by Pippa James
The way to play life is my own way. That’s what I’m doing.
I gave the sample text to Kitty to read late on the Sunday night. While she snuggled up on the sofa with my laptop, I went for a hot bath to ease my aching shoulders. The odd thing was that I wasn’t even nervous of what she’d think. I knew it was right.
25
The Wait
“Well?” I said, as I stood in the hallway in my fleecy robe, combing my wet hair, peering into the sitting area.
Kitty said nothing but got up, came towards me and flung her arms around me. “It’s going to sell millions of copies. I mean it. It’s fun, different, relevant. I love it!”
“Oh, Kitty. You’re so biased, but thank you anyway. It means a lot to me that you love it. It really does. Can you check the recipes for me?”
“Sure. I can even help you to create brand new recipes especially for the book.”
“Great. I will not forget all your support.”
If this is ever published, I will dedicate it to Kitty. And help her escape.
I was exhausted but took my time over the cover letter to Branwell.
From: Daisy Delaney
To: Branwell Thornton
Subject: Submission 2
Hi Branwell
How are you? I am attaching some words which came to me after a recent (potentially) amorous encounter. I’ve called it French Fancy. It is written by ‘Lucy Lovecake’. It’s about dating and cakes and lingerie. It’s about seduction and the delicious games we play in love. I hope you like it. Most of all, I want it to be fun.
I’ve been thinking about the national obsession with baking. We have somehow entered the third wave of feminism where women want to have traditional skills. Not for everyday use; not like our great-grandmothers who baked on Mondays and Thursdays as one of their many responsibilities. But rather, something we do for leisure. Of course, men bake cakes too. As for the lingerie tips – we know that sex sells, don’t we? But it’s more to do with style and allure and the sensuousness of silk against your skin. And dating dilemmas are perennial, so we have a bit of everything in there, don’t you agree?
I very much look forward to hearing what you think!
All best wishes,
Daisy (Lucy Lovecake!)
I flumped in an exhausted heap after this.
Following a deep sleep, all too short, I got up for work on the Monday morning, trying not to feel that my days working in a boring routine were numbered.
I don’t have a book deal. Even if I get a deal, it will take months, maybe years, for the book to get to the shops. Then it will take ages for the shops to pay the publishers . . .
Real life was going to carry on for a while, alas. Maybe forever more.
I hardly dared look at my e-mails because I was going to be so disappointed if Branwell didn’t get back. I unsubscribed to scores of messagers because I couldn’t bear the false hope of the pointless ping.
But after I’d opened the shop and done my morning jobs, which involved replying to messages on Voluptas’s social media sites and a quick dust and mop, I had a furtive look at my personal e-mails.
Yes!
There was something in from Branwell already!
My heart raced.
Brace yourself, Daisy.
I could hardly look, but summoned the courage. Damn, it was an auto message, saying that he was on holiday for the next two weeks!
Shit, why do people have to go on holiday? It’s so self-indulgent! Just when I get my inspiration too.
I busied myself around the shop that week, deep-cleaning, reorganising, papering one wall with a roll of vintage paper I’d found in Francesca’s place. At other times, I browsed on the internet for outfits for my book launch party at the Ritz, or maybe the Orangery at Kensington Palace? I put all thoughts of hearing from Branwell out of my mind. Clara breezed in and out at the start of the week, but on the Wednesday flew off to New York with her husband, who was due to sign a merger deal between his family banking firm, Standings, and the Bank of New York.
“That sounds exciting!” I said.
“Yes and no.”
“Why ‘no’?”
“He’s really anxious about it. Feels a traitor to his great-grand-father who started Standings.”
“I can imagine. Money isn’t everything, though.”
“Too true. I’ve told him that. If he’d rather run it as a small concern, why not?” she said.
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said I don’t understand all the factors. Which patently I don’t.”
“What will you do in New York?” I asked.
“I’m going to go to a few vintage clothing auctions. You know how many old-money families have heritage in New York. The Forbes, the Astors, the Roosevelts, the Lowells. I might just pick up a little something with great provenance. We could do with some new items to get people talking.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Any fancy social events? Can you get all dressed up?”
“Well, when the deal is signed, we’re supposed to be going to Eleven Madison Park. I’m sure that will be quite fancy.”
“Sounds it. Madison anything sounds it. You will be the belle of the ball.”
It was true. Clara had luminous skin, expressive dark blue eyes, slender limbs, exquisite hands, and elegant poise.
“Ha! So kind, but I’ll just wait for the jibes about my ‘British teeth’. Gosh, I think there are two that are slightly differently sizes! Heavens!”
Clara said her goodbyes – never a fast operation – which involved taking leave of Francesca, and James Jolly too. Eventually, she was gone and I felt lonely without her chatter.
I checked Voluptas’s Facebook page.
A couple of new likes – and a new message.
Gary Hopper, secret agent, from the book awards, had found us on Facebook!
I opened the message: “I met Daisy Delaney recently, I believe she works here? Can you give her my number: 07654 222 133.”
Ah, the power of the lace.
I looked at Gary’s page.
Gary jumping from an aeroplane with a parachute. Gary in a diver’s suit. Gary in ski mode. Gary in a pin-striped suit. In a summer-weight beige suit. Gary clearly was James Bond. He was the most ostentatious secret agent on record.
26
Flow
I slept well that week, and I often dreamt of a time when I had not a worry in the world. I lay beneath a tree in a park, with sun-dappled grass to either side, dotted with daisies.
An amazing development on Thursday morning. I was in the back shop, lining drawers in a distressed antique dresser with orange-blossom scented papers, when an e-mail popped in. I dashed over to the laptop. From the great man himself! Branwell Thornton had messaged me.
I clicked on the message so many times that it took ages to open. Cursing myself, I took deep breaths and waited for all to be revealed.
From: Branwell Thornton
To: Daisy Delaney
Cc: Bea Gibson
Subject: Re: Submission 2
Dear Daisy,
Well, this is a first. I have never sent an e-mail from my annual holiday before – to an unpublished author anyway. I had to contact you to say that I LOVE the manuscript you sent over. I absolutely adore it. I think it will do very well. Can I ask you to do the following before my return:
Talk about other romantic settings, maybe log cabins, beach houses, possibly even romantic cities and venues of the world?
Think about some “scripted” anecdotal stuff. You know the sort of thing: “When Kate met Jamie, she said there was an immediate attraction, but both were unsure, until . . .” etc.
I’d like to get this out to the big publishing houses as soon as possible. I’ll try a couple of small publishers too, as our insurance policy. I was thinking of Glass & Co. and Bluebells – they did “The Hen Weekend”. Check all of them out. We need to discuss if we’d grant TV and film rights. I’ll get Bea to arrange a
meeting for when I’m back. How does that sound?
Well done, Daisy. I’m feeling really excited about this! Well, it’s time for another piña colada.
Yours,
Branwell
I got up from the little desk in the back shop and clasped my hands to my face. I paced around. Re-read the message. Forgot to breathe. Then took deep breaths. It was the most exhilarating moment of my life. Branwell Thornton loves my book!
“Francesca!”
She came running. “Is this good or bad?” she asked. “I can’t take much more of this, Daisy!”
“Read this,” I said, pointing to the screen.
Her eyes eagerly swept over the e-mail. When she looked back to me, her expression was a mix of pride and sadness. “Oh, Daisy. I’m going to miss you when you leave here.”
* * *
I was living in a permanent state of excitement and, of course, FLOW after that. This was annoying for others, according to Francesca next door. As well as busying away on the changes suggested by Branwell, I had rearranged everything in the shop several times. I’d washed the skirting boards, re-labelled all stock and set up a website for selling items to a wider audience.
At the weekend, there was a call on my mobile from Clara.
“Hey, Clara, are you still in New York?”
“Yes.” A little, quiet voice. Not like Clara at all.
“Are you okay?”
“Not exactly, Daisy.”
“What’s the matter? Can I help?”
“It’s Philip.”
“What about him?”
“His deal. It didn’t happen. They did some last-minute due diligence. Said Standings isn’t even solvent. No deal. No cash.”
“So, surely he can just run it as before? Isn’t that what he wanted, deep down?” I said.
“It’s not that simple.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“You see, this due diligence done by the Bank of New York has unearthed something even Philip didn’t know about. Someone on his team has been trading illegally . . .” Her voice faltered.
“Oh no! Oh Clara. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. It’s only money.”
“It’s really not okay, Daisy. Turns out we’re bankrupt.”
27
Prim & Proper
When Clara returned to the shop the next week, she was quite altered.
“I have said to Philip that I will make economies,” she explained.
“Such as?”
“I’m going to make my own juices! I’ve bought a NutriBullet.”
“Good. Save money, get healthy. That’s a bogof.”
“Yes. And also, I’m axing my weekly laser facial at Gunters.” Her voice caught over the word “Gunters”. It meant a lot to her, the laser facial.
“I see. Well, a lot of people swear by Nivea cream.”
She rolled her eyes. “Plus – and I hope you can help me with this – I’m going to see if this place can make a proper profit for once. We’ll introduce some contemporary lines. Some Ultimo. Some Eve’s Secret Garden.”
Eve’s Secret Garden! How unbearable it would be to see echoes of my own designs here in the shop!
“Anything but Eve’s. I don’t trust them,” I said.
“Okay, well, we need items which sell at high-end high street prices. We need to boost turnover. Generate sales, and web sales too.”
“I’m ahead of you there. I set up a little website while you were away!” I revealed.
“Did you really? Thank you, Daisy. And this place looks immaculate. I’m really going to need you. We’ll turn this around. I’ll call in favours with Annabel and all the magazine editors she knows. Although most detest her. I’m going to ask Francesca if we can take over the whole frontage again. Maybe start some bridalwear.”
It was wonderful to see Clara so fired up. The calamity had brought out the businesswoman in her, in theory at least. Time would tell if she could really up her game, but I had seldom seen her eyes so alive. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my great e-mail. No need to give her extra things to worry about. I tipped off Francesca to keep my news on the down-low too.
* * *
One morning the following week, about eleven o’clock, Clara sent me out on a banking errand.
“There’s no rush to get back,” said Clara. “I’ve got some phone calls to make. Can you just deliver this to the front desk at HSBC, please?”
“What are you up to, Mrs Standing?”
“Wheeling and dealing, all in a day’s work.”
That was the unbelievable thing, Clara was actually working full days now. I’d seen a card on her desk, detailing a Leo Packard, SME business consultant, and I knew she’d made an appointment about a bank loan at the local HSBC.
I hope she knows what she’s doing.
“Okay, I’ll drop by on Kitty while I’m out, if that’s fine with you?”
“Sure. Take your time.”
As well as being concerned about Clara’s situation, I couldn’t stop worrying about Kitty these days, knowing how unhappy she was at work, and with the way Charlie was carrying on. I pulled my white fun fur jacket about me as I went along the high street. The chill wind of winter was still in the air, even though the compacted snow had thawed and given way to some tiny signs of spring, such as clumps of sweet snowdrops and clusters of golden crocus.
I handed the letter into the bank for Clara and was just slipping into Prim & Proper when I heard someone calling my name from the pavement on the other side of the road. My heart fluttered as I turned round. It was Michel Amiel. I waved, and gestured that I was going inside. He came across and followed me in.
“Long time, we don’t see,” he said.
“Yes, how’s tricks?”
“Excuse me?”
“How’s life?”
“Good, in some ways,” he said. “Shall we have coffee?” He nodded towards a free table at the window.
“Sure, as long as it’s quick. I’m working. Technically.”
Kitty came bounding over to greet us.
“Daisy!” she said, hugging me.
“Hey, Kitty! I just don’t get to see enough of you. Had to drop by. Been a while . . .”
“Yes, breakfast was ages ago. Glad you did.”
She looked at Michel.
“Oh sorry, this is Michel Amiel. You remember, from the Shanghai party at the V&A? We just bumped into each other – yet again.”
“Hi!” she said.
“I remember you,” said Michel. “Both of you. Obsessing with Beau Bonas, yes?”
She laughed. “He’s so last month. That fracas at Heathrow. Ugly.”
“Right. I’d never do a fracas, I’m sure,” said Michel, all faux-innocence.
We laughed and chatted until there was a shout from the kitchen. It was Charlie.
“Oi, Kitty! Get back in here. There are four orders waiting.”
“Oh God! I’ll fall behind. Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll be back to take your order in a moment.
Michel rolled his eyes towards the kitchen.
“I know. He’s a beast.”
“I suppose I am too. But only when someone is as strong and nasty as I am. He’s exploiting his power. I don’t like to see that. She should leave,” advised Michel.
I agreed.
We sat down and I took off my coat, feeling rather boring this time in a black ribbed polo and black jeans. I couldn’t even remember if I was wearing make-up. I glanced at myself in the big gilt mirror. Just eyeliner, but my hair, though technically in desperate need of a wash, looked rather cool in a messy Bardot sort of way, or so I convinced myself anyway.
Kitty came to take our order. Two Americanos and two pasteis de nata.
“With cinnamon,” Michel and I said at once.
Our eyes met momentarily.
“All good at the cookery school?” I asked.
“Yes, more or less. A few teething problems,” he said, “but no lack of takers. I think we picked the rig
ht district. This place is at the aspirational end of aspirational.”
“Yes, I’d agree with that,” I replied. “Don’t know what I’m doing living here. And what about your books?”
“Bad. Auguste says my latest draft is execrable. I’m rewriting it. That’s something I’ve never done before. But listen to me, boring on about things that are of no interest to you.”
I smiled. Better not focus too much on book things or I might end up divulging about my e-mail.
He looked at me with his intense, dark eyes. “How have you been? Selling much lace?”
“Quite a lot. It always picks up for the spring bridal season. Can’t complain. Clara, who owns the shop, has ordered a lot of new stock. You should check it out,” I suggested.
“I might do that. You enjoy your work?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a good environment. I have a very nice boss. I can suit myself, really. Of course, in time, I’d like to do other stuff, but for now . . .”
There was no point in prattling on about my milkmaid plans if nothing were to come of my book.
“Your accent is not from London?”
“No, that’s right. I’m Irish.”
“So why did you come here?”
I paused.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being very nosy. Forgive me. I’m curious.”
“It’s okay. I came here for love. But it didn’t work out.”
“Ah, does it ever?”
“I hope that one day it will.”
He nodded. It was in my mind to ask about Eve Berger, but I thought better of it. However, he brought the subject up.
“I’m having a few romances problems myself right now,” he said.
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, well. Life is complicated. Sometimes it gets so bad that it’s better when it’s over.”
“Certainly.”
“I got too involved with her – included her in some publishing matters. Big mistake,” he revealed.
“Really?”
I was longing to hear all about publishing matters of any description, but restrained myself.
