by Pippa James
“Daisy Delaney. Welcome to Brasserie Rose!” he cried.
He hadn’t messaged to say he was back in town, though it had been a week or more since his last e-mail, and I had not replied, when I thought about it.
Minty went back into her own chair and I stood up to embrace him. He looked confused by my company.
“Dominic and his daughter came to meet me from cookery school today,” I said. “Minty has been longing to try proper French fries.”
“I hope they don’t disappoint,” he said, turning to Minty. “Nice colouring in!”
“Good to see you, Michel,” said Dominic, shaking his hand. “You’ve had a rough ride, mate.”
“Yes, but I’m back,” replied Michel.
“Great news,” I said. “It’s nice to see you back in Prim Hill!”
“I was going to come round to see you later. I just got back last night,” he explained.
“Is your mother back too?” I asked.
“Of course. No show without Judy.”
“Ha! Everything okay?”
“Yes. I managed to sell my apartment, so that has helped in a lot of ways.”
I gasped. “You sold your apartment!” He’d said he might in an e-mail, but to have done it – already. I was shocked.
“Don’t sound so surprised. You told me to sell it!” said Michel.
“It was a suggestion! Did you buy somewhere else?”
“Yes, close by, quite a bit smaller. I think I prefer it, actually. I will use all of it, all of the rooms.”
At that, the food arrived, looking wonderful, and Michel excused himself as we feasted on mouth-watering sirloin steaks, crispy little fries, delicious cheese omelette and a simple salad smothered in dressing. Not content with demolishing that, we ordered chocolate mousse and coffees.
As we rose to leave, Dominic put his arm around me. “Thanks for joining us,” he said.
“I’ve had a lovely time!” I told him and, without thinking, looked up to him, kissing him on the lips.
It was then that I realised Michel was standing watching us from behind the bar.
55
French Fancy!
Dominic and I exchanged lots of messages over the next weeks – little ideas, jokes – and then one day in early autumn, an attachment arrived by e-mail entitled SURPRISE! I couldn’t wait to open it.
My heartbeat quickened. It was the fully designed layout of French Fancy.
I opened the document nervously.
My heart almost stopped when I saw the front jacket. It was sublime. A gorgeous girl in a pretty bustier brandishing a luscious assortment of French fancies with slightly imperfect icing. It read, French Fancy: Dating Tips from Lucy Lovecake.
The inner pages were all decorated with lovely little line drawings, some coloured and others in black and white, all done with exquisite attention to detail. The recipes were presented clearly, the images of the cakes quite scrumptious, as were the pictures of the girl in lacy little teddies and cute camisoles. It was sweetly sexy, not sleazy at all. Every so often a “top tip” appeared in a heart-shaped bubble. The whole effect was delectable.
I called Dominic straight away.
“Well?” he said.
“Perfect. I adore it!” I exclaimed.
“Take your time to read it through. You have a few days before it goes to print. This is the last chance to make any changes. This is it, Lucy Lovecake!”
“Okay. Once I’ve come back down to earth, I will study it hard and get back to you. But I wanted to say thank you. I’m delighted.”
* * *
Not long after Michel arrived back from Paris, Clara sent a text on one of the days I didn’t work in Voluptas: Michel just came here looking for you! I said you don’t work so many days now. He asked if you had another job. I said no. He looked quizzical. I changed the subject. He might come over to the flat . . . best get your story together, sweetie. CXX
I jumped into the shower.
What will I say if he shows up? That I’m part-time as I’m taking an Open University course? But what course? That I’m burnt out? How so, on a little job in a bra shop – I’d sound so flaky! Exhausted selling three bras a week?
I resolved to see what passed my lips if he turned up. Never a great strategy, I’ve found.
As I was blow-drying my hair, I heard the doorbell ring.
Damn, no make-up, but at least I’m dressed this time.
It was Michel.
“Come in!” I said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I forgot how nice this place is,” he said. “Remember to protect all teapots and other china objects too!”
“Will do. It was a lovely surprise to see you in the restaurant the other day,” I said.
“I got a surprise too. Do you get together often with Dominic?”
I was about to say, “only on book matters,” but I stopped myself. It was getting so awkward, this whole Lucy Lovecake thing, the secrecy of it all.
Maybe I should just tell Michel everything about the book. What harm would it do? It’s going to be so hard when he finds out that I’ve kept all these secrets from him.
“I see him occasionally. He’s a very good friend,” I said.
“I can see that,” retorted Michel, his tone loaded with disapproval.
“His daughter is adorable. It was very sad about his wife.”
“Tragic. Makes you think . . . At least money worries are not terminal,” said Michel.
“Exactly,” I said.
“So, you’re not working so much these days?” he asked.
“Erm, no. That’s right.”
“Ah. Well, lucky you!”
Just leave it. Don’t tell any more lies. Drop it.
But of course, I had to dig myself in deeper, with the Open University option playing on my mind.
“I’m studying,” I ventured.
“Are you? That’s great. What’s the course?”
Oh dear goodness, what are you doing, Delaney?
“Oh, it’s a MOOC, a massive open online course, in. . . ..”
I saw that an e-mail had popped in from Horse Rugs 4 You – and for that reason, I said, “Equine Studies.”
He looked shocked. “My goodness. You are full of surprises.”
“I’m a little bundle of them”.
Surprise myself half the time, too.
I made a pot of tea and toasted some fruit bread, spreading it with butter Mum had sent from the farm.
We sat at the table.
“I can talk to you with complete honesty, Daisy,” he said.
I felt awful. I wish I could do the same back. I want to, I really do.
“I don’t think we ever tell anyone the whole truth,” I said, turning amateur philosopher. “But all that matters is that we’re honest in spirit.”
Such shit. You’re drawing attention to your deceit now, Daisy, you muppet.
“What are you getting up to, now that you’re back?” I asked.
“I wish I could write a new book, but I’ve just lost the discipline of all that,” he said.
“Perhaps you need to come at it from a new angle? Write it differently from before? Maybe as a diary?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t bore you with this – writing a book is the sort of thing you can’t explain until you’ve done it for yourself.”
“A bit like childbirth,” I suggested.
“Have you done that?”
“No,” I said. At last, an honest answer.
He looked around the room, seeing a copy of Empire magazine on the table.
“Would you like to come to a movie with me?” said Michel.
“Sure, I’d love to,” I replied. “What? Right now?”
“Yes, right now!” he said, checking on his phone to see what was showing.
I tidied up the dishes and applied some lipstick at the mirror in the hallway.
You are going to regret keeping secrets.
56
The Text
When I was ready, he turned to me and said, “I rather hoped you were going to say you were expanding on your lingerie side of things, but, ah well, I guess you’ve had enough of all that.”
“Yes, I suppose I have, really. What film shall we see?” I said, swiftly changing the subject.
“There’s a new one. It’s playing at that cute little private cinema near the station. It’s called Parabolas. A thriller.”
“Can’t wait, let’s go.”
We walked arm in arm, with Michel telling me terrible jokes all the way. They were not cruel jokes or bad taste jokes – they were just very silly. At the counter, he bought two tickets and a packet of strawberry bonbons.
Once seated, we were reminded to switch off our phones.
I reached into my bag and went to turn it off. There was a text in – from Dominic.
I opened it quickly, and noticed Michel looking over at my screen.
“It’s nothing important,” I said.
The message read:
“Daisy, this is the best fun I’ve ever had, been thinking about lingerie all day today!”
“Nothing important, oui,” he said rather tetchily. So tetchily that I was convinced he saw that it was from Dominic and that he read it, and that my assertion that I’d had enough of lingerie and replaced it with horse matters didn’t quite ring true.
A few months ago, lying to Michel Amiel would have been simple. He had no right to know my business. But I know him now and he trusts me, and I am betraying that trust. I have to tell him.
Next time, I’ll tell him about Lucy Lovecake. Absolutely.
* * *
An intriguing box was delivered to 12B Rosehip Lane some weeks later. A pale blue box, a bit larger than a shoebox, bound with matching satin ribbon, delivered by courier, addressed to me.
A pretty box for me! What can it be?
“I wonder what this is,” I said as I carried it to the table. It was late October, and Kitty and I were in lazy mode after some manic last-minute recipe changes to the book. Cookery classes had ended and the blogs were written up to the following June. Kitty now had some modelling jobs and worked part-time as a nanny to the family who lived above us, which fitted in perfectly.
“I can’t wait to see what that is!” said Kitty. “Please open it! Quick!”
I took off the ribbon and removed the lid.
My heart soared.
“Ah! Copies of the finished book!” I exclaimed.
It was such a satisfying moment I almost collapsed with relief.
I fell back onto the sofa, excited, overcome, almost too afraid to open a book, handle it, see the finished entity after all those months of redrafting, inventing, and creating. And all the years of hoping before that.
What if there is some major, glaring flaw that we have not noticed?
Kitty, bolder than I, looked through one – there were about ten in the box, with a card from Dominic.
“Well?” I said, forgetting to breathe.
“Perfect, no problems at all that I can see. Looks just lovely!”
Gingerly, I took a book and sat with it on the sofa, flicking through the pages. I became immersed in it.
After looking right through, I burst into tears.
“I could not be happier with it!” I sobbed.
Kitty started as well. “I know. You did it!”
“We did it!”
57
Publication Day
French Fancy was published on the first day of November. By coincidence, Michel had invited me to afternoon tea at The Wolseley. I didn’t care that I wouldn’t be able to boast about my book. I was happy that it had reached the shops – and happy to be seeing Michel as well.
That morning, Dominic sent a bunch of pale pink cabbage roses, mingled with mint and lavender.
Daisy, Daisy! You are lovely to work with, hope there are many more projects to come! Dominic. X
I called him.
“Hi, Dominic. Thank you for the flowers. Thank you for everything!”
“Daisy, this is just the start. You have to keep blogging, and we’ll decide when the unveiling of Lucy Lovecake is appropriate! That’s our trump card – trust me. Once you’re out there, your life will change forever.”
“I just hope someone somewhere buys it!” I said, feeling the enormity of it now being in bookshops. The hypothetical stage was over.
“Pre-sales on Amazon were up to eight thousand the other day – don’t worry. Signs are good.”
Eight thousand? I struggled to take this in.
“Really? Are you sure? Wow, I had no idea. Eight thousand people want to read my words?”
“Yes. And there will be many more. With the social media sites promoting the book at a special price, sales are guaranteed. But we must never take our eyes off it. Strategy all the way. That’s what I did with The Hen Weekend.”
“Just keep telling me what to do, and I’ll keep doing it!” I promised.
“What plans do you have for today?” Dominic asked.
For some reason, I didn’t like to mention that I was spending my launch day with Michel Amiel.
Dominic will give me a lecture about discretion if I tell him my real plans.
“Kitty and I are just going to hang out,” I told Dominic. More lies. “We might go out for tea.”
“Sounds nice. Wish I lived a bit closer.”
“Yes, it would be nice to see you again soon!” I replied.
“We must make sure that happens. I’ll monitor sales for a couple of weeks and decide if we need a Christmas push or not.” He sounded like he knew what he was doing, which filled me with confidence.
“What would a push consist of?” I asked.
“Wait and see. We have ways and means of pushing.”
58
Dates & Deceits
Over the next couple of weeks, Michel and I went on a few dates, and I don’t know if it was because I was feeling elated about my book or he was more relaxed about his business affairs, but we had the most delicious times. We went to the little Curzon cinema again, and he put his arm around me as we watched a 1970 French film, Le Genou de Claire.
“I like your knees,” he whispered.
“Oh. Just my knees?”
“And your thighs.”
“You have not seen my thighs!” I said.
“I believe I have . . .”
“Oh yes. THAT day.” I blushed.
“That marvellous day, when I became enchanted by you.”
An old lady behind us tssked, so we giggled and stopped whispering.
On another occasion, we walked through the park in a snow flurry, and he insisted on taking off his overcoat and wrapping me up in it. He blew a snowflake off my hair. I couldn’t bear to wash my sweater after that walk. His scent was on it, and there was something about that which drove me a little bit wild.
The closer we became, the more he confided in me.
“I have never told anyone half of these things,” he said over dinner one evening in a little bistro in Knightsbridge, after revealing all about his first love. “Whereas you remain mysterious. Tell me about you. Your family. Your hopes and dreams, love affairs. I want to know everything.”
“I don’t like talking about myself,” I said, feeling convulsed by guilt, fiddling with my mobile phone, which lay on the table.
I should just tell him. He will get over it. How can we develop this friendship if I don’t tell him about Lucy Lovecake? I am going to ruin everything.
“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you,” I said.
“That sounds ominous. Something bad?” he said, sounding alarmed.
“No, just something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, and I’ve been putting it off.”
“Well, fire away!”
I swallowed hard.
A text pinged into my phone at that moment, flashing the name “Dominic”.
We both looked at the phone.
“You don’t have to tell m
e your secret,” he said. “He is your secret, isn’t he?”
In a way, that was the truth. “Yes, I’m sorry. We are close,” I said, by way of explaining the text and wriggling out of my ill-judged near-confession.
That word: Dominic. I could hear him telling me I must not tell Michel about Lucy Lovecake. That Michel would hate me if my books sold well. That he might sabotage my sales somehow. And there was also some kind of loyalty to Dominic.
It’s not that he saved my life, because there were other publishers that wanted the book. It’s something else. But what? I’m not in love with Dominic McGann. But there is something. We work so well together. He is reliable and sincere.
Michel looked hurt. “Why have you been going out with me these past weeks if you are in a relationship with Dominic? I saw you in the Brasserie with him, and of course I saw that he loves you . . .”
“No, it’s not like that. We get on well, we have some shared interests, that’s all. But I need you to know that he is a big part of my life.” I fudged around the truth.
This wasn’t turning out well.
“So, what are you saying?” asked Michel. “You don’t want to see me again? I don’t go out with the girls of other men. That is not my style. It is your choice – be honest with us both.”
Oh no! Why does he go on about honesty? I am a deceiver in every department.
“If I am being as honest as I can be, I don’t want a boyfriend right now, but I enjoy the company of both of you,” I said. That was somewhere near the truth.
“Well, if you are not deceiving either of us, what harm are you doing?” said Michel.
Oh, please stop it.
“None, I suppose.”
59
The Deceit Deepens
I thought it would be rude to read the text after that, though I was dying to see if it was concerning some news about sales, or the “push for Christmas” that Dominic was always talking about, somewhat mysteriously.
When I went to the Ladies, I checked.
Daisy, first fortnight sales are great, topping 15,000 units. That’s great. I spoke to Branwell earlier today, and we agreed that we should turn up the heat a bit for Christmas. Could you call me asap as I have an idea I want to run by you? Thanks, Dx.
