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

by Pippa James

  However, we were all distracted by a terrible debacle in the central aisle of the hall. Raised voices, chairs flying, followed by a deathly hush.

  I knew before I looked over.

  Michel Amiel, making his way to his table in the style of a rampaging bull. I hadn’t realised that Team Amiel had stayed in the bar while we’d been eating dinner. Auguste Flaubert trotted after him with a look of abject apology-cum-terror on his earnest face. I craned my neck to see where Eve was, but she wasn’t there. Finally, Michel sat down.

  Back to beauteous Belinda . . .

  Well, that’s a silver dress to die for – strappy, floaty, elegant. Caroline Castigliano, I’m sure.

  As the literary part of the evening unfurled, I glanced across occasionally to Amiel’s table. He was drinking massive amounts of champagne and was variously slumped over the table or gesticulating madly at anyone who walked by.

  If he was anyone else, he’d have been ejected by now.

  Belinda was in full flow, explaining the order of events.

  “There will be discussions between the authors and various expert academics relating to their genre, which is really rather thrilling for us. I’d like to begin by welcoming Dr Sayed Farouk to the platform, a specialist in the revival Gothic synergy novel,” she said. “He’ll be interviewing Jean-Luc Morreaux.”

  Dr Farouk spoke eloquently enough: “The juxtaposition of formal and informal language echoes the Gothic hero’s dichotomous take on reality. Was that planned, or just a stroke of genius?” he mused. And so he went on. And on.

  Gary took a pen from his inside pocket and wrote on his napkin: WTF?

  I took the napkin and pen and wrote: WTFF?

  He replied: FFS!

  Ever since I’d mentioned lingerie, Gary had become a devoted fan.

  Branwell looked on, almost amused, but I pulled myself together. I was there to learn about the publishing world, not flirt with former soldiers.

  Ah great, we’re going to hear from the author now. Let’s get some reality injected into proceedings.

  The light shone on Jean-Luc Morreaux.

  He was a flimsy man in his thirties with a really big, brain-shaped head, which seemed much too weighty for his body.

  “It was an almost existential experience, writing it,” said the author. “The Gothic milieu has its own energy and demons.”

  Dr Farouk nodded earnestly, almost shaking his own head off.

  Gary tried footsie. Meanwhile, I could see Michel Amiel agitating from the corner of my eye.

  17

  Sour Grapes

  “Let’s get on to the pie-makers!” Michel called out.

  Part of me had to agree.

  “Looks like your ex-‘friend’ might be thrown out,” whispered Gary.

  “He’s no friend of mine.” I took the pen and napkin, writing: TWAT.

  For the next half-hour, Michel heckled intermittently, then he slumped back in his seat, seemingly snoring at one point.

  There was a pause in official proceedings.

  “I feel like punching his lights out myself,” said Gary.

  “Please don’t,” said Branwell. “He’s like this every year. All part of the show.”

  When the culinary awards moment eventually came, pop-star-turned-actress-turned-cook Annie Jones appeared on stage in a wonderful sparkling black gown, with demure roll-collar and a hip-hugging bias.

  “Good evening,” she said in her delightful caramel voice. “Let me get straight to business. The winner in the culinary category is . . .” She seemed to take an age to open the envelope. Then the results card fell, and she couldn’t bend in her dress, so Belinda came to the rescue amid much giggling.

  “My apologies,” said Ms Jones. “The winner is – Rory Bridges for Bake Roast Grill! Well done, Rory!”

  There was a burst of applause which nearly masked Michel Amiel’s cursing and swearing, mostly in French. Rory kissed his wife and made his way to the platform, bounding there in a mid-blue suit and open-collared white shirt.

  He kissed Annie Jones in the style of a slobbering Labrador.

  “Cheers for this, folks. I get a lot of help with my books and I’m really proud of the whole team . . .”

  Amiel was now making his way to the stage in a drunken swagger.

  The security team was slow to react. Amiel was on the steps now, just feet away from Rory Bridges.

  “You don’t even write the books!” shouted Amiel.

  “Whoa, sunshine,” said Rory. “Where did he come from?”

  The security team was zooming in on Michel Amiel now as Rory was taken back to his seat from the other side of the platform.

  “He’s definitely going to get thrown out,” I said.

  “Serves him right.” Gary snorted. “Sore loser.”

  The bouncers grabbed Amiel and pulled him off the platform. As he was hauled past our table, he saw me and made a bid for freedom, saying: “She knows me, it’s Daisy. Daisy, who sells the lace suspenders. Leave me with her. She’ll look after me.”

  All eyes were upon me.

  18

  A Friend in Need . . .

  The security team looked to me for a response. I hated Michel Amiel. He had ignored me earlier, humiliated me. He was an embarrassing mess. I owed him nothing.

  “Don’t even consider it,” said Gary.

  But I felt so sorry for Michel Amiel in that split second.

  I stood up and said, “Yes, I know him. He can sit here. Bring some coffee, perhaps?”

  They let go of him. He veered towards me. “Thank you,” he said.

  An extra chair was put at our table. He sat down, slumped and fell asleep. Monsieur Flaubert, who was a frazzled heap by this point, thanked me emphatically and announced that he was leaving.

  Everything settled down, and I plied Michel Amiel with coffee when he woke from time to time.

  “You gotta be crazy,” said Gary. “He was proper ignorant to you in the bar before.”

  I shrugged. “He’s harmless really.”

  I spent the rest of the evening talking between Gary and Michel; a surreal mix of mockney and Franglais. A couple of hours and four cups of coffee later, Michel was more sensible.

  “Thank you for this,” he said as the event wound up. “I won’t forget it.”

  “You owe me one, Monsieur Amiel,” I responded.

  “I do. Take me home, Daisy.”

  “I don’t know why I’m even helping you.”

  I said goodnight to Branwell, Gary and the rest of the guests at the table.

  “Be careful with him, Daisy,” warned Branwell.

  “I will. And thanks for a wonderful evening.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope it’s been inspiring for you.”

  “Very much so. I’ll be in touch,” I assured him, kissing his cheek.

  “Yes, do that. A couple of years from now and you’ll be on the shortlist.”

  “Ha, I doubt that. Didn’t notice a section on knickers,” I joked.

  Gary hovered around, waiting to say goodnight.

  “It’s been so nice meeting you,” I said, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Pleasure. Where’s that shop you work in?”

  “Primrose Hill. Voluptas.”

  He winked.

  Was that wise of me?

  Michel walked in zigzags. Fortunately, there were lots of cabs waiting outside the hotel, and we managed to get one straight away.

  “What’s your address?” I asked him as the driver waited for instructions.

  “Elsworthy Road,” he said. “But get the driver to go to your house first.”

  We said nothing during the cab ride, sitting at opposite sides of the back seat. I presumed he was dozing. When we got to Rosehip Lane, he couldn’t find his wallet, so I paid the driver generously and jumped out, explaining that Michel should be taken to Elsworthy Road.

  Michel leaned out of the cab as it pulled away. “Thank you.”

  I waved as I began to go down the
steps into the flat. “Sleep well!”

  I let myself in, warmed some milk which I poured into my favourite mug – dotty, in fact, which made me think of Gary Hopper.

  I need to find a man soon. I’m at that dangerous stage. When nutty ex-SAS men seem so cute . . .

  I flopped on my bed and took off my pink shoes, amazed I had worn them for so long. After taking off my make-up and putting on my Victorian nightie, I got under my duvet, nestling until I found a comfortable spot.

  The Laphroaigs – what a night. I want to be part of that bookish world. Yes, it’s vain and pretentious. But it’s also magical and exciting. I really do need a killer book. Maybe I should turn to crime fiction? But would someone have to die? I want to write about life not death.

  I fell asleep feeling that I knew exactly what I wanted but not how to get it. That was what I had to figure out next.

  19

  The Lingerie

  Frustration set in quite deeply after the awards evening. I still didn’t have my book idea, much as the evening had been an exciting eye-opener to the industry. Crime just wasn’t my thing. I seemed to be as confused as ever about direction, and I wrote and discarded paragraph after paragraph. I can’t write about something I don’t understand. Surely ex-cops should write about crime? And lingerie experts about lingerie?

  I received a message from Branwell a few days after the event:

  From: Branwell Thornton

  To: Daisy Delaney

  Subject: Awards Ceremony

  Dear Daisy,

  Well, that was quite a party! Hope you got home safely. It was very kind of you to look after M. Amiel. I hope he appreciates it.

  Did the evening kick-start any creative processes? Or perhaps, more likely, put you off the industry for life?

  Let me know if you have any brainwaves, large or small!

  Yours,

  Branwell

  I didn’t want to say that I was getting nowhere so (crazily) I e-mailed back like this:

  From: Daisy Delaney

  To: Branwell Thornton

  Subject: Re: Awards Ceremony

  Dear Branwell

  Thank you so much for taking me to the event. I really enjoyed it and did get home in one piece. As a matter of fact, I have had an idea. Give me a couple of weeks, and I will get something over to you.

  All best wishes,

  Daisy

  As soon as I pressed “send”, I regretted it.

  What if you can’t think of anything, you muppet?

  * * *

  I took the Friday afternoon off work the following week, searching for literary inspiration. Time was running out. I pottered in the flat, penniless as ever, longing for the February pay cheque. I played Louis Armstrong’s “We Have All the Time in the World”, brewed fresh coffee and was baking a sponge for French fancies for Prim & Proper’s weekend trade.

  I’d learned so much about baking from Kitty since we became flatmates two years before. She had the most amazing skills for creating cakes, which she’d acquired at the West London Cookery School. She’d paid for the course herself after working flat-out in London hotel kitchens for three years. That was before we met. I told her she could easily be a model as she was so beautiful, but she took the hard route through life.

  There had been a worrying phone call from Pippa’s grandpa, the Brigadier, to say he would be over later “to discuss the rent”. Pippa had warned me about this.

  Please don’t say he’s going to put it up. I’m not ready to become a milkmaid in the country just yet.

  I glanced at the oven timer. Eight minutes left for the cake. My brain was working overtime. I only had a week left before I must reveal my brilliant new idea to Branwell. But there was no brilliant new idea!

  For fuck’s sake, you are a moron, Delaney!

  I decided to go and try on some of the underwear I’d bought over the years of working in Voluptas, Louis playing in the background. I was desperate for inspiration.

  I went through to my bedroom and opened the drawer tentatively.

  Is this a good idea?

  For one thing, it was freezing in the flat, and for another, I had no idea in what way the underwear might inspire me.

  Try the crime and food and sex angles. Branwell said they were the money makers.

  There was an assortment of items. After taking my clothes off, I chose a black silk and lace corset and put it on, fastening the tiny hooks, then attaching some silk stockings.

  Bloody hell. This is a lot like hard work!

  I stepped into some fancy mules Clara had given me as a gift after I’d helped at a weekend vintage fair at Earls Court one time.

  I was posing about in front of my big vintage mirror – I suppose I didn’t look too bad, a lot of curves and soft white flesh against the black silk – when PING! Oh fuck, the cake’s ready!

  I tottered through to the kitchen, grabbed some oven gloves and pulled down the oven door when: KNOCK KNOCK!

  Oh my flipping goodness, who’s knocking on the window?

  I turned round on my heel and stared in disbelief.

  It did not seem possible.

  Michel Amiel was staring in. I froze to the spot.

  He looked at me strangely. Why?

  Oh, of course. You’re baking in a basque, Daisy Delaney.

  “Give me a minute!” I called.

  “Do you have company?” he called back.

  “No.”

  Great, that’s even weirder of me.

  20

  The Brigadier

  He waited. Staring. I grabbed an apron, tied it round myself, took the cake from the oven, placed it on a rack, then walked backwards through to my bedroom, as I wasn’t completely sure I’d look respectable from behind. I grabbed a kimono, tied it firmly, brushed my hair and took some breaths.

  I opened the front door breathlessly. Michel entered the flat, where the scent of warm sponge cake mingled with the aroma of deep embarrassment.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” He produced a tiny posy of flowers from behind his back. “I was a twit at the awards. I’m sorry.”

  “I think you mean ‘twat’.”

  “Is that like ‘arse’?”

  “Not quite. Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be nice.”

  I busied around in the kitchen, while he sat on the tapestry slipper chair which Pippa had brought from her granny’s place on her mother’s side, Harebell Hall. According to Pippa, it was a “run-down old dump”, but Kitty and I googled it and it looked pretty palatial.

  I threw together a version of French fancies, with some jam and icing. I realised the kimono was hanging off my shoulders and coming undone, so I tied it back together, tightly.

  “Don’t let me forget that I have the cab money for you too,” said Michel. “I never did find my wallet.”

  “Oh, I would’ve needed a cab anyway . . . What a pain for you – you had to get duplicate cards?”

  “Ah, oui. Happens all the time.”

  He chatted about how disastrous he was with money, plans, personal effects – really selling himself hard.

  With the tea and cake served, I sat opposite him on the little Lloyd loom chair.

  He looked at me intently.

  “Nice song?” he said.

  “Yes, I like to dance around here at times.”

  “Show me.”

  “I’d need a partner.”

  He stood up.

  I laughed, then realised he was serious. “Okay. Sway your hips in time to the music.”

  “How is that?” he asked.

  “Terrible. But never mind. Now, I’m going to twirl out to the side, and when I twirl back in towards you, you catch me with your left arm.”

  He started to get into the rhythm of the music and did a little spin himself, knocking over the (drained) china teapot in the process.

  SMASH!

  “Oh fuck,” hissed Michel. “I’m sorry – your cute little teapot. I am a clumsy-clot.
I just can’t dance.”

  “Don’t worry!” I assured. “You were actually doing well there.”

  “I was?”

  “Definitely. But perhaps that’s enough progress for one day,” I decided.

  “Yes, I think so. I owe you a teapot now. An excuse to come back.”

  “Well, maybe one day if you see a nice one. No rush. We have others.”

  He seemed tense. We sat down again.

  “How’s the cookery school going?” I asked.

  “Good, actually. That’s the only thing that is.”

  “Oh?”

  He took a mouthful of the fancy. “This is actually wonderful,” he murmured.

  “Thanks. You were saying?”

  “Things going wrong with the books all over the place. As you saw the other night.”

  “Well, you’re still at the top of the pile. You can’t win every award going. Don’t be a baby.”

  “But the sales are dropping, Daisy. I need to get things sorted out in my head. Too much of the booze, you know. And the court cases. I’m going to be bankrupt if I’m not careful,” he confessed.

  “But you sell masses of books!”

  “I know. But we don’t make as much from them as you’d think. We need the sponsor deals, the kitchenware, the public appearances. You see, we had this huge financial disaster with a line of foodstuffs in a supermarket chain in France. Turns out people like my books, but not my endless jars of sauce and salad dressings. That’s why I’m in London. The cookery schools. The restaurant chain. It’s all Auguste’s idea. Rebrand me abroad! Take me out of the nest I shit in.”

  This is a lot of information.

  I reflected on his financial situation. “It must be hard, everyone thinking you’re wealthy.”

  “Yes. Do you know, I have to get approval from my accountant to make purchases over £300? I’m treated like a moron.” He shook his head, as though disbelieving his own situation.

  In a strange way, we were both equally impoverished. That surprised me.