It’s a strange thing, standing so close to a celebrity. There’s an initial jolt of recognition and then a questioning as you review their multifaceted 3-D form—is it really them? You look away and then look back—if you didn’t know better, they could almost pass for human . . .
Turns out those paparazzi shots weren’t far off. Pamela’s formerly radiant face is washed out, her nails polish-free and her casual back-of-a-cab dab of lipstick doesn’t match anything that she’s wearing, which is probably just as well since today’s dominant hue is elephant gray.
“I have to apologize for the state of me,” she begins. “My luggage didn’t make it to New York and I haven’t had time to shop for anything new.”
“Oh how awful,” I sympathize.
“Well, it’s really such a fleeting visit, it’s not the end of the world. I’m just aware that I bear more than a passing resemblance to a bag lady.”
“Only without any bags!”
She laughs. “Yes—probably just as well they didn’t make it!”
I smile fondly back at her. “Would you like to take a seat?”
She nods gratefully, expelling a long breath as she takes in her surroundings.
“This is quite the haven, isn’t it?”
I nod. “I know it looks like they could offer you Botox or an acid peel in the back room—”
Pamela hoots and then covers her mouth. “Oh, excuse me!”
“Not at all!” I’m just happy to see her face brighten. “We can do as we please and pass it off as being English Eccentrics.”
“Good point,” she says, eyes straying back to the cake counter.
That’s my cue!
“So, I took the liberty of ordering . . .” I nod to the waitress, who promptly sets down two glossy white plates before us.
“There are two types of cheesecake here: the traditional Gâteau Fromage . . .” I let her take in the simple slice with its subtly burnished edging offering an almost sepia tone. “The thin base layer is crisp shortbread cookie crust and the cheesecake itself has a vanilla accent.”
She nods.
“The second,” I begin, trying to disguise any favoritism in my voice, “is the Gâteau Nuage—Cloud Cake.”
“Oooh.” She looks intrigued.
“They describe the base as cinnamon-kissed,” I smile. “And then there’s the airy whipped middle band of cheesecake and the top layer—”
“The pièce de résistance?” She raises a brow.
I nod. “Sweetened sour cream.”
“I like how cool and silky that looks,” she says, holding the plate up to her eye level. “You know, in comparison to the denser texture of the cheesecake.”
My toes scrunch in expectation. I feel exactly the same way!
It actually puts me in mind of a layer of white gloss paint, but I don’t say that out loud in case it throws off her palate.
“And if I may offer an alternative to tea?” I venture. “I rather like hot water with a slice of lemon and a tiny drip of honey.”
“To counterbalance the creaminess.”
“Exactly.”
“Well then, that’s what I shall have too.”
The waitress arranges the shiny white cups and saucers—Limoges, naturellement!—with painstaking precision. Even the lemon slices look perfect—all zesty and juicy as opposed to predominantly pith.
I wait nervously for Pamela’s verdict, not knowing if I should speak while she is in taster mode, presuming she needs to focus fully on the—
“Are you not having any?” She looks up at me.
“Oh. Well, I didn’t want to crowd the table but I did order.” I look to the waitress, preparing to give her the sign to bring over the second set of plates.
“Please,” she interrupts me. “Share mine.”
“Really?”
“You can imagine how much cheesecake I’ve had today, and I hardly need the extra pounds.”
“Well, if you’re sure?”
I don’t say anything about her weight but she does seem a little curvier than I recalled. Not that it looks bad on her. She’s one of those womanly women whose exact dimensions are irrelevant. Big boobs are the key. You look at them and the first word that springs to mind is voluptuous. And how can that be bad?
I take a bite of my beloved Gâteau Nuage, smearing the textures around my mouth to maximize the bliss. I could even do without the crumbly base; just give me a scoop of the filling and I’d eat it like ice cream. But what does she think?
“Sublime!” she pronounces.
My face brightens. “You like it?”
“Oh!” she fans herself. “So soft and smooth . . .”
“How does it compare to the others?” I dare to ask.
Her face changes as she leans in close. “One woman got me eating tofu cheesecake.”
“I’m so sorry.” My brow crumples.
“It’s all right. I stayed on after she left and had the Amaretto.”
“Ooh, I bet that was delicious!”
“It was.” She takes a sip of hot lemon water. “One appointment we had to cancel because it turns out her suggestion was The Cheesecake Factory.”
“Not an entirely illogical suggestion . . .”
“And I’m not opposed to a chain when they serve Pineapple Upside-Down Cheesecake, but the nearest location was Hackensack, New Jersey.”
“Oh.”
“Now where were the others?” she strums her chin and then smiles fondly. “I did like Veniero’s.”
“That was on my list!” I pip. “First runner-up.”
“It’s a classic. But guess what?”
I shake my head.
“The woman I met there didn’t even touch her slice!”
I tut in disgust, assuring her that I’m very much of the no-crumb-left-behind persuasion.
“You’d think she would at least have asked for a box to take it away.”
“She didn’t?” I gasp.
“No!” She hoots. “Just got up and left!”
“That’s not right.”
Pamela sits back in her chair, taking another sweep of our surroundings. “Would you agree this Lady M has a somewhat French flair?”
Much as I’d like to claim the M is for Manhattan, I can’t deny it.
“I just thought—it’s so hot and everyone needs that moment in a New York day when you can just exhale and regain your composure.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Well, these factors matter—the weather, your mood that day, what you are hoping to achieve . . .” I leave my words hanging.
She smiles. “I suppose I should tell you a little more about this project of mine.”
“Only if you like—”
“I do. I like you, I like this place. I think this will work very well.”
Did she just hire me?
“So. My agent, in her infinite wisdom, has decided that this is the year for me to break America.”
“Gosh!” It hadn’t even occurred to me that she wasn’t known here since she’s such an institution at home.
“It’s certainly the right time for me to take a break from the UK, but she wants to move a lot faster than I had originally intended.”
“Okay . . .”
“Basically she wants to get a cookbook out for Christmas.”
“Christmas recipes?”
“Actually no. What it is . . .” She pauses, waiting for the family standing beside us to be seated before she continues. “Basically, the idea is that I travel around the U.S. trading traditional British cake recipes for American favorites, like New York Cheesecake, Boston Cream Pie—”
“You want to go to Boston?” I wasn’t expecting this.
“I want to go everywhere that a great American cake originated
.”
“Oh wow.”
“But!” she takes a breath. “That won’t be possible in the time-frame so we went through the list and it seems that all the best recipes are concentrated here on the East Coast, because of course that’s where the first settlers arrived.”
“Well, not quite the first . . .” I venture.
“Funnily enough we were reading about a Native American tribe based at Plymouth Rock; they have this dish called Indian Pudding . . .”
“So there’s a dessert element to this too?”
“I’m open to anything and everything you could possibly have at teatime.”
“I love teatime,” I sigh.
“Me too. That’s why we’re calling the book The Traveling Tea Shop.”
“That’s so sweet!” I enthuse. And then a thought pops into my head. “What about Whoopie Pies? They’re cakes really, are you including them?”
“Are they the ones from Maine?” She rifles through her bag in search of her notebook.
“I think so . . .”
“Yes,” she confirms as she finds the corresponding page. “They actually helped us decide that we want to focus purely on New York and New England.”
“So we’re talking Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts.” I begin mentally working my way along the coast.
“Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont.” Pamela brings us inland. “And then back to New York.”
The only state I’ve actually visited. Not that I’ll be mentioning that.
“So are you including New York’s other edible celeb?” I ask as I clean off the last creamy smear from my fork.
Pamela looks bemused. “And what would that be?”
“Red Velvet Cake.”
“I thought that was from the South.” She returns to her notes.
I shake my head. “Common misconception. In fact, if you turned left out of here,” I say, motioning to the door. “Take the first right onto Park Avenue . . .”
“Yes?”
“Then just keep going until you hit the Waldorf Astoria.”
She looks amazed. “That’s where Red Velvet Cake was created?”
I nod emphatically. “I know the executive pastry chef there—Charlie.”
“Could you arrange an interview?”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to stay there as well, when I come back.”
“No problem!” I note down her request.
I think I’ve got it! I think this is my job. It’s a lot bigger than I was expecting but that’s okay. I can rise to the occasion—’scuse the baking pun.
“I’ll ask my agent to e-mail you over the notes from our conversation, so you have a starting point for the itinerary.”
“That would be really helpful,” I concede. “So you’re basically looking to try out a cake recipe that’s native to each state we visit?”
“Yes, or at least celebrating an ingredient that is specific to the area. Like maple syrup and Vermont.”
“Cranberries and Cape Cod?”
“Ooh, I could do with a Cape Cod cocktail about now.”
Her whole body loosens up, suddenly looking in urgent need of being horizontal and fanned.
“Um, I’ve actually drawn up a list for you of bars that have a great atmosphere.”
She sits up and takes my micro-guide to NYC but skips over my secret speakeasy suggestions.
“Ricky Martin is in Evita?”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t know if you were the musicals type—”
“I am, I don’t have time on this visit but . . . Have you seen him?”
“Actually, yes. He was good.”
“Good enough or really good?”
“Really good. A proper leading man. His voice was flawless, his stage presence commanding,” I take a breath. “I just wanted him to dance more—”
“Knowing what he’s capable of?” She gets a glint in her eye.
“Exactly!” I grin. “He was wearing this white granddad shirt and braces the whole time. I just wanted him to do a Dancing with the Stars turn and whip off his baggy trousers—”
“And the glitterball comes down from the ceiling . . .”
“And he unleashes his Latin shimmy!”
We take a moment to picture the scene and then Pamela sighs, “He seems a good chap, you know, decent.”
“He does,” I agree.
Both of us look a little wistful.
For a second I think I might ask after Pamela’s husband, but seeing as I only know him from the press pictures of him tasting her latest bakery goodie, I realize I would just come across as nosey.
“So.” I clasp my hands together, ready to seal the deal. “Is there anything else I should know before I start planning?”
“Oh, there is one thing I forgot to mention!”
I blink expectantly.
“We’ll be traveling in a double-decker bus.”
I blink some more.
“You know, one of those classic red London busses.”
“You want me to source a London bus here in New York?” I gulp.
“Oh no. It’s already arranged. You don’t have to worry about that. Just the route. And the hotels. And the cake shops. And the cafés. And the bakers. And the recipes. And the ingredients. And the history. And the general logistics.”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine. But, back to the bus. Where exactly is it?”
“Newport, Rhode Island.”
I take out my laptop and go straight to Google Maps. Approximately four hours’ drive. Mostly along the coast of Connecticut.
“So would you be happy to be in another kind of vehicle until we get there, or will you need it to be in New York itself?”
“Oh no. It’s fine to collect it there. I’m sure it would be a liability here. Besides, it’s not like we need it for continuity. No TV crew to please.”
“Well, that certainly makes it easier. Though now you mention it, this would make a great TV series . . .”
“I know. I just didn’t fancy being in front of the camera at the moment.”
“Oh.” I nod understanding.
“And it’s not just my weight, it requires a lot of energy when you’re filming. You’ve always got to be ‘on.’”
“Yes.”
“It’s not the right time for me to do that kind of project.” Her voice sounds a little tremulous.
“That’s okay,” I quickly assure her. “We’ll focus on making this the best book it can be.” I give her an encouraging smile. “I think it’s going to be a wonderful trip.”
“Really?” Her eyes search mine.
“Yes,” I confirm, telling her what she most wants to hear. “A real tonic.” I look down at my list. “So. We just need a driver. For the bus.”
“Oh no, that’s covered too.”
“Really?”
“Yes. My mum’s going to do it.”
My jaw gapes. “Your mother?”
I do a quick calculation in my head. Her mother has to be in her seventies, maybe even eighties . . . Gearing up to drive a thousand or so miles of unfamiliar terrain. On the wrong side of the road.
“She’s got new glasses and everything.”
“Oh good,” I quell a splutter.
Surely she must know this is madness? Should I speak up? She seems so blasé about it, like her mother is the obvious choice, the latest road-tester on Top Gear. I’m still trying to word my concern while Pamela is already on to the next:
“So we can share a room and then get one for you, obviously.”
“Same location?” I check that she’s not expecting me to be down the road in the local Motel 6.
“Of course. I’ll need you on hand round the clock.”
Why does that concern me more?
“
Everything else, we’ll e-mail to you—the budget, the contract, all the business side of things. If that’s all right?”
I nod dumbly.
“Well.” She looks at her watch. “I have to get going but it was lovely to meet you, Laurie!” she reaches to shake my hand. “And I’ll see you in a little under two weeks.”
“Excuse me?” I balk.
“Oh. We didn’t even discuss dates, did we?” She gives a “silly me!” tinkle.
“No, we didn’t get to that.”
The mention of Christmas seemed reassuringly far off, but of course books typically have to go to press way in advance and it is already June.
“We’re arriving on the fifteenth of this month,” she taps my calendar. “Is that enough time for you to make all the arrangements?”
No.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
No sooner is she out the door than I call Krista.
“I’m freaking out!”
Chapter 4
Realizing that high-pitched panic is neither appropriate nor welcome at Lady M, I cross over to Central Park and bring Krista up to speed while hurtling toward the turtle pond.
“Okay. Breathe,” she counsels me. “You’re a pro.”
“You do realize that, in European terms, that’s like researching six different countries in a matter of days?”
“Well, I can at least do two.”
“What do you mean?” I frown.
“Why don’t you let me sort Vermont and New Hampshire for you—they’re just across the border from here. If I have to, I can drive there to check out the cake scene.”
“Really?”
“I’ve got a map right in front of me. It can’t be more than five hours.”
“You’d do that?”
“You know I would, and I’d love it too.”
“Oh Krista, you’re an angel.” I close my eyes and let the dizzying hysteria subside.
“Anything in particular I should know?” she asks, already raring to go. “Tastes? Preferences?”
“Well.” I locate a bench and flick back through my notes. “She mentioned having something maple syrup–themed for Vermont.”
“I know a thing or two about that.”
“Of course!” I laugh happily, recalling that her fella Jacques switches to maple syrup tapping when the snow season ends.
The Traveling Tea Shop Page 3