by Daisy James
‘Sorry, looks like we both slept in. What time did you say you had to be in Perranporth?’
‘Nine o’clock. The shoot’s at ten.’
‘Mmm, better get on our way then. Jump out so I can get my rucksack loaded, will you?’
Emilie stood shivering in the car park of the Coolwave Surf Academy, her arms hugging her waist, watching Matt as he slung his overstuffed backpack into the back of the van before turning to wrestle with the more challenging task of loading his beloved surfboard. No matter how he angled it, it was never going to fit inside.
She rolled her eyes as she watched him clamber onto the roof, his lithe and suntanned body making it look easy, his wide grin and constant banter giving him a ridiculously upbeat air for that time of the morning. But then she realised it was seven-thirty, not early – and they should have been on their way half an hour ago. It wasn’t the best of starts for the culinary road trip that could launch her freelance career and she had so wanted to make a good impression at this next shoot.
Why hadn’t she set her alarm? Once again, without Alice around to keep her on schedule, her knack for complete disorganisation had come back to bite her on the backside. Was she about to undertake a fool’s journey?
‘Okay, all set.’
‘Are you always this cheerful?’
‘Why not? The sun’s out, the birds are well into the second verse of their morning chorus, and I’m about to embark on a fun road trip instead of having to hitch-hike home. What’s not to like?’ Matt leapt into the driver’s seat and began to familiarise himself with the dashboard. ‘Come on. We’re going to be late.’
‘Oh God. My whole career is over!’
She grabbed a bottle of water and a packet of crisps and settled into the passenger seat. She draped a cerise silk scarf with white daisies scattered liberally across the design over her shoulders to ward off the morning chill, because Matt had insisted on having his window rolled down to ‘catch the sea air’.
‘Okay, foodie road trip here we come. It’s going to be an awesome two weeks.’ And with scraping gears and a kangaroo gait they lurched from the car park.
‘For you maybe; not for me,’ she muttered.
‘What do you mean? Isn’t this gig a dream come true for a food photographer? Released from the confines of your studio, up close and personal with the actual preparation of the food from the freshest, seasonal ingredients by a national celebrity loved by all?’
Emilie shot a glance at Matt as she battled with a brief internal crisis in confidence as to whether she could really pull the assignment off without Alice’s organisational genius. Her thoughts lingered briefly on her encounter the previous day with Lucinda and she realised she was kidding herself if she thought she could do this alone. Her heart hammered a cautionary warning signal.
‘Why did you say you couldn’t do the driving?’
‘I didn’t,’ she snapped, then felt guilty. None of this had anything to do with Matt, who seemed to live his life by the mantra of Freedom, Fun and Friendship. ‘Sorry, just ignore me. I’m sure everything is going to work out fine.’
She fell silent, watching the patchwork of straw-coloured meadows, dotted with spools of hay and threaded with narrow hedges and lanes, flash past the window. So Matt decided to take up the conversational baton, regaling her with stories of his surfing exploits over the last nine months.
She tightened the scarf her mother had bought for her after an anniversary trip to Paris and slumped lower into her seat, her feet resting on the dashboard. She loved the gift. Every time she wore it she felt enveloped in a warm motherly hug. With the repetitive drone of the straining engine, the soft background music Matt had selected, and the lack of restorative sleep the night before, it wasn’t long before she succumbed to slumber.
Her head snapped forwards and she woke with a start, confused and disorientated. She turned to look at Matt, her eyes gritty and dry, and the whole nightmare came flooding back. Panic consumed her as she realised she should have spent the journey down to Perranporth studying Alice’s laminated direction cards to cut down on the time it would take to set up the shoot to Lucinda’s exacting standards.
Matt smirked at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked surprisingly fresh for someone who had also had very little sleep and had been forced to drive an unfamiliar vehicle for the last hour.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she said unnecessarily.
‘You can say that again. I could hardly hear the dulcet tones of Ed Sheeran over your snoring.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘Well, you weren’t singing along, I can assure you of that!’
‘What time is it?’
‘We had a bit of a hold-up at the turning for Newquay. It’s just after nine.’
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! The shoot’s in less than an hour and you have no idea what Lucinda is like. Everything has to be perfect! And I’ve not even had chance to study Alice’s instructions!’
‘Hey, calm down, calm down. Look, we’re here. I’ll help you carry your gear into the hotel if you like.’
‘Thanks, thanks,’ she spluttered as she shot from the van and sprinted round to the side to extract her prop box as well as dragging Alice’s trunk to the ground with a crash.
‘Oh God!’
Matt looked at her as though she’d grown two heads but she ignored him. Adrenalin was coursing through her body, causing her brain to scatter and all logical thought to disperse.
‘Just lead the way, Emilie. I’ll take this.’
She scampered into the reception and was swiftly directed to the suite where the photo shoot was taking place. At least the table was already set up in the middle of the huge bay window with a selection of fresh flowers and silver cutlery for her to use if that was required.
‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’ Matt loitered at the door as Emilie flung back the lid of Alice’s trunk, extracted the laminated cards and began to study them.
‘Argh!’
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘It must have happened when I dragged the trunk from the van. What am I going to do?’
She held the red and white gingham tablecloth marked ‘Perranporth backdrop’ in her fingers and felt tears sparkle at her lashes. Why, oh why had she deluded herself into thinking she could pull this off without Alice by her side?
‘Ah,’ said Matt, striding across the room to join her. ‘I think this is what’s called a series of unfortunate incidents.’
Emilie stared at the tablecloth that had been stained with a dark splash of crimson from a bottle of food colouring that must have cracked when she dropped the trunk. It was ruined and there was no way she could use it as the background for the photographs. She sat back on her heels, holding the fabric out wide, and a feeling of such overwhelming anxiety pumped through her veins.
In less than ten minutes, Lucinda Carlton-Rose was going to stride into the room and expect a perfect set, dressed as per the specifications carefully designed months ago then communicated to her carefully selected food stylist with the not unreasonable expectation that the backdrop would be waiting for her when she strode from the kitchen with her fresh-from-the-oven desserts.
‘Okay peeps, are we ready for… Oh my God, where is everything? Lucinda will be here with the complete Cornish Cream Tea in five minutes,’ cried Marcus, hugging his overlarge purple clipboard to his chest as he came to a standstill on the threshold. His fingers hovered over his mouth as he took in the scene; his mahogany eyes widened in abject horror.
‘Sorry, Marcus. I…’
‘Erm, I think I should leave,’ announced Matt and made a speedy getaway. Emilie wished she could follow him.
Marcus’s eyes followed Matt’s retreating buttocks for a few moments before he swung them back round to rest on Emilie. ‘She’s going to freak – you know that, don’t you? I heard about Alice’s accident. Poor thing. I’ve texted her and sent flowers, but
we were assured by Alice’s agency that you had this?’
‘I’m so sorry, Marcus…’
‘Okay, let’s see what we can do to save your skin.’
Marcus discarded his clipboard and strode over to the prop box and the trunk. Emilie followed him and crouched down at his side, joining in with the impromptu scavenger hunt, scattering the props she had brought with her all over the floor. Every item in her box was as familiar as a faithful pet. She scanned each one for their potential usefulness before moving on to excavate the gems from Alice’s trunk until the room looked like a gang of toddlers had been left to their own devices whilst their parents took a break.
‘Hang on. I’ve just had an idea.’ She unravelled the cerise and white scarf from her neck and threw it diagonally across the table. ‘What do you think?’
‘Pretty.’
‘Now pass me those white china cake stands from Alice’s trunk, will you? And the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl with the hand-painted daisies.’
Marcus collected the crockery and helped Emilie arrange it on the scarf.
‘Does it work?’
‘Inspired, my dear!’
Proud of her improvisation, Emilie fell in alongside Marcus and they worked swiftly together using Alice’s notes and laminated cards to create a similar setting. But it clearly wasn’t what had been agreed upon. They had just arranged a bouquet of pale pink roses in crystal vases when Lucinda appeared at the door, her chestnut curls perfectly arranged, her make-up pristine and the ubiquitous candy-pink apron tied neatly around her waist – this one sporting the legend ‘Lucinda loves…Perranporth’ with a tiny Cornish Split oozing with jam and cream embroidered beneath.
Heat flooded Emilie’s face and spread out to her chest as she glanced at the famous chef’s expression. She swallowed hard to dislodge the pebble that was stuck in her throat, before spotting the stained tablecloth screwed up in a ball in the corner to the left of where Lucinda lurked. She hadn’t had time to tidy away the array of accessories and detritus of photographic equipment.
She took a defensive step backwards to distance herself from the anticipated verbal onslaught about to emanate from Lucinda’s direction and, perhaps inevitably, managed to wedge her foot in a stray cardboard box. Its folded flaps gripped her ankle when she tried to release her foot from its grasp. There then followed a few seconds of drama that could have come straight from the pages of a Brian Rix farce as she waggled her foot to try to free it whilst at the same time maintaining a fixed expression of nonchalance.
Marcus smirked, enjoying the show, but Lucinda watched in horror. Her upper lip curled and her eyebrows arched. She turned her back in disgust, allowing Emilie to reach forward, yank the box from her foot and toss it into the corner of the room to join the spoiled tablecloth. Lucinda addressed Marcus. ‘Where did you say my stylist was?’
‘Accident, broken ankle, out of action for six weeks,’ flapped Marcus, discarding his purple clipboard. He leapt forward to relieve Lucinda of the huge silver platter of Cornish Splits – perfectly baked until light golden and crammed with local clotted cream and home-made strawberry jam – which she still held aloft, as well as a large dish of clotted cream ice cream with hand-made fudge pieces scattered through. The enticing aroma of warm baked bread was already starting to rotate through the sunny room.
‘And what did her agency say about a replacement?’
‘Apparently no one is available until we break our schedule in St Ives…’
‘But that’s in a week’s time! What are we going to do until then?’
‘Well,’ said Marcus, shifting his weight from one loafer-clad foot to the other, ‘as I told you, Emilie has said she’s happy to step into the breach. There’s nothing to worry about, we’re totally ready for the shoot, aren’t we, Emilie?’
Emilie cringed as the full force of Lucinda’s laser-sharp eyes once again swung in her direction and her client held her gaze for an interminable moment.
‘Erm, yes, yes we are,’ she managed to croak. ‘Totally ready.’
‘Then it’s going to be a complete disaster. Before I even start on that hideous tablecloth, have you seen the room? It’s total chaos: props scattered all over like a toddler has had a tantrum and thrown her toys from the pram. Why? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand that this is a professional shoot – not one of your newborn, naked baby assignments where besotted parents will smile indulgently at your questionable foibles and label them quirky creative characteristics? My publishers gave your agency simple, clear instructions for every stage of this shoot from Padstow to St Austell. How hard can it be to get that right? How can I be expected to shine when I have second-rate people assigned to me?’
Lucinda ran the back of her hand over her brow in an exaggerated gesture of frustration before she opened her mouth to continue her soliloquy of irritation. Thankfully, at that moment, two young pastry chefs arrived to divert Lucinda’s attention. They deposited a further two platters of freshly baked Cornish Splits, along with tiny pyramids of clotted cream fudge, on the table before scooting back to their sanctuary for fear they might be invited to take part in the shoot.
Emilie took the opportunity of Lucinda’s distraction to train her lens on the produce, careful not to look in Lucinda’s direction. At one point her hands shook so much she had to press the camera to her cheek to steady her aim, as all the while Lucinda stood in the background scrutinising her every move, her face a mask of distaste. Emilie constantly modified and diffused the various lighting sources to enhance the shape and texture of the desserts, using her reflectors. At one point she even taped a napkin over the overhead light.
At last, Emilie lowered her camera and declared herself satisfied. Lucinda twisted her lips in a gesture of doubt.
‘Surely I didn’t agree to that awful cloth. Where’s the red gingham one I had commissioned especially for the Cornish Cream Tea shoot, Marcus?’
‘I’ll look into it, Lucinda,’ he promised, smirking at Emilie whose jaw hung loose at the insult of her mother’s taste in Parisian scarves.
‘And perhaps you can look into getting me someone who has a smidgeon of artistic integrity who doesn’t turn the place into a photographic Armageddon just to take a few shots.’
Lucinda unfolded her arms and strode to the window where a pile of discarded laundry lay. Emilie had assumed the linen belonged to the hotel, but Lucinda bent down to collect the armful of cloth and walked on her four-inch stilettos straight towards Marcus, who was busy helping to clear the table whilst Emilie slotted her lenses into their allotted places in their protective case. Her lenses were the only items she owned to receive such diligent care.
‘Here.’
Lucinda thrust the heap of garments into Marcus’s arms. Emilie recognised the candy-pink aprons from the Padstow shoot from the embroidered Cornish Saffron Cake on the front.
‘Erm, what do you want me to…’
‘Have them dry-cleaned and then gift-wrapped.’
‘Gift-wrapped?’
‘Yes, surely you’ve heard of it? Fancy paper, a ribbon and bow? And Marcus, have Antoine and Jilly confirmed they will be attending dinner at The Risings tomorrow night?’
‘I’ll chase that up, Lucinda.’ Marcus smiled as his boss swept from the room, leaving a cloud of Miss Dior lingering in her wake. Clearly Lucinda had decided the luxury manor house in its own extensive grounds met with her approval after all.
Emilie slumped onto a navy, button-backed window seat and heaved a sigh of relief. The clamp of iron that had been tightening around her chest during Lucinda’s attendance released its grip and she swallowed in a few gulps of oxygen to calm her swirling emotions.
‘How do you stand it, Marcus? Have you ever even heard the words please and thank you spill from her lips for the things you do for her? You run her life so she doesn’t have to! I can’t do that, I just can’t.’ Emilie stared at the pile of aprons Marcus had deposited on the seat next to
her. ‘I quit!’
‘Darling, you can’t just throw away this chance because it’s a bit difficult. So, it’s a little manic at times and the place isn’t exactly awash with compliments to bolster weak egos. Get over it and get stuck in. Lucinda hasn’t got where she is today by stroking people’s egos. Food preparation isn’t just slinging together a few ingredients and hoping something edible will come out at the end. The professional chef is a sculptor, a magician, an artist who designs not just a feast for the taste buds but for the eyes, and for the soul as well. As an artist yourself, you have to admit that Lucinda’s cookery books are things of photographic beauty.’
Marcus strolled over to the table and selected a bulging Cornish Cream Split. He bit into it, strawberry jam oozing out of the sides and trickling down his clean-shaven chin. He caught the jam on his fingertip and licked it clean.
‘You know, I’m not ashamed to admit that I have been known to caress my pristine, hot-off-the-press, personalised copy of Lucinda Loves…Vegetarian Food before slotting it into a cellophane dust jacket and placing it in pride of place inside a Perspex display case I’ve had made specially for my mantelpiece. Although I do warn you not to divulge that piece of juicy gossip to a soul!
‘So, my dear, I recommend you stop the whingeing and the self-indulgent claptrap and knuckle down and get on with it. Anything Alice Jenkins can do, you can do – just maybe not better perhaps because she is an obsessive nutcase. If you can earn your stripes on this prestigious assignment for the indomitable Lucinda Carlton-Rose, then the world will be your oyster.’
Marcus licked a couple of splodges of cream from his lips and reached for a piece of fudge, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Anyway, moving on. Spill the gossip to Uncle Marcus. Who was that delicious guy who was assisting with the heavy lifting when you arrived?’
Emilie smiled for what felt like the first time that day. Marcus was right. She should stop bleating and get on with delivering what she’d been contracted to produce. As long as the photographs were spectacular, they would speak for themselves. Still, a curl of anxiety continued to meander through her body until she realised Marcus was waiting impatiently for a reply.
