The Secret Life of Lucy Lovecake: A laugh-out-loud romantic baking comedy

by Pippa James

  First published 2017

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 110 0 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 091 2 in paperback format

  Copyright © Pippa James 2017

  The right of Pippa James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  Contents

  Title

  1 - Lovely Cake by Lovecake

  2 - Michel

  3 - The Result

  4 - He Offers Me Protection

  5 - The Invitation

  6 - Shanghai Shenanigans

  7 - The Party

  8 - The Frenchman

  9 - Le Dancing

  10 - The E-mail Exchange

  11 - An Intriguing Development

  12 - Clara’s Sister

  13 - Vital Research

  14 - The Annoying Customer

  15 - The Book Awards

  16 - The Frenchmans Revenge

  17 - Sour Grapes

  18 - A Friend in Need . . .

  19 - The Lingerie

  20 - The Brigadier

  21 - Turning Point

  22 - The First Draft

  23 - French Fancy

  24 - The Letter

  25 - The Wait

  26 - Flow

  27 - Prim & Proper

  28 - Edited

  29 - Approval

  30 - A Little Slice of Perfect

  31 - The Photograph

  32 - Country Drive

  33 - Bluebells

  34 - The Kitchen

  35 - The Project

  36 - The Offers

  37 - The Decision

  38 - Bakery (of) Course

  39 - Tosser

  40 - Introducing Lucy Lovecake

  41 - Rose

  42 - Kitty

  43 - Back to Bluebells

  44 - The Starlight Dance

  45 - The Dance Move

  46 - On Writing a Book

  47 - Arrested Development

  48 - The Walk

  49 - A Brief Trip to Paris

  50 - Empowered

  51 - Tilly

  52 - Blogging

  53 - Meringue Surprise

  54 - Brasserie Rose

  55 - French Fancy!

  56 - The Text

  57 - Publication Day

  58 - Dates & Deceits

  59 - The Deceit Deepens

  60 - Elle

  61 - Lingerie Again

  62 - The Shoot

  63 - Daisy’s Secrets

  64 - The Guessing Game

  65 - Sunday Times

  66 - The Guilt

  67 - L’Internet et TV

  68 - Valentine’s Day

  69 - Anonymous No More

  70 - Unveiled

  71 - Accusations

  72 - Press Dishes up Michel

  73 - Where the Sympathy Lies

  74 - Cashing Up

  75 - Bound for Hay-on-Wye

  76 - Lovecake on Tour

  77 - The Request

  78 - Just Cake Off

  79 - Frenzy

  80 - Goodbye, Rosehip Lane

  81 - London

  82 - The Phone Call

  83 - Pavlova

  84 - Reflections

  1

  Lovely Cake by Lovecake

  “A chocolate, ginger and Chantilly cream gateau, coated with chocolate ganache, decorated with candied ginger, dipped in bitter chocolate,” I said, smoothing out my Green Kitchen apron.

  Thumbs up from Bex, the director.

  Phew. Sounds okay – but can I make it in public, against the clock?

  “Mmmm. Ambitious and delicious plans from our delectable literary debutante, Daisy Delaney, author of the trending date cookbook everyone’s tweeting about: French Fancy,” said the host, TV cook, Victoria Darling, radiant in a chartreuse wiggle dress, with impressively engineered balcony bodice. “Or should I really call you ‘Lucy Lovecake’?” she added.

  A tinkle of tittering from the capacity crowd, seated in the largest tent at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival. The Barclays Glenfiddich Daily Telegraph venue was styled as the rival Green and Red Kitchens for the duration of the festival. Every day, another hotly vied culinary contest for the delectation of the ravenous audience. It was, said Hay’s chief fixer, Tara, proving to be their most popular concept ever at Hay. A sell-out each and every day for three weeks. “No more can authors just talk about books; we need tricks as well,” she said.

  I feel a bit sorry for writers who write stories. What can they do at their events?

  Most of the front six rows of seats were taken by journalists and bloggers, and some famous authors on complimentary tickets. I had got to know most of the media people since I’d “joined the circus” eighteen months before in the pre-publicity for my first book. I considered some of the journalists friends, others foes, and wasn’t at all sure I’d put them in the right camps.

  Kitty, my flatmate, waved wildly from the middle of the audience. Next to her, Clara, my boss from the lingerie store Voluptas, where I’d dared to dream of being a published writer, as I’d scribbled amongst the silky camisoles, lace-topped stockings and fiddly suspenders. Francesca, the chaise-longue restorer from the shop next door, sat next to Clara, her pre-Raphaelite curls bouncing wildly on an emerald-green dress as she chatted excitedly. Mum and Dad were to their left, waving covertly, not wishing to draw attention.

  They’re a bit proud and a bit mortified, aren’t they? “Our daughter is a published author. She’s a genius. But she’s written about seduction. She’s a hussy.”

  Jessica, my friend from the baking course, was there, too, with her husband, Ted. She’d said my book saved their marriage. It was lovely to see all of them, their presence making this ludicrous situation seem a fraction more believable.

  How can we be here? How can this be happening? To Daisy Delaney, Dreamer, Ditherer, and Perpetual Failure?

  I had been such an ordinary young woman a year and a half ago – impoverished, directionless, depressed. Cursed, even, until French Fancy was released and hit the bestseller lists after a teasing feature in the Christmas edition of Elle magazine. It felt as if my life had turned into its own version of magic realism. There we all were, in the bookish Big Top. And who were the clowns performing that mellow June morning? Me – Daisy Delaney, lingerie-specialist-turned-author, trainee clown – and my arch-nemesis, and general toss-pot, the French writer-chef Michel Amiel. A very experienced, hard-drinking clown. The sort that makes little children scream.

  At this exact point, though, he still had not turned up for the event, although he had been spotted on site. According to Tara, he was under a tree, swigging from a bottle of Veuve. She’d just come over to ask if I might be able to talk him into showing face in the Red Kitchen. Tara, with her big, veneery smile, was beginning to grate.

  “Tara, there’s no way. We don’t pretend to be at loggerheads on Twitter. We really are. I haven’t spoken to him for months.” Since Valentine’s Day, in fact. God, don’
t even think about that, Daisy.

  The organisers were pushing me to the edge, and Bex was obviously sympathetic towards me, smiling reassuringly as she went about her job, making sure that all the technical stuff would happen at the right times. I was still reeling from the shock of having to compete directly with Michel in such a publicly humiliating way. I’d been expecting to be up against Bake It star Myles Munroe, which was worrying enough, but as Tara had said in the Green Room a bit earlier, “This is such a fuck-up, totes sorry. Hope you’re okay with going against Michel Amiel? You’re a lifesaver, Daise. You’re one million per cent the nicest author we’ve ever had.”

  Yeah.

  Back to Victoria. “For those of you who have read French Fancy, you will know that it’s an ironic, third-wave feminist look at contemporary dating, combined with the current fixation with baking and the joint effects of sexuality and cakes on seduction . . . that’s what it says on my notes here anyway, folks! Some may refer to it as ‘that bake and bonk book’, but I never would.”

  Victoria was clearly under earpiece instructions to keep things rolling while Michel Amiel was lassoed. The audience was in her thrall. As well as being invited regularly into the kitchen of Victoria Darling through our TV screens, we all felt as though we’d been through the ups and downs of her life with her too.

  “And don’t forget that regular updates during the contest will be posted by the Hay team on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Plus, an edited version of this contest will be available to view on YouTube just two hours after you leave the tent,” she said.

  Bad enough doing this, but for it to be immortalised!

  As Victoria read out a clutch of tweets and texts, I busied myself in the Green Kitchen, checking the oven was at 180°C, that all the appliances were working, and that my order-of-tasks list for the world’s trickiest cake still made sense.

  From the “backstage” area, a stumbling Michel Amiel was led in at this point by a burly minder, who was having some difficulty keeping him upright. A huge cheer went up. The more he did wrong, the more he could do no wrong.

  Bex and Tara exchanged “thank fuck” expressions.

  I got a shock when I saw him.

  2

  Michel

  In the four months since I’d last seen Michel in the flesh, he’d changed for the worse. The pallor of his skin was like uncooked pastry and his dark eyes were sunken into his head. His hair was wilder than usual, more salt than pepper now – and his brow shone with a glaze of perspiration. His clothes had been marinaded in sweat and sploshes of alcohol. As far as we knew, he had slept in them.

  Michel, what’s happening to you?

  Victoria tried to smooth things over.

  “Phew! Great to have our esteemed second contestant in the Red Kitchen!” she said.

  Michel gave a wave and blew a kiss to the audience.

  “Always the charmer, Monsieur Amiel,” commented Victoria. “Well, the French are known for romance, and Daisy’s book is certainly intensely romantic, maybe even a little erotic,” she said. “In fact, I’m sure there are some members of the audience disappointed to see ‘Lucy Lovecake’ fully clothed today!”

  Peals of laughter this time, followed by some raucous remarks. “A bit of page forty-seven, please!” called one man, which led to a bit of foot-stomping agreement.

  Ah, the famous page 47.

  I should respond to Victoria. My publisher, Dominic McGann, sat in the front row, willing me to sparkle. To his left, Branwell Thornton, my literary agent, who had been the first to believe in me, encouraging me to find this book inside me where other agents had dismissed my previous offerings without comment. I couldn’t let Branwell down. It’s just that I’d never wanted to hurt Michel professionally, or personally – and I’d managed to do both in the space of a few short months.

  Come on, Delaney, Michel hates you anyway. Just play the game. Promote the book, make the money, then this will all seem like a silly hallucination of what once didn’t really happen on a hot summer’s day in the Welsh borders . . .

  I cleared my throat. “Ah, I never bake in my lingerie, Victoria. As Lucy Lovecake will tell you and page forty-seven confirms, that is best saved for serving it,” I said.

  Mental note, work out what they love about page 47, and do more of that in the next book.

  My opponent, now propped up on his kitchen units, busily decanting amber liquid from a hipflask into a coffee supplied by Tara, shot me a look which flash-fried my cheeks instantly. He was obviously thinking of the day he’d paid an unexpected visit to my flat on Rosehip Lane, just as I’d been taking a cake from the oven whilst wearing a corset, stockings and suspenders. I’d been experimenting for a racy crime novel which never materialised, as it happens.

  Seems so long ago, but it was only eighteen months, the very day that I got the idea for French Fancy.

  “Ever the coquette,” he muttered, picked up by his microphone.

  I considered a comment about just dropping the ‘ette’ in his case, but my parents were in the audience, plus Granny Delaney was going to watch the YouTube clip in her convent nursing home that afternoon. If the nuns allowed it. We knew that Sister Angelica had a laptop, and a Foxy Bingo habit.

  Michel laughed as if he knew what I was thinking.

  He’s always good fun, whatever else he might be.

  I hated being at loggerheads with him, almost as much as I hated him in general. I just wished I’d never met him. But I wouldn’t be standing here, in the freakish circus of minor fame, without him.

  Michel looked set for mischief. “We could all sell piles of books if we stripped down to our panties!” he said, hiccupping.

  “Knickers!” I corrected him.

  This generated hoots from the crowds.

  Dominic winked from the front row. I guess I’d found my Lucy Lovecake voice all right.

  “They do say sex sells, but I wouldn’t know,” added a pouting Victoria, getting the biggest laugh yet, and taking it well. “Let’s find out what Michel has in store for the contest. In case we should forget, this is meant to be all about the cakes!”

  She tottered over to Michel’s kitchen, wiggling Marilyn Monroe-style, in dainty slipper-mules.

  “Qu’allez-vous faire aujourd’hui?” she asked.

  He took a slug of his coffee.

  “Cherry clafoutis. C’est tout,” he replied.

  Damn. His killer pudding.

  “A classic! I love it!” said Victoria. “A certain contrast in choice of cakes between our contestants, but I’m up for a piece of both!” She turned to the audience. “These two writers may have a flair for cakes in common, but I think anyone with half an eye on social media will know that they never agree on anything else!”

  “How can you agree with a liar?” said Michel.

  He’s not getting away with it.

  “If some people could learn self-control and discretion, they could be trusted with the truth,” I added.

  Victoria stepped in nimbly on the beat with a perfectly judged platitude. “Well, you know what they say: the proof is in the pudding! It will be up to our talented tasters to decide on the winner – an hour from now,” she said, making her way to a round table in between the two kitchens. “We’re going to meet the judges now, but for Daisy and Michel it’s almost time to start baking. The cameras will be following them around their kitchens, and no, we’re not hoping for any disasters. Really we’re not.” She winked. “We all make the odd mistake, even me! God knows, that’s how I’ve invented many a new dish.”

  I had much more scope for mistakes than Michel with my ludicrously complicated creation, and my rookie-ness to boot. Why, oh why, had I not just opted for a simple Victoria sponge cake or even my signature French fancies?

  “You can watch the detail of these two bakers at work on the huge screens above their respective kitchens,” said Victoria.

  She now turned to glance at me, then Michel. “All the best to both of you. Daisy, Michel, you hav
e an hour. Time to start baking. Three, two, one. Go!”

  It was a relief to be able to retreat into the familiar rituals of baking. The habits of a lifetime, which had been firmed up during a course at Michel’s cookery school in Primrose Hill. “You must be a voice of authority on baking,” Dominic had said. I’d countered this; I am not trained in the way of the great bakers, the patissiers, so how can I ever be ‘a voice of authority’? Trust me, he’d said.

  I got on with making the two sponge cakes which I planned to layer into four discs, sandwiched together with the Chantilly cream. Measuring. Greasing. Sifting. Creaming. Blending. Whisking. Folding. I got lost in the processes. It was a very ambitious cake, with extra whisked egg whites giving the sponge an extra lightness and softness, which I felt lifted it from “cake” to “gateau”. The ganache was a worry, with equal proportions of cream to chocolate essential for the thick frosting effect I needed. I had rehearsed the entire process several times, with Kitty timing me in our little basement kitchen – and I knew I had not a minute to spare.

  There was a fixed camera trained onto the mixing bowls. I had strict instructions from Bex not to move them out of the “magic box” which framed my hands at work over the bowls and mixers. There was also a young cameraman, Harry, following me around, trying his best not to get in my way. I was expected to say the odd thing to the camera, such as, “Well, that’s the cake mixture nearly ready. I’m reasonably happy with it, although I might have overdone the ginger . . .” and other such profundities.

  I could hear Michel being vocal in the Red Kitchen. He was much more interesting than I was – telling jokes, larking around for the audience. Sometimes funny, sometimes cross. His usual. I tried to block him out but couldn’t help hearing the calls for: “Champagne, please!” And “Can this camera guy fuck off for a minute?” As well as, “You call these eggs? Were they laid by budgies?”

  Sixteen minutes into the hour and my two chocolatey, ginger sponge mixtures went into the oven for twelve minutes. I glanced over to Michel’s kitchen.

  He was still showing off for the crowd. Juggling eggs . . .Oops! About to drop one. Ah, just caught it! So cool.

  “Shall I stone the cherries one-handed?” he said. “I want this contest to be fair to Daisy, after all!”