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

by Pippa James

  “I guess things are never as they seem,” I said.

  “True. Who would have thought that you spend Friday afternoons baking cakes in lingerie?”

  “I don’t usually.” I blushed.

  “Sorry, I’m embarrassing you. I just wanted to say thank you properly. Soberly.”

  “Consider it done. Pretty flowers. I’m easily pleased.”

  He looked so calm and sensible, sitting there, smiling at me shyly. Who knew what might happen next.

  As it was, I jumped in the air with another loud knock on the window. A big, cheery face looking in, pipe in mouth, with Santa Claus hair. Of course. The Brigadier! About the rent.

  He burst in with his usual rush of energy and good humour, dressed in his tweed jacket and green cords.

  “Daisy, how are you?” boomed Pippa’s grandpa, looking at my get-up, then glancing at Michel.

  Michel stood to leave. “I should go. See you some other time.”

  “Yeah.” I answered. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Michel. “The cash!”

  He handed the cab money over in an envelope.

  I saw him to the door.

  “Daisy?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “You may. I may not answer it,” I said.

  “Why were you at the awards ceremony anyway?”

  I swallowed hard. I’ve often wondered how differently this whole story would have been if I’d just told the truth at this point. But somehow, I didn’t want him to know that I was an aspiring author – what if I was never published? How embarrassing would that be?

  “It’s okay – you don’t wish to say,” he said, turning to go.

  “No, it’s not a problem,” I replied, thinking up a story. “I was invited there by an author – Gary Hopper, an SAS guy.”

  “Ah, right,” he said. “The guy at the table. Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  The Brigadier harrumphed at this point.

  “Please excuse me,” I said. “I really must—”

  “Yes, of course. See you around,” said Michel.

  After Michel had left, the Brigadier turned to me.

  “I say, Daisy,” he remarked, looking quite blatantly now at my kimono and the envelope of cash in my hand, then glancing at the retreating Frenchman. “Are you resorting to this kind of thing to meet the rent payments? A nice girl like you?”

  How embarrassing! He thinks . . .

  “I, erm, well,” I began. “It’s not how it looks.”

  He sat down and I brought some tea and cake to him.

  “We can go easy on payments, you know.”

  “Give me a minute, please. I need to change. I was just playing at dress-up when he arrived.”

  “Right you are,” he said. Then, under his breath, “Girls nowadays.”

  I went off to my room and pulled on a huge polo and jeans.

  We each enjoyed a nice little cake (my second) and said no more about the rent.

  “You and Kitty keep this place very nicely,” he said. “But I don’t want the place to get a bad name. See if you can straighten yourself out, will you?”

  He clearly wasn’t sure about what he’d witnessed, and I didn’t think that any amount of further explanation was necessarily going to have an effect.

  I nodded, feeling ashamed for appearing like a prostitute, and even more ashamed that I didn’t deny it properly.

  As I looked across at the Brigadier, I remember thinking, I must get out of this mess. I will become financially strong, independent and prosperous. This humiliation has to end.

  21

  Turning Point

  It was a relief when the Brigadier left, with the rest of the fancies wrapped and placed in a Quality Street tin, and a vast pile of Pippa’s mail. He kissed me goodbye and told me: “Be a good girl. You’re a pretty girl. You don’t need to do that. Especially with seedy old French chefs.”

  So, he had recognised Michel Amiel.

  “It’s not what you—”

  “Never complain, never explain!” he boomed, banging the door shut behind him.

  I needed a lie down after all that. I pulled down the blind on the kitchen window and made my way to the sofa.

  My face turned as pink as a rose for at least fifteen minutes. I thought about my desperate situation. The solution lies in your own mind. Only you can change your life. You have a chance with Branwell. A glimmer of hope. The answers are inside you.

  As I lay on the sofa, I could still see the look in Michel’s eyes as I stood icing the cake in the lingerie, with the kimono hanging off my shoulders. What was it? Amusement? Not exactly. More than that. He melted in front of me, became defenceless. Was he enchanted, even?

  That look. I know what it was.

  The realisation hit me like an explosion in my brain.

  Desire.

  The humiliation of the afternoon subsided and I smiled at the unscripted, accidental-ness of the whole crazy scene. And then it came to me. The book. An idea for my book. It seemed so obvious I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

  Food and lingerie. The perfect recipe for seduction.

  This is how to get men in your thrall.

  All that melting, beating, blending, creaming, baking and icing. Carried out in a variety of delicious little lace numbers from Voluptas. Topped off with dating tips and lessons in love. This would be more than a rival for Kiss Chase. What if I could think of a cake or a meal to suit romantic occasions? First date? First kiss? Sixth Date Sex? I began to make notes on my laptop.

  Think of other big romantic occasions . . .

  Christmas, First Sunday lunch party, country cottage weekend, flat-warming, meet the in-laws, engagement party? This could be great fun. Tarts, crumpets, pies, cupcakes, honeymoonbuns, fancies . . . hey, I could call it French Fancy.

  I almost messaged Branwell instantly, but, no, that would be rash as I still had a week, so decided to start writing first. In fact, I couldn’t stop the flow of ideas.

  22

  The First Draft

  The ingredients of the book combined together quickly. I headed up the chapters:

  First Date

  First Lunch

  First Picnic

  First Kiss

  Sixth Date Sex

  IN LOVE

  Country Cottage

  Christmas

  Party!

  Flat Warming

  In-laws to Tea

  Surprise Him!

  Six-Month Snap

  Make-up Tricks

  Anniversary

  Engagement

  Wedding

  I didn’t even look up from my laptop when Kitty came in from work.

  “Hi, Kitty! You okay?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got ‘flow’?” she asked.

  “Yes, sorry. Something came to me. A lot of things, actually. A whole pile of ideas.”

  “Cool!”

  Kitty pottered around, boiling the kettle, taking milk from the fridge. She made a pot of tea for us and produced some dainty sandwiches on an antique, fluted plate, then sat at the table, checking her phone.

  “Oh. Nice flowers,” she commented.

  “From Michel Amiel.”

  “I see. He came here with them, or sent them?”

  “Came here,” I said.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “What?”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s the least of it,” I revealed.

  “Meaning?”

  “I was wearing nothing but a corset and stockings when he arrived – I was trying to get inspiration for a lingerie crime novel whilst baking a cake.”

  “Death by sponge cake? How terrifying! Suffocation? Choking? Or poison?”

  “God knows what I was thinking, Kitty. Anyway, I covered up with a kimono, welcomed him here, and we had quite a g
ood time, actually. Dancing a little, eating fancies, talking about life. And then Pippa’s grandpa arrived to discuss putting up the rent – while Michel was here.”

  “Flipping hell! The rent’s going up?”

  “Not any more. I’ll explain. Michel gave me cash for the cab we got after the awards thing – remember I had to pay for it as he lost his wallet?”

  “Yes, I sort of remember that.”

  “And now I’m pretty sure the Brigadier thinks I’m working as a whore out of financial desperation!” I made a noise between a giggle and a sob.

  Hoots from Kitty. “That’s too funny! I wonder if he’ll mention it to Pippa.”

  “It’s hilarious. But on the upside, he’s leaving the rent as it is. Just so long as I curb the prostitution on his premises!”

  “God, I just go out to work for the day . . .”

  “I’d love to tell you more, but I am possessed by my literary voice.”

  “Ha! You literary types! Your ‘voice’, darling! I’ll get the details later. Carry on with your lingerie crime novel. Strangled by suspenders whilst eating a strawberry tart?”

  “No, it’s not that any more. Michel gave me an idea. Another idea.”

  “No! You seduced him!?” cried Kitty.

  I paused for effect.

  “No. But I really do think I quite possibly could have done.”

  “Wow. Daisy! What’s going on? This year is so different from last already.”

  “Something is different. The year is not different. I am different. And I’m just getting started.”

  Apart from giving me Twitter updates now and again about our hottest men 1 to 10, which were soliloquised rather than addressed to me, Kitty just floated around, bringing me from time to time a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs, a fruit salad in a cut-glass bowl, and a ramekin dish filled with cashew nuts.

  This is work? I was having so much fun. The author voice just bubbled up from somewhere, as though it had been waiting for this moment.

  Sixth-Month Snap – Raspberry Chocolate Cake to the Rescue . . .

  SURPRISE HIM! The six-month snap happens to us all. You know how it is, the first flush of romance is being replaced by a wave of apathy, a spate of rows and a plague of raucous, rival hen and stag weekends. He’s more excited about his season ticket and games console than the prospect of cosy weekends together. On the one hand, he’s a great big disappointment all of a sudden. You believed that he really did love opera and ballet, but, shockingly, it was lies to get you into bed! But on the other hand, you still like him loads and need to get him to look at you like that first night all over again. What’s a girl to do?

  This requires a SHOCK strategy! He thinks you’re the girl next door with the white T-shirt bras and matching knickers? He thinks wrong! Dress in something you’ve never worn for him before, a vampish red silk and lace push-up bra, with silk stockings and killer heels – and bake him this luscious chocolate cake creation, topped with crushed raspberries and delicately whipped Chantilly cream. He will look at you in a whole new light . . .

  23

  French Fancy

  I whipped up twenty thousand words over the weekend. My first literary offering, written in the shop and declined by all, had taken me over two years to write. How can this be forming so quickly? Does that mean it’s rubbish?

  I had in mind a line I’d once read in a magazine: “Louisa M. Allcott wrote Little Women in the space of a few weeks as she needed the money.” I’d always thought that a book must take years and years to write if it was to be good. But that phrase gave me hope. I researched the topic of fast-penned hits. Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. Come on, Daisy. Speed might be a good thing when it comes to books.

  Of course, French Fancy was going to be no Little Women! But the principle seemed to help me.

  Nothing else matters. Only this book. These words. This creation. Branwell will love it. A publisher will love it. Readers will love it. It will change my life.

  I slept for just a few hours on Saturday night, even then hand-writing notes on the pad by my bedside during the night and dreaming ideas as I slept. Back to my laptop in the morning, a bowl of muesli in hand.

  Sunday sped by. In the evening, I felt ready to evaluate my work.

  Please may this not be gibberish when I read it back.

  I lit a lavender and vanilla candle in my room, washed my face with cool water and brushed my hair. I hadn’t realised that my head was aching where my hair was caught in a tight band, and my neck and shoulders were in tight, angry knots.

  Read it, Daisy. See how it sounds.

  I was nervous about reading my words, afraid I wouldn’t like it.

  Opening the laptop, I lay on my bed, propped up on three pillows.

  French Fancy by Daisy Delaney

  I stopped for a moment.

  Daisy Delaney? Does that sound right? Do I really want people to know this is my book? Maybe I should call myself something else? Yes, think of a nom de plume, Daisy!

  I wrote down all the words associated with the book. Cake, Love. Love, Cake. What about Miss Lovecake? Or Lydia Lovecake? Lucy! Lucy Lovecake sounds young and fun and fresh. Written by Lucy Lovecake. Perfect. She sounds a bit naughty, fun, feminine.

  French Fancy by Lucy Lovecake.

  It was decided.

  When I read it all back, I was struck by the fact that it didn’t sound like my thoughts at all. I liked it. It had me gripped, as though I hadn’t written it. Crazily, I didn’t always know what was coming next. How could that be?

  It could be a vanity thing that I like it so much. I must get another opinion before I send this to Branwell.

  I hardly knew where the content had come from, then reflected that I had experienced a lot of dating vicariously through girlfriends, TV shows, films, and novels and it was clearly all stored in my mind. All that secret watching of Sex in the City and Gossip Girl in my teens had obviously led to Lovecake.

  Of course, I’d had some dating fun with Tom Percy. Before it all went horribly wrong. We’d been quite the glamorous couple to watch in our last year at art school.

  24

  The Letter

  I was feeling buoyant after the read-through of French Fancy so decided to read the new letter from Tom. I went to the drawer and opened the envelope carefully.

  16 Banbury Avenue

  Islington

  T: 07842666541

  Dear Daisy

  I don’t know if you get these letters, but I will keep writing to you at your parents’ address in the hope that one day you will write back. I also hope that one day you will forgive me and will see these letters as a testimony to my never-ending love for you. I have to live with my regrets.

  Someone on Facebook said you work in a lingerie store, but she wouldn’t say where? Much as I can see you in such a shop, I do hope that your own beautiful designs have been picked up and that next thing we know, there will be the Daisy Delaney range of bridal lingerie. I’ll never forget you in that slip of silk we bought in Paris. You are always in my thoughts.

  I would love to know what you’re doing, even though I know you won’t tell me where you live. What harm is there in updating me? Please do consider it.

  Next summer, I am launching a range of swimwear and shoes, and a few bits of bedding for John Lewis. Can you believe it? Remember how rude our tutor Anna MacDonald always was about my swimwear designs? I’ll be sending her a selection! That’s if she still works at the art college in Edinburgh. Can you believe it’s over five years since we both arrived in London? Funny how you tend to think things will be as you left them . . . they never are. No doubt you have changed too. As for me? I am quieter, more reflective. I suppose my carefree days are gone, with how I behaved. I am ashamed.

  I hope your mum and dad are okay. I have some news for you. My grandmother died. Do you remember meeting her at the graduation lunch at the Prestonfield House Hotel? She gave me suc
h a hard time about hurting you. She was dead right. I was a fool. I regret everything, and wish I could make it right.

  I’d like to invite you to my range launch party in the summer, as my personal guest. It’s on 5th August at Liberty’s. I will send the details and I’ll be looking for you there.

  Love you always,

  Tom

  Too late, Tom Percy. Mere words. You can’t stop trying because for once you didn’t get your own way. You wanted me back, but I had gone forever. It’s a personal challenge to you now – to bring me back into your life. To hurt me again? Well, enjoy your launch. Enjoy your life. I am writing a book. One day, I’ll be having a launch party of my own.

  Somehow the thought of surprising Tom Percy with my racy book really motivated me. He had been so cruel to me. Made me feel like a naive country girl lacking in sophistication. Well, I suppose I was, compared to Princess Elisha Von Hapsburg! She was descended from the French royal family; her father claimed he was the rightful heir to the French throne. He started chasing a life with dukes, earls, countesses and royals. I couldn’t compete. I became quieter and more subdued. He found me changed, he said. “I have changed because you have,” I explained. We rowed. I cried, became “pathetic”. It was over.

  The worst sort of betrayal, I always thought – for status, not love. Of course, it hadn’t lasted. The endless round of European balls and house parties. Tom wasn’t really like that, but his ambition was a powerful, Macbeth-style force within him. And he did meet all sorts of designers and celebrities during his royal days, and was happy to trade off connections through the princess. People said he dumped her after a ball at the Crillon Hotel in Paris. Who knows? Next thing I read, she was dating a Chelsea footballer.

  When I was feeling very sorry for myself, I wondered if that was the way to play life. The Tom Percy way. To use people who are useful, for short or long periods, then move on, taking all that you’ve gained with you.