by Pippa James
It was cool. “It is a bit spoiling, though?” I commented. “Not sure I’ll get on well with the grotty kitchen back at the flat after this luxury!”
“Exactly!” she said. But I felt sure she had an even more stylish kitchen at home. She just looked that way. Very Prim Hill.
Catherine gave us each a tablet with the recipe instructions on it, complete with images of methodology and choux mixture consistency, then talked us through our prep. “It’s all about speed with adding the flour once the milk, the butter and water mixture has been taken off the boil,” she said.
She clearly knew her choux, and called us all down to the front for a performance of choux making. As she got started, Catherine heard a text and excused herself, saying it might be about an important delivery which had been delayed.
More like a man-friend issue.
Jessica was telling me all about her two children, Lily and Toby, who were both asthmatic, allergic, and maybe autistic, so I didn’t notice when Michel slipped into the room. The pathetic simpering of the women was practically audible, though. I looked up to see what the fuss was about.
Oh. Him.
There he was, dishevelled, unshaven, chaotic. Deceitful.
He looks disgusting, unclean. Not even fit to work in a kitchen.
He didn’t make eye contact with any of us. I remember thinking, What a creep. It was easy to loathe him. He invited it. Everyone will be so disappointed with him because he is nothing to behold. I assessed him from where I stood, with the luxury of knowing he had not spotted me yet. About six feet tall, I guessed, with a bit of a paunch. Pepper and salt hair, thinning a little, not so you’d notice at first glance. Dark eyes, full lips, a strong nose. Quite good bones, I supposed. Very French looking, and I had never liked Frenchmen, as a rule. Not that I’d given it a lot of thought in the past.
I definitely don’t like his looks, so that’s good. Nothing to stop thinking about because there’s nothing to think about.
He took over, starting to demonstrate the making of a gateau St Honoré, with its choux base, covered in crème patissiere, decorated with caramel-coated choux buns.
I planned to retain a healthy disregard for him through the demonstration, barely looking up at first, fiddling with my tablet, zoning out his irritating voice. I glanced at the others round the island where we were gathered.
Look at these women, swooning! He’s a cretin, that’s all. It’s all part of his own hype. But his devious ways are catching up with him. Soon, he will have annoyed the Brits as much as he’s annoyed the French, then where will he go? The moon?
“You just melt the butter, very gently,” he was saying sensuously. “Then pour in the milk. Like this!”
He was somehow, infuriatingly, mesmerising as he melted that butter, poured the milk from a height, tossed eggs in the air and caught them with one hand, cracking them expertly into his branded plum-coloured bowls. It was theatre, it was magic, it was fun. I tried not to be impressed.
He gave tips as he went, in that ludicrous French accent. “Steer the butter with regard for it. We should not expect ingredients to blend together automatically, we should cajole them into harmonising, oui?”
I had managed to avoid him noticing me. Feeling that I may have succumbed to his mysterious charisma, I hoped he would leave without spotting me. Surely he would leave the rest of the lesson to Catherine now.
Please God, push off now.
We all went back to our workstations and started to get on with weighing flour and butter, cracking eggs into bowls, and setting ovens to heat. I was finding it a huge challenge, especially with him in the room. When I thought about it, I had been making the same three or four kinds of cakes week in, week out, for ages. It was nice to have to think about what I was doing.
Phew, there’s so much to consider when not on autopilot. Don’t make a mess of your profiteroles, Delaney!
My face felt a bit flushed as I referred to the tablet and found all the right implements in the drawer.
I got even more stressed because I could see that Michel was starting to wander around, making comments, making people giggle, scattering his seeds of charm carelessly.
Jessica and I were discussing how wet the mixture should be when he barged in on us. “How are you, ladies?” he boomed.
I looked up, sensing blush upon flush. He paused, staring at me. Jessica clearly wondered why he was staring. It was easier for me than him; I had prepared myself to see him, but he was obviously confused. I couldn’t think what to do, so I picked up an egg and tossed it towards him, lobbing it quite high.
He caught it, one-handed.
“Can’t catch me out, Daisy Delaney,” he said.
He threw the egg back at me.
I felt colour rising in my cheeks as everyone stopped to stare.
Please catch it. Please.
I felt as if it was all happening in slow motion. It was like rounders in the third form. I never caught the ball. The egg was dropping towards me, my hands cupping to catch it. But would they be in the right place?
My hand-to-eye coordination was not the best, by any means. I used all my concentration. I reached out for it.
It fell into my hands. I clasped them round it, but not too firmly.
Yes!
“Not bad – for a girl,” said Michel, chuckling.
Giggles around the room.
That’s what I hate about Frenchmen. So unreconstructed. So arrogant.
He came up close, checking all my ingredients, making a theatrical show of it.
Leaning in, he whispered, “Lucky I recognised you with your clothes on.”
I busied myself in the little fridge at my workstation.
“What made you join my school?” he asked.
“My boyfriend likes cakes,” I responded, using the rehearsed line.
“Come to my office after class,” he said. “It’s behind the reception area.”
He says that like a command. As though I will not be able to resist.
“I’ll think about it.”
He winked before carrying on with his tour of the room, and eventually he went away, although I was too immersed in oven temperatures to notice.
The choux buns turned out beautifully.
Catherine made an inspection.
“Very well done, Daisy!” she said.
“Thank you.”
“How did you find that?” she asked.
“Tricky, but I followed your instructions religiously.”
“That’s all we ask. We’ve done it a few times, and we’re all trained by Michel, on top of our other qualifications. No amateurs here!”
After the choux lesson, Jessica asked if I’d like to go for coffee in Prim & Proper.
“My friend works there!” I said.
“I love it there!” said Jessica. “It would be nice to chat over a pot of tea.”
I thought about Michel waiting for me in his office, fully expecting me to waltz in. I thought about the photos in the Sunday Times.
He can wait.
Once inside Prim & Proper, Jessica and I found a table.
“What do you think of the classes?” I asked.
“I’m enjoying them,” she said. “It’s nice to get out of the house.”
“Does your husband look after the children on Saturday mornings?” I asked.
“Yes. Well, taxis them around. They go to swimming class, then pottery.”
“I see. I can’t imagine how selfless you have to be, with kids,” I commented.
“It is hard. And it puts a big strain on your marriage,” she admitted.
“I can imagine! I’m not too good at relationships anyway, without the additional strain of children!” I revealed.
Jessica looked wistful. “It’s the way he doesn’t seem to think of me as a woman any more. It’s all contractual; ‘You’re supposed to do the laundry because I do the food shop.’ Deals, rows, stress,” she said.
“I guess most couples must go through that?�
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“Yes, but I really do feel that he doesn’t even fancy me any more. He used to be crazy about me. Hard to think of that now. I’m invisible.” Jessica confessed all this in that detached way when it’s sometimes easier to talk to a virtual stranger than a best friend.
I could see she was unhappy, but it seemed like she really loved him.
“Why not come round to Voluptas and buy something to surprise him?” I suggested. Adding, “And offer him some little chocolate kiss-cakes while you’re at it?”
Jessica blushed. “I’ve never worn fancy underwear before. Isn’t it just for hookers?”
“No! Some of our most faithful customers are the most lady-like. It’s fun. We should be more French about all of this,” I said.
Jessica considered this. “I’ll think about it, Daisy. But that’s enough about me. What inspired you to take the course?”
I liked Jessica a lot, and I wanted to tell her all about French Fancy. But I couldn’t. Not yet, at least.
“I bake for this shop from time to time, and I wanted to make my skills a bit more official,” I explained.
“Makes sense,” said Daisy, deep in thought. “Now, which days do you work in Voluptas?”
40
Introducing Lucy Lovecake
When the contract for French Fancy arrived, I read it ten times, in disbelief.
Contract to Publish
The content author agreement, hereinafter “The Agreement”, is entered into between Bluebells Ltd of Higgledy Piggledly Farm, Honeycomb near Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, OX11 4CX, hereinafter “The Publisher”, and Daisy Delaney of 12B Rosehip Lane, Primrose Hill, London NW3 4TX, hereinafter “The Author” represented by Branwell Thornton, hereinafter “The Agent”.
Hereinafter ‘The Author”.
My proudest moment.
* * *
I started the Lucy Lovecake blog the weekend after I signed the contract.
What’s she like, this Lucy Lovecake? Why does she have so much advice on dating and all these recipes? Has she had success in this area? What age is she? How does she know this stuff? She could sound oddly bossy if I don’t get the tone just right.
I didn’t want her to be a wiser, older lady figure because she had to speak to girls the age of Kitty and I, as well as a little younger and a bit older than us. She couldn’t be like one of those overly prim ladies who endeavours to turn “ladettes to ladies”, but at the same time she should have a feminine, genteel quality because this book was about turning away from casual sex and turning towards romance.
She had to have experience of dating – and how best to get that across? I concluded that she would be most effective as an “agony niece” figure. I also thought it would make a nice little format for a blog, that it would open with a problem “letter” and move onto her suggested solutions, and general tips on that theme.
In her blogs, she could be a little more daring than she was in the book.
Dating Dilemmas Solved by Lucy Lovecake
Dear Lucy Lovecake:
I’m fed up with drunken one-night stands. I’m looking for a proper boyfriend but it seems impossible. (Is it true that there are less men than women in big cities? My friends and I can’t find any decent men in London who want to be monogamous.) Is the way to a man’s heart really through his stomach? I’m not that interested in cooking, and I also think it sounds a bit old-fashioned. But I have to admit, all the men I’ve met are keen for me to make a meal or bake for them. How would I start? Also, how do I get a man I like to notice me in the first place?
Angelica, 24, London area
Dear Angelica:
I think it might be true that there are more girls looking for men than vice versa here in London. Same in New York. Nobody knows why for sure.
First off, you should only cook for them if they cook for you, or if you are happy to cook as a pleasure and it makes sense in the context of the rest of your relationship. One person shouldn’t be doing all the work. If you do it under duress, you will soon tire of his demands. Both men and women like to be cooked for because the effort makes us feel loved, appreciated and cared for.
The fuss you make of a man in terms of cakes and dinners will only be effective if you are both enjoying the whole relationship. It’s also a problem to do things in the early period which you don’t want to do throughout the whole relationship. Generally speaking, girls make too much effort too soon, and men build up to effort as they fall more in love. It’s worth holding out for a cool customer to warm up!
As for the sorts of treats and meals you might make at first, cake is always a good one, and the recipe for my First Date Chocolate Cake is at the bottom if this. If you are going to do a full meal, then ask about any allergies or dislikes to avoid disasters, practise your menu first and stick to something simple, like pasta with a sauce. Go for rigatoni or penne rather than spaghetti – long pasta can get messy, unless that’s what you want!
Cake works every time, if served at the right moment. That golden or chocolatey mound of scrumptiousness sitting wantonly on your table, whether decorated ornately or naked save for a dusting of icing sugar on top and a smear of jam in the middle, will always tempt.
All of this is sensuous pleasure. This is not about bagging a man in the desperate style of a Jane Austen heroine who has no private income. But in the ways of romance, in terms of our array of love weapons, then food, cakes, deliciousness have their part to play.
We have developed an interesting relationship with food due to all the telly food shows we watch. Sometimes we prefer to watch rather than do. We can run to M&S and find a cracking cake, so why bake one?
In all matters of food, the effort is a sign of affection, that is why. Cake is love – for our children, our wider families, our lovers. Preparing food, serving food beautifully, communicating over food, these are the practical ways that we can show we care.
Good luck, Angelica. Let us know how you get on!
Best wishes,
Lucy Lovecake
I pressed “send” to Dominic and waited for his response.
41
Rose
I almost skipped to work on the Monday, my head full of thoughts for Lucy Lovecake’s Q&As. Just a few short months before, I had to trudge to work every day. I smiled to myself as I thought of the fun I was having now – and there was so much more to come.
“What’s that naughty smile for?” said a voice I knew well.
Michel must have been skulking, waiting for me to pass. But, trying to act casual, he popped out from a doorway just before the turning for Voluptas.
I wasn’t expecting to see him, or anyone, and the way he spoke, as if from nowhere, freaked me out. I screamed.
“I’m sorry!” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I exhaled. “You must have had a fair idea you might.” I sounded a bit fierce. “Why did you do that?”
He looked conciliatory, as if regretting his tactics. “Forgive me. I wanted to speak to you – without you running away. You never stay to talk after your baking class.”
“Because I don’t want to talk.”
“I need to tell you something,” said Michel.
“What about?”
“About Eve,” he explained.
“What about her?”
“You probably saw us pictured together?”
“Maybe.”
“I thought so. I’m sorry about that. It was contractual, so to speak. She couldn’t go to her premiere alone or everyone would start asking if we’d split, rather than talking about the film. I’d become the story, not her. It’s not allowed. Her lawyers laid down the terms to my lawyers. I’m sorry. That’s the world I live in. We were only together for twenty minutes that night. That’s the last time I saw her.”
I considered this and it seemed plausible enough, but it wasn’t really necessary for him to explain this to me. “It’s not as if we are dating. You have no need to justify the photog
raph,” I said.
“But it might have surprised you. I am sorry,” he apologised.
“I suppose it’s not true to say that photographs never lie.”
“Exactly,” he concluded.
“Well, thanks for clearing that up! I have to go to work now, I’m afraid,” I said.
“Meet me at coffee time? Please? I will wait in my car, just over there. At eleven, okay? Please?” he pleaded.
This was all new. Michel Amiel begging to see me.
I hesitated.
“I don’t bite,” he said.
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Please?”
“Okay. But I won’t have very much time,” I said.
“That’s okay. See you then.” He smiled broadly.
Very effective, ignoring him. Bear that in mind for the Lucy Lovecake blog.
As I pottered around the shop, music playing, somehow floating on gossamer wings, I heard the ping of an e-mail.
I rushed to check it. From Dominic! A response to the first Lucy Lovecake!
From: Dominic McGann
To: Daisy Delaney
Subject: Lucy Lovecake
Dear Daisy,
I read the blog this morning and absolutely LOVED it. You’ve nailed it, no question! Could you do twelve of these, with an overarching story arc, which we will release weekly before launch? Also, I am in the process of having some illustrations done to accompany the blog, so will send over as soon as! How are things with you?
From: Daisy Delaney
To: Dominic McGann
Re: Lucy Lovecake
Dear Dominic
Delighted to hear you like Lucy Lovecake, and of course I can do twelve . . . better for consistency if I just get on with them in one snap, I’m sure. How is Minty? She’s a very beautiful child.
Really looking forward to viewing the illustrations you mentioned!
Best wishes
Daisy
A few minutes later, another message from Dominic:
Daisy, I’ve been thinking, and I hope you don’t find this odd, but would you like to come to the village Starlight dance next week? It’s going to be in the barn here. Obviously we can’t mention your book (Mysterious Lucy Lovecake), but it would be very nice to have your company there. Well, no problem if you can’t manage, it’s on Saturday next. Minty and I could collect you at the train station. Tilly’s babysitting. So long. D.
