by Pippa James
“You’d be surprised. Anything that sells well in the cookery realm bugs the life out of him.”
I had seen this at the awards. Even Branwell had said as much. But my book was never going to get on Michel’s radar.
“Maybe you’re right. But while he is Tolstoy, I’m more Mills & Boon. Let’s not talk about him any more!”
“Agreed.”
“So, about the latest Lucy Lovecake. You think it’s okay to extend the blog away from baking? Towards all meals and occasions, feasts and festivals?” I queried.
“Gradually. We need to consider seasonality as we’re plotting these out through a whole year. And, of course, we can bring out other books on separate themes in due course,” said Dominic.
“More books? Cool. But we must get this one successfully launched first.”
“Sure. That’s all in the planning. When do you think you’ll have the final copy to us?”
“Quite soon,” I explained. “I’m just fiddling around with some recipes for picnics, then I think I’ll be done.”
“Great. Once the text is edited, we’ll show you the page layouts with the line drawings. It’s going to be very pretty.”
“I can’t wait. I suppose I’m a little bit sad that when the book first hits the shops, I can’t tell anyone that I wrote it,” I admitted.
“Sure, that’s really tough. But once we have ‘outed’ you – Daisy Deleany – as Lucy Lovecake, you will be in demand for interviews, literary festivals and parties galore. I do think the mystery is a clever marketing trick. We should stick with it. And it will give you some anonymity while we bed the book into the market. A more gentle route to stardom!”
Part of me wanted to suggest that my name went on the books from the start. I was getting so excited that it was nearly unbearable to keep it a secret. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Please can we reconsider this?” But then I thought better of it.
“You’re right. It’s just that, you know, a girl wants to bring out a book, then she can’t talk about it! It’s hard.”
“Yes. Am I right in saying that you came up with the Lucy Lovecake sobriquet, though?” Dominic sounded just a tiny bit flinty.
“I did. I know, I know. I’m not being rational. It happens at times.”
“I understand. But you will be able to promote this glorious book soon enough. I promise! I could book you in for some book festivals for next spring into summer as Lucy Lovecake, but if you are known as the author by then, that’s fine, that’s great. You can go to Hay-on-Wye as Daisy Delaney. I just want to make sure we have the slots – these book festivals fill up their schedules so damn quickly.”
“Okay, I trust you. You know what you’re doing.”
“Kind of, yeah. From the band days and also from The Hen Weekend.”
I knew that Dominic was right in all he said. I hoped that Branwell would agree. I was due to update him soon.
“Thanks for everything, Dominic. I mean it.”
48
The Walk
When I got off the phone, Kitty still wasn’t back from work. I ran a bath, pinned up my hair and soaked for an hour, thinking mostly about Michel.
Where is this concern springing from? He is nothing to you. An acquaintance. A rogue. A pain in the neck.
When I got out of the bath, I dried myself in a fluffy towel, rubbed rose body cream over my skin and applied some light make-up: a smidge of blusher, a slick of eyeliner, a smear of lip gloss. Back in my bedroom, I pulled on some black jeans and a T-shirt. Next, a champagne-coloured denim jacket (Kitty’s) and a big sage-green scarf, tied close to my neck. A pair of beloved leather boots. Ready.
I took my key from the hook and let myself out into the evening darkness. It had been raining, the glistening streets of Primrose Hill somehow magical with reflected light.
There were so many pretty shops on the high street – that was why I’d fallen for this area after the crisis with Tom. I’d moved out of our flat in Pimlico in such a rush. Primrose Lane was the first place I’d looked at. Pippa had really sold it to me – especially the part that she was hardly there! – and Kitty had seemed so sweet when I was looking around. But the shops were as though from Camberwick Green. There was Unwins, the Purveyors of Finest Tea. Kent’s Independent Book Shop. Lily’s Flower Parlour. J&T Lennox, Antique Jewellery. Graham & Green’s Home Accessories. Gorgeous Gallery 196 – I loved that place. Of course, Kitty’s dainty café, Prim & Proper, caught the eye – still open!
As I approached, I could see her. Lovely Kitty, still smiling, serving sandwiches and cakes on a three-tiered stand to a mixed crowd of men and women.
Poor Kitty.
I skirted past, partly not wishing to disturb her, partly intent on my mission. Soon, I was passing the cookery school. All was dark in there, locked up for the night.
What will you do if the school closes down? If Michel never comes back to Primrose Hill? If he languishes for years in a Paris prison?
I shuddered, horrified at the thought of him in anguish.
I turned onto Gloucester Avenue, picking up speed.
I just hope this works out. Is it too late?
Nearly there. Please be in. I took a left onto Elsworthy Road.
Yes! Light at one window!
I’d only entered the house from the back before, but I was pretty sure I was at the right door. I rang the bell.
Nothing happened.
I tried again. I stood under the canopy. It was possible that the lights were on a timer. I looked up to the lit window.
Did the curtain just twitch?
I waited a while longer.
I thought I heard a television.
One more ring.
I turned to leave, down the steps, back onto the shiny pavement.
But I heard the door opening and looked up at it.
“Daisy! Come in!”
Rose Amiel waved me through.
She took me into the kitchen. Poor Madame Amiel. She looked deathly.
“You heard?” she asked.
“I did. I’m so sorry to hear about this. Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes, once. He is very broken down. Back in the apartment now. My heart is aching,” she said.
“What can we do to help him?” I asked.
“I’d like to go to Paris, but I am afraid to travel alone. I’ve never done the trip without Michel,” she explained.
“I will come with you!” I said. “Do you know where your passport is?”
“Of course. It is in my jewellery box. Would you really come with me, Daisy?” Her eyes sparkled with hope.
“Yes, of course. Let me organise some flights,” I suggested.
“I will give you my credit card. Really, it is too kind of you.”
We sat at Michel’s computer and booked flights to Paris for the next morning.
49
A Brief Trip to Paris
We touched down in Charles de Gaulle late on the Sunday morning. Rose quivered with nerves.
“Do you think he’ll still be under arrest? I could not bear it!”
Poor lady!
“I doubt it. He’s back home already, you said. Let’s find out what’s happening when we get there. Try not to worry.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It is too kind of you to travel with me. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. I hope someone would do the same for my mother.” I was going to add, if I were deported, but thought better of it.
It was unthinkable that she should travel alone to Paris. We got in a cab outside the airport. Rose spoke to the driver in French, giving the details of Michel’s apartment.
She turned to me. “Pah! Eve Berger! I told him she was no good,” she said as we were whisked through the suburbs of Paris on the way to the cool sixth arrondissement.
I said nothing.
“Do you know that no one had heard of her before she met Michel?”
“I did not know that.”
“It’s true. He took
her to meet all the film directors who come into his restaurants. He funded her very first film, a short, about a girl puppet, I think it was based on Coppelia. Went down well at Cannes. That’s how she got started! He looked after her, bought her things, spoke up for her in the press. And now she does this to him!”
“People are surprising,” I said.
“They are disappointing. Spiteful. Greedy. And of course, Michel, he does not see it coming. I do. But what can I say? What can a mother do but stand in the wings and watch the performance, with tears in her eyes.”
Although Madame Amiel often veered towards the melo-dramatic, there seemed to be a smack of truth in her words. I paused. I wanted to ask if it was true that Eve had written his last cookbook.
“You poor thing,” I said instead. “This will all pass over, try not to fret.”
“Can you stay with us for a few days?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. I must get back to London this evening. But I can come back another time if you need me.”
“Ah! You are so sweet. Once we find out what’s happening with Michel, I will decide whether to return to London with you or stay here.”
The cab drew up at Michel’s apartment block on the Place des L’Etoiles. It looked like a palatial stately home. There were a lot of police around – not because of Michel, but because the French president had a residence nearby, according to Madame! Michel had positioned himself in the very heart of elite Parisian society, for sure.
Madame Amiel paid the driver, while I jumped out and grabbed both cases from the boot. The doorman of the block immediately recognised Madame and approached us warmly.
“Madame Amiel! It’s wonderful to see you back!”
“Bonjour, Christophe!” she said. “This is my friend, Daisy Delaney.”
“Bonjour, Madamemoiselle. Comment-allez vous?”
“Ca va bien, merci.”
Christophe helped us with our cases. Inside, we went towards the lift and, with the press of a button, launched towards the fourth floor.
Out on the landing, daylight flooded in from an overhead cupola, and fancy paintings hung on the aqua walls.
Rose marched towards their apartment, preparing herself for the reunion.
“Did you tell him I’m with you?” I asked.
“No, of course not. Let’s surprise him.”
Oh great, this could go either way.
I couldn’t quite work out how I’d ended up in the middle of affluent Paris inside the apartment of one of France’s most famous sons, who was in massive trouble with the authorities, who I found deeply offensive, who I definitely didn’t even fancy. All because I steamed open an invitation at New Year.
The door was opened by a cool butler guy, very handsome, relaxed. This was Paul.
How ridiculous – a butler?
Paul took our cases and we went inside. I found myself in a vast hallway, with a great Versailles mirror, slightly tarnished, forming the centrepiece of many antique pieces and paintings. This foyer was larger than our entire flat at Rosehip Lane.
“Michel! I’m here!” called his mother.
No reply.
Paul came back from wherever he’d put the cases.
“He’s miserable. Won’t say a word,” said Paul. (I gathered this from my basic French.)
Oh no. I suddenly felt this was a very private, painful situation, and that it was going to be a terrible shock that his mother had brought some girl from a little backstreet shop in Primrose Hill to visit.
What if he pretends he doesn’t know me? He’s capable of anything.
I followed Madame towards a vast drawing room ahead, but while she lunged in there to embrace her son, I hung back, waiting to see how she was going to handle things.
“Maman!” he said, and I could hear sobs from both.
May the ground eat me up.
I thought about leaving. I looked at Paul, who seemed to be silently asking, in a nice way, who are you?
“I’m a friend from London,” I said. “I’ve only come to make sure Madame Amiel got here safely. This is very embarrassing. I feel I should go now . . .”
But then I heard Madame, in French. “I’ve brought someone with me, someone to see you!”
She came to the door and pulled me into the stately room, verging on palatial in its grandeur. I entered shyly.
“Hi!” I said.
Michel sat on a velvet sofa, but stood up as soon as he saw me.
“Daisy Delaney!” he said, lips curving into a smile.
“I came to make sure your mother got here okay,” I explained. “I’ll be leaving very soon. Sorry to intrude.”
“Don’t leave!” he pleaded. “Come in, sit down. It was so kind of you to bring my mother! Have you heard what happened?”
“Not exactly, just gossip,” I said.
I remained standing.
“Sit, please.” He turned to Paul “Could you bring some coffee, sandwiches or cake, please?”
“Yes, sure. Give me a few minutes,” said Paul. He disappeared shortly after.
“I want to tell you exactly what’s happened,” said Michel, focusing back to me.
“Really, it’s not my business, Michel. I went to visit your mother, and she asked if I’d come on the flight with her. That’s it.”
He insisted on telling me the whole story of how Eve had indeed helped with his last book, under his direction when he couldn’t make deadlines, and she’d said it was in exchange for his help with her career. But when they’d split acrimoniously, which was, by his account, his decision, Eve had revised the writing agreement and sought legal intervention to claim her share of royalty earnings.
“It’s clearly a very tricky situation, and I don’t want to interfere. I guess love and business should never be mixed or whatever,” I commented.
Paul brought some delicious club sandwiches and a pot of coffee, as well as a mound of madeleines on a fluted plate. I tried to change the topic as we ate our way through the whole lot, chattering on about how great the cookery classes were at Michel’s school. Anything to make him feel less abject.
“Everything he does is splendid,” said Madame, “but then he goes too far and messes it up. Been like that since he was a schoolboy. And how do you think it makes an old mother feel, to watch it happen time after time? Eh? And to wonder how he’ll cope when I’m no longer here.”
“Oh, Mother!” he said.
“Are you going to stay on here for a while, Rose?” I asked. “Make sure he eats and washes and stays off the booze?”
“Yes, I think I had better do that. Don’t you, Daisy?”
“Yes, definitely. I’ll go back later tonight. I’ll look at Air France now and check in on the evening flight. Do you think Paul would arrange for a cab to get me from here?”
“Sure,” said Michel. “We have an account.”
“Do you two mind if I go off to bed for a lie down now?” said Madame. “I’ve hardly slept all weekend.”
“You must sleep!” I said. “Of course.”
Once she had left, Michel and I went out onto a leafy balcony off the dining room. Paris spanned spectacularly from this viewpoint. I felt aware of the gulf between Michel’s physical world and his emotional one. His life looked so pretty, but it was a horrible mess.
“Would you walk with me?” he asked then.
“Yes, of course.”
“Bring a jacket, don’t get cold.”
We walked side by side, along the river, not touching, passing the National Opera House. I felt as if my feet were not quite touching the ground.
“I suppose my life could recover from all this,” he said, as if this thought had just dawned on him.
“Of course it could! It will. Definitely.”
“When I’m hung over, I see no point in fixing things, then I have another bottle to make the pain go away,” he explained.
“Well, you shouldn’t. That’s ridiculous. Actually, pathetic.”
“Who are you? Head of sc
hool?” He smiled.
“Maybe. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s just a pity, that’s all. To see your hard-earned success being squandered now.”
“So, what do you think I should do? How can I sort out my finances?”
I hesitated. “Well, what’s it to do with me?”
“I’m asking for your advice,” he said.
“Well, do you think you ought to pay Eve the money she’s asking for?” I asked bluntly.
He walked on, silently.
I said nothing.
Finally, he spoke.
“I do.”
“And is it a lot of money?”
“Three million euros.”
Inwardly I gasped, but outwardly I tried to maintain a cool composure. “I see.”
“It’s a lot,” he admitted. “I’ve got it, but it would leave me very short of working cash, you know?”
“Sell your apartment then.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, and I felt very impertinent. But it was ludicrously large for the two of them, and more of a museum than a home. A bit like the Givenchy House, overly grand and opulent. A bit obscene.
He looked slightly stunned by the notion. “But that’s my home,” he said.
“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Do forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I had not thought of it before. Sounds crazy, but it has never occurred to me. Maybe I should get a smaller place. Do it differently. De-clutter?”
“I don’t know, that might be helpful. Oh, look at the Louvre. It’s so magnificent!”
We walked across Pont de l’Archeveche and paused in the middle, watching the play of light on the water below.
“Daisy?”
“Yes?”
“You relax me, and you excite me. How do you do that at once?” he asked.
“I’m an enchantress.”
He looked at me searchingly.
I was unnerved. I almost leant into him, but instead set off again. We carried on walking, saying nothing.
When we returned to the apartment, I asked him when he’d be back in London.
“I’m not allowed to leave Paris until this lawsuit is resolved – a type of house arrest, if you like. I can go around Paris, but I have to let them know if I intend to go further.”
