by Pippa James
He insisted that Victoria re-tie his apron at his back, with one of his arms strapped to the side of his body.
The crowd loved him. It was hard to believe this was the man who had been marched out of Britain under police escort less than a year before, when French police wanted to question him about fraudulently withholding income due to his ex-girlfriend, the film star Eve Berger.
We were so close at that point . . . I can hardly believe I went to Paris with his mother to support him. As we walked by the Seine, he said he trusted me more than any other person.
I was getting things under control in the Green Kitchen. And then I allowed myself another glance across to the red. My eyes grew wide with disbelief at what I saw this time.
No!
A jug of pre-prepared clafoutis batter mixture was handed to Michel from behind the scenes.
So he’s not even going to make it for real! Scoundrel.
3
The Result
One moment I’d been feeling warm and tender towards him, and now I was filled with rage. This was the dual effect he always had on me. The reason I’d decided I couldn’t try any longer.
My cheeks felt hot and pink. I took a deep breath, trying to decide if I should let it go. After all, this ‘show’ was about entertainment. Did I really want to come over like an officious head prefect, grassing up the coolest boy in school?
Get on with your own cake, Daisy!
Once the sponges were rising quite magnificently into gentle domes, creating a delicious aroma of combined bitter cocoa and sweet ginger, I whipped the cream, adding a sprinkle of icing sugar and a dash of vanilla. I must have relaxed a bit, as I could hear Victoria for the first time in many minutes, although I’m sure she’d been talking to the judges and the crowd all along.
Paul Finch, Jane Bell and Caroline Bateman were judging, and they sat around the circular table with Victoria.
“Ah, clafoutis is one of my all-time favourites,” said Paul. “But I’m just not sure how good Michel would look serving it up in a camisole.”
“I’ll leave the camisole for the tart,” called Michel.
“Cream gateau, actually, over here,” I replied.
“More like cream tease,” he retorted to the delight of the crowd.
Time check. Half past. Focus. Ignore him now. He wants to put me off my stride. Well, I won’t let him.
Now for the ganache. The rich, dark chocolate melted quickly into glossy folds. I set aside a little for dipping the ginger, then added the rest to the cream, whisking until it sat in soft peaks inside the pink ceramic bowl.
I looked at the clock.
Get a move on!
Just time to dip the crystallised ginger into the remaining silky chocolate.
Ding! The sponges were ready.
The last stage left no room for other thoughts, and I put Michel’s cheating out of my mind.
I still had to slice the two cakes into four equal discs, allow to cool, and sandwich them together with Chantilly, then smother with ganache, and finally, decorate.
“You’re doing really well,” Harry whispered.
I smiled, afraid to speak in case everyone heard.
It was impossible not to notice that Michel now had a beautiful young woman from the audience in his kitchen, helping with the custard sauce, a version of crème anglaise, with a dash of amaretto. His clafoutis was resting. I could smell it from the Green Kitchen. The cherries so sharp and tangy, the cooked batter so gently comforting – a perfect, winning combination.
Well, I did my best.
Soon my gateau was ready for the outer coating of ganache. I used the palette knife to smooth, and it did look deliciously velvety. I lifted it onto a vintage glass pedestal dish – Kitty and I had found it in Pike’s Antiques on Gloucester Avenue – ready for decorating.
What’s the time? Help! Five minutes to go.
The candied ginger hadn’t quite set, so I popped it in the freezer for two minutes to speed things up, then arranged a cluster of the chocolatey, crystallised pieces on top of the cake.
“Time’s up!” called Victoria. “Stop baking!”
“You nailed it!” said Harry. “Looks fantastic!”
“Thanks. Phew, not a moment to spare!”
I took a breath. Harry’s right. It looks pretty good.
I caught Dominic’s eye. Happy. Proud. I realised my cheeks were glowing as he snapped me with his phone, then fiddled around, probably Instagram-ing an image of me and the cake. Proud, fatherly smile from Branwell. Everyone in the middle row beaming and waving.
The two efforts were carried forward to the table where the judges sat. There was a lot of photographing going on – both looked more than respectable.
Michel and I stood side by side behind the table as the judges came to taste.
He came up close to me, covering his mic. “You smell so . . . smug.”
“You smell so . . . dirty,” I said, covering mine.
“Ah, what a lovely compliment. I know how you like dirty, Lucy Lovecake.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I messed my clafoutis up to give you a chance,” he said.
“You’re so damn sweet.” Then under my breath. “Or do I mean, you’re a damn cheat?”
“Ha! Your fancy ways with words!”
He wobbled. He’s going to fall over. I reached out for him. He caught my hand and stood straight again, then put his arm round me. It might have looked as if he was embracing me, in that fake, showbiz sort of way, when people wait for results and pretend to be pally, like at results time on Strictly Come Dancing, but, in fact, I was holding him up. I put my arm along his lower back and felt his ribs protruding. He reeked of cigarettes, wine and unwashed clothes.
I had rarely felt so nervous, as the judges tucked into the cakes.
Caroline tried my gateau first. “Absolutely divine,” she said. “Light, lovely flavours. The balance is sublime. The sweetened Chantilly works on a cake that is actually quite sharp and rather grown-up. Inspired.”
Paul liked it too, saying it sent his senses into overdrive – “Or is that just page forty-seven?” – but Jane thought it a bit too complicated. “I don’t know which flavour dominates,” she said. “They compete.”
Fair point.
They moved on to Michel’s clafoutis. I knew it to be a wonderful thing – he’d made it for me once.
“Superb!” said Paul.
“Magnificent!” breathed Jane.
“Just . . . a little taste of heaven!” quipped Caroline.
Michel whispered, “Oily suck-ups. It’s average.”
Victoria ordered the judges to have a confab and pitched in to the tasting table herself, enjoying a mouthful of each.
“I’m going to stick my neck right out here,” she said. “For me, Daisy’s cake has the edge – for sheer courage alone, let alone the wonderful taste, but it’s not up to me, is it?”
She approached Michel and me for our final mini-interview prior to results, as the judges nibbled on. Michel had stabilised a bit, but he was still holding on to me.
“Well, first of all, Daisy. You’re new to this kind of pressure. Very well done for staying composed. There are so many distractions, it’s no easy task in a location like this. How did you find it all?”
“Stressful!” I said. “I was under my own pressure as much as anything. I think there is a perception that I am not serious about baking. It’s important to me to show that I am very serious – and accomplished.”
Dominic had told me to max on the dedication to the primary skill as a way of countering those who thought Lucy Lovecake’s book was lightweight and “not really about cakes at all”, as Penny Laws in The Times had said. (Well, it’s not all about cakes, actually, I had pointed out to Dominic.)
Dominic winked in conspiratorial style from the front row, pleased with my bakery blah-blahs.
Michel was mulling my remarks.
“Well, may I just say,” said Victoria, “that ga
teau is a very accomplished work. I thought it indescribably yummy.”
Michel was melting his bitter bile and combining with his acid tongue. Ding! Ready to serve: “Amazing, so accomplished. Tell them how you became so accomplished, Daisy,” he said.
“You must be referring to the course in baking I took at your cookery school in Primrose Hill, Michel,” I said.
“That’s right – a course you took ‘for fun.’ Meanwhile, you were secretly penning a book which you did not tell anyone about. You are accomplished in many ways – principally in the ways of deceit.”
I looked to Dominic. He now seemed concerned, but was not for intervening. I had to handle this alone, I knew that.
Brush it off lightly.
“Ah, the line between a secret and a deception – who can ever see that line?” I said. “It’s a skill to keep a secret and a sin to deceive. I kept a secret, that’s all.”
Victoria decided it was time to step in.
“Now, Michel. How was it for you?”
“I had no complaints at the time. What? Oh, the baking thing? Today?”
“Yes. The baking thing.”
This time my cheeks flambéd. I tried to move away from him, but he was not letting go.
“I’m lazy,” Michel replied. “I chose something I’ve done a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.”
“Well, maybe you’ve made it a lot because people love it so much?” said Victoria. “Let’s see what the judges say.”
Paul came over to deliver the judges’ findings.
“This is all bollocks,” said Michel, whispering into my ear. “They’re going to suck up to me because I’m a name in the game.”
“Paul, a tough contest today?” Victoria asked. “I thought both cakes were divine – but that’s why I could never be a judge! I’m so greedy, I love them all.”
“Yeah, it was tough to decide. One very classic, simple pudding, with a fabulous custard sauce. The balance of the flavours just right. The other, a gateau, a fabulous creation with a clever mix of notes, the sweet countered by the sharp – really, it was a triumph.”
“But that isn’t telling us what we need to know,” said Victoria.
“I know, I know. And I’ve been elected as the bringer of the results, an unenviable job.”
I looked across at Caroline. She caught my eye briefly and looked away, with an expression of adorable apology. What a lovely woman. I knew the result at that moment.
“We decided, finally, that the clafoutis had the edge,” said Paul.
4
He Offers Me Protection
Robust applause, but not of the foot-stamping, standing-ovation variety.
Embarrassingly, a tear fell down from my eye. Michel wiped my cheek tenderly with his rough, dirty hand.
“Ah, thank you, Paul. I’m sure it was a tough call,” said Victoria. “I’d like to thank our contestants, Daisy Delaney and Michel Amiel, our judges, Paul Finch . . .”
Michel interrupted.
“That’s just nonsense,” he said, breaking away from me and finding his feet. “I cheated. You all know that. Some girls behind the scenes passed me the batter, all pre-prepared, you know? I made them do it. I threatened not to appear if they didn’t. Don’t blame the girls, for goodness’ sake. I am a bully, and a fraud. It was a performance, not for real. Daisy’s cake is real. Very beautiful, actually. She bakes so well. I had some cake made by her before she even went on my course. It was very good. Maybe the best French fancy I’ve ever had.”
Victoria was almost lost for words. Paul, Caroline and Jane looked like they’d been slapped. The crowd was unusually quiet.
Victoria had to step in.
“Erm, well, Michel, you certainly do speak plainly, and I applaud you for that. I’m hearing in my ear that we have to disqualify your entry, I’m afraid. Rules of the game state that the food must be prepared and made in one of our kitchens inside the tent. I’m terribly sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he said, making to leave the tent. “This is all bollocks. It’s a sham. I shouldn’t have done it. Any of it. I don’t want to be part of this charade. I’m a chef, you know? Not a performer. I’m going home to bed.”
The minder who had brought him in whisked him outside. I think everyone realised we were lucky he’d lasted the hour. There was no attempt to bring him back inside.
The judges were confused and humiliated. There was a bit of flapping at the central table. Victoria approached them and huddled in for a few minutes, joined by Bex and Tara, and Stephen Murray, the director.
Victoria obviously wasn’t happy. It looked like they were going to make her announce that I was the winner now – which was preposterous. I heard her say, “You should have picked Daisy in the first place!”
What else could they do now? There had to be a winner, but I didn’t want to win by default. However, I sensed that disqualifying myself wasn’t a viable option.
Inevitably, Victoria announced that I had won the cake-off after all, placing her arm around me, feeling my pain.
I cringed, puce-cheeked, humiliated.
The crowd clapped and cheered.
I went numb.
Every time Michel showed up in my life, he caused this kind of chaos. It was unforgivable. But there was this soft, honest centre to him, and he had spoken out to defend and protect me.
What I love about him is his contempt for hypocrisy.
I found myself wanting to go and look for him. To comfort him as I’d done so often before the Valentine’s Day disaster.
The winding-up part of the event took forever, especially as I was the only contestant left. Victoria and the judges bantered on a while with the crowd, trying to normalise the dramatic denouement a little.
Dominic came into the Green Kitchen and hugged me, lifting me off my feet. “You were awesome, Daisy! They loved you.”
Stephen Murray, Bex and Tara all thanked me for being a good sport and so on. A good sport?
“I’m so tired,” I said, turning to embrace Kitty, Clara, Francesca and my parents, quite tearful now that the pressure was off.
“You were great,” said Mum. “Your cake was glorious. I hope we get to taste it.”
“I was taught stuff like that at Michel’s cookery school,” I said. “He’s a brilliant teacher.”
Dominic stepped in. “No, Daisy. He’s a loser. He’ll be lucky to be alive in a month if he carries on like this. You are brilliant, a natural. Forget about him.”
He turned to speak to Stephen, laying into him for putting me in a terrible position. “What happened to Myles Munroe from Bake It?” I heard him ask.
All the voices around me swirled together. I wanted to find Michel and speak to him, to sort out this whole mess. I’d betrayed him over my book. I regretted it, but at the time I could see no other way forward.
“Daisy will be signing French Fancy in the bookshop tent in ten minutes,” Victoria announced. “Find her there to have your copy personalised. And maybe get some dating advice too! Hey, I might even join the queue myself!”
It had been a good-humoured performance by Victoria and I was full of admiration for her, but I’d had enough of clowning. I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to rest my head on Michel’s shoulder, sit in the sun on a riverbank with him, and forget my brief life in the circus.
But I shook myself. My life prior to the release of the book had been disastrous. I couldn’t mess up this chance to turn things around for good.
Daisy, there are masses of people who want to meet you now. This is your dream come true. Focus and perform.
I pulled myself together, took off my apron, and went to freshen up my make-up in the Ladies by the Green Room. Then I made my way to the bookshop, with Branwell and Dominic at either side of me.
“Keep smiling,” said Branwell. “They’re buying up your books by the bucket load.”
I had first signed my books in Harrods, back on Valentine’s Day. I still wasn’t used to the idea that people would queue to mee
t me and have my scribble inside their book.
Crazy. I’ve spent my whole life being the one at the back of every queue, and now people are queueing to meet me.
Tara said it was the biggest queue of the festival. She probably said that to everyone, but there was quite a snake of people waiting patiently in the midday summer sun, wearing straw hats and sandals.
I took my seat in the bookshop and let the event begin. Soon my cheeks grew sore from grinning, and my fingers ached from scrawling my signature. Some people were adorable, saying how much they loved the recipes, and what a fun idea the book was, even though they couldn’t imagine seducing with cake – or seducing at all. Other people were flattering, verging on lunacy: “It’s wonderful to meet you after following Lucy Lovecake on Twitter. You have changed my life, made me feel anything is possible. Can I have a photo with you for Instagram? You are so pretty. Where do you get your clothes? Could we meet for lunch? I have this book idea . . .”
A lot of men were in that queue, I noticed. They were good humoured, though.
“I’d be happy to share a chocolate kiss with you anytime,” said a big bruiser of a boy, probably in his twenties, referring to my chocolate meringue kisses, as recommended by Lucy Lovecake for third dates.
“Are you dating yourself?” asked one man who I suspected was in his thirties, adding: “Asking for a friend.”
It was all in good fun, and I should have been so proud, relaxed and delighted.
Dominic whispered news to me from Twitter every so often. “People are saying that your cake demo was awesome. ‘Luscious Lovecake not half-baked!’ ‘Amiel is a cheating old twat!’ ‘ Go Lucy Lovecake! Love your cake!’ ‘Recipe for the chocolate ginger cake please!’ (649 likes) ‘Amiel whisked away after causing a stir!’ ‘Silly old toss-pot boils over.’ ”
After signing books for two and a half hours and chatting endlessly about dating, recipes and the finer details of lingerie, I went back to the Green Room for a debrief with Tara, having made a plan to meet everyone else back at the hotel for afternoon tea.
