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

by Pippa James

  It’s very nice to receive such a balanced reply. Thanks. You’d be amazed at how often such messages sent out by me elicit returns along the lines of: “If you’re so smart, write your own book” and words to that effect! They may have a point!

  My instinct is that there is something about your knowledge base that is book-worthy. This is something we should explore together, because I like the way you operate and I think I can work with you. That’s a very important factor.

  Would you be interested in accompanying me to a book awards evening – The Laphroaigs – on the evening of 15th February? It might be inspirational for you and let you see which books are currently well received. If this is of any interest to you, please arrange with my assistant, Bea Gibson, who is copied in here. I have attached a list of the shortlisted books.

  Yours,

  Branwell

  11

  An Intriguing Development

  Read it again, Daisy.

  Utter disbelief. Could it be a joke from one of my friends? But it certainly was his e-mail address. Was one of London’s top literary agents really inviting me to a literary awards function as his guest? I read it over and over. Yes, it seemed he was. And I had something “book-worthy” inside me.

  This could be the breakthrough moment. Not conclusive, but a definite shift in position.

  I was fluttery, excited, possibly hysterical. Trying to research the awards, I kept pressing the wrong buttons on my keyboard. Finally, a link to the event came up. Very fancy. To be held at Claridge’s, with a full dinner and champagne. What will I wear? I must look magnificent!

  Next, I read the attached shortlist:

  The Laphroaig Literary Awards, Claridge’s, 15th February 7pm

  Literary Fiction:

  The Ribbon by Leonie Roberts

  Death and Other Hobbies by Ian Bassett

  Symphonium by Jan-Luc Morreaux

  Biography:

  Cicero, Orator: Life & Times by David Welsh

  Nicolaus Copernicus: Sun, Moon and Stars by Sally Finch

  Otto von Bismarck by Rebecca Snow

  Culinary:

  Bake Roast Grill by Rory Bridges

  Classic Cuisine 6 by Michel Amiel

  Soup to Nuts by Edie Greene

  Crime:

  Forensica by Alana Dunn

  The Candlestick in the Dining Room by Herb Gutteridge

  Buried Deep by Brian Jackson

  Catching sight of his name amidst the Culinary genre, I thought, Oh God – that bloody Frenchman! Is there no escaping him?

  I waited for a respectable amount of time, tinkering around with satin teddies, googling Branwell Thornton a dozen times, doing fifty sit-ups behind the counter. In the middle of the afternoon, I messaged Bea Gibson, accepting the kind invitation. Clara didn’t materialise at all that day, so I had to go through to see Francesca to share my joy.

  “Well done, Daisy!” she said, hugging me.

  “It was you. You inspired me!”

  “No, this is all about you. The work you do is never wasted. You know what that golfer guy said: The harder I work, the luckier I get.”

  I bounced along the street on the way home, stopping for lots of tapas things (which were reduced) at the supermarket. And a bunch of cut-price rosebuds.

  Now let’s get the flat sorted out.

  Back at the flat, there was no sign of Kitty, so I activated my feel-good playlist, starting with Toploader’s “Dancing in the Moonlight”, and put the flowers in water. Next, I started cleaning like a maniac: squooshing environmentally friendly spray, mopping wooden floors with steaming hot water, cleaning the oven. After that, I set to work on making a fabulous dinner for us: stuffed olives, chorizo sautéed in red wine, ham and cheese croquettes, and calamari with capers. I’d seen a TED talk by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi all about creative “flow” being the secret to happiness. A trigger is what’s needed. The e-mail from Branwell Thornton had triggered my “flow” in a big way; I was seriously whooshing along now like a glacier in a thaw.

  By the time Kitty arrived back from the teashop, however, I was spent. “Wow, this all looks lovely,” she said, as I lay flumped out on the sofa with a glass of Rioja.

  “I had a burst of energy, Kitty. It passed over, thank God. How was your day?”

  “Not so bad. Yours?”

  “Got some lovely news today, actually.”

  “Tell!”

  I waited for Kitty to fill a glass and join me on the sofa. I passed her my phone, the screen showing the Branwell e-mail thread.

  She read it speedily. A squeal of delight.

  “Oh! WOW! Fantastic! He wants to find a book in you!” She hugged me. “So proud of you.”

  “I’m about to burst with excitement, Kitty. But I really need inspiration about what sort of book to write. It’s my first real chance to get published.”

  Kitty thought for a while. “What about something to rival this Kiss Chase book?” she said, picking it up from the table and passing it to me. “Tell it from the girls’ side?”

  I considered this.

  “Nice idea, Kitty. But what do I know about seduction?”

  “Well, maybe you’re just going to have to seduce someone.”

  “Beau Bonas and Prince Harry elude me.”

  “Maybe there’s someone else . . .”

  “I wish.”

  Who? The dating sites were disaster areas, and sometimes it felt like everyone on the streets of London was part of a couple. Tom Percy had done so much harm when he went off with that princess. But I had to start thinking positively – about men, my book, everything.

  * * *

  Feeling temporarily in control of my life next morning, I went out for a run before showering, and then ate some quite sawdusty muesli before setting off for Voluptas nice and early. Striding along the high street in a teal Miss Sixty lambswool mini-dress, cherry fur jacket, and knee-length boots, I felt invincible. My hair was piled up in a full top knot, and my lips frosted with Maybelline’s First Blossom. My luck had turned. I was going to be one of the successful people.

  Beau’s out of town. But, hey, Charlie Grosvenor might have taken up residence in Primrose Hill . . .

  As I got near my left turn into Hedgerow Lane, I noticed a commotion on the high street, right next to the Blink! beauty parlour, where I’d once had my eyebrows threaded. A man was high up on a ladder, painting a new sign above the double-fronted shop which had previously been a bridal shop called Anastasia. A queue of women were chattering, clearly waiting for the doors to open.

  What’s going on? This is a bit of a hullabaloo for a Tuesday morning.

  I crossed the street to investigate.

  The sign writer had chalked out the words: French Cookery School on a plum-coloured background, and was filling in the letters with lush gold-leaf paint. A sandwich board on the pavement declared: Limited places, sign up today for: French Sauces, Classic Patisserie 1&2, Family Cuisine or Fusion Fun. Discount for Early Birds!

  The real housewives of Primrose Hill arrived in their droves. Imagine the dinner party embarrassment if one wasn’t booked on a course!

  Still, it looked very impressive from what I could see. I peered in the window and saw a lovely reception area, where a vintage chandelier lit up the rich, plummy walls. Behind the desk was a slightly flustered girl, booting her computer, literally, as far as I could make out. All quite interesting, but it was time for me to hurry along to work.

  12

  Clara’s Sister

  Clara was already in the shop, complaining of the early start as her car had gone in for repairs and Phil had dropped her off.

  “A whole day in here, Daisy!” she exclaimed.

  “Bad luck! So, what’s happening?”

  “Not much. If you wouldn’t mind changing round the window display – anything you fancy – I’ll get the lattes?” she said.

  “Sure. Anything new arrived?”

  “Oh yes, actually! This lovely Twenties silk nightie – just b
ack from dry cleaning – is rather gorgeous,” she said, offering it over in an embossed box lined with pale lavender tissue paper.

  “Nice. Provenance?”

  “Hever Castle, home of Anne Boleyn. Belonged to Madeleine Astor, wife of John Jacob. American heiress. Titanic survivor. Doesn’t get better, Daisy.”

  “I’ll say!”

  She wrapped a velvet cape around her shoulders and flew out the door, her stylish bob ruffling in the draught. I busied myself, emptying the window of an assortment of bras, then draped the nightdress in there instead.

  When Clara came back with the coffees, she was carrying a heavy-looking bag, and was bursting with news.

  “Just wait until you hear this!”

  I could guess, but said, “What? Spill!”

  “There’s a new cookery school!” she announced.

  She loved to convey news, so: “Oh, really? Where?”

  “Next to Blink! Didn’t you notice on the way past? I went inside. Love the sound of Fusion Fun – but there’s no availability until March, can you believe?” she said, setting down the lattes on the glass counter.

  “I wonder who owns it?”

  “Wonder no more. I know everything! It’s owned by sexy Michel Amiel, no less! Why do you think the ladies are going crazy to get involved? He’s apparently renting a big house on Elsworthy Road – along with his perky little pixie, you know, that actress . . .”

  Michel Amiel? YMCA Michel Amiel? Living a few streets away and opening a cookery school here in Prim Hill?

  It was my daydream gone wrong.

  Clara emptied the contents of the heavy bag to reveal a full set of cookery books – Classic Cuisine 1–5 by Michel Amiel.

  “Gosh. How much for those?” I asked.

  “On a deal. £150!”

  “Bargain!” I said.

  “You look a bit stunned by all this,” replied Clara, sipping on her warming drink daintily, preserving her cupid-bow lips, painted to perfection.

  “Erm. A bit, yeah. I met him at that party at the V&A the other week. I didn’t realise why he was in town . . . that it was relatively permanent. And so close to home.”

  “Ah, so you’ve met him. You should have told me all this! Lucky you. And? Hot?”

  Hot?

  “Well, he got my blood boiling, if that counts.”

  “Ha! He’s French – what do you expect?”

  She flicked through the cookery books. “I’ve always wanted these. He’s so masterful.”

  I had to admit, they were beautifully produced hardback books. Very old-school, nothing too glitzy. No images of anyone licking spoons or ornate, overly frosted cupcakes. Just simple jackets showing classic fare, with elegant font displaying his name and the titles Classic Cuisine 1, Classic Cuisine 2, and so on.

  “I might have a look at those later,” I said.

  “Sure, of course. I’ll leave them here for a few days. You know I never cook.”

  Clara occasionally spoke fondly of Georgie, who seemingly did all the things at home that bored Clara, including school runs and cooking.

  Clara was on a roll now. “And it’s not just the cookery school. He’s opening a restaurant in the high street too – Brasserie Rose. Named after his elderly mother. Isn’t that sweet? My friend Aine was saying that his mother is living here too. She goes everywhere with him, apparently!”

  “That’s cute, I suppose. I wonder how Eve Berger likes that? He didn’t seem the sentimental type to me.”

  I wonder why he’s suddenly London-based?

  Clara babbled on about the various cookery courses, as she added a hefty price label to the nightie. There followed a heated phone call with her sister Annabel, which was nothing unusual. Clara took it in the back shop, but it was impossible not to hear.

  “It’s not your turn to have the villa in August!” said Clara. “I’ve promised it to our good friends, Sarah and Tom Armitage, and she’s just had a monstrous viral thing. I always have dibs on August, Annabel. That’s a fact.”

  Silence. Clara sighing.

  “Well, you have it then if you feel it should be alternate years, but just because you can boss everyone around in your office, don’t try doing that with me!”

  Silence again.

  Clara came back through to the front.

  “My bloody sister! She’s so fucking condescending.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “She tries to boss her family around as she does at the magazine. Well, I’m not taking that from her!”

  “Quite right.”

  “We all know she got the Oxford degree, and edits Elle magazine. She looks down on me, her little sister who sells knickers for a living. Huh! There’s no way we agreed to alternate Augusts for the French villa. My mother would have put her straight, but she’s so out of it. Poor Mummy.”

  “Sounds a bit like Devil Wears Prada on that magazine?”

  “A bit, yes! She’s really very nice, and I’m proud of her, but that’s not the point. Sometimes I hate her, and I was so looking forward to going with the Armitages this year, and it saves a fortune on accommodation elsewhere. Things are very tight for Phil at work right now. Very tight indeed.”

  Clara did not give the impression that anything was remotely tight, by normal standards. There was the Queen Anne manor house towards Windsor, ponies for Tashi, quad bikes for the boys, and acres of land. Georgie and a few others to help out. Clara bought endless handbags and thought nothing of spending £1,000 at a spa for the day. She lived in another world entirely, but that didn’t bother me. Clara, undoubtedly, had a big, warm heart.

  I wonder why she says things are tight for Phil at work?

  I knew he was an investment banker but didn’t know what that involved. Anyway, by lunchtime, Clara felt a bit tired after all the cookery school excitement so went home by cab and train instead of waiting for Phil.

  “Feel free to use the cookery books, sweetheart,” she said as she applied her lipstick, looking into a gorgeous little art deco compact mirror.

  “Thank you. See you tomorrow, Clara.”

  “Yes, bye for now.”

  She flew out the door, leaving a sense that the place was empty.

  13

  Vital Research

  I took a look at the cookery books. Sauces, soups, methods of stock-making. Ways with meat, ways with vegetables, ways with potatoes. Pies, tarts, fruits . . . cakes, pastries, mousses, madeleines. All the fundamentals simply explained, the words peppered with photos of Michel Amiel in action, the whole effect rather alluring somehow.

  I decided to try out a couple of the recipes later. Meanwhile, I opened my laptop and found myself researching Michel Amiel.

  Oh! Look at all this!

  The official line from his website, Wikipedia page and sycophant fan page: France’s most important living chef and culinary author, an inspiration to legions of chefs. A cook who writes, or a writer who cooks? Michel Amiel is so talented in both areas that it’s hard to know his métier.

  However, such kind words were at odds with other items like: “Another Court Case for Michel Amiel” and “ ‘He was a beast to work for,’ says his former employee.” Tribunal cases, driving offences, even a breech of the peace. There were press articles relating to tax evasion, employing illegal immigrants, quarrelling with models in fancy restaurants, and plenty accounts of him being horribly rude to journalists when he was clearly supposed to be promoting his books.

  There were a number of photographs of Amiel looking ill tempered, fierce and occasionally psychotic. One publicity shot showed him brandishing a meat cleaver, sporting a blood-spattered apron, a chunk of dead cow before him. It made me shudder.

  There was one particular article which caught my eye. I clicked “translate”. A more thoughtful, measured piece by well-known French writer Albert Noir:

  What Has Happened to Amiel?

  I’ve known Michel Amiel since he first came into the public eye over fifteen years ago. We were friends for many years,
drinking buddies and weekend companions. I’ve spent many a Sunday in a coma in his Paris apartment, which is rather a pity, as it really is quite gorgeous.

  Fame came to him at a tender age, and we know that can be a curse. But I didn’t expect him to make such a spectacular mess of the fame game – or that we would fall out so dramatically.

  It’s two years since we spoke last. It was a pointless fight. Perhaps I tried to rein him in, talk him down from the roof, so to speak. I miss him, sure, but that Michel, the person he has become, I wouldn’t want him back in my life. He became pathetic, drunken and vile. Spiteful too, ungracious about the successes of others. How much success does one man need?

  How sad that he’s ruined a good friendship, I thought.

  But this wasn’t getting on with my own life. I closed him down and opened a Word document, desperately thinking of ideas for another take on my book. If Branwell Thornton was prepared to host me at the awards, and believe in me, I wanted to have some fresh ideas for him.

  Underwear tycoon fiction – inspirational character? Lady Lily Carter–type protagonist? No. Rags to riches is too clichéd. Angle: heroine is a doctor who designs beautiful bras which are also good for women’s health. Makes a fortune, but is torn between her business and her medical ethics.

  Feminism and lingerie: objectification and bra-burning . . . do women wear it for men? Do third-wave feminists use sexuality to outwit men? Why did second-wave feminists take against the bra so violently?

  Sex sells: From Nell Gwynn to Madonna – décolletage and ambition. Would you “go low” for promotion? Would you risk general anaesthetic for larger breasts? If breasts are for feeding babies, why do we make them the centre of sexual allure?

  I was just contemplating the charms of girl-next-door versus siren when I was interrupted by the door chime of the shop’s front door. I swished through the velvet curtain to the front shop as though going on stage in a show. As Clara always said, a sale required a performance.

  “Hello!” I said. “How can I help you?”