Chapter Twenty-One Bella
Chapter Twenty-One
Bella
My parents’ house looms at the top of the carriage drive, a white Georgian with three and a half storeys and a sprawl of outbuildings that have been stitched on to the sides over the past two centuries.
It’s both beautiful and brooding, the way grand old houses often are – the kind that stir up nostalgia and awe in equal measure.
The house sits in grounds of almost two acres of lawns and ancient woodland, and has views over the Lymington River.
I grew up here, built forts and played hide and seek in the woods, learned to drive on the rutted gravel, and hosted illicit sleepovers in the garden cottage.
I see it all with the double vision of nostalgia and the nerves that have started to grip me.
I take a deep, cold breath and try to remember that this is just my family’s home. Nothing to worry about.
Reece saunters up the wide, shallow steps as if leading a diplomatic mission, one hand buried in the pocket of his winter coat, the other holding a bouquet of pale pink roses.
If this house is impressive, his parents’ main home is the full stately-home fantasy – helicopter pads and Jacuzzis, a billiard table in every wing.
Mum’s already standing in the doorway of the porticoed entrance that sits between the two bay windows.
‘Hello, darlings,’ she cries, her voice carrying across the frosty drive in a burst of warmth.
She’s already in full-on Christmas hostess mode, festive scarf thrown over a chunky knit.
Her hair is still a rich shade of chestnut, though the shine is more salon dye and conditioner than genetics these days.
Her arms are open, ushering us forward as if we’re the prodigal children returning from some epic adventure, rather than a ten-minute drive along the B3054.
Reece offers her the roses, and Mum beams, inhaling the scent and then bundling us both into a hug. ‘These are gorgeous. Come in, come in!’
Reece sniffs the air, and I see him register the aromas of cooking apples and fresh-cut pine with a barely perceptible nod; as much as he plays it cool, he loves this sort of curated domestic bliss.
The entrance hall is orchestrated for maximum seasonal effect.
The traditional ten-foot tree stands to the left of the central staircase, decorated with tasteful cream and gold ornaments, and topped with the cracked angel I made in year 4 art class.
A collection of winter blooms sits on the console table, and a low hum of classical music plays from hidden speakers.
‘Tree looks great, Penni,’ Reece comments, shrugging off his coat and handing it to Mum, who takes it along with mine and hangs them in the cloakroom.
‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I had to badger Paul into getting it up in time for today’s lunch. We’re so late organising everything this year.’
‘Christmas is still a few weeks away, Mum. Plenty of time.’
She kisses my cheek, and I catch the scent of her Jo Malone perfume. ‘You say that, but it all goes by so quickly. We seem to have even less time now we’re retired.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Cooking, obviously.’ Mum rolls her eyes, but you can hear the pride underneath.
‘He’s been fussing over the roast like it’s a Nasa launch.
Come through to the drawing room. We’ll have a glass of something in the meantime.
Reece, did you drive? Are you drinking? You should both stay the night in the cottage, head back in the morning. ’
Reece turns to me, and I shrug my agreement. ‘Great.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘What have you got behind the bar, Mrs N?’
Mum giggles and leads him into the lounge, where they head over to the drinks cabinet.
‘Just going to say hi to Dad,’ I call through the door.
I drift past the staircase, breathing in the layers of wax polish, woodsmoke, and citrus cleaner, the smells of a house that I can’t imagine ever belonging to anyone but my parents.
I run my fingers along the banister, then head for the kitchen.
Dad is exactly where he always is on a Sunday – in front of the range, sleeves rolled, face ruddy from the heat, glasses steamed. The kitchen is big enough to stage a musical, all exposed beams linked to a wooden-framed conservatory that overlooks the river. He looks up, sees me, and smiles.
‘Munchkin!’ Dad shuts the range door, sets down the oven gloves, and engulfs me in a hug that is all shoulders and wool jumper and the faint scent of cologne. Dad was ruthless in business, but always gentle at home.
His arms make me feel safe and loved, and for an instant, I relax, remembering how he used to lift me on to the worktop to ‘help’ peel carrots or stir soup.
The memory makes me wish I could rewind the past twenty years and go back to being that cherished little girl without a care in the world.
I picture summer mornings having breakfast at the oak table in the conservatory, the French doors wide open to the lawns and river beyond.
Fishing and boating with Dad, making daisy chains in the garden with Mum.
Although I realise I’m romanticising quite a bit – we were always ridiculously busy, often apart, and the magic was patchy at best. But sitting here now, smelling my father’s cooking, I almost believe in it again.
‘Taste this,’ Dad insists, turning back to the hob and tapping the edge of a small orange Le Creuset pan. He stabs something on to a fork, blows on it, and offers it to me.
I chew thoughtfully. ‘Chestnut?’
He grins, delighted. ‘With mushrooms and a hint of sage. I’ll add sprouts for Christmas lunch. You two are coming, right?’
‘Of course. But we’re doing Boxing Day at Reece’s parents’.’ I try to sound upbeat, but already feel the scheduling headache blossoming behind my eyes. ‘Do you want a drink?’
Dad raises a glass of sherry. ‘Way ahead of you.’
‘Need a hand?’ I ask the question, but I already know the answer.
‘No, all under control.’
I stand by the French doors for a moment, enjoying the feel of weak sunlight on my face.
I catch Dad glancing over at me, like he’s trying to gauge my emotional temperature.
I try to project an air of serenity, but the pressure of the week – of the year – is coiled in my chest like an unpopped balloon.
‘Get yourself a drink, Munchkin,’ Dad says.
I turn and smile. ‘Good idea.’
I wander back to the lounge, where Mum and Reece are deep in debate about the merits of sherry versus vermouth, each defending their choice with the intensity of a seasoned barrister.
They both look up when I enter, and Mum beckons me over with the old conspiratorial smile. ‘Bee, you’ll back me up, won’t you? Sherry or vermouth?’
I point to a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and she crows in triumph.
‘Traitor.’ Reece smiles.
Mum pours a measure of sherry into a thimble-sized glass and hands it to me.
There’s a kind of agreeable hush in the room – not silence, but a lull between punchlines, punctuated by the snap of the wood-burning stove and the soft Christmas playlist. The room is a nest of comfort.
The deep-blue velvet chairs are as ancient as the house.
The Persian rug is faded along the main walking paths.
The Tiffany lamps throw out a warm, forgiving light, like permanent golden hour.
On the sideboard, a bowl of clementines sits next to a tray of mince pies under a glass dome, and the chessboard by the hearth is already set up for a new game.
I take it all in, and the contrast makes me almost dizzy – the world outside is cold, hard, and indifferent, whereas in here, it’s a thermal blanket of cosiness and tradition.
I let myself drift for a bit, half listening to their friendly banter, sipping my sherry and gazing out of the bay window on to the frosty drive.
If I squint, I can almost convince myself that nothing in the world is wrong.
That the only anxiety in my life is whether Mum will go easy on me at Scrabble later, or if Dad’s remembered the pigs-in-blankets – Reece’s favourite.
But the tension in my skull keeps humming.
At the table – set for four but able to seat twelve – Dad has gone all out.
He’s plated everything with restaurant precision, garnishing the potatoes with sprigs of rosemary and the parsnips with a glazed honey drizzle.
We settle in around the table, napkins folded just so, ruby red wine glinting in cut-glass goblets.
The conversation is easy, everyone on their best entertaining behaviour, but the longer it goes on, the more aware I am of my inability to join in fully.
I keep fussing with my hair, shifting in my chair, refilling my glass before it’s empty.
I know Mum can tell something’s off. She keeps glancing at me with the same look she used when I came home with a grazed knee or an unexplained D on a maths test – concern fused with a desire not to make a fuss.
As the food and alcohol cruise through my system, instead of feeling more relaxed my anxiety heightens, but I need to keep it in check because I don’t want my parents to worry about me, especially not Dad.
‘Everything all right at work, darling?’ Mum asks gently, as Dad and Reece argue about the world’s most overrated football manager.
‘Yes, of course. Just a bit of a frantic week, that’s all.’
She gives me a searching look. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Mum purses her lips in that way she does when she knows my surface-level answer is a lie, but she lets it go and tries to lighten the mood.
I know she’s also wary of opening a can of worms that could load any stress on to Dad.
‘You’re not working yourself ragged, I hope.
Reece, you’ve got to make sure she actually sleeps.
If she comes home looking like a raccoon at Christmas, I’ll have words. ’
Reece laughs. ‘Noted, Penni. But you know Bella and her commitment to Newbury’s.’
Dad’s already refilling my glass. ‘Hardest-working woman I know, our Bee.’
They mean it affectionately, but each time they say something like that, I feel the weight of pressure increase.
I hope my smile looks genuine. I try to make more of an effort, contributing half-remembered stories – the water balloon incident in year 6, my brief and spectacular failure at dressage, the time Dad burnt an entire Christmas pudding to a blackened meteor and tried to salvage it with brandy.
I’m performing an expected normality – the amusing daughter, the loving girlfriend, the stable adult with an apartment, a business, and a bank account that definitely isn’t running on fumes.
Because I can’t tell my parents about the looming threat of the Inland Revenue or the avalanche of other business troubles that are crashing down on me.
Not now, not when Dad’s health is finally stable and they’re enjoying their retirement.
They’ve worked so hard all their lives – too hard.
They deserve a break from the stress. I have no choice but to handle this storm on my own.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to fix it and they’ll never find out.
Although I know that’s probably wishful thinking.
I’m frantically trying to keep a lid on it all, to stop the chaos from boiling over.
Yet the fear grips me, a paralysing dread that it will all detonate in my face, leaving nothing but ruins.
‘You’re sure you’re fine?’ Mum says later, while we’re in the kitchen clearing up, stacking plates like it’s a competitive event.
I nod, too quickly. ‘Promise. It’s just the Sunday evening blues. I’ll be a different person in the morning.’
She leans in and kisses my temple. ‘I hope not, Bee. I like you exactly as you are.’
I nearly tell her everything in that moment, but the words snag on my teeth. I want to confess, but I can’t bear the look I imagine passing over her face – the flash of worry, then shame, then effortful reassurance. I am supposed to be the perfect daughter who doesn’t need rescuing.
When the dishes are done, we find the boys in the lounge.
I burrow in beside Reece, feeling suddenly childlike, listening to the grown-ups talk as if I’m not one of them.
We do the ritual of leftovers and drinks and, eventually, round two of pudding and coffee.
My anxiety thaws a little with the heat of the fire and the gentle hit of the sherry.
I get quietly giggly and cling to Reece, who cradles me with a tenderness we don’t usually have time for.
It should be enough, this warm room and this safe moment, to insulate me from what’s coming. But the spiral is tightening again, even on a Sunday, the phone in my handbag vibrating with a new email, and already I’m running disaster scenarios in my head and rehearsing apologies I hope I won’t need.
When Dad falls asleep in his chair and Mum starts dropping not-so-subtle hints about ‘young lovebirds’ needing their privacy, Reece and I take our leave with the promise we’ll be back to the main house for an early breakfast before we need to dash off to work.
The night air nips my face as we cross the drive to the little garden cottage.
Inside, the heating is cranked, and the room smells faintly of clean linen and Mum’s perfume.
We head up the rickety stairs to the bigger of the two bedrooms, where Reece strips to his boxers and dives under the covers, patting the space next to him.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
I nod, climbing in beside him. He wraps himself around me.
‘You’re stressed,’ he says.
‘No, I’m not.’
He snorts. ‘I can feel the tension in your whole body. Bells, what’s going on? Have I done something to upset you?’
Again, I want to hand him the whole story. I want to say, I am failing, I am terrified, I can’t do this, and I don’t know why anyone ever thought I could. But, again, I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I brush it off. ‘Course not. It’s just work stuff.’
He doesn’t push it. Just burrows closer and kisses my forehead.
For a second, the pressure lets up just enough to allow me to breathe.
The smell of Mum’s fabric softener and the faint whoosh of the ancient radiator soothe me.
I lie very still, listening to Reece’s breathing as it slows, and the far-off hoot of an owl.
I could stay here forever, safe in this womb of luxury, but already my mind has gone to the alerts on my phone, the emails, the voice memos lined up like dominoes.
At some point, I know I might have to tell them the truth about everything.
But not yet. Tomorrow, I will get dressed, eat toast with proper jam, and be the Bella they all want to see.