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

by Pippa James

  Once ready, I reported to the kitchen where a local lady called Diane Medcalf was in charge, brandishing long lists of tasks and an inventory of items.

  “Hi, I’m Daisy, a friend of Dominic’s from London. What would you like me to do?” I asked.

  She looked at me as if “get out of the way” was on her lips, but eventually she said, “You could start taking these salads out to the tables under the green-striped awning. Keep them covered, and be sure the labels of what they are stay with them!”

  “No problem!”

  I took vast bowls of exotic salads out to the food tables. Broadbean, barley and mint. Watermelon and feta with chickpeas and lemon dressing. Potato, broccoli and goat’s cheese with sour cream and pine nuts. Sweet potato with crisp noodles and chili sauce. Courgette, brown rice, radish and balsamic dressing. Avocado, arugula, sweet peppers and chicken.

  They all looked mouth-wateringly good, and Diane, although a tough leader, was certainly running a dream team. As I got to the food area, the sizzle of lamb steaks and the aroma of wild boar sausages filled the air. Under the neighbouring gazebo the bar team got to work, mixing vast bowls of summer punch and dumping bottles of beer in enormous buckets of ice.

  I was returning to the kitchen when I heard my name being called.

  “Daisy! Daisy Delaney!”

  It was an unmistakable voice.

  It took me a few moments to process.

  What on earth is Michel Amiel doing here at Bluebells?

  I swung round. Michel and his mother were approaching.

  “Well, what a surprise!” I said.

  How are you going to handle this? Why are they here? They can’t find out about the book!

  “Just as big a surprise for us,” said Michel, kissing my cheeks.

  “You know Dominic?” I said.

  “This farm supplies Brasserie Rose with chicken and eggs. They are superbe!” said Michel.

  “Of course!”

  “And what brings you here?” asked Michel.

  “He’s just a friend of mine.”

  “From his rock days?” Michel pressed for more details.

  “Erm, no, a bit more recent than that,” I said.

  Michel winked. “A customer in your shop?”

  “No!” I protested.

  “Ah, so discreet.”

  Phew! I’ll just go with the idea that I’m protecting customer confidentiality!

  “Well, I have a couple of things to bring out from the kitchen,” I said. “Why don’t we meet up by the riverbank in a while?”

  “Sure. We’re going to have some of this delicious-looking food,” said Michel.

  “So, you like British food now?”

  “I’m starting to like a lot of British things,” said Michel.

  I blushed. “See you soon then.”

  “Yes. And also, nice hot pants, Delaney,” said Michel.

  I blushed again and ran up the path to the kitchen.

  45

  The Dance Move

  By the time I’d finished all my tasks for Diane, the line dancing in the barn had apparently begun.

  I’d had a nice chat with the Amiels, who were sitting on a bale of straw outside, enjoying the band, with cocktails in hand, but Dominic came to collect me for dancing.

  “Dancing?” said Michel. “I like the sound of that.”

  “You are very welcome to join us,” said Dominic, adding, “although, coffee and puddings are being served in the drawing room, if that appeals?”

  Madame liked the sound of the latter, so Michel took her indoors, saying he’d be back soon for a line dancing lesson.

  “Has to be easier than YMCA?” asked Michel.

  “Don’t think so!” I said, laughing.

  As Dominic and I walked to the barn, he asked a bit about Michel.

  “How funny that you two should come all the way out to Oxfordshire and know each other from Prim Hill!” he remarked.

  “Yes. Ever since I met him at a party in January, I keep bumping into him.”

  “He probably makes sure you keep meeting!” said Dominic.

  “I doubt that,” I said.

  Dominic didn’t look convinced.

  Pausing near the barn’s entrance, Dominic then studied me. He seemed nervous, but determined. “Daisy” he said, “thanks for coming over today. I really appreciate it. It’s lovely to have you here.” Before I knew it, he had put his arm around my shoulder.

  “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, marvelling at the warmth of his body and not sure how to respond.

  “Well, it’s not over yet.”

  At the doorway stood a supermodel in a silver dress and high heels, wearing lots of make-up.

  “That girl is looking at you oddly,” I said.

  “‘That girl’,” he responded, “is Tilly by night.”

  So, she’s not babysitting then.

  * * *

  We all started on the summer punch, which was a deceptively innocent cocktail of vodka and raspberries on ice, with a splash of cloudy lemonade and a dash of brandy – this all according to the barman, occasional tractor driver Fred Gillies.

  “Oh, this is lovely stuff, Dominic,” I said.

  “I’m going to stick to the soft stuff, in case anything gets out of hand later,” he said. “Has been known, and it is my gaff. Plus, I’ve got Minty to think of. She might not settle with this din.”

  “Yes, good point. I won’t go too crazy myself. Did Tilly put her to bed?”

  “No, Tilly is very much off duty. I organised another babysitter. Tilly refused.”

  Maybe her main concern is not so much Minty.

  He checked his phone for messages – all clear – but he decided to check on Minty anyway. She was in the care of Diane Medcalf’s equally officious sister, Elaine Sanders.

  “A great pair if you need to get anything done, not so great if you want to get a word in,” said Dominic, as he headed off for the main house.

  “See you soon!” I called, thinking I might have some supper so that the punch didn’t make me too idiotic.

  Out in the food gazebo, I could see that Michel was holding court with some local women who recognised him. I nibbled on some salads and chatted to a nice couple, Ann and Dave, who apparently owned the neighbouring farm. But when the band struck up with Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”, which they said was expressly for a jiving competition, Michel came over like a shot.

  “I’m good at jiving!” he said.

  “You totally sure about that?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t need to be asked twice,” said Ann, nudging me towards Michel in such a way that I fell forward into his arms.

  As we walked in the direction of the music, Michel confessed to some YouTube tuition in dancing. “One must be convincing in matters of the feet. That is the first step to dance success.”

  He’s been learning to dance. That is cute.

  We arrived at the dance floor. “Okay, start with the footwork,” I said, “then I’m going to twirl under your arm. Let’s see how that goes.”

  We bounced around quite well with some almost together moves. Okay, we weren’t going to win the contest, but we weren’t doing too badly. Towards the end, Michel decided I was going to jump up on his hips, as lots of the other couples were doing that.

  “Okay, but I’ll need a bigger run-up,” I said.

  “Right, I’ll move back,” Michel agreed.

  He took several steps back, then a few more, as he got ready for me to lunge into his arms and straddle his hips.

  “I’m ready!” he called.

  As I started to propel towards him, he stepped back again, but there was a bale of straw behind him and he fell back over it, doing a dramatic backflip. He disappeared over the bale.

  Oh no!

  I ran towards the bale and dived onto it, finding him lying on his back on the other side, motionless and with his eyes closed.

  “Michel! Michel! Are you okay?”

  No response.


  “Oh no! Help!”

  I climbed off the bale to get closer to him, trying desperately to remember how to do first aid.

  I wonder if he’s breathing?

  A crowd circled round us as I got closer to him, trying to see if his chest was rising and falling.

  How do you give the kiss of life?

  As my face hovered over his and I loosened his collar, he grabbed me and I fell on top of him and folded his arms round me, laughing.

  “You pig!” I yelled. “You had me so worried. That’s just not funny!”

  He laughed wildly, tickling me as I tried to get away.

  When I finally broke free, I jumped up and started to run, with Michel giving chase. It felt as if everyone was watching, so I ran out to the courtyard, where I finally ran out of puff.

  I realised I was quite tipsy.

  “Could you walk the line?” he asked.

  “Yes, sure I could walk the line,” I insisted.

  “Well, walk it.”

  “What line?” I stepped forward by a few paces, trying to walk straight, but going hopelessly off course.

  “Terrible!” he declared. “Let’s go back in for some more dancing. This time, try not to jump on top of me.”

  I slapped his arm playfully.

  When we went back in to dance, the band was playing a slow tune. Dominic and Tilly were dancing very intimately. It surprised me. Bothered me, even. Yet there I was, hand in hand with Michel Amiel.

  As Michel and I began to dance, Dominic looked furtively across. I smiled, but he looked away.

  46

  On Writing a Book

  Writing a book. The sweetest, hardest thing. My English teacher used to say that a good book is to be enjoyed like a good cake: “You can either enjoy it as a whole and think not of how it was made, or make it your job to work out what the ingredients are. Once blended and bonded, it is hard to identify the individual parts. But I believe you will not understand its deliciousness until you understand what is in it.”

  But even when I sat staring at a fresh white screen, reading the words “Chapter Fourteen” (when twenty had been promised), I did not flinch from the task. Because this book was my destiny, my route to creative and financial freedom. I knew it. I could feel it. That knowledge was not in my imagination, it was in my bones, on my e-mails.

  During the weeks which led us into late spring, I baked endlessly, making notes, taking advice from Kitty, asking Catherine for tips during Saturday morning lessons. I tried not to seem too academic about it all at the cookery school because I thought that might draw attention to myself. Jessica and I got to know one another better. One day soon after her purchases at Voluptas, she came into class, beaming and flushed.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Let’s just say I’m back on his radar.” She grinned girlishly, blushing.

  47

  Arrested Development

  For the next few weeks, Dominic and I exchanged lots of e-mails about the blogs and social media posts by Lucy Lovecake. He was also busy working with an artist for drawings for the books, and a designer to capture a look – somewhere between retro and racy. And we already had an image of Lucy Lovecake for badging on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram.

  One Saturday in late spring I arrived at my Saturday class (mocha layer cake with vanilla cream) to find Jessica and a few of the others in a team huddle.

  “Is this a private members’ club?” I asked.

  “No, come and hear this!” said Jessica, beckoning me over.

  “Sounds like good gossip?” I said.

  “Witnessed,” said Maura, a rather self-satisfied woman. “So, technically not gossip. Fact.”

  “Well, spill it,” I said, joining them, getting curious now.

  “Wait for this. You will never believe it,” said Jessica.

  I started to feel uneasy.

  Maura leant forward. “Michel Amiel left London by police escort yesterday evening!”

  I took a breath.

  “Really?” I said. “Are you sure? Maybe there’s an explanation?”

  Maura fiddled on her phone. “There’s no doubt. The person who took this photograph – who was on the same flight out of Heathrow – heard everything.” She brandished her phone.

  I looked at the image on the screen.

  He was sandwiched between two British police officers, as though he were some risk to the wider community.

  Oh, poor Michel! He looks so distressed. This is terrible!

  There had to be a terrible mix-up.

  How dare they treat him like this?

  “Do you know what it’s about?” I asked, working hard on my composure and impartiality.

  “Yes, and no. The word is there is a court case in Paris – and that it involves Eve Berger! It’s about money. What else?”

  “Oh dear. Sounds really messy!” I said.

  “Everyone is saying he’s only in London because he’s not welcome in Paris,” said Jessica.

  I hadn’t really liked the women drooling over him, but I liked them mauling him even less. I felt I needed some time to process this surprising news, but Catherine came bouncing in at that moment, obviously under instruction for “business as usual”.

  The lesson was under way within seconds, as she began to demonstrate how to make a deep, layered mocha sponge cake in the style of a gateau.

  Once back at my station, cracking eggs mindlessly, I kept thinking about how Michel must be feeling.

  I wish I could do something to help.

  “Why are you cracking all six eggs, Daisy?” I heard Jessica speak, but just smiled absently.

  Was he being held in a cell? That was an unbearable thought. As I was beating together the eggs and sugar, I felt myself getting angry with him. You are a fool, Michel. Why do you have this self-destruct button? All of your talent is going to be wasted.

  I was curious about how Eve fitted into the story. As soon as I got home (with a very wonky mocha gateau in my cake box) I googled the story. Maura had been right:

  SCANDAL PRONE FRENCH CHEF IN THE SOUP AGAIN

  Scandal has once again engulfed controversial French chef Michel Amiel. He has been ordered back to Paris by the French authorities amidst claims that he must pay €3 million to his former lover, Eve Berger, or face imprisonment. This payment, it is alleged, is due in respect of royalties for a cookery book which she wrote for him while he was suffering from depression. Lawyers acting for Ms Berger claim she has documented evidence of the work she completed and an informal letter of his intent to pay her 70% of his total earnings in respect of the book. Lawyers acting for M. Amiel say the book is his least successful and her estimation of earnings are “over-egged”.

  Michel Amiel was detained in police custody last night following allegations of failure to make payments in accordance with a court order. It is believed that his former girlfriend alerted police to the non-payment, after the breakdown of their six-year relationship earlier this year.

  Amiel’s manager, Auguste Flaubert, said: “The allegations are baseless. Ms Berger did no more than offer occasional suggestions on recipes. The book is his own work. We expect Michel to be released shortly without further enquiries.”

  Monsieur Amiel’s London house in Primrose Hill was in darkness this evening, although it is believed that his elderly mother, Rose Amiel, might still be residing there alone.

  The troubled chef is no stranger to brushes with the law. He has been before a judge on several occasions, mainly regarding breeches of the peace and wild outbursts against photographers. Lawyers acting for the chef said: “This is a matter of petty revenge, not a matter for the judicial system.”

  Miss Berger was unavailable for comment.

  I thought about Michel all day. I could see that Eve possibly had worked on the last book – because from what I could gather, it was different and not as passionate as the rest.

  I don’t know if it was ever since I’d “rescued” him at the book awards, but I felt t
hat he appealed to my superhero side. But that wasn’t a side I was especially keen to develop.

  Dominic called me on the Saturday evening to chat over some blog ideas I’d sent relating to types of baking for first dates. He recounted some stories of his dating disasters – such as being made to wear a plastic bib in a lobster bar – and he brought up the subject of Michel.

  “Did you hear about our mutual friend?” he asked.

  “Yes, at the cookery school this morning,” I said.

  “Of course. Your baking course,” said Dominic. “He’ll bounce back.”

  “Yes, but I feel like getting in touch. To offer some friendly support. He’s always such a target, with him being so successful.”

  “I wouldn’t get in touch. No way, Daisy. Maybe Eve is quite right. He has something of a reputation. By all accounts, a very difficult man. Have you ever heard about his previous girlfriend? The one before Eve.”

  “No, who was she?”

  “Jennifer Lewes. She claims he caused her to have a nervous breakdown. He had to pay her off.”

  “Really? Oh dear, there’s a bit of a pattern to him, isn’t there?” I conceded.

  “Well, you can look at it in one of two ways. Either he is a soft target or he is a bit of a monster,” said Dominic.

  “Or a third possibility is that women just can’t stand it when he moves on?” I suggested. Silence at the other end.

  I thought of Michel’s honesty in the little kitchen in my flat. And in the café. Then in his own kitchen with his mother there.

  “From what I know of him,” I continued, “there is a sort of innocence to him.”

  Dominic sighed. “Oh, Daisy! You’re too nice. Don’t get close to him. You absolutely can’t mention the book to him. You do realise that if your book sells well, you are going to become his number one enemy? He hates competition.”

  “No!” I laughed. “A book about dating with a few recipes is hardly going to be a threat to a world-renowned classically trained French cordon bleu chef.”

  My fun little book is not even a micro threat to Michel! Dominic is crazy.