The Secret Life of Lucy Lovecake: A laugh-out-loud romantic baking comedy

by Pippa James

  I sipped the coffee and ate the custard tart, which was creamy and delicious, its smallness being the only problem.

  There was an unspoken subject hanging in the air.

  “About that day you dropped round,” I mentioned, squirming. “I’m so sorry about that. I can’t quite believe how ridiculous it all was! It would be too far-fetched for a film!”

  “Don’t apologise. You looked rather amazing. Unforgettable, in fact.”

  “How embarrassing. I was trying on some things I’d bought in the shop to see how they fitted. I didn’t expect . . .”

  “Yes. Obviously. I was somehow relieved to learn that you were alone.”

  “Relieved?”

  “I mean I would have been jealous of the man, had there been one.”

  “Ah. I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “Please do.”

  I blushed. “Well, I should be getting back to the shop.”

  “Sure. Let me get the bill.”

  “Thanks. Bye for now,” I said, standing to leave.

  “Goodbye. It was nice to see you, Daisy.”

  We stood looking at each other a bit goofily. I blushed as I took in his soulful dark eyes, chiselled cheekbones and strong jawline. He didn’t look so ugly any more. His hair was still wild, but it looked clean, and I could smell that sandalwood fragrance again, the one which had lingered in the shop after he left.

  “I really must dash!” I said at last, tearing myself away.

  “Yes, maybe I’ll pop by again. To the shop,” he suggested.

  “Right, okay. That would be nice. Whenever.”

  “Yes, whenever I can.”

  “Okay, so, bye.” I leant towards him, kissing his cheeks.

  I looked in on Kitty, who was totally flustered in the kitchen, so I blew her a kiss and left.

  “Bye, darlin’,” called Charlie from his desk.

  Oh, fuck off.

  As I sprinted out and past the window, Michel was definitely staring at me.

  Not one of our Top Ten, but not as bad as I first thought, I suppose.

  28

  Edited

  I didn’t have much time to think about ageing French chefs with complicated movie star (ex?) girlfriends because Branwell got back in touch straight after his holiday. He called me. How novel was that?

  “Daisy Delaney!” he cried.

  I held the phone away from my ear – that big, God-like voice.

  “Branwell! Nice to hear from you.”

  “What? You sound far away,” he complained.

  I had no choice but to bring the handset closer.

  “Is that better?” I asked.

  “Yes. Much.”

  “So, do you have any thoughts?” I asked.

  “Well, well, well,” he replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The manuscript is sounding fantastic, Daisy. I’m going to send it over to you with a few tiny suggestions on the tracker software system. Just write on the script, don’t worry about all the lines and bubbles and boxes.”

  What’s he even talking about?

  “Great. I’ll work on it straight away.” I hope.

  “It’s an absolute winner, Daisy. I’ve already spoken to a few trusted editors, who love the sound of it. They’re just waiting for the submission! Woo-hoo! Jump on the Book Train, we’re going to heaven!”

  “We are?” He really is God.

  “Well, at least to King’s Cross. Hodder & Stoughton on Euston Road want to take a look. They’re part of the Hachette group – MASSIVE. Clementine Clancy there thinks it sounds just what she’s after! That’s what we want, an editor who wants to champion it, make it her breakthrough book as well. Build her talent-spotting reputation on it. I haven’t been this excited in ages.”

  I was shaking with excitement myself, but I felt that it was all still speculation and that perhaps some caution would have been a good thing in an experienced agent towards an inexperienced author. But Branwell didn’t do understatement, and I supposed that was why he was so infectious and successful.

  “Well, I don’t want us to get our hopes up too soon,” I said.

  “Oh, very head prefect. But I like that approach, Daisy Delaney. It’s true: nobody ever knows how something will go. Not even a genius such as myself. But you do get a gut feeling after forty years in the game. The next thing is that we’ll be asked to publisher meetings to chat it over. Used to be called the Beauty Parade – before that sort of phrase could land you in prison – meaning, you pick who you like best, not the other way around. For their part, they’ll want to see that you’re marketable.”

  “Oh. And am I?”

  “I think they’ll be happy with your marketability!” he asserted.

  “Do you really think so? It’s such a shame that I’ve got my winter body right now. I’m so much more presentable in summer. There’s something about candles and fairy lights that leads me to believe that cellulite doesn’t matter so much. I’ll have to get to the gym, and step up the running. And get my roots done, maybe eyebrow threading—”

  “I’ll leave that stuff over to you,” interrupted Branwell, obviously quickly losing interest in the small detail of my life. “I prefer to think women just wake up looking wonderful.”

  “And we do, after twelve beauty treatments the day before.”

  When his suggested changes came over by e-mail, I was instantly confused by the editing software, as I’d expected.

  I scanned the many bubbles of comments down the right side of each page.

  “Try another word for romance here. Over-use.”

  “Add more adjectives, make this more alluring, consider figurative expressions . . .”

  “You move out of voice here, sounds like you’re being disapproving rather than decadent all of a sudden. Stay in Lucy Lovecake character.”

  “Try to add some anecdotes and characters here. ‘When Toby first met Hannah . . .’ ”

  “Think about ways of describing the cakes. What about some puns/double entendres? There’s a lot to be said about buns with cherries on top!”

  I immediately set about making the changes, but I found I didn’t agree about the buns and the cherries.

  Can I disagree with God? Do I want a book in the shops which does not say what I wanted to say? Be bold, Daisy.

  I sent him a message:

  From: Daisy Delaney

  To: Branwell Thornton

  Subject: Re: Re: Submission 2

  Hi Branwell

  Thanks for the suggested changes, most of which I agree will improve the script. However, I don’t agree about the puns and double entendres. I think it might be a male/female divide thing here. I don’t want it to sound smutty and sleazy, like those holiday postcards. Just romantic and a bit playful. I will try to add some humour. Hope that sounds okay with you? I should get this back to you in a day or two.

  Best regards,

  Daisy

  I hesitated before pressing “send”.

  What am I thinking? Just into a potential career as an author and think I know better than forty-years-in-the-game Branwell Thornton?

  I took some breaths.

  But if I don’t say what I really think, and the book is rejected all over London, then I will blame it on my inability to make it my own.

  I pressed “send” before any further deliberations.

  I just hope he’s not exaggerating about the potential of this because I’m going to be devastated if I don’t get asked to meet any publishers!

  I’d already worked out from the awards evening that there was quite a lot of exaggeration and fakery in the industry. I figured it was to inspire you to keep on writing – until nobody wanted that writing, and then the compliments would dry up.

  I felt uneasy as I waited for Branwell to reply, anxious that I might come over as arrogant, or difficult, or even disrespectful.

  I didn’t hear a thing that day.

  He thinks I’m a diva! He’s reconsidering. I�
�m a twit.

  I discussed it with Kitty. “Should I message him and say sorry for challenging his ideas?”

  “Absolutely not. What I always think,” she said, “is that when you really, really want something to happen, you should try to behave as naturally as possible, because that sort of heightened, panicky, intense behaviour can really kill things off, even if they were fine before.”

  Wise.

  All of the next day, I heard nothing from Branwell.

  He’s a busy man. I’ll hear soon.

  He’s a busy man, he doesn’t need little know-alls correcting him.

  I got so cranky that I sat at night researching publishing, writers, the stories behind books being published. I decided to Google:

  Famous books which were rejected at first:

  Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

  The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

  The Spy Who Came in From the Cold by John Le Carré

  The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

  Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (told: ‘Stick to teaching’)

  The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling

  Animal Farm by George Orwell

  I was comforted by this. But what’s happened to Branwell?

  29

  Approval

  I sent the finished manuscript back to Branwell, having included most of the changes he’d suggested. A whole week went by and not a word from him.

  He’s had a heart attack. He’s not getting any younger. Maybe I should call the office.

  And then the message came, on the eighth day.

  From: Branwell Thornton

  To: Daisy Delaney

  Subject: Re: Re: Submission 2

  Hi Daisy,

  Really sorry it’s taken me some time to get back to you. We had some problems in the office with regard to London Book Fair. All very tedious. Arguments about book jackets, payment squabbles regarding appearances by some of my authors. Sorted now.

  So, the changes you made. Fantastic! And of course, you are quite right not to include the smutty postcard references I suggested. What do I know? I am not a cool young lady-about-town. If you ever need to take issue with an editor – that is exactly the way to do it. Not too forceful, but measured, considered, respectful.

  So, well done to you. All ship-shape and I have been able to send it out reasonably widely! How thrilling is that? And scary! I’ve listed the houses below and mentioned why I’ve chosen them. There are, of course, other places, but I think this is a good start, and I have based my choices on conversations, so everything crossed, but don’t expect to hear from me for a week or three, okay?

  Kindest Regards,

  Branwell

  List of Houses – French Fancy by Lucy Lovecake

  #

  Lennox-Cooper – big, generally good author care, can get lost in the system though.

  Transworld – very commercial.

  Hodder & Stoughton – talented editors.

  Ebury – this imprint is a relative newcomer to fiction, mostly non, but some nice stuff in that stable . . . take a look.

  Avon Books – this is technically part of HarperCollins, very romance-led.

  Penguin Random House – lots of literary imprints, but some very commercial fiction too.

  Macmillan – commercial as they come!

  Glass & Co – small but good. Lately rave reviews for Cowboys and Engines, and Dancer.

  Bluebells – teeny-tiny, might not be here next year, but check out their amazing one-off bestseller, The Hen Weekend.

  I did my research. It was incredible to me that Branwell would even think of sending my work to these great places. I went to all the charity shops in Prim Hill and gathered up a pile of novels from the various publishing houses mentioned.

  All of these writers would have been unknown and unpublished at one point. Keep believing it can happen.

  There were some glorious books. As for The Hen Weekend, I’d already read and adored it. It was hilarious, sweet, inspiring, all that line dancing and strawberry wine. I decided to look up Bluebells, who had published it.

  Sounds so pretty! I wonder where they are based?

  30

  A Little Slice of Perfect

  Bluebells

  A boutique publishing house in rural Oxfordshire which is the brain child of former rock star Dominic McGann, of The Rockits. Based in a barn in his organic farm, Higgledy Piggledy Hens, he says: “I have plans to publish just two books per year, but to offer a special service to authors, to spot talent, to nurture talent, and to cater for a discerning public. I intend to hit the mass market through social media platforms, but to deliver books which are crafted lovingly in the organic tradition.”

  So far the uproariously funny The Hen Weekend has sold over half a million copies worldwide, and is currently being translated into another five languages. Bluebells is about to release The Nightingale’s Tale, a story of “the beauty of birdsong in the pain of grief”.

  McGann says that each title produced will be hand-picked by him, and that submissions are welcome. All will be read and considered. For those of you wondering how a rock star can suddenly publish books, Dominic spent five years in New York working for Knopf Doubleday before returning to the county of his birth.

  There was a gallery of photographs: a beautiful sandstone manor house. A yard of happy hens. A cool barn-cum-publishing house. Fields of dancing bluebells. The jacket of The Hen Weekend. Some sort of staff party, unclear if Dominic McGann was in the frame.

  Imagine being published by a rock star! Imagine being published by Penguin Random House! Just imagine being published.

  I tried not to think of the whole publishing thing every minute of every day. Tried and failed. I was so obsessed with checking messages that during Sunday lunch in the local pub the weekend after the submissions were made, Kitty confiscated my phone.

  We were sitting on two big leather armchairs by a crackling log fire in the Duke & Duck.

  “I want to talk to you,” Kitty said after my phone was safely tucked up in her bag.

  “About what?”

  “Things.”

  “Do you mean things in general, or one thing in particular?” I asked.

  “The latter.”

  “Oh, is everything okay?”

  “Not really. It’s Charlie.”

  It was always Charlie.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I found him with another girl. From the Hammersmith branch. She was over for training. They were in the stockroom. Canoodling – and more.”

  She was tearful.

  “Oh, Kitty! I’m sorry! The swine!”

  “It’s my own fault. We haven’t been getting on, and I really do want to end it, but I need another job first.”

  “Have you applied for anything?”

  “I started yesterday. I’ve sent off six application forms already,” she announced.

  “That’s great. You’re bound to get something else. You don’t feel like you could just break it off but still work together?”

  She shook her head. “Charlie doesn’t break things off. He just adds another girl to the harem, and gets more stressed and horrid every time he does that.”

  “He was a bit off-ish that day I was in chatting to Michel. Does he always talk to you like that?”

  “Mostly. Sometimes he’s very sweet and charming. That really throws me.”

  “You’ve got to get out of there. The sweet and charming thing is probably just when he wants something.”

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  She went to hand my phone back to me.

  “Keep it. Let’s order lunch,” I said.

  31

  The Photograph

  As we chatted, our roast chicken feasts arrived. Tender meat, covered in delicious light gravy, served with crispy roast potatoes, creamy mash, glazed carrots, honeyed parsnips, green beans and cranberry sauce. I declined the apple crumble and custard, just in case I was called into
the board room of Lennox-Cooper come Tuesday to discuss whether I would accept an advance of £50,000. Didn’t want them to think I was a total splodge.

  That might suggest that all this baking makes you squidgy. Which it does, if you eat it all.

  Two glasses of white and I was starting to feel really relaxed.

  “Thanks for taking my phone,” I said. “I’m feeling happy.”

  We saw some board games on a shelf and had a game of Monopoly. I managed to buy Euston Road.

  “That’s where Hodder & Stoughton have offices! Branwell says I’ll be going there for a meeting!”

  “That would be great!” Kitty exclaimed. “I’m so delighted for you.”

  I suddenly heard myself sounding like my seventeen-year-old self. I’d been approached in Dublin airport once by a model agency “scout”. I called my mother immediately afterwards: “He says I’ll be famous. I just need to pay £500 for a portfolio of photographs, then I’ll get jobs all over London, Europe and America!”

  Was I being delusional? I didn’t think so. Branwell wasn’t some backstreet chancer. He had all sorts of brilliant authors on his books. Yet I did sound like an impressionable ingénue over this.

  Daisy Delaney, you need to toughen up and accept that the world is a big, bad place. And that people sometimes make promises they can’t keep.

  “Shall we read the Sunday papers?” suggested Kitty, spotting them across the lounge after the Monopoly was over.

  “Sure, that sounds good. I haven’t read a proper paper newspaper in a hundred years.”

  A quick look through the tabloids; nothing of interest in there. How could it be that although I hadn’t read a Sunday tabloid in eight years, Eddie Goldsmith’s love life still prevailed? Still deceiving with the nanny, but a new nanny. I picked up one of the Sunday Times supplements, the style one, filled with features about scary sounding beauty treatments, the sort loved by Clara. Laser facelifts! Injectable wrinkle fillers? No thanks! Also, fashion tips galore – lime and violet would be big in the summer, as well as a return to hot pants – and society parties. But no hats at weddings, girls. As I flicked through, there was a section on film reviews and premieres. I turned the page.