by Pippa James
“Lucy Lovecake?” He chuckled dryly. “Probably someone who is embarrassed to be associated with it. Maybe even a committee of people in a publishing house. What a joke.”
I feigned disinterest, heading over to the cookery section.
Inside, my mind was buzzing. In fact, I thought I might collapse due to the colliding thoughts going through my head. There were thoughts along the lines of: So, Dominic was dead right. It does bug Michel when rival books come out, no matter how different and how trivial. There were other thoughts: I should feel so proud. This is a wonderful moment – my books are prominent in Harrods. I’d like to call Dominic, and Kitty and Mum and Dad. And yet more thoughts. Just tell him you wrote it, because you are getting deeper into this deceit, Daisy. There will be no way back.
Michel followed me to the cookbooks. We struggled to find his books, but eventually located two from the Classic Cuisine collection.
“Look at the state of these!” he hissed. “Dusty old things been here since dinosaur gangs controlled Knightsbridge!”
“Ask your manager to speak to someone about this. You should be on a Christmas promotion!” I said.
“You are so right. This is disgraceful. No wonder I have problems,” he complained.
I didn’t like to say that since his dramatic departure from Britain by police escort a few months before, he was perhaps not the man of the moment any longer.
“Michel, I wish you’d let me set you up on Twitter. You’d enjoy it. I’m sure you’d get millions of followers overnight. And you could reconnect with your readership that way? Very directly.”
He seemed to be considering this.
“I’ll think about it,” he said eventually. “Now, let’s get lunch.”
64
The Guessing Game
The Elle magazine piece was one of those breakthrough features. Other publications noticed it and began to ask: so, who is this Lucy Lovecake? There were spin-off articles in the Daily Mail, The Telegraph, The Sun, The Guardian, The Evening Standard, and The Times.
Dominic called. “This is really working, Daisy, we’re being bombarded with questions about the identity of Lucy Lovecake. Just say when you want me to spill and I will. Any time now. We have really got them guessing.”
“Wow, I didn’t think it would be this fast. It’s amazing. I even saw the book on promotion in Harrods the other day,” I told him.
“Great! What took you up to Harrods?”
“Christmas shopping,” I said.
“What are you doing for Christmas, Daisy?” he asked.
“Not sure yet. Mum and Dad are going to my brother’s in New York. I might fly over there. How about you?”
“Nothing much planned. Just Minty and I, and the dogs and hens, round the tree.”
“That sounds very nice,” I said wistfully.
“If you decided against going to New York, you know you’d be very welcome here,” he said.
“That’s very kind. Thank you. I’ll get back to you on that shortly.”
“Great, so what do you say about revealing, the face behind Lucy Lovecake now, just to lap up the Christmas spirit some more?”
This threw me.
I desperately wanted to be able to shout from the rooftops about French Fancy. I was so proud, and I did think that the anonymity thing was possibly a mistake. Unsustainable, and extremely frustrating.
But what about Michel? I will never see him again.
I had been hoping that I’d start to dislike Michel intensely and not care what he thought about my double life. But that was not the case. If anything, I liked him a little more than before.
“Let’s wait and we can use the revealing of my identity to pep things up a bit in the new year,” I said. “You said it would be flat in the early part of the year. Let’s not do all of our tricks in the one show!”
“Sure, I just thought it might be a bit tough for you to hold it in! Have you seen the attention Kitty is getting online since the shoot?”
“Yes, and I’m delighted for her,” I said. Everyone was asking, Who’s the model? I was so proud of Kitty.
“I love that you love your friends. Daisy, you are the sweetest girl.”
I’m really not.
65
Sunday Times
Christmas in New York had been a welcome relief from the complexities of London. New Year, without a sense of impending doom, had been a novelty, for sure, though I missed Kitty. Now, it was a Friday in mid-January, a year since it all began. Bleak, colourless, virtually without light. I was working on the second Lucy Lovecake book, tentatively called Noodles and Canoodles. Less patisserie, more main mealsy in tone. Kitty was away at a shoot with her modelling agency.
My phone rang. I pounced, keen for distractions.
Ah, Dominic! I can truthfully tell him I’m busy on the second book.
“Hey, Dominic. How are you?”
“Great, thanks. You?”
“Yeah, all good here.”
“Brace yourself, Daisy!” he said, his familiar voice bristling with excitement.
“Good or bad?” (I knew it was good. The games we play.)
“Good. Very good. Maybe the goodest thing ever.”
“Well, spill it!” I said impatiently.
“Ready? French Fancy is going to be at number six in the Sunday Times bestseller list this weekend!”
People talk of collapsing with shock, and I always thought it was a metaphor for despair, but I really did fall over. My legs became like two matchsticks, unable to support the vast combined weight of my torso and my suddenly heavy head.
I think Dominic heard the THUD as I fell. The phone was temporarily out of my reach, but I could hear him calling my name. I reached across for it.
“I’m here,” I said in a pathetic little voice.
“Oh God, I didn’t mean to cause you injury!” he said.
“I’m fine, really.” I composed myself.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Daisy?” he asked.
“It’s time?” I replied.
“Yes.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’ve decided to reveal you at a signing at Harrods!” he said.
“Oh. When?”
“Three weeks from now. Valentine’s Day! What could be better?” he declared, expecting me to be delighted.
“That sounds like a great idea,” I said flatly.
“Well, say it like you mean it!” said Dominic, laughing.
“I’m sorry. I’m thrilled. It will just be the end of a stage, you know. The anonymous stage. It’s quite nice to go out quietly for potatoes and leeks without anyone caring that you’re making potato and leek soup.”
“Yes, but this will be so much fun from now on, Daisy. You can still have the Lucy Lovecake persona, but you will also have the real you out there, so your friends and family can celebrate this wonderful book with you.”
“Where are you going to advertise the book signing?” I asked. “We want lots of people there, don’t we?”
“Absolutely. We will send out a press release, as well as private invites. We can also do a ‘Meet Lucy Lovecake’ banner on the social media pages. I think it will be rammed,” said Dominic.
“Just tell me what to do, what to wear, how to be. I am so excited. It’s time to come clean.”
* * *
The following week, Michel called, inviting me over to his house for supper the next evening.
“Let me cook for you. Mother is back in Paris, seeing her sister, Martine. I want to take care of you. Secret agents need to be pampered,” he said.
“That would be nice,” I said. “Let me bring a pudding?”
“No, I’m doing cherry clafoutis for you. See you at seven tomorrow then?” he said.
“Yes, bye for now.”
The next day, I thought a lot about the consequences of “coming out” as the author of French Fancy. On the one hand, I wanted to sing from the rooftops that it was my book. On the other, I would lose my freedom �
� and even worse, my friendship with Michel.
Face it, Delaney. You’re in love with him.
I spent a while getting ready for dinner at his place, fluttering around my room, trying to decide between French chic, English Rose and Pippa Cavanaugh numbers. I decided on jeans and a little blouse. I was ready to leave, and at the last minute, I ran to my room and put on the rosebud bustier, the one he’d loved when browsing in the shop, under my top.
Just for luck.
I was shaking as I rang the doorbell.
He must have been standing behind the door, waiting, as it opened immediately.
“Yes, m’lady,” he said in a British accent, giving a little bow.
“I was invited to supper by the gentleman of the house,” I said.
“Gentleman, you say?”
I laughed. “Yeah, that is a stretch.”
He kissed me on both cheeks, then on the lips, just a bit longer than a gentleman would.
“Well, this is cosy,” I said, as he took my coat.
“Yes, just the two of us. Me and my enchantress, sans chaperone.”
He stepped closer and encircled me in his arms.
“You must know that secret agents are trained to always get away,” I said.
“Unless they meet their match,” he said.
I ducked out of his hold. “Let’s see if you can really cook. I’m starving.”
I watched, transfixed, as he diced chicken and chopped asparagus and mushrooms in that masterful way. He then made a batter for crepes, cracking the eggs expertly with one hand, chatting all the time about the things he’d like to do before he died. Fly over the Grand Canyon, see the Northern Lights, go to Amish country. I realised that I was imagining myself at his side.
“So much still to do,” he said. “And according to my doctor, only a couple of years to do it in, if I carry on this way.”
“Why don’t you look after yourself?” I said.
“I don’t know. I’ve gone too far into debauchery,” he replied.
He was so adorable when he was being himself like this. Unrecognisable from his boorish, public persona.
“Do you have children?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” he said. “I don’t think all that’s for me. What kind of example am I?”
He cooked off the chicken and vegetables with some white wine and cream.
“You’re an inspiration when you’re not being an idiot,” I told him.
“Why thank you for your lavish praise!” he said, coming across to look right into my eyes. He touched my hair and kissed the top of my head in a very loving way.
I couldn’t help but smile.
* * *
The crepes were so retro, so French. Seriously delicious.
“Thank you. That was lovely,” I said after the last bite. “And the cherry clafoutis?”
“Yes, then maybe we should go upstairs after that?”
I wanted to. More than anything. But I didn’t want to go to bed with Michel without telling him the truth.
“Yes, if the pudding gets my approval, we should do that.”
The clafoutis was perfect. It melted in the mouth, effortless to eat yet deeply satisfying.
“I am happy to say, that was superbe,” I announced.
Michel winked. “Glad to hear that.” He grabbed my hand. “Follow me.”
I was mesmerised by him and the lovely meal he had made for us. So entranced, in fact, that I forgot all about coming clean.
Instead, I let him lead me silently up the grand staircase and into his bedroom. He closed the door, and we melted together, his cherry kisses firm but tender.
“The rosebuds,” he said. “I’ve wanted to see you in it from that day in the shop.”
66
The Guilt
We slept blissfully together until noon the next day.
“Happy?” he said.
“Very.”
Except for the fact that I now have a LOVER I have lied to again and again, not just a friend. A man I adore, who trusts me and confides in me. I am hateful and despicable and wicked. And what would Dominic think?
I shuddered.
“Daisy?” he said, as I rested my head on his chest.
“Yes?”
“Teach me about the Twitters,” he said. “Please.”
“So there really is no such thing as a free supper!” I said.
“You don’t think I treated you to all this just for fun, do you?” he laughed.
A pillow fight resulted.
We decided to spend the rest of the day setting him up with various social media accounts.
“Keep it easy. Start with Facebook and Twitter, possibly Instagram,” I advised, then we can introduce more. “Most of your fan base will be on those.”
“Whatever you say,” he said.
“We’ll start with Twitter,” I said, making him an account, with a photograph and cover shot of one of his books.
“This is easier than websites,” he commented. “How will people find me?”
“Easily,” I said. “See, you have followers already!”
“Do I? Who are they?”
“Fans, just people,” I explained, as his followers increased before our eyes.
“Weird. Amazing. Are they nutcases? Why aren’t they busy doing real life? ”
“This is the new real life. Now, let’s make a post and see what reaction you get,” I said. “You have to be brief on Twitter. What would you like to say?”
“That I’m in love!”
I blushed, then laughed. “No. About food. About your books. About your professional life. Come on, we are re-branding here.”
“Okay, how about I post the recipe for my crepes? The ones we ate last night?”
“Great, lovely. A nice supper recipe, add some banter about how quick and easy they are. How the ladies love them. Look, click on this tweet box and write whatever you like.”
He took charge of his page. I watched him type (well, thump at the keys).
I am in love. My girlfriend liked these crepes, so I’m going to share the recipe with you. Enjoy!
Oh God, I thought, reading the screen. This is so much worse! His girlfriend? What kind of cruel person am I? Tell him now, Delaney, before it’s too late!
But I couldn’t. I just kept watching.
He then pasted the link to the recipe on his website.
“How’s that?”
“Very cute. Now, give it a few minutes,” I said.
“Why?”
“To see how many people have liked your recipe,” I told him.
“Okay, boss.”
I checked the screen. “Wow, seventy-eight already!”
“Seriously? That soon? This is fun.”
“Yes, it is. See, there are comments coming through. You can reply to those. But just be careful what you say, and never log on here when drunk, okay?” I looked at the clock. “I have to go. Let me just explain about re-tweets, and also, you can follow people.”
“Oh! Why do you have to go? Secret Service calling, huh?”
“Yeah. I have things to do. I have a busy life.”
“But Clara says you hardly work in the shop now. You must have another job, right? Seriously. Are you building a business or something? I don’t buy that horse studies thing. You can tell me anything, darling.”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now. I can’t. I’m not allowed,” I explained, groaning inside.
Daisy, this is the moment. You have never been closer, he won’t be mad for long. He’ll come round. You’ve been loving and helpful towards him. Just tell him, blurt it out, go on.
But I just couldn’t. Our first time in bed together, and it had been so blissful. I just wanted to feel the magic for a little while longer. I hated myself for the ongoing deception.
“I want to see you again soon,” said Michel. “I have a dental procedure going on tomorrow, and a TV appearance soon – but in a few days?”
“That would be nice.
I’ll get in touch.”
I’ll have him round for supper next week and tell him everything, then beg for his forgiveness, and we’ll go to bed and everything will be fine.
67
L’Internet et TV
It only took two days for the chaos to begin. A follower of Lucy Lovecake made an indignant post on the Lucy Lovecake Facebook page: Michel Amiel is an ignorant, fucked-up French has-been. In fact, I thought he was locked up in some danky French prison right now! Just ignore him, Lucy!
What’s all this about?
I followed the thread back to its source.
Earlier that day, Michel had been on This Morning with Georgie and Simon. I played the clip of the interview with him, which someone had posted. It seemed to be the tail end of a chat they’d been having with Michel. I stared at it intently, thinking how handsome he looked.
“So, Michel, it’s been great to talk to you, and lovely to hear that you’re back in Britain for the foreseeable future after all those, erm, uncertain times!” said Georgie, all fluttery eyelashes.
Michel stood to leave.
Georgie continued, “But it’s not time to go yet. We’ve actually got some questions via Twitter from our viewers. Would you mind answering those?”
“Sure, it would be my pleasure,” said Michel, clearly on his best behaviour.
This is torture. He clearly says something rude about Lucy Lovecake, but what?
A few questions in, someone called Anna wanted to know if Michel had read Lucy Lovecake’s French Fancy?
He recognised the reference, that was for sure. “I’ve just joined Tweeter at the suggestion of a very dear friend of mine – and I keep hearing about that blooming book!” he said, more than a note of frustration in his voice. “I saw it in Arrods. It’s not a serious cookery book. It’s a joke, a silly book, by some silly person who is so ashamed of it he or she cannot admit who he or she is!”
Simon stepped in. “But it is good fun,” he said. “Surely there’s a place for all kinds of books about food, and would you not agree that linking food tips with dating tips makes a lot of sense? Food is a sensuous experience and eating is somehow wrapped up in romance.”
