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

by Pippa James

  Dominic produced three sheets of A3 paper from the kitchen table, printed with flow charts of his marketing ideas.

  “We want to really hype up the mystery of Lucy Lovecake. I think she should remain unknown for about six months into publication. Get everyone talking about the book, and wondering who wrote it. THEN reveal the whole intriguing persona of Daisy Delaney – and I think it’s a great backstory, you know, working in the lingerie store, helping your friend with the baking for the tea shop. It’s really charming. That stuff Branwell put in the submission e-mail. People are going to love it. Makes ordinary people think they are sitting on their own solutions. We would do lots of publicity photography of Daisy before launch, but hold it all back until we want to explode!”

  “Sounds great!” I said.

  Branwell nodded.

  Dominic continued. “I thought we’d run a blog linked to three main beauty, baking and fashion blogs in the run-up to launch to create the right fan base,” he said. “Then, we’ll run cake-making demos at bookshops across the country in the week of launch, as well as—”

  “Can I just stop you there,” Branwell interjected. “What if I said to you that one of the bigger publishers is offering to do posters in all the tube stations – can you match that sort of campaign?”

  “Well, that’s straight advertising, normally associated with an established brand,” said Dominic. “We’d be more enterprising. For example, we’d approach famous lingerie brands, like Victoria’s Secret, and even department stores, such as Harrods, and get them to promote the book. We’d focus on daytime TV interviews, competitions . . .”

  Branwell couldn’t argue with Dominic’s homework. He’d really thought it through.

  “What we should do,” said Dominic, “is to have a pretty cartoon drawing done of ‘Lucy Lovecake’. A bit like you, Daisy, but not so much as you’d know. We can start the branding early by using that image across social media. If I can offer you a decent enough advance, I’d like you to consider working almost full-time on this project before anyone even knows it exists.”

  I’ll have to see what’s best for Clara, especially in her predicament.

  “I’d need to consider that,” I said. “My employer is so good to me. I couldn’t leave her in the lurch. Nor could I demand my job back if this all flops.”

  “Well, yes. Think it through. Maybe you could work in there three days instead of five?” Dominic suggested.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Well, a lot to think about,” said Branwell.

  We could hear Minty becoming fractious in the playroom.

  “Perhaps we should get going,” I suggested.

  “Well, I hope you’ve heard enough to convince you about how badly we want to do this?” Dominic asked.

  “It’s been most enlightening,” admitted Branwell, as I nodded in agreement.

  “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon,” I added.

  Dominic was mortified about Branwell’s suit, offering the part demolished trousers on a coat hanger as we left.

  Dominic got out his chequebook too.

  “That looks like a very expensive suit. How much do you think it would be to replace the trousers? Would £500 be fair?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of accepting it,” said Branwell. “All part of the wear and tear of the job!”

  They shook hands firmly.

  We didn’t say much on the journey home. Branwell offered the odd thought, such as, “Very nice little girl. Damn shame” and “Talks a good game, that fellow, I’ll give him that.”

  I was lost in my thoughts. Dominic McGann was deliciously handsome and impossibly cool.

  Some days, someone comes into your life. Someone who is going to play a big part in that life, and you could never have predicted it. Today is such a day.

  36

  The Offers

  Within the next two weeks, two full letters of offer to publish French Fancy came through. They came to me via e-mail at once, from Branwell. I could see from the dates that the offer from Bluebells had arrived much sooner than the Lennox-Cooper offer, but he had waited for the latter before presenting me with Dominic’s. The first to ping into my inbox as a forward was from Lennox-Cooper.

  From: Branwell Thornton

  To: Daisy Delaney

  Subject: Fwd: French Fancy

  Dear Branwell,

  During a recent acquisitions meeting, the entire team here agreed that we would like to publish French Fancy in the spring of next year. In exchange for worldwide literary and all associated ancillary rights, we offer an advance of £10,500 on royalties at 8%, advance to be paid in equal amounts on signing of contract, on receipt of approved text, and on publication. Thereafter, royalties would be paid in March and September. We would reserve the right of first refusal to publish all associated books.

  We look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mary McCarthy

  Publishing Director

  I had no experience but I thought that was a lot to ask for in exchange for £10,500 and 8%. The offer from Bluebells was a scanned version of a proper, old-fashioned letter.

  The Bluebell Press

  Honeycomb

  Oxfordshire

  OX1 5PG

  23rd March

  Dear Branwell and Daisy,

  It was my great pleasure to have your company the other day, and please allow me to apologise for the mayhem. It is impossible to express how much we would like to publish this book, and we can only hope that you give us that chance. We are prepared to dig deep, and the terms of my offer are outlined below.

  We would plan to publish within four months of signing, and would pay an upfront advance of £18,000, payable in one tranche on signing. We would pay royalties at 9%, payable quarterly.

  We would also offer unlimited resources for publicity and marketing campaigns, which, as suggested at the meeting, should begin with all haste, in establishing the online persona of Lucy Lovecake.

  Please do not hesitate to get in touch with any questions, or indeed suggestions.

  We would work closely with Daisy, seeing her as a key asset in the campaign to make this book widely known and loved.

  Yours,

  Dominic McGann

  I knew that Branwell had ended up really liking Dominic, but that didn’t mean he wanted me to be published by him.

  “It’s very high risk, Daisy,” he said when I called him.

  “The whole thing is high risk, Branwell. Look at The Hen Weekend. It has outsold lots of contemporary fiction titles released by Lennox-Cooper. And I bet they turned it down.” I had done some research. “White Wedding only sold 130,000 copies, according to The Times Bestseller List. And that was hailed as the next big thing.”

  “True. But . . .”

  “But, what? He’s offering more money. In one tranche. Higher royalties. What’s to dispute?” I persisted.

  “I’ve told you before. Bigger-picture things. Worldwide things. Publishing is not a short-termist occupation. What if Bluebells doesn’t even exist next year? Have you thought of that? Your book might never even get to market.”

  Good point. It had no heritage or security. I had thought of that.

  “Yes, but if that happened, we’d be £18,000 up and could then look elsewhere again,” I said.

  “Ha! In theory. But the moment will pass where other places are interested in your book. You can’t turn them down and then go back six months later, cap in hand. They might have got hold of something similar by then. They can’t help themselves like that. If they lose out on something they wanted, they just create something samey in-house in their own time, claiming originality and trying to get it to the shelves before yours. They are scurrilous, I can assure you, but all with a nice Oxford graduate veneer of gentility.”

  That did sound awful. Imagine if my idea is passed off as their own? But surely we could prove they’d seen it on a certain date?

  No wonder Michel Amiel h
as more worries, not less, at the top of the tree.

  “But there’s another plus point to what Dominic is offering,” I continued. “He wants to publish sooner than Lennox-Cooper. I think, in a way, he can give more to the project than the big house because he has fewer projects on the table, less to distract him. That’s what he says on his website, about taking care of new authors. Having met him, I do believe that. And I don’t think he looked as if he’s about to go bankrupt, do you?”

  “Well, no. But from where I was sitting, he already has far too much on his table, Daisy. Maybe not book projects, but other things.”

  “I understand, Branwell. But you know, as my mother often says, there are times in life when you have to trust your inner voice, not just straight facts.”

  “Well, I’ve given you my professional opinion. It’s your choice, my dear. I beg you to at least sleep on it,” Branwell requested.

  “Thank you. I will. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, no rush.”

  “Okay, bye for now.”

  “Bye, Daisy. Speak soon. I’m off to get fitted for a new suit!”

  I felt disrespectful for not automatically following Branwell’s direction, but I badly wanted to work with Dominic McGann. I tossed and turned over the dilemma for the next two nights. Only Kitty knew. And she, bless her, didn’t say, “It’s a nice problem to have,” which is what I knew a majority of people would have said to me.

  37

  The Decision

  Bluebells and all things associated with it had made a huge impression on me, and I couldn’t shift the feeling that they would do the best job with my book. I kept recalling a phrase from the meeting at Lennox-Cooper: “Once we’ve knocked your text into shape in-house, we’ll get a better idea of jacket looks,” they’d said. Well, obviously some editing would be required, I knew that. But “knocking” sounded quite harsh, hammer-like.

  I wasn’t going to be persuaded, and I told Branwell as much.

  “Ah well,” he sighed. “I’ll let Dominic know.”

  “I know this is the right thing.”

  Silence.

  It bloody better be the right thing.

  Dominic called me a day or two later.

  “Daisy, thanks for this chance. I will make this book work, I promise. We’ll create a Lucy Lovecake blog, Twitter account, Instagram feed, Pinterest board – the lot. We’ll get the whole world talking about it from my kitchen table.”

  “I can’t wait. Just tell me when to get going with the Lucy Lovecake blogs. Do you think she should be very contemporary, or a bit of 1950s deb, or what?”

  “I think quite modern, lady-like but a bit naughty, obviously.”

  “Yes, of course. Playful.”

  “Yes, very playful. Let me strategise this and get back to you with a thought-out plan. But I have done one thing already since Branwell called me with the good news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I had been thinking. You have no real formal training in baking. And when your true identity is revealed after six months or so, people will wonder if you are trained, why you are such a voice of authority. So, with that in mind, I’ve booked you on a baking course, just to give you some confidence and to be sure you’re using the correct terminology.”

  “Good idea! Thank you. I was feeling a bit nervous about some of the recipes,” I confessed.

  “Yes, I can imagine. I found a place in your postcode area. The French Cookery School? Gets good reviews. In fact, it’s owned by Michel Amiel, no less! He’s started ordering chickens and eggs from us, actually.”

  A flutter of heartbeats, then: “Wow, I’ve heard it’s great. And I pass it every day. When do I start?”

  “Next Saturday, if that’s okay. I thought Saturdays would let you sort things out at the shop. We didn’t quite establish if you’ll be keeping on your day job full-time, but I know you don’t want to let your boss down. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, cool. Thank you so much. I know these courses don’t come cheap,” I said.

  “It’s the least I can do. I want you to feel confident that you’ve made the right choice.”

  When I put the phone down, I realised the enormity of the situation. I, Daisy Delaney, of no particular significance in the universe, except to my mother and father (although Dad had started saying, “Daisy Who?” when I called of late), was going to be a published author by Christmas. It was everything I had decided in the depths of New Year hell just a few months before. But it was hard to absorb, because I had decided all this every new year for the last five years. Why had it happened now?

  Daisy, do not question the magic. Accept it.

  38

  Bakery (of) Course

  The next few days passed in a blur of extreme excitement. When I told Branwell about the bakery course, he said, “Well, credit where it’s due. That’s a bloody good idea.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s at Michel’s place.”

  Laughter. “You’re destined to keep bumping into him. I take it you’re in regular contact with him?”

  I couldn’t tell Branwell that Michel had been the inspiration for the book, or that I had been furious to see him out and about with Eve Berger.

  “No, not exactly,” I said.

  “Maybe that’s just as well, because if your bakery book goes well, he’s likely to be ungracious about that. You saw how jealous he was at the awards, the abuse he hurled at Rory B? He can’t stand competition. He’s very childish that way.”

  “Branwell, it’s so sweet of you to even imagine that I could be a threat to Michel Amiel. That is not even in my mind!”

  “Aim high, Daisy,” advised Branwell.

  I had to tell Clara I wanted to go down to three days.

  “I knew you were going to be famous. You won’t forget me, will you?”

  “Don’t be so daft,” I said. “If you’d like me to do more hours, just say.”

  “Daisy, if I’m going to be completely honest, this has all turned out rather well. I’m not sure that I can afford a full-time salary for you, and I need to put in more hours myself. I’ve promised to pay back the bank loan in eighteen months, so reducing your hours is a blessing.”

  I was so relieved.

  I called home to get the reaction. “A dating book, who will want to read that?” Mother had said.

  To which I replied: “Not everyone goes in for arranged marriages, Mummy.”

  “Listen here, madam, your daddy and I fell in love, fair and square.” You caught her in other moods, and she would tell you that my two grandpas had offered their offspring to one another in wedlock as a bet at the races.

  Kitty and I ate out at Benedict’s on the high street on the Friday night before I started on the bakery course – and guess who was in there? The new James Bond! Our number six! Amazingly, I wasn’t quite that star-struck. He was a lot less ripped than I expected. The problem was, he looked like a perfectly normal human being. And he looked so in love with his wife.

  “Daisy, you are glowing. I’ve never seen you so happy,” said Kitty.

  “Kitty, I think this might be the happiest I will ever be. Nothing could be as sweet as being lifted out of a relentless routine and given fresh hope. I very much doubt even the day of receiving the first book or the moment of publication will be as magnificent as this.”

  “Does all of this sweetness have anything to do with Dominic McGann?”

  “Not really. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  I realised that until the bakery course had come up, I’d hardly thought about Michel Amiel since the publishing capers had begun.

  Hurrah, he means nothing to me.

  39

  Tosser

  I was excited about the first Saturday baking class, and though still unimpressed with Michel for telling lies about his relationship with Eve, it didn’t really affect me or my feelings about the course. He was a rat. I’d known that from the start. We’d never even kissed. He was insignificant.

/>   If I see him, I will be casually aloof. “Oh, hi. Of course, I forgot. This is your place, right? I’m just trying out one of your bakery courses . . . my new boyfriend loves cakes . . .”

  I hoped he wouldn’t get the idea that I wanted to get access to him. Nothing could be further from the truth, but how could I go to a different cookery school without alarming Dominic?

  Daisy, how do you get in these pickles from such a boring start point?

  I saw from the schedule that we’d be starting with choux pastry, which seemed an ambitious thing to kick off with. I’d made profiteroles a few times, but they’d been nothing special, so I was looking forward to perfecting my choux.

  On the Saturday morning, fifteen of us – God, he’s raking it in! – gathered in the reception area of the cookery school, filling out forms, then awaiting further instructions.

  A lady by the name of Catherine arrived. According to her, she was the choux queen. “And I don’t mean Manolo Blahniks!” She guffawed at her own well-heeled joke. (We can all play at that game, Catherine).

  This could be a long morning.

  Catherine had a plummy voice, a horsey laugh, and an ego the size of Primrose Hill, but she turned out to be quite engaging, in a failed actress sort of way. I loved her dotty Fifties dress in red and white, shoulder-length blonde hair, flicking out as it did, and her cute ankle-strap shoes in cherry red patent leather.

  The kitchen was, I must admit, totally fab. We all had a work-station fitted out in powder blue, complete with utensils (from the Chez Amiel range, mais bien sur), two fancy ovens, a hob, grill, lots of mixing bowls, saucepans and a double Belfast sink, as well as a dinky little fridge.

  “Isn’t this cool?” said Jessica, who was working next to me. She was a mother of two who had been, apparently, treated to this course by her husband, Ted, who was very senior at the BBC.