by Pippa James
Dominic scratched his head, turning to me for ideas.
“What shall we do – we’re unlikely to find anything other than a Travelodge at Leominster,” he said.
“Why don’t we take a look at the room? The location is fantastic. We can get by for a night or two, I’m sure.”
And that was how Dominic and I came to be shoe-horned into the world’s teeniest double room.
“Well, this is dinky!” I said as we got ready for dinner.
“Which side do you like?” asked Dominic, ever the gentleman.
“I’ll sleep on that sofa bed,” I said from the bathroom as I freshened up.
“Oh, right then,” he said, sounding very disappointed. “Or I’ll take that. You need to sleep well for your big event in the morning.”
“Well, we can argue about that after dinner. Are we booked for dinner here?” I asked.
“Yes. Do you think that will be okay? Might we be expected to share a plate?”
“Ha, I’m sure it will be lovely.”
Dominic decided that he would freshen up quickly and go down to the bar, giving me space and time to get ready and sort my things for the morning. I was grateful, as I was nervous about the event. Not just an interview about my book. I was to take part in some kind of cake-off contest, in a specially rigged kitchen in one of the big sponsored tents. Against Myles Munroe from Bake It!
I decided to make an effort for dinner and tried peach bloom no-make-up make-up, and put my hair up. I wore a pink and white polka-dot sun dress, and espadrilles with a bit of a heel. Not too bad, I thought as I bent double to look in the half mirror below the coombed ceiling. Almost banging my head on the way up, I decided it was time to make my way to the dining room.
Dominic was waiting for me on the sofa in the reception area.
“You look gorgeous, Daisy,” he said, kissing me.
“Thanks. I’m starving.”
We decided to check at the reception desk that our table was ready, where we found, of course, there had been a mix-up with tables and we were not in fact booked in for dinner at all. Mrs Burton was adamant that no table had been reserved. Dominic was frustrated that he had no evidence, as everything had been settled on the phone. It was all most unlike him.
We were trying to decide whether we should wait for a table or take our chances elsewhere when Dominic spotted a copy of French Fancy behind the reception area.
“Ah, Mrs Burton, I see you’re reading Lucy Lovecake’s book there?” he said.
“Yes, I am indeed. I love it. I’m going to see the author tomorrow – it’s a cake-off with Myles Munroe, and I must admit, I don’t like him one bit. Those creepy eyes, like a wolf. A chancer. You can always tell.”
Dominic leant in towards her. “Don’t broadcast this, but this lady right here is Daisy Delaney, the author of that book! The real Lucy Lovecake. And I am the publisher of it.”
Mrs Burton’s face was a picture. “You can’t be serious!” she said, wreathed in smiles. “This is like having royalty to stay. Well, better than royalty. Everyone’s talking about that book. All my friends are reading it! My friend Gina bagged herself a man with the red-velvet raspberry cake – and some red lace, I might add, just like Lucy Lovecake recommended! Let me see if I can find you a nice quiet table in the corner, even if I have to add an extra one.”
I was stunned. It was the first time the book had empowered me in a public space. I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I was also rather surprised that Mrs Burton was part of the demographic market for the book.
When Dominic and I were settled in the dining room, I asked him what sort of people were reading the book.
“Everyone!” he said. “All sorts.”
“I thought it was mainly young professional women who had found out about Lucy Lovecake on social media. And there are lots of male fans. But this is really exciting – to be spicing up the love lives of the middle-aged Middle Englanders as well!”
“Like all great books, it’s not for one niche,” said Dominic. “But this has really surprised me too. After a few months in the market, you can command a table at the Swan in Hay! You have arrived!”
“Yes, I suppose I have,” I giggled.
We didn’t overdo the wine due to my early start, but a couple of glasses of cold Chablis had helped to ease my nerves a little. We went up to our room just after ten o’clock.
I got ready for bed, changing into my little white nightie.
“Sorry if you were expecting something of Lucy Lovecake standards,” I said. “I was planning to sleep alone.”
“Daisy, I think you know there’s no need for embellishment where you are concerned.”
I made up the sofa bed with the spare sheets, duvet and fat white pillows, and climbed into it.
“Oh, springy,” I said.
“Are you sure you won’t let me sleep on that thing?” said Dominic.
“Well, I suppose I ought to get a really good sleep,” I said.
Something went wrong during the exchange of beds though, and we both ended up in the snug double.
* * *
We woke up to more mellow sunshine streaming through our window, and birds chirping. 6am. This is it. The cake-off!
“So, I’m appearing at eleven o’clock. Time for breakfast and a nice stroll through the town?” I said, lying in the crook of his arm.
“And time for more kisses,” said Dominic. I was powerless to refuse, although I did wonder if we’d crossed some kind of author-publisher line of decent conduct.
“Does it say anything in my contract about this sort of thing?” I said.
“As you know, I’ve thought of absolutely everything when it comes to your career, darling.”
That was indisputably true.
77
The Request
I had a wardrobe malfunction when getting ready for the event. The zip broke on my cupcake print dress.
“Oh God, what will I do now?”
“What else do you have?” said Dominic.
“Just this little sundress which I planned for later. A bit revealing.” I held it up.
“That’ll do nicely,” he said.
We arrived in good time at the reception area of the festival. Early though it was, it was already buzzing with people setting up picnics; the cafés were bulging and the bookshops teeming with punters. Delivery vans were coming and going, depositing vast amounts of food and drinks.
“Looks like it’s going to be a busy day,” said Dominic.
“Do you think there will be many people at my event?” I asked, feeling nervous. How embarrassing it would be if just Mrs Burton turned up, and I wasn’t at all sure how popular Myles Munroe was these days.
“I meant to tell you, I checked on the website – it’s a sell-out!” he said.
“What?!”
“Yes, there will be around two hundred in the audience.”
“Bloody hell.”
Focus on this, Daisy. Run through your recipe.
Dominic stroked my hair gently. “Relax. You’re wonderful,” he said.
The trip had taken a romantic turn and it was hard to cut back into work mode so quickly after all that love.
We were met at reception by Tara, who seemed to be in charge of this event and pretty much everything else, judging by the number of times she was stopped on the way to the Green Room.
“I’m the ‘fixer’, in charge of non-literary literary events,” she explained.
“Non-literary?” I asked.
“Political memoirs, accounts of life as a rock star, comedians, cookery, Bear Grylls-y things – you know the sort? The types of books most bookshops are rammed with these days.”
Tara took us to a table surrounded by lime green tub chairs and invited us to relax. One whole wall was covered by an enormous panoramic photograph of the Welsh countryside, which was relaxing. There were free newspapers everywhere, a table set up with hot drinks and pastries, a fridge filled with cold drinks, and piles of fruit in silver bo
wls.
We saw some comedians in there. According to the programme, they were doing a three-player event, each promoting a new book, asserting their views on the link between stand-up comedy and manic depression.
I noticed some heavyweight politicians too, and, incredibly, some real authors. David Hurd was there, and, jaw-droppingly, Mary Lennox, as well as Dr Sarah Hove. I loved her programmes on the Tudors.
Oh, how embarrassing to be such a silly tart amongst these Oxford heavyweights. Daisy Delaney with no literary credentials. A degree in fashion, if you please! I am not worthy of book festivals, I am just a girl who got lucky with an idea because of social media. Why would anyone want to see me bake a cake? It’s like the new version of watching people being hanged. The entertaining disasters of other people.
As if he’d read my mind, Dominic whispered, “You can hold your own with any of these. They’ve been hogging the show for far too long.”
I longed to be back in the tiny lingerie store on that cobbled lane, dreaming of moments such as this rather than living them.
We sat on the tub seats and Tara gave me a run-down of what was expected of me.
“So, we have Victoria Darling compering this contest,” she said, beaming.
“Wow, make me more nervous, why don’t you?”
“Sorry, just bringing you up to speed. We never quite know who’s doing what for sure until everyone turns up on time. This is not the easiest location to get to. Middle Earth, practically! Anyway, we’re still waiting for Myles Munroe, but he sent a text to Caroline – that’s Caroline Bateman – to say they’re not too far off. Caroline is one of the judges who will be tasting your cake.”
“Caroline. Bateman. Judging. My. Cake?”
I had admired Caroline Bateman since I was a little girl.
Dominic put his arm round my shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear. Your cakes are awesome.”
“It’s all a bit of fun,” said Tara. “We’ve had some right disasters in our celebrity kitchens this festival. The electricity went off during the cooking of a tarte au tatin just the other day.”
She really needs some training. Her comments are not helping!
“You’ll be in the Glenfiddich tent – that’s our biggest, for our crowd-pullers. There are about forty complimentary seats for bloggers and journalists. We find they really do help to spread the fun far and wide, so it’s worth losing the ticket price on those seats.”
At that, three people swished into the Green Room in a great rush of heightened energy. Tara became distracted by them and went off to find out what was up.
“That’s the director of the whole shebang,” said Dominic. “Stephen Murray, and his sidekicks, Will Adams and Jonny Cavaye.”
“They look like they just got chased by a lion,” I said. “Or they’ve been sent a ransom note.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Something’s troubling them.”
Tara joined them and another official woman, and they formed a huddle in a corner. We could hear odd, leaked phrases, such as, “That’ll never work!” and “What a fuck-up” and “But will she go for it?”
There was a hum of ideas after that, some nodding.
“A solution, it would seem,” said Dominic, looking up from The Guardian on his iPad with amusement.
Tara came buzzing back over, all pink cheeks and fake chipper.
“Daisy, I’ll come straight to the point. We need to ask you a HUGE favour, and I know it’s going to be controversial. I’m so, so sorry about this. Why do I get all the shit jobs round here?”
“What is it?” I said, wondering what could possibly be this bad.
“Myles Munroe isn’t going to make it on time. We can’t have a contest with one celeb.”
Please don’t call me that!
“The thing is – and stuff like this happens every day – someone due to appear next Saturday has turned up today in error, and we have decided to run with him today as your opponent because if he goes away, he most likely won’t come back. As I said, it’s not that straightforward to get here.”
“Right . . .”
“Well, the organisers think you could do a great joint event with this other author, and we want to ask you, pretty please, would you agree to such a thing?” said Tara, clearly cringing at the whole business.
Dominic stepped in. “Tara, just get to the point, please. Who do you want her to work with? I’m not sure about all this.”
“I don’t really mind,” I said, trying to sound as undiva-ish as possible.
Tara swallowed hard.
“Well, come on, who is this other author?” urged Dominic.
She looked sheepish. “This is such a fuck-up, totes sorry, hope you’re okay with going against Michel Amiel? You’re a lifesaver, Daise.”
78
Just Cake Off
I gulped. “But we don’t get on,” I said. “He hates me. He ruined my first ever event in Harrods on Valentine’s Day and he hasn’t spoken a word to me since. He was taken away by the police that time.”
Tara looked sympathetic enough, but it seemed as though an exit by police escort wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever had to deal with.
Dominic was thunderous. “This is really too much to ask,” he said. “You’ll just have to ply him with booze and send him on the next train out of town. It’s his own fault that he turned up on the wrong date. She can’t work with that car crash. He’s been so rude to Daisy – how can you ask this of her? And do you even imagine he would agree?”
Dominic was getting really annoyed now and everyone in the Green Room was watching salaciously.
Tara went back to the boss people, who came over and asked us to step into their offices to the rear of the Green Room.
Dominic was still livid. “Daisy’s new to this. How dare you set her up like this?” he stormed.
“I can assure you,” said Johnny Cavaye, “it’s not planned. He turned up out of the blue and is insisting that we use him today or not at all. Meanwhile, Myles has been delayed.”
“Couldn’t Caroline Bateman go against her and Michel could be a judge?” Dominic queried.
“We’ve suggested that, but he’s not up for it,” said Johnny, beginning to sound despondent for the first time.
Stephen and Will kept out of it. Tara kept smiling inanely, that lipsticky gash irritating. Whitened big teeth, maybe veneers, blood-red lips; the insincerity of it.
This is so silly. Here I am, due to appear at Hay-on-Wye, something I would not have thought possible a year ago, and “my people” are arguing about my rights already. What I will and will not do. I’m not even famous. I’ve only been around for five minutes – an internet sensation. This is the route to ruin. Let’s all grow up.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “Just don’t expect me to be best mates with him because that’s never going to happen.”
I thought Tara was going to hug me. And I surprised myself by backing away, a little bit aloof. I was being accommodating, but I wasn’t being cuddly.
Branwell turned up at that moment. On hearing of the situation, he said, “Daisy, you’re a trouper.”
I was happy with that. I wasn’t a star or a darling, an angel or a sweetheart. I was a trouper.
It was time to go to the big tent and get wired for sound.
“Good luck, Daisy,” said Dominic, kissing me on both cheeks. “I’ll be right there in the front row.”
“Thank you.”
I summoned all my dignity, as one always should before a cake-off with an arch enemy.
79
Frenzy
After Hay-on-Wye
I couldn’t wait to get home after Hay. I felt as though I’d been assaulted. Every part of me ached, most of all my heart.
Dominic was alarmed at my mood after the disastrous cake-off with Michel. Our homeward journey was less jolly.
“I’m sorry – that was all very difficult,” he said when he dropped me off after a very silent car ride. “Trust Michel Amiel to spo
il our first romantic time together.”
It was true that Michel always upset things, wherever he went.
“I just feel traumatised by the machine – the whole process, close up like that. It’s as if we’re not people. Commodities, or caricatures, for manipulation. It scared me. I just need a couple of quiet days then I’ll be good as new,” I explained.
“I hope so. I know you’re upset about Michel. And if you want to track him, that’s nothing to do with me. But be careful. He repeats patterns. It’s a self-destructive trait – I’ve seen it in other guys before. You want to help them break out of it because you’re very sweet, but you can’t, Daisy.”
“You’re right. I was just afraid for him, seeing him so close to the edge. It’s not as if I’m obsessed with him. I’m just obsessed with making people happy.”
Dominic smiled. “And that’s what’s lovely about you. But you need to toughen up. We’ve had a request to go to New York, to meet with Upper East Publishers – we need a big player like that to handle the US rights. Bluebells can’t do that part. We need to be strong, negotiate hard, get what we want from the deal. They are nothing without bestselling books. We hold the power. You do.”
“Yes, I’m ready for the fight. I just need a rest, that’s all,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me back. You need to get back to Minty now.”
“Yes, let’s talk in a day or two. We’ll get our travel plans firmed up once you’re feeling up to it.”
I waved him out of the lane, and when I opened the front door of that little flat, I felt as though it wrapped its arms around me. I slammed the door on the outside world.
For two days, I lay in my bed in the foetal position, considering what had happened in my life. At one stage, Kitty went out to the corner shop for supplies.
“Don’t want to alarm you, Daisy,” she said on her return, “but there are some photographers on the lane.”
“Why?” I mumbled, still dozing. It seemed no amount of sleep was enough.
“They’ve found out you live here. They want to photograph you,” she replied softly.
