by Daisy James
A knight in a shining camper van!
Life is far from picture perfect for food photographer Emilie Roberts. Not only has her ex-boyfriend cheated on her, he’s also stolen her dream assignment to beautiful Venice! Instead, Emilie is heading to the Cornish coast…
Emilie doesn’t think it can get any worse – until disaster strikes on the very first day! And there’s only one man to rescue this damsel in distress: extremely hunky surfing instructor Matt Ashby.
Racing from shoot to shoot in a bright orange vintage camper van, Matt isn’t the conventional knight in shining armour – but can he make all of Emilie’s fairy-tale dreams come true?
A delightfully heart-warming romance to sweep readers off their feet! Perfect for fans of Mandy Baggot, Christie Barlow and Holly Martin.
Available from Daisy James
The Runaway Bridesmaid
If the Dress Fits
When Only Cupcakes Will Do
There’s Something
About Cornwall
Daisy James
DAISY JAMES
is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written four novels, The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do and There’s Something about Cornwall – all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!
Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks.
To my oldest friends Gillian Mowbray and Elaine Curtis
for their love and support whatever the weather.
A huge thank you to Tarquin Leadbetter of Southwestern Distillery at Higher Trevibban Farm, Wadebridge, Cornwall, for his assistance with my research into Cornish pastis.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Endpages
Copyright
Chapter One
‘No, Alice, I’m sorry but I can’t do it.’
‘You do know that Lucinda Carlton-Rose is one of the hottest TV chefs and cookery book writers out there at the minute, don’t you? It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to Cornwall. What’s not to like? And it would be a fabulous opportunity to add to your portfolio for when you go freelance. You can’t turn it down! You have to do it!’
‘Alice…’
‘Please, Emilie. You are literally my last hope!’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Okay, Lucinda may be a bit of a pain to work with…’
‘“A bit of a pain to work with?” You really are a mistress of understatement. She has a reputation a rabid Rottweiler would be proud of! She’s mauled better food photographers than me in her time, Al. She’s a gold medal holder in obsessive perfectionism. I’d be like one of her lavender-infused blancmanges the whole time. And you know what happens when I’m nervous – my hands tremble and I drop stuff! My camera would be shaking so much you’d think I was shooting on a trampoline.’
Emilie shook her head slowly, her eyes focused on the view of the London skyline from her office window as twilight washed the rooftops with a splash of salmon and indigo. She flicked her long copper waves over her shoulder and refocused her attention on the phone call.
‘You do remember what Lucinda was like when Suzie worked with her on the Lucinda Loves…Seafood book, don’t you? Suzie still swears that if she hadn’t been able to escape to that silent yoga retreat in Andalucía she would have been looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror. She’s adamant she’ll never work with Lucinda – or on any food preparation shoot – ever again. What was the alternative title Suzie gave her TV show? You know – the one she kept on ticker-tape repeat for the whole week she was with Lucinda?’
‘The Devil Wears an Apron.’ Alice giggled, despite her desperation to persuade Emilie to step into Suzie’s stilettos. ‘But this gig is different. It’s not a studio assignment. Admit it, all your college friends would trample over your dead body for a chance to work on a Lucinda Loves… location shoot. They’d be on the train to Penzance before you could say cappuccino cupcake.’
‘Sorry, I can’t do it. I just can’t. Not after what’s just happened with Brad. I don’t think my shaky self-belief could stand another vicious pounding.’
‘Brad is a cheating moron! I really don’t know what you saw in the guy, Em.’
‘Well, perhaps it was his smouldering good looks, the buttocks of steel in those D&G jeans…’ she began in an effort to divert Alice from her mission, but it was to no avail. She heard her friend inhale a deep breath and she shifted uncomfortably in her desk chair. She knew what was coming.
‘That’s not the point. He knew how desperate you were to land that shoot in Venice, and how much research you put into your pitch. Italian food is your specialism, too. It was a really despicable thing for him to do, going straight to Dexter and pulling rank. Anyway, isn’t he supposed to be Dexter Carvill’s intrepid travel photographer, not a food photographer? And how many times has he trashed your area of expertise? Amazing how his opinion suddenly changes when a trip to Italy is on the agenda.’
‘Alice…’
‘I know he’d usually sell his granny if he thought there was an overseas assignment in it, but this time I just know he did it to get back at you for finishing with him.’
‘Can we talk about Brad later?’ Emilie murmured, not up to one of Alice’s monologues on Brad’s selfishness.
‘Right, that settles it! You have to help me out on this Lucinda Loves… shoot. The money’s great and it’s a full two-week assignment travelling from north to south Cornwall and all points in between. And as an added bonus you can stop off to visit your parents in St Ives. I know it’s not exactly Italy, but it’ll be a blast. Did you have a look at the promo stuff I sent over to you?’
Emilie sifted through the paperwork on her cluttered desk, dislodging mounds of glossy photography brochures, a battalion of stale coffee cups and crisp packets, even a half-eaten tuna sandwich that had been lurking under a newspaper since yesterday. She’d never been the most Poirotesque of people but clutter and chaos just seemed to creep up on her without warning and she’d grown used to it – in fact, it had become an inexplicable comfort. She twisted her upper lip as she reached under a discarded pizza box to extricate the Lucinda Loves… schedule.
She ran her eyes down the detailed itinerary that had been sent to the agency by Lucinda’s management and hammed up her best BBC presenter’s accent. ‘“Join Lucinda
Carlton-Rose, one of Britain’s best loved TV chefs, for a culinary road trip par excellence through the picturesque county of Cornwall, taking in the most delicious of local dishes and sampling a whole host of recipes handed down from generation to generation.”’
‘Come on, Em, you have to admit it sounds like a lot of fun. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to get away from the frazzle of London and plan the next stage of your life. Take the time to really think about when you’re going to launch your own photography business. If you do this shoot on Lucinda Loves… it’ll be a massive boost for your portfolio. You’ll have clients hammering down your door to work with you, maybe even famous ones.’
‘Or to look at it another way, if it all goes pear-shaped – and there’s a better than fifty per cent chance it will from what Suzie said – I’ll be flushing my whole career down the toilet!’
‘So, you prefer to play it safe, is that what you’re saying? Nothing exciting ever happened by playing it safe! Okay so Brad won the star prize this time but you’ve got the chance of a fabulous consolation prize.’
Emilie opened her mouth to bat back an indignant response but Alice was on a roll.
‘It’s just the excuse you need to banish the whole Brad fiasco from your befuddled mind. Get some distance.’
‘We have distance! Have you forgotten already that he’s probably, as we speak, soaking up the atmosphere in St Mark’s Square whilst sipping an ice-cold Bellini in Harry’s Bar?’
Alice ignored her. ‘Keep reading.’
‘“This time it’s Lucinda Loves…Desserts, so there’ll be a cornucopia of cake, a tower of tarts and a plethora of pastries.”’ Then there’s a whole list of cakes and biscuits and pies. What the hell is Figgy ’Obbin?’
‘Mmm, I can feel the drool forming already.’ Alice paused, and softened her voice. ‘You have to do this, Em. It’s time to work on building your confidence. You are an awesome photographer and getting away from Brad’s influence will help you realise that.’
Emilie knew Alice had a point. Not only had she ended her relationship with Brad after discovering his dalliance with a lingerie model whilst on a shoot in Barcelona the previous month, but she had also recently found out that he had been bad-mouthing her to Dexter, and several of her clients, forcing her to work even harder to prove her worth. Whilst she was devastated at Brad’s disloyalty and missed him greatly, his disparaging remarks to her boss about her creative talent had hurt her the most.
How could he have said those things when they had been planning to go freelance together? She had thought he was proud of her achievements, appreciated what she brought to their professional partnership, believed that they made an awesome team. In fact, he had told her so on frequent occasions.
Clearly Brad had been lying to her about that too, and whilst the numerous awards on her office shelf should reassure her she was good at what she did, she wasn’t sure that without Brad by her side she could continue with her dream of going solo. She shoved those demons into the crevices of her mind for later dissection and moved on to present to Alice another argument for the defence.
‘But it’s two whole weeks away from home! And how am I expected to travel around Cornwall via…’ she grabbed the sheaf of paper containing the schedule from the floor, shoving her copper waves over the crown of her head ‘…via nine…yes, nine venues? You know I don’t drive.’
‘You will be working alongside the indomitable photo stylist Alice Jenkins – I hear she’s great fun! No, seriously, I have all that sorted. I’m your designated driver. And…remember, it is Cornwall we’re talking about here. There’s bound to be a battalion of hunky surfing guys just waiting to whisk us away to their beach parties and barbeques…’
‘It’s the end of September, Alice; the surfing season is probably over.’
‘So they’ll be celebrating the end of the season! Oooo, all those rippling bronzed torsos. All that long golden hair bleached by the summer sun, all their…’
‘Okay, okay,’ Emilie interrupted with a laugh to prevent any further lyrical pronouncements. ‘Calm down! It won’t do you any good drooling over a bunch of imaginary surfing dudes, gorgeous as they sound.’
‘So, it’s a yes, then?’
Emilie straightened her shoulders. Why should Brad have all the fun? And Cornwall was just as photogenic as Venice, if not more so, not to mention the spasm of nostalgia that had shot through her veins as she remembered childhood holidays spent on its windswept beaches. It would also prove to Dexter, and to herself, that she could do a shoot of this importance on her own and do it well.
‘It’s a yes! Actually, if I’m asked to photograph another precious five-year-old in a Disney princess outfit I think I’ll throw myself off the castle turret!’
‘Excellent!’
Emilie knew Alice had punched the air. She had heard the silver charm bracelet, laden with meaningful charms Alice had collected over the years, jangling at her wrist. A curl of excitement, mingled with nervous anticipation, meandered through Emilie’s chest. Was she really up to the challenge? She wasn’t entirely sure, but Alice was her friend and the most obsessively organised person she had ever encountered. Every detail of their two-week itinerary would have been meticulously planned, every recipe carefully co-ordinated with its backdrop. Even if she was struggling to recover her own self-belief, she had the utmost confidence in Alice’s talent as a photo stylist extraordinaire.
‘Watch out, Newquay, here come Alice Jenkins and Emilie Jane Roberts!’
‘The first shoot is in Padstow actually.’ Alice laughed. ‘Mmm, all that yummy seafood. I can’t wait. Hey, it’s just as well it’s not a Lucinda Loves…Seafood gig, isn’t it? I’m not sure Lucinda is the kind of chef who understands picky eaters like you. I think she’d spontaneously combust if you refused to taste her creations.’
‘What? You think I’ll have to eat what she bakes as well as photograph it? I’ve never been asked to do that before. I’ll look like a flabby elephant by the time I arrive in Penzance to shoot their…erm…Cornish Yarg Soufflés!’
‘I don’t know. I’m just saying Lucinda could interpret your refusal as disapproval of her recipes and if there’s one thing Lucinda is not good at it’s taking criticism, constructive or otherwise.’
‘Anyway, who’s labelled me as a picky eater?’ Emilie laughed again, her spirits rising as she anticipated spending the next two weeks in Alice’s exuberant company – a friend whose special brand of cheerfulness in the face of any culinary disaster would be like spreading hot chocolate ganache on her wounded heart.
‘Me! I don’t know anyone who can live on coffee and crisps and still look as gorgeous as you do. There’s a whole kaleidoscope of delicious recipes out there and for God’s sake, you photograph them every day! You allow cookery book readers to feast with their eyes on the images you create, to drool over whatever cuisine you’re shooting as they anticipate what they might produce themselves in their own kitchens, and you don’t want to eat it? You’re crazy!’
‘It’s precisely because the food is in my face every day that I’m selective in my tastes – that’s all. Anyway, I love desserts so that’s not going to be a problem. Lucinda can force-feed me scones oozing with jam and Cornish clotted cream as much as she likes.’
Alice giggled. ‘I can so just see Lucinda Carlton-Rose rubbing a cream scone in your face like a custard tart. Actually, that’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing…’
‘Alice?’
‘Well, one of the reasons I couldn’t get anyone else to do this shoot is that Lucinda threw a whole Mango and Apricot Pavlova at Rick, the lead photographer on the Lucinda Loves…Fruit shoot, after he inadvertently trampled on a box of her ripened mangoes. It was like being in the audience at a circus performance. I didn’t know whether to applaud from the sidelines or rush over and offer Rick a towel!’
Emilie’s heart ham
mered out a chorus of nervous anticipation. What had she done? Rick Farnham was a paragon of orderliness, whilst she had frequently been accused of bringing chaos to an empty room. A picture of total culinary pandemonium floated across her vision with Lucinda Carlton-Rose centre stage holding a sharpened kitchen knife aloft, her signature baby pink apron screaming the logo The Devil Wears an Apron and steam coming out of her ears.
‘Oh my God, I’m sensing a total disaster looming!’
Chapter Two
Emilie watched the train slither away from the platform of Bodmin Parkway train station like a languid serpent disappearing into an arboreal tunnel. She glanced up at the electric blue sky, its infinite clarity broken only by wisps of cloud scudding across its arched canvas. A stiff breeze tickled across the treetops, but there was still warmth in the late September air. Even so, she drew the sides of her cardigan around her chest as she waited on the station steps for Alice to collect her.
Alice had refused her offer to grab a taxi. It was just as well as she not only had her wheelie suitcase crammed with the indispensable personal possessions she needed for the two long weeks on the road but also her beloved prop box. The box was her treasure trove of decorative goodies she’d collected over the last five years – goodies she used to dress the images she photographed. Every item held a special place in her heart and had been packed securely, but it weighed a ton – despite the wheels attached to the sturdy, black canvas trunk.
She took a quick peek at the little silver watch her parents had presented her with when she’d graduated from Royal College of Art five years before. She knew they had been disappointed when she’d told them she intended to make her life in London, that the capital was where most of the best photographic work could be found. They hadn’t said anything of course, but she knew they longed for the day when she would come back home.
They had relocated from Bristol to St Ives six months ago and she had yet to spend more than an extended weekend with them at their quaint, whitewashed farmhouse. She had shied away from visiting more often so she didn’t have to discuss the recent inexplicable plummet in her self-confidence. She didn’t want to worry them and renew their calls for her to come home.
