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

by Pippa James

  An image startled me. I don’t know why I was so shocked, really. But I was. A spread featuring the premiere of Love on the Rocks. I’d heard of it, vaguely. I knew that Eve Berger was starring. Apparently, the premiere had been held in London the previous week.

  I gulped and felt a lump in my throat.

  Michel Amiel and Eve Berger posed together at the recent showing in The Curzon, Leicester Square. They looked very handsome, and very happy, intertwined, smiling. She so delicate and winsome, he so strong and protective of her, bear paw around her tiny waist.

  I read the blurb under the picture: “France’s hottest couple, celebrity chef Michel Amiel and the exquisitely beautiful film star Eve Berger, stepped out at Leicester Square last Wednesday . . .”

  Last Wednesday? He was busy telling me it was all off just a few days ago. I believed him.

  “You okay, Daisy?” said Kitty.

  I showed her the photograph.

  “It might be an old one?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Well, you think he’s an arse anyway, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. He certainly is.”

  But I was a bit less relaxed after that.

  32

  Country Drive

  A sprinkle of rain turned to driving torrents as Branwell and I travelled north from London to Bluebells in the village of Honeycomb, Oxfordshire. We were in Branwell’s classic dark green Range Rover, with the satnav directing us.

  “This is the proper landscape for this big bad boy,” I said. “Not your city hops.”

  “I suppose.”

  My agent looked utterly dapper: elegant suit, designer shirt, silk tie, handmade shoes. Meanwhile, I had decided on a floral tea dress with a vintage cardigan (almost scruffy but just veered to smart) and pretty blue shoes with a heel. Branwell was normally chatty, but today he was not in the cheeriest of moods. A lot of sighing, tutting, harrumphing. Enraged by a confused sheep crossing the road, furious at being stuck behind a trundling tractor, much mumbling – “Couldn’t they just straighten out these bends and twists? It’s not Roman Britain any more.”

  “Did you bring wellies?” I asked.

  “No. Who takes wellies to a business meeting?”

  “Country folk, country ways.”

  “So, did you bring wellies, Princess Smartypants?”

  “I brought my Joules wellibobs, if you must know,” I said.

  “You think it’s going to be dirty?”

  “It’s in the countryside, and doesn’t the website say it’s on a chicken farm, so, common sense? But then, I’m a farmer’s daughter.”

  “I’m sure it will be a proper set-up with an office which happens to be on a country estate, all very slick. Paved,” he told himself.

  “It says the publishing offices are in a barn. I don’t think it’s going to be like a stately home, you know.”

  “Are you trying to get me to turn back to London? I’m actually allergic to the great outdoors. There’s too much sky and grass. I’m not used to it.”

  He put the wipers on super fast.

  “Well, I think it’s really exciting,” I said, “heading out of the city for a business meeting. It’s the reverse of what usually happens!”

  “Yes, isn’t it very charming, driving through sheets of pelting rain to a place with virtually no publishing history, which might be more suited to wellies and a boiler suit than traditional business dress.”

  “Well, you planted the whole Bluebells idea in my mind . . .”

  “Yes, as a backup. As a plan Z. The thing is, Daisy,” he said, “rural boutique publishers are all well and good, but everything is done on a shoestring. And it’s not as if we don’t have some interest from the big ones. We’ve had great meetings in London. My other clients would kill for such meetings.”

  I looked out of the window, silent for a minute. It was true that we had been at two publisher meetings in London already, which had both gone well. Branwell was feeling confident of an offer to publish from at least one of those, and such was his relationship with certain editors, he clearly knew that was going to happen.

  As I thought, my gaze drifted to the weather outside. It was a pity about the rain, and that it was the tail end of winter, really. Maybe if the sun had been shining and the hedgerows bejewelled with exquisite wildflowers, then he would have enjoyed our jaunt away from the metropolis. We’d reached the chocolate box village of Marsh Riding.

  “To be perfectly honest,” he continued, “we shouldn’t be wasting our time on this. What experience does this guy have? The Hen Weekend might be a one-hit wonder.”

  I found myself immediately defensive. “Dominic McGann was well thought of at Doubleday in New York. And you said that the big publishers were a bunch of hard-up ‘tightwads’ these days – when it comes to untried new things, at least.”

  “Yes, but they are tightwads with clout. With international connections, relationships with retailers, foreign publishers, offices in other cities, heritage. You need for this book to sell in the US as well. In China. Europe. The world. Otherwise, you won’t make money, and that’s that. You do want to make money?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, let’s see this as an indulgence. I don’t want you to seriously consider French Fancy finding a home at Bluebells, okay?”

  “I promise I’ll be realistic.”

  “Pah!” We barrelled along the country roads silently for a few miles.

  “Are we running late?” I said.

  “No, we have plenty of time.”

  “Well, why are you driving so fast?”

  “It’s this car. It wants to go fast.”

  “Relax. Does the countryside always make you nervous?”

  “Sometimes. I don’t have a good track record with animals.”

  33

  Bluebells

  A hand-painted sign dangling from a post by the roadside read: Bluebells. There was a vast, magnificent twig sculpture of a chicken at the double gates. We turned into the driveway and a large notice stated: Higgledy-Piggledy Farm – Free-range chickens & Henhouse eggs here.

  “Hens okay with you?” I said.

  “A chicken farm that publishes books,” mumbled Branwell. “I’ve heard of the scratchings of a demented hen . . .”

  “Well, they did publish The Hen Weekend.”

  “True.”

  “Hope they don’t pay in chicken feed,” I quipped.

  “You’re over-egging it.”

  “Boom. Boom.”

  The twisting driveway seemed very dark on that pouring, wet morning, overhung with bony branches from trees on both sides, but as a semblance of daylight resumed at the far end of the drive, a small neo-classical manor house came into view.

  “This place looks nice,” I said, recognising it from the website.

  “Not bad, I suppose,” Branwell conceded.

  On the steps leading up to the door stood a handsome man with a mop of dark hair, wearing jeans, wellies, and a cosy, patterned sweater. He leant on a big umbrella and, on noticing the car, began to wave.

  “That must be our man,” said Branwell. “In what way is that a suitable outfit for a business meeting, eh?” By which he clearly meant, “Oh damn it, I am ludicrously overdressed.”

  “I suppose that must be Dominic McGann.” In fact, I knew it was, courtesy of Google.

  As we pulled up, he moved out of tableau and took great lurching strides towards us.

  I tried to jump out of the car before it had fully stopped.

  “Whoa, don’t act so keen,” said Branwell.

  After making a second, more sedate exit from the Range Rover, I saw that the man was younger than he seemed in photographs, perhaps about thirty-five.

  “Dominic McGann,” he said, offering his hand. “You must be Daisy. Great to meet you.”

  “How do you do?” I said.

  “Love your book, I must say,” he said, opening the umbrella and holding it over my head.

  Branwell then intr
oduced himself.

  “Very good of you to come all this way to see us in situ,” said Dominic. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Just a shame about this filthy weather,” said Branwell, looking at the great splashes of mud on his car, then coming across to share the cover of the umbrella.

  “Yes, it’s a bit grim. Come inside, and I’ll get some coffee on the go, said Dominic, starting to lead the way towards the big house. Then he turned back round. “Everything that’s important happens in my kitchen, by the way.”

  Branwell rolled his eyes and picked his feet up carefully over the wet ground leading to the house.

  Dominic took us in through the front door, which opened onto a lovely square reception hall with a flagstone floor covered in fine Persian rugs. Lots of interesting paintings hung on the russet walls too. As soon as we stepped inside, a ferocious melee of barking broke out.

  There was no time to explain Branwell’s feelings about animals. Suddenly, four noisy dogs breenged towards us: a shaggy wolfhound, a lithe black lab puppy and two little terriers. It was impossible to know whether to protect upper body parts or feet as they circled us, pack-like, one jumping up, while another went for our ankles.

  “Get them away!” cried Branwell.

  “He doesn’t like animals,” I added.

  “Sorry. Sorry about this,” said Dominic. “I’ll get Tilly to take them away.”

  Branwell let out a yelp, pointing to his foot. There was a puddle around it, and the shoe was soaked too.

  “Oh no!” I said.

  Banger, the young Labrador, was sinking his teeth into the bottom of Branwell’s left trouser leg now.

  Branwell’s eyes almost popped out of his head with a mix of rage and fear. He yanked his leg furiously away from the dog.

  “I’m afraid he thinks it’s a tug-of-war game,” explained Dominic. “Let me see if I can get him to let go.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” said Branwell.

  Dominic bent down to cajole Banger, who eventually did let go, though he took a piece of Saville Row trouser leg with him.

  34

  The Kitchen

  A pretty young woman, Tilly, came to round up the dogs, and we all tried not to stare at Branwell’s partially exposed left leg.

  “Oh my goodness, I am SO sorry,” said Dominic. “I will replace them, of course. Why don’t you borrow something of mine?”

  Branwell considered this for quite some time, in such a way that it seemed likely smoke might soon billow from his ears, then finally agreed.

  Tilly reappeared and ushered me into the cosiest of farmhouse kitchens, complete with a central table made from reclaimed wood. A couple of hens toasted their bottoms by the log-burning stove.

  Tilly seemed very frazzled. She went into the fridge and produced what looked like a baby’s bottle, which she put into the microwave. While it heated, she boiled the kettle for coffee and cut up a large and slightly skew-whiff walnut cake.

  “Poor Dom,” she said.

  “Puppies!” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I recalled bottle-feeding lambs for Dad when he was busy on the farm. I didn’t like to imagine what Branwell would make of the hens on his return, so instead I looked around the bright room. It was fully glazed on side, affording a lovely view of a walled garden about to bloom. I then took in the fabulous assortment of cluttered china, glass and pottery on an old dresser. There wasn’t much chat coming from Tilly.

  “Do you work here full-time?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  “Ah, do you have another job as well?”

  “No.”

  Ah, right. That’ll be that, then.

  A few minutes later, Branwell came sheepishly into the kitchen, now wearing jeans, a cashmere jumper and novelty slippers – in the form of two hedgehogs.

  “In for a penny,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve embraced country life.”

  I stifled some giggles. He sat in an armchair by the stove and while Dominic prepared coffee, I pulled up chairs alongside Branwell. He did a double-take when he noticed the hens.

  “That’s Hattie and Marigold,” said Dominic. “They’re getting on a bit and they like the heat.”

  “Know the feeling,” muttered Branwell.

  Dominic handed us mugs of steaming coffee and slabs of appetising, oozily iced walnut cake in napkins.

  “Well now,” said Branwell after a bite of cake and a sip of rich, black coffee. “Your website says this is a publishing business?”

  “And so it is,” said Dominic with a smirk.

  “Right you are.”

  Dominic clearly did not feel the need to justify himself too much, but he began to explain as a courtesy. “I employ a local manager to run the hen and eggs side of things here. I’ve been in publishing for about eight years. Used to be in a rock band, The Rockits? You might have heard of us?”

  We nodded. Of course we had heard of them.

  “We did okay, not bad really. Not as well as our manager, but we all came out of it with a bit to invest. I worked in New York, in publishing, then I met my wife and bought this place. My circumstances changed quite suddenly a couple of years ago, and I decided to start the publishing company. The Hen Weekend did rather well, and I thought, well maybe I can do more of this . . . You know, it’s sold six hundred thousand copies, and we’re having to reprint every week.”

  Branwell was softening. “Yes, safe to say I probably wouldn’t be sitting here in hedgehog slippers if it wasn’t for The Hen Weekend,” he said. “I can see you understand our demographic and that’s very important. But what if Hen Weekend was a fluke? It does happen. Like the one-hit band. Nobody knows how it was done or how to do it again?”

  “Well, I must defend myself there,” said Dominic, retaining his cool charm but stepping up a gear in assertiveness. “We put a great deal of thought into the marketing of that book. Our thinking was that it would appeal to the market slightly older than its protagonists, and we were dead right. The idea that a bride-to-be plans a hen weekend based round looking after hens, and they stumble upon a stash of strawberry wine and dance in the moonlight, telling stories and doing dares. We knew it would appeal to the organic market, but it’s also commercial enough to appeal to city girls looking for something escapist. It wasn’t an accidental success by any means, I can assure you.”

  Branwell listened intently.

  Dominic continued. “Publishing is a changing industry and bears no resemblance to how it once was. It’s all about social media, strategic reviews, celebrity reviews, blogs, vlogs, below-the-line marketing. I know everything about that. I was a specialist in that in New York.”

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  “Look, Dominic,” said Branwell. “That all sounds very well and good. But this place seems pretty damned chaotic. I’m here to protect my client, advise her wisely. She has a great book here. Interest elsewhere. What team do you have in place to handle it?”

  “Most of it is outsourced. The designs and layouts are done by freelancers, all exchanged by e-mail. There’s Tilly. She’s going to Oxford to read English. She does a bit of reading and helps me in general. And an editor called Barbara works Tuesdays and Thursdays. I do all the social media stuff. I plan to expand.”

  It was clearly an impassioned plea, but even I was starting to wonder about the set-up. There was something about Tilly I didn’t like. She’d disappeared, thank goodness, because she was putting me off.

  We chatted on a while, long enough for me to think that Branwell saw something worthwhile in the meeting. Or is he just enjoying that second slice of walnut cake?

  Dominic was very impressive on technology, and Branwell soaked up information about algorithms as I busily wrote notes on my iPad.

  I looked up and caught sight of Tilly, looking frantic in the kitchen doorway.

  “Oh, Dominic, look. I think Tilly needs you,” I said.

  He went to see her, and we heard them chatting in hushed tones. F
inally, Dominic said, “Okay, I’ll come and get her.”

  “Not another bloody dog!” warned Branwell.

  “No, not a dog,” said Dominic. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  He returned quickly, with his arms full. Of a beautiful little girl, perhaps about two years old.

  “You’re on babysitting duty today, then?” said Branwell.

  “Every day, actually.”

  “Ah, that must be tough,” said Branwell.

  “Well, my wife didn’t make it through the birth, I’m afraid. Pre-eclampsia.”

  “Very sorry to hear that!” said Branwell, and I mumbled similar condolences.

  How absolutely awful.

  The baby babbled cutely.

  “So, this is Minty,” he said.

  I went across to coo, and even Branwell was smitten. Minty had vast blue eyes, with long, dark lashes and blonde curls. She turned her perfect little doll’s face towards us, breaking into a pearl-toothed smile.

  We could have looked at her all day, and we had a thousand questions and commiserations we would have liked to offer, of course. But it was time to talk about the creative stuff. Tilly took Minty away to the playroom.

  35

  The Project

  I hadn’t said much, but the spotlight turned to me now. “So, Daisy,” said Dominic. “Love the book. What made you think of it?”

  I blushed. “Just one of those ideas that feels as if you’ve always had it. But, really, I have to thank Branwell for getting it in shape.”

  Branwell stepped in. “No, it arrived as a great proposition, if you’ll pardon the unfortunate expression!”

  It was that sort of book – made people giggle and blush.

  We chatted over Dominic’s vision for launching the “series”.

  Wow, he already sees it as a series!

  “What marketing plans do you have?” asked Branwell in a manner which suggested he expected none.