There's Something About Cornwall

by Daisy James

  ‘Two desserts to photograph today,’ announced Alice as she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘There’s Cornish Saffron Cake and a batch of Cornish Honey-Infused Biscuits that will melt in your mouth. Hey, did you know they grow tea here in Cornwall? The Tregothnan estate is the only business to grow it commercially in Britain.’

  ‘Mmm?’ mumbled Emilie, too stressed to listen to what Alice was saying. She knew it was imperative to make a good first impression with Lucinda, yet beads of perspiration rolled down her temples and her hair had become more bird’s nest than Sunday Best.

  She reached up to tie her unruly copper waves into a high ponytail and ran a critical eye over the mini stage set they had created. Her heart hammered a nervous concerto against her ribcage as anxiety gnawed at the back of her throat, scattering her lucid thoughts. She shook herself, inhaled a deep, steadying breath, and forcibly dragged her wandering concentration back to the present.

  To Emilie’s trained eye they had designed the perfect backdrop for Lucinda’s duo of Cornish culinary creations. A lemon-and-white checked tablecloth stretched across a long trestle table and had been accessorised with saffron-yellow napkins on white china plates. Two huge oval platters decorated with tiny yachts with sunflower-yellow sails stood at either end awaiting the arrival of the biscuits. But in the starring role was a magnificent white china cake stand, complete with fluted rim running like a lacy ruffle around the edge that would frame the Cornish Saffron Cake when it arrived fresh from the hotel kitchen.

  To complete the tableau of culinary excellence Alice had added a pair of crystal vases from Emilie’s prop box, and crammed them with yellow crocuses, which she had procured at great expense from a supplier on the Isles of Scilly – but no other floral accompaniment would have sufficed.

  Alice had just slotted the last of her unused props into its designated place in her trunk and turned to offer her assistance to Emilie, whose various camera lenses and tripods littered the room, when there was a burble of voices from the doorway.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Okay, everyone! Lucinda has left the kitchen and is on her way up! Brace yourselves, shoulders back, smiles in place!’ The extremely handsome guy skidded to the side of the door, his back pressed against the wall. ‘Annnnd…action!’

  Emilie experienced an unexpected impulse to giggle. All he needed was a clapper board! But she managed to rein in her mirth and bury it beneath the tsunami of anxiety that continued to coil around her body. She shot a covert glance at Lucinda’s assistant, all six foot of his lean, toned figure cloaked in an outfit of black: black polo-neck sweater – cashmere; black dress pants – Armani. Gosh, she smirked, with his espresso hair neatly gelled into an attractive quiff at his forehead he could pass for the Man from Milk Tray! Her twitch of amusement vanished as Lucinda swept through the door.

  ‘Marcus? Didn’t I ask you to check that the hotel’s pastry chef had at least some kind of training in the field of desserts? After all, this is Lucinda Loves…Desserts, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, Lucinda. His credentials were ex…’

  ‘He was clumsy, inept and downright rude. And don’t get me started on his fingernails.’

  ‘Sorry, Lucinda, I…’

  ‘I hope we don’t have to revisit the entire schedule to iron out any more avoidable oversights? I really need this whole tiresome road trip to run smoothly. Will you call my florist? I want flowers sent to Brandon Rhodes and tell Francis I won’t be fobbed off with one of his ridiculous ultra-modern arrangements. Then I want you to call that quaint little guest house you’ve booked me into for the Perranporth shoot. I thought I made it abundantly clear that I needed something a little more glamorous? Have you forgotten whom I will be entertaining that evening?’

  ‘The Risings is a five-star Tudor manor house set in five acres of pristine…’

  ‘Then call my husband and ask him to reserve our usual table at The Grange for eight o’clock on the night we’re in Falmouth.’

  ‘Yes, Lucinda.’ Marcus loitered on the threshold for a few seconds as he waited to see if the list of demands grew any longer.

  ‘And can you make sure the mineral water in my room is Pellegrino? You should know by now that I’m not in the habit of drinking the pond water I found by my bed last night.’ Lucinda stared at her assistant for a second before flapping her hand at him. ‘Off you go then.’

  Emilie wound in her jaw just in time as Lucinda’s laser beam swivelled in her direction – but the woman looked right through her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Alice. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is the girl they sent from the agency here yet? I hope you expressed my considerable disappointment that my first choice wasn’t available. What was his name, Blake or Brian something?’

  ‘Bradley Milligan, and yes I did. But can I introduce you to Emilie Roberts, also from the Dexter Carvill Photography Agency. She is an award-winning photographer in the field of food and product photography.’ Alice rushed forward to relieve Lucinda of the huge Cornish Saffron Cake she still held aloft.

  ‘Ah, yes, I see. I had expected someone a little more… Well, never mind.’

  Lucinda stepped further into the room to turn her attention to the table they had spent the last hour dressing to the precise specifications previously agreed with the TV chef’s publishers and her management.

  ‘Is this the set I authorised for the shoot in Padstow? Why is it so difficult to get the backdrop right? Did my people not provide you with the brief in advance so you didn’t have to just throw something together at the last minute and hope for the best? Do you think it’s not important that my desserts are surrounded by props that accentuate their beauty? Unless, perhaps, you were aiming for some postmodern, tongue-in-cheek reverse psychology I’m not aware of?’

  ‘Lucinda…’

  ‘I can assure you that I would never have authorised something as predictable as those crocuses for the floral accent. Are you seriously suggesting that readers of Lucinda Loves… cookery books are imbeciles? That they are ignorant of the origins of saffron and need such a sledgehammeresque reminder? The pictures will scream arrogance! Get rid of them.’

  ‘Oh, no, Lucinda, I don’t think…’ began Alice, hugging her clipboard to her chest like a shield.

  ‘If not that then it’s a cliché. Are they sailing boats? I know this is Cornwall but couldn’t we have come up with something a little less banal? Alice, I’m surprised at you. Or was this the work of someone else?’

  Lucinda’s dark chestnut eyes at last flicked across to where Emilie loitered. She took her time appraising her. Her smile was forced and she made no effort to disguise her disapproval.

  Emilie swallowed, simultaneously realising her throat was parched and experiencing the disconcerting effect of the room zooming away into the background along with its inhabitants, so that she stood alone under the harsh spotlight of Lucinda’s evaluation. Whatever thoughts had been circling her mind before Lucinda’s scrutiny escaped their tethers and she was left with nothing but a blank canvas.

  ‘Have I used your agency before?’

  ‘Erm…no, I don’t think so,’ Emilie stammered, heat flooding her cheeks. She felt like she was standing before the headmistress of her primary school waiting for the pronouncement of her punishment for a minor misdemeanour. ‘The Dexter Carvill agency has excellent…’

  ‘Did I ask for a marketing presentation? All I’m interested in is whether you can take a few decent photographs of the desserts I’ll be creating before they disintegrate into a mound of mush?’

  ‘Erm…’ Emilie fumbled with her camera strap, her hands shaking so violently that she feared any image she snapped would end up blurred.

  Lucinda withdrew her interrogation beam to concentrate on assisting the hotel’s pastry chef, who had arrived carrying what Emilie assumed must be the local honey-infused biscuits. She watched as Lucinda scrutinised each one in turn before allowing Alice to place them on the presentation
plates with silver tongs. When they were arranged to Lucinda’s satisfaction, she glanced across to Emilie.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Inspiration?’ She turned her back and strode across the room to stare out of the conservatory window, her arms crossed over her chest.

  In profile Lucinda Carlton-Rose was smaller than Emilie had imagined, with chin-length chestnut curls highlighted with golden strands that sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Her fingernails shone with her signature vermilion polish, which matched her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. The instantly recognisable image was completed with a pair of pearl earrings.

  The only evidence that she’d spent the last three hours cooking up a storm in the hotel’s kitchen was the fact that she still wore her apron. Lucinda was renowned for having an extensive apron wardrobe – some culinary commentators putting the number at over a thousand. Today, in honour of the first stop on her baking journey through Cornwall, her candy-pink apron had been embroidered with the words Lucinda loves… under which a miniature depiction of the Cornish Saffron Cake she had just prepared had been stitched, followed by the legend: ‘Padstow, Cornwall’.

  If Emilie didn’t know better she could have easily mistaken Lucinda for a friendly domestic science teacher. Clearly this was the persona she chose to project on screen to her loyal TV audience and which was splashed on the front covers of her cookery books – the cosy image that won her many fans and avid readers.

  Emilie thought back to the conversation she’d had with her mother when she’d told her she’d accepted the Lucinda Loves…Desserts location shoot. She had almost combusted with delight and demanded regular updates from every stage of the trip, accompanied by photographs of course, and had spent an hour regaling her daughter with favourite Lucinda Carlton-Rose recipes she had tested out on her husband over the years.

  She’d scoffed when Emilie mentioned her reputation for being an ogre in an apron, declaring that anyone who could produce such wonderful cakes had to be a wonderful person. She’d chastised her daughter for listening to, and repeating, second-hand gossip and advised her to wait to draw her own conclusions.

  At last the icy fear that had formed in Emilie’s veins began to defrost. What was the matter with her? She had worked with difficult and discerning clients before. She swallowed through the dryness in her throat and moved towards the table, grateful for having taken Alice’s advice to prepare each shot with a mound of stand-in custard creams before Lucinda had arrived. Emilie began clicking.

  As she bobbed and crouched to adjust the angles and change the focus of the backdrop, the fragrance of warm caramel and baked sugar tickled her nostrils and permeated the room. Her stomach growled embarrassingly loudly as punishment for skipping lunch. But she had always functioned best on black coffee – and the occasional indulgence in a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps, which she’d had for breakfast.

  Emilie’s creative passion had woken to overtake her nerves. She soon slid into her well-honed routine as each frame improved on the last until she was satisfied with the results. She sent up a fervent litany of thanks to her personal guardian angel for being on duty that afternoon on the spectacular north coast of Cornwall. Emilie heaved a sigh of relief that the photographs on today’s schedule were simply of the food and did not include a personal portrait of Lucinda demonstrating her techniques. She needed time to build up to that level of challenge.

  ‘Okay, I think I have what I need.’

  ‘You think? Have you or haven’t you? Please bear in mind that I want my readers’ jaws to drop in salivation at the exquisite recipes not yawn with boredom at the creative predictability. I shouldn’t have to tell you that people taste with their eyes first. I want my desserts to effervesce with vitality and freshness, not slump like leaden puddings.’

  ‘Erm…then yes, I do have everything,’ confirmed Emilie as assertively as she could. Her throat had tightened and her voice had started to waver now that she had finished the photography part of the shoot and Lucinda was addressing her directly.

  ‘Good.’

  Relieved, Emilie took a step back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She inadvertently managed to propel herself at speed over a camera case she had carelessly discarded in the middle of the room. It had been crying out as a tripping hazard. She tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her left shoulder and buttock. The searing pain of carpet burn shot out to her extremities. If her clumsiness had stopped there she might have got away with it, but on her way down her elbow had caught the rim of one of the nautical dishes, which meant the biscuits were tossed into the air like edible confetti.

  Warmth rushed to her face as she scrambled to right herself and straighten her cardigan around her chest. She glanced across at Alice who was skulking next to the door. Alice was clearly taking her own advice and steering clear of Lucinda, who was staring at Emilie in abject horror. Lucinda eventually swung her eyes away from the impromptu comedy sideshow, rotated her head slowly in the direction of the scattered biscuits, then back to stare at Emilie as though she had just landed from outer space.

  Silence spread into all four corners of the room. No one dared be the first to break it. After an interminable few seconds, Emilie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry…’

  ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot?’

  ‘Well, it was just an unfortunate accident. I…’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lucinda. I’ll sort this out, get everything cleared up,’ gushed Alice, at last scooting to Emilie’s rescue. ‘Things like this often happen on first shoots. Remember Rick and the mango puree disaster? But didn’t that shoot turn out to be one of the best ever? Rest assured that it will not happen again. I’ll make sure that Emilie is briefed more thoroughly next time.’

  Lucinda gave an audible tut and stalked towards the door with Marcus scurrying in her Dior-infused wake. She paused on the threshold and turned back, causing everyone to freeze in their positions like an adult version of the child’s game of Silent Statues.

  ‘Okay, Alice, but I will hold you personally responsible for ensuring the rest of this assignment goes without a hitch. And I expect you to inject more individuality into our Perranporth shoot! I’d like to make one thing clear before we embark on this journey – the contents of my brief are absolute, my artistic requirements inflexible. When I specify perfection that is what I expect to get. Perhaps you can also apprise Millie of the calibre of my expectations in advance?’

  ‘Of course, Lucinda.’

  ‘Oh, actually it’s Emilie, not Millie,’ blurted Emilie, unable to stop herself before it was too late.

  Lucinda turned her disdain-filled eyes towards Emilie. She held her gaze for several long seconds – during which Emilie prayed for the ground to turn into quicksand and swallow her into its all-encompassing embrace – before disappearing from the room.

  What a culinary diva! thought Emilie. Lucinda even had the theatrical flounce off to a tee, never mind the inevitable scuttling assistant to cater to her every wish. The concrete block that had pressed against her chest from the moment Lucinda had walked onto the stage eased and she found she could breathe normally again.

  ‘Oh, God, she hates me!’ she groaned, collapsing in a cane armchair by the window, oblivious to the picturesque landscape beyond the glass, which was strewn with nature’s wonders: the sweeping expanse of blonde sand, the undulating aquamarine waves topped with frills of froth galloping towards the beach where they melted away until their cousins joined them. Nothing in the bucolic outlook breached Emilie’s radar as she massaged her temples and rotated out the knotted muscles in her neck, before moving on to check her scuffed elbow.

  ‘She doesn’t hate you,’ soothed Alice. ‘Actually, that was Lucinda at her most amenable. She didn’t bawl anyone out. You want to see her when she’s really irritable. You definitely want to take cover when that happens. I thought the shoot went really well.’

  ‘Thanks for c
oming to my rescue, Alice. It’s not that I’m ungrateful but perhaps being fired at the beginning of the trip would have been for the best?’

  ‘Everyone’s anxiety levels are set to Gas Mark eight when we start out on these kinds of photo shoots. You know that – you’ve done enough of them. And have you taken a look at the images yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet they’re fabulous, and to be honest that’s all that matters in the end.’

  Emilie flicked through the photographs she had taken and a surge of satisfaction washed over her. They were perfect; the light had been just right, the clarity crisp and the saffron cake looked as though you could reach out and touch it. She could almost smell the honey in the biscuits. The photos were just as Lucinda had said she expected them to be. A wave of relief spread through Emilie’s body and melted the earlier tension. Her personal life might be on a downward trajectory but she was still able to take a decent photograph.

  ‘Thanks, Alice.’

  ‘No problem. But you owe me.’ She smirked.

  ‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’

  Alice had already started to box up the cake stand and file away the props in their allocated spaces in her trunk. She folded the tablecloth neatly and slipped it into a protective plastic sheath, whilst Emilie chucked her equipment haphazardly into their cases in an effort to vacate the room as quickly as possible. The hotel management had wheeled in a magnificent two-foot-high conical wedding cake and were starting to arrange it on a linen-covered pedestal by the window.

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be the wedding photographer for the afternoon and be on the train back to Paddington when the bride and groom retire to the honeymoon suite. Emilie sighed and followed Alice down the stairs to the front door, reluctant to leave the hotel’s mantle of silky elegance for the hessian sack of the camper van. They stowed the tools of their trade in the back and slid the door shut with a slam.