to feel a little shimmer of festivity for the first time since Neil had left. I’d been dreading a Christmas alone, but this would mean I’d be helping people, I’d be with friends and I wouldn’t have to think about Neil and her having sex on a bed of prickly tinsel. The people at the shelter had made me realise that despite my current problem of a disappearing husband, I was one of the lucky ones.

  That evening I glanced back at the TV as Bella poured half a bottle of the finest brandy into her bowl of cake batter, I waited for tinselly anticipation to land like snowflakes all around me, but I felt nothing. Even when she produced what she described as ‘a winter landscape of European cheeses’, sprigged with holly and a frosty snow scene, I failed to get my fix.

  ‘Ooh this is a juicy one,’ she said, biting seductively at a maraschino cherry she’d earlier described as ‘divinely kitsch’. She swallowed the cherry whole, giggled girlishly and raised a flute of champagne. ‘Why have cava when Champagne is sooo much more bubbly? Cheers!’ she said, taking a large sip of vintage Krug.

  ‘I know, I know…it’s a little indulgent,’ she sighed, putting down the crystal flute and wafting her hand at the camera dismissively, ‘but a girl needs something sparkly at Christmas.’

  ‘A girl also needs a meal and a bloody coat to keep her warm,’ I huffed, thinking of Maisie.

  I opened the fridge and took out some cheese for a sandwich, making a mental note to do a food shop. It wasn’t like me to leave the fridge empty, but as there was only me living here now why bother? Besides, there was only my income coming in now, but the mortgage and the bills would be pretty much the same, so I would have to be very careful with my budget. It took my breath away to realise that my life was just a couple of pay cheques away from Maisie’s life.

  I decided on a cheese sandwich and as I spread my homemade chutney on the cheddar realised what an impact the visit to the shelter had made on me.

  Okay so I didn’t have – money, a husband, a fulfilling career, a perfect body or the flexibility to wrap myself around a bedroom pole, but I had my health and warmth and a roof over my head – those people had nothing. And as Bella waxed lyrical about ‘the finest ingredients’ and ‘little indulgences’, and slugged back half a bottle of £500 champagne ‘because it’s Christmas’, I began to feel angry. All the hurt and resentment, the disappointments of my own life and the reality of meeting such desperate people was whipping up inside me.

  I wanted to turn off the TV but that little girl in me who loved Christmas and missed her mum wanted the sparkle, the promise of the season. So I continued to watch, trying to feel Christmassy while forcing down my cheese and pickle sandwich as Bella Bradley danced around the screen like a bloody Christmas fairy on acid.

  In the same way that I watched ‘Bella’s Christmas Bake Off’, my mum had watched TV chef Delia Smith prepare for Christmas in the late 80’s. ‘Delia Smith’s Christmas’ was a tradition in our family and usually repeated during December for years. I was about ten years old when we first watched it together and I recall Mum taking down notes by hand, working out timings and portions – it was all pre-Internet and in our case we had no video and no copies of the book so Mum’s notes were all we had. I watched Bella from her kitchen at Dovecote, her beautiful Cotswold mansion, just as Mum and I had watched Delia from her lovely home in Norwich. I longed to drink in those drizzly shots of exquisite nibbles, glittering tables, and shiny baubles while imagining the succulence and seasoning of Bella’s Christmas bird. But as hard as I tried I still couldn’t gain any comfort from Bella this year and as she minced around her kitchen sprinkling 100-year-old balsamic vinegar around like water – I wanted to reach into the screen and shake her. I wanted to tell her about Maisie and Stanley and how she couldn’t comprehend a Christmas like theirs, nor could they imagine one like hers. I wanted to tell her she was in a bubble, a very expensive bubble filed with £600 hams and ludicrously priced champagne. But most of all I wanted to pour that champagne over her perfect shiny hair, because she had everything – and I had nothing.

  I made a cup of tea and then immediately hated myself for being so self-pitying. It may not be the Christmas I’d planned, but I was damned if Neil and his lap-dancing pole-cavorting girlfriend were going to take that from me. I lit one of last year’s cinnamon scented candles, put Michael Bublé’s ‘Christmas’ on the iPod and as Bella twinkled on the TV I checked what was in the cupboards so I could do some baking too.


  I had to work out my now very limited budget, so I sat down and (just like the maths teacher I am) did some workings out. Neil was keen to move on and I had realised quite quickly that so was I. The few times I’d had to speak with him over the phone he really annoyed me with his inflated ego and nervous sniff. I’d forgotten about his irritating habits and wondered if the pole queen had discovered the full portfolio of Neil’s bragging, sniffing, clearing his throat in tricky situations or slurping. If not I guessed she’d soon be driven to distraction by his crass comments and disgusting ways with mucus. So in between his sniffs, throat-clearing and cocky remarks he and I had agreed we’d put the house on the market in the New Year, and until then would continue to share the mortgage repayments. After that, the house would be up for sale and I would have to find somewhere else to live, which was pretty daunting. Sylvia, (whose husband had also walked out on her a few years back) said to try and make the most of Christmas and not worry about stuff until it happened. I wanted to take her advice and as one of the most calming and comforting things for me was baking, I decided to start there. I shook my head in shame at the wanton waste of the Christmas cake I’d thrown at Neil, but told myself that throwing cake was cheaper than therapy.

  Looking at my budget, I could still afford to make Christmas cakes for St Swithin’s as I had done in previous years, and that’s what I would do – for them and for me. Whatever was happening in my life, this was going to be the best Christmas St Swithin’s had ever had. The food would be great, but I was also keen to make them feel at home so set about thinking up cheap ways of making that awful dining hall look warm and Christmassy.

  When I wandered into Sylvia’s office the following day and said not only would I turn up and serve on Christmas Day but I wanted to get involved with the shelter and had some ideas, she whooped. Locking the door and immediately abandoning her report on ‘upholding the school’s principles and policies with good practice and raised standards’, she took out a notebook and pen.