There's Something About Cornwall

by Daisy James

  ‘I have to say, I’m surprised that you allowed anyone to wrestle a dream overseas assignment from your hands, especially if it meant you were forced to endure the abject hardship of a Cornish culinary road trip. For heaven’s sake, stop being such a doormat. It’s so boring!’

  Lucinda stalked from the room, calling over her shoulder, ‘Marcus, I’ll be relaxing in the spa if you need me. But do try not to disturb me unless it’s an absolute life-or-death emergency.’

  Emilie groaned. She hadn’t realised that what she had said had made her sound not only ungrateful but also rude and insulting towards Lucinda’s project. But there was nothing further from the truth. Apart from the first couple of shoots, she had enjoyed every minute of what she was doing, stretching her skills in ways she had never expected, but also broadening her imagination with the side trips Matt had taken her on, not to mention the augmentation of her confidence. She had to say sorry but she didn’t think Lucinda would class her apology as a life-or-death emergency.

  She finished storing her camera paraphernalia in its allocated spaces. The amount of time it took to pack up after each shoot diminished each time, and she loved the feeling that the next time she needed to put her hand on a lens or a prop she’d know exactly where to find it. She would never win a prize in the neat-freak category, but neither would she be awarded the wooden spoon. Alice would be proud of her!

  Emilie was about to leave the dining room when she decided to take a few shots of the nautical paradise from the glass-encircled balcony just beyond the French doors. As she zoomed in closer, her viewfinder landed on a familiar figure hurrying across the front lawn of the hotel at speed. She enlarged the image and followed the figure’s progress for a few seconds, just to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. But there was no doubt.

  Where was Lucinda dashing off to?

  Hadn’t she just told Marcus she was going to indulge in a well-earned treatment at the spa? And, even more bizarrely, she still had the huge straw bag filled with her desserts hooked over her shoulder. Emilie turned away from the window and her eyes fell on the neatly wrapped aprons from the St Ives shoot. What had Lucinda said to Marcus earlier? If she forgot them it would be World War Three? Emilie’s stomach dropped like a penny down a well as she realised that it was her fault Lucinda had left the room without the aprons.

  There was no sign of Matt in the hotel car park so she made a decision. She collected the gift-wrapped aprons, shoved them unceremoniously in her bag and dragged her equipment down to the concierge’s desk to ask him to store it for her before sprinting out of the front door in the direction she had seen Lucinda travel. She picked up her speed, fearful she had lost her quarry until she saw a flick of red fabric disappear around the corner to her left. She crossed the road, her amber hair flying behind her like a wild Medusa. She dodged an oncoming taxi, which honked its horn in objection.

  ‘Lucinda!’ she called, but the breeze whipped away her cry.

  Sweat trickled down her temples and her breath came in spurts so, as she now had Lucinda in her sights, she slowed down to a trot. It occurred to her how incongruous Lucinda looked, clad in the crimson Stella McCartney shift dress she had worn for the shoot and five-inch matching stilettos, carrying a mound of parcels in what was in effect an oversized straw beach bag. Where on earth was she heading?

  Emilie didn’t have to wait long to find out the answer. Lucinda took another sharp left before ducking into the arched doorway of one of ugliest churches Emilie had ever seen. She continued her shadowing until she was outside St John’s parish church, when her predicament dawned on her with shocking clarity.

  Was she crazy? What was she going to do now? Why had she followed Lucinda through the milling streets of Newquay, on a foray that could be interpreted as a spying mission? Whatever Lucinda was doing she obviously didn’t want anyone to know about it. And anyway, what did it have to do with Emilie? Surely Lucinda was entitled to some privacy in her downtime? But if she craved a few hours to herself, why did she need a bag full of desserts? And why would there be a fracas if she forgot a dozen gift-wrapped aprons?

  She briefly toyed with the possibility that Lucinda could perhaps be involved in a secret liaison. But if that was so, surely the most sensible option would have been to remain at the hotel for an afternoon of delight in five-star luxury where there was a fabulous spa, room service and five-hundred-thread-count sheets. Emilie immediately discarded that scenario as ridiculous. After all, she had met Grant. No woman in her right mind would cheat on such a hot guy! However, the biggest hole in her evidence-gathering exercise, and upon which her outrageous theory floundered, was that the building in front of her was a church! Oh God, what if Lucinda was simply paying her respects to her maker?

  Before Emilie could analyse her impromptu behaviour of running after Lucinda with the vital forgotten aprons any further, the door opened and a harassed-looking woman appeared with two disgruntled children in tow.

  ‘Why not, Mum? I’m starving!’

  ‘I said wait until we get home, Annalise.’

  ‘But, Mum!’ the girl whined.

  Before the front door swung completely shut, Emilie stepped inside and found herself in the outer foyer of the church. The noise emanating from the room to the right was boisterous in the extreme. Clearly there was some kind of meeting in full swing, comprising of not just adults but children shrieking to be heard as well. The glass door into the lobby opened to expel another mother, this time with a baby in a sling over her chest and carrying one of Lucinda’s Tupperware boxes. The door snapped shut behind the woman and for the first time Emilie saw the colourful flyer glued to the glass.

  ‘Gingerbread Meeting. Every Saturday 3p.m.–4p.m. Everyone welcome. Special Guest – Lucinda Carlton-Rose.’

  Emilie’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch as the realisation hit her. Lucinda was inside that meeting room handing out her freshly baked desserts – no doubt cursing the person who had caused her to forget the bundle of dry-cleaned and gift-wrapped aprons – to the people who attended their local single-parent meeting at their local church.

  She chastised herself for her totally unjustified suspicions that Lucinda was on a different type of mission when in actual fact she was volunteering her time and contributing to the local communities where her photo shoots were being held. She was now certain that Lucinda had been doing exactly the same thing when she had slipped away from The Dog and Trumpet in Falmouth.

  She decided it was time to make a run for it before Lucinda discovered her presence. She strode across the foyer and was just about to make a successful escape when the church door opened and she came face-to-face with Marcus.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Emilie, darling? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, erm, I…well…’ She flushed to the roots of her copper hair – not an attractive look. ‘I was just leaving.’ She made to sidestep past Marcus but he blocked her way.

  ‘I take it you saw Lucinda in there? Does she know you’re here?’

  ‘No, no she doesn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just came to give Lucinda the gift-wrapped aprons,’ she gabbled, withdrawing the bundle of freshly laundered baby-pink cloth from her bag. ‘She left without them so I …’

  ‘Wait here.’

  Marcus grabbed the aprons and disappeared off into the church hall. He returned within seconds, took Emilie’s elbow and steered her not inside the meeting room, but to the café next door.

  ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’

  ‘Okay,’ she accepted meekly.

  She chose a seat by the window and prepared herself for a stern lecture about respect and privacy. Lucinda had clearly wanted to keep her attendance at the meeting hush-hush. Oh God, what had she done? Especially after Lucinda had just started to treat her with a modicum of respect. She had ruined everything. She tried to offer Marcus, who sat opposite her looking like he’d just finished auditioning for the lead role in a
matinee, a regretful smile.

  ‘Do I take it you followed Lucinda here to St John’s?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I’m so sorry. When I noticed that she had left the St Ives aprons, well, I knew she had said to you that if she forgot them World War Three would break out…’

  She stalled in her attempt to explain and took a sip of the delicious cappuccino Marcus had put in front of her. She lowered her eyes from his chocolate brown gaze, reluctant to look him in the eye as heat suffused her cheeks.

  ‘And can I also assume that you thought Lucinda was on her way to an illicit dalliance and have realised how far off the mark your suspicions are?’

  ‘Erm, maybe.’

  Marcus laughed. ‘Perhaps it’s a reasonable conclusion given the way Lucinda’s been sneaking off from the shoots. And you absolutely saved my skin by running after her with the aprons, so it’s me who should be doing the apologising.’

  ‘Do you think we could keep this between us? I don’t want Lucinda to think I’m invading her privacy. We’ve just started to reach an understanding of each other’s eccentricities and whilst I know we will never be friends, I think she was starting to respect me as a photographer.’

  ‘Look, Emilie, whilst Lucinda prefers not to talk about her charity work to the people who are involved in this shoot, it’s not a secret that she is the guest of honour at the meeting next door. They’ve been planning the visit for months to coincide with her being here on the Lucinda Loves…Desserts tour. It’s the reason why we skipped Newquay on the way from Padstow to Perranporth.’

  ‘Ahh.’

  ‘Look, I know Lucinda can be a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to her work. I’ve seen her reduce fellow chefs to quivering wrecks when their standards slip below superlative. This Cornwall tour happens to have been the most logistically challenged shoot she has ever been involved in. I mean, whose idea was it to travel the length and breadth of the county in the space of two weeks baking a multitude of different desserts every single day, which had to be flawless as they were being photographed? And of course Lucinda being Lucinda, she wanted to cram as much into the schedule as possible, meeting up with other celebrity chefs, TV personalities and visiting her favourite charities. Work might not be everything in life but it can provide salvation when there’s no one else to deliver it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sure you noticed what kind of meeting was going on in the church hall?’

  ‘Yes. Gingerbread – the single parent charity.’

  ‘If you had done your research before taking on this assignment, you would have known that Lucinda is one of the charity’s patrons. She regularly donates her time and her baking to her local branches in London and the Cotswolds as well as auctioning off autographed cookery books and aprons to raise extra funds.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That makes sense.’ She smiled at Marcus’s calm, unfazed demeanour.

  ‘And do you know why Lucinda does all this?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please believe me, I do usually do my homework, but you know my involvement in this shoot was a last-minute switch. My ex-boyfriend pulled rank and took an assignment in Venice from me – an assignment that I had researched in detail – and Alice persuaded me to do Lucinda’s shoot with her as the stylist. So, sorry, go on. Why did Lucinda choose Gingerbread?’

  ‘Because it is a cause that is close to her heart. She was brought up in difficult circumstances by a single mother who gained a great deal of support from her local branch of Gingerbread and now that she is in a position to give something back that’s exactly what she is doing. She didn’t make a big thing about it as she didn’t want the paparazzi following her and making a huge fuss.’

  Emilie stared at Marcus as he watched her over the rim of his caramel cappuccino. His explanation had been so unexpected she was lost for words, and it had cast Lucinda in a completely different light. No wonder she had been snappy at the shoot back in the Headland Hotel; not only did she want everything to be perfect for their celebrity footballer and his entourage, but she was also up against the clock as she herself was due to be a guest of honour at the local Gingerbread meeting.

  Marcus reached over the scrubbed pine table and patted her hand. ‘I think your phone is ringing, darling.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’ She grabbed it from the back pocket of her jeans and saw Matt’s name illuminated on the screen. Her whole body relaxed and she let out a sigh, causing Marcus to smirk.

  ‘No prizes for guessing who that is. Far be it for me to say I told you so, but…’ he said as he rose from the table and left her to her conversation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matt pulled the camper van into a lay-by and swivelled round in the driver’s seat to scrutinise Emilie’s expression. ‘Is everything okay? You haven’t uttered a word since we left Newquay. If it’s about what happened between us at the weekend at your parents’ place…’

  ‘No!’ Emilie interrupted Matt before he had chance to tell her it was all a dreadful mistake and promised never to repeat the passionate nights that had lit up her life. ‘No, actually it’s something I’ve uncovered about Lucinda, but I don’t want to be accused of being a gossip. I loathe the way the tabloids drag celebrities’ private lives through the wringer just to sell a few more copies of their papers.’

  ‘I agree, but you’ve clearly taken whatever you’ve discovered to heart. You haven’t cracked a smile once this whole journey and look, we’re only a few miles from Bodmin.’

  Emilie replayed the conversation she’d had with Marcus through her mind. His revelations had turned everything she thought she knew about Lucinda on its head. She couldn’t begin to understand what it would have been like to grow up without daily contact with her own father. Of course it would have had a huge effect on the way her life panned out.

  She reached down to the floor of the camper van to retrieve her shoulder bag and extract her phone. She propped her feet on the dashboard and googled Lucinda’s biography. It was just as Marcus had said. It was no secret – Lucinda had declared in many interviews how proud she was of her mother who had held down three jobs to make ends meet when Lucinda was growing up. She had sung her mother’s praises to everyone who had asked about her upbringing, crediting her own obsession with culinary artistry to her mother’s home-baking. Emilie saw no reason why she couldn’t relay the information on the internet about Lucinda’s background to Matt.

  ‘So, does Lucinda know that it was you who saved the day for the lucky Gingerbread patrons, not Marcus?’

  ‘I asked him not to say anything. I didn’t want her to know I’d been following her. I have immense respect for what she is doing in her already manically packed schedule. No wonder she is so adamant that every shoot runs like clockwork, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to fit it all in. She is just being a consummate professional, unlike me who is late for everything, and for her efforts she gains the nickname The Devil Who Wears an Apron.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Oh just Suzie, a friend of Alice’s who did a shoot with Lucinda last year. Anyway, do you think I should come clean and tell Lucinda what happened and apologise?’

  ‘Let’s think about this for a moment. You said she left the hotel without telling anyone where she was going, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she did the same thing in Falmouth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, obviously she doesn’t want anyone to know what she’s doing. If you apologise, you’ll have to admit you followed her and you’re only going to make things worse for the rest of this shoot. She didn’t see you in the church hall, did she?’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘Then I reckon you should just keep your own counsel and pull off the best shoot possible so she can see how much you’re capable of. Then, when it’s over you can confess and apologise. At least that way you’re not putting the whole trip in jeopardy. That’s the last thing Lucinda will want.’
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  ‘But what if Marcus tells her he saw me?’

  ‘He said he wouldn’t, but if he does, well you apologise then.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. Lucinda deserves her privacy but she also deserves to get this assignment completed on time. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Anyway, stop fretting, we’re here.’

  ‘But this isn’t Bodmin.’

  ‘I know. What do you say to grabbing that camera of yours and joining me on a pilgrimage dedicated to the production of the UK’s first ever pastis? It’s a modern twist on the French classic and I’ve been longing to sample it since I read about it winning a gold medal in the World Spirits Championships in San Francisco. If I can, I want to interview the distiller, a guy called Tarquin Leadbetter. He’s so proud of his products that he has put his name to the Cornish gin they make there too – signs every bottle, would you believe. I intend to ask him what inspired him to introduce pastis to us thirsty Brits and find out a little about the process.’

  Once again, Matt’s enthusiasm bubbled to the surface and it was infectious. She too was curious to discover how such an iconic French aperitif had found its way to a small town in the north of Cornwall.

  ‘Come on!’

  The Southwestern Distillery at Higher Trevibban Farm was straight from central casting in response to a Hollywood director’s demand for an authentic artisan micro-distillery. She knew it would make a fabulous backdrop to any movie, never mind her photographs.

  ‘Hi! You must be Matt Ashby? Good to meet you!’ The handsome dark-haired owner strode out to greet them, his hand outstretched, a welcoming smile on his lips. ‘I read your piece on the renaissance of artisan microbreweries in Northumberland last year. It’s great that you’ve chosen to include us in your tour of what the county of Cornwall has contributed to the artisan movement.’