by Pippa James
“So I won’t see you for a while.” I knew I sounded wistful.
“No,” he confirmed.
“Who will look after your London businesses?” I asked.
“I have some good managers there. They will report to me every day.”
“That’s good. Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I offered.
“Thank you. What will you do back in London? Sew ribbons onto bras on your velvet chair?”
“Mostly,” I lied.
“Do you never want to do more than that?”
“Yes, of course.”
Don’t mention the book, Daisy. You mustn’t.
“What sorts of things?” It was as if he knew I had a secret life.
“Designing my own range of lingerie, perhaps,” I ventured.
“Ah, good idea. Good luck with that!”
“Thank you. I must freshen up,” I said. “The cab to the airport . . .”
“Your visit has meant a lot to me. Let me pay for your flight.”
“Your mother did that already,” I said.
“Ah, good.”
When the cab arrived, I kissed his cheek gently.
“Could you leave me your e-mail address?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” I scribbled it down and handed it to him.
As I flew out of Charles de Gaulle, I thought about the conversation on the Pont de l’Archeveche.
However troubled he is, I will always remember that look of unchecked tenderness.
* * *
Back at the flat, there was no sign of Kitty.
Surely not still working?
I sent a text to track her, then logged into social media to see what was going on there with Lucy Lovecake’s various Dating Tips accounts. It was time for another blog to be released, shared on all platforms.
When I went to the Lucy Lovecake home page on Twitter, I did a double take as my eye caught sight of this: FOLLOWERS 3254.
Last count, Lucy Lovecake had about 350 followers. Could there be some mistake?
But it was right. And what’s more, as I stared dumbly at the figure, it went up in front of my eyes.
3255. 3256. 3257.
How did this happen?
I went into the FOLLOWERS list to see who was there.
Lots of young girls, mature ladies, dating sites, men of all ages, beauty bloggers, singles holiday companies, celebrities from reality shows. A staggering diversity of followers. Fluttering inside, I lifted my mobile phone to find Dominic’s number.
Ah, a message from Kitty: Hope Paris all okay. Still working, can’t get away as Millie didn’t turn up. Been here since 7am! X
I looked at the time on my phone. 8pm! Sunday night.
Right, that’s it!
50
Empowered
I put on my coat and stormed round to Prim & Proper. When I looked in on her, Kitty was mopping the floor. She was pale and exhausted.
And we think Cinderella is a notional, outmoded folktale?
I didn’t have much money, but what I had from Dominic would do us both for a while, if we were careful. Anyway, I could do with someone to manage the social media accounts while I got on with writing the book.
I went inside.
“Daisy!” she said, eyes lighting up. “You’re back! It’s great to see you. How was it?”
“Hi, Kitty! I’ll tell you all about it. Where’s Charlie?”
“He’s doing accounts in the office,” she said. “Why?”
“I’ve got something to tell him,” I told her.
“Oh, Daisy! Don’t go and say something crazy. He’s going to make sure I never get employed anywhere else. We know that.”
“Kitty, this is the twenty-first century, not Victorian Britain,” I said.
“What are you going to say?” she asked anxiously.
“Well, if this is acceptable to you, I want you to work with me on the Lucy Lovecake blogs, and you can look for something else after you’ve had a bit of a rest. I can afford to pay you for a couple of months.”
Kitty looked stunned.
“You do want out of here, don’t you, Kitty?”
“Of course I do! But I can’t take money from you. You will need that. You’ve earned it. It wouldn’t be right of me . . .”
A voice from the office: “You finished yet, Kitty, or still swanning about with that mop?”
She ignored him.
“I still have my income from some days at the boutique,” I said. “We will manage. Go and get your coat. Go home, leave him to me.”
Kitty breathed out a long sigh and grabbed her jacket before slipping out of Prim & Proper forever.
I found Charlie at his laptop, not doing accounts but messaging about six people (female) on Facebook. He looked up, flashing his charming smile.
“Ah, it’s the delicious Daisy Delaney. How are you, babes?”
“I am very well indeed. But Kitty looks exhausted, don’t you agree?”
“Well, if she will burn the candle at both ends.”
“No, she doesn’t do that. She has no energy for going out. But that’s all going to change.”
“Why’s that, love?”
“Because, as from now, she no longer works here.”
He got up, his face changing from charming to threatening in a nanosecond.
“What do you mean?” he asked, getting closer.
“She’s left,” I told him.
“But she’s got to give notice,” he insisted.
“No, she will forfeit any rights associated with notice-giving and by morning will be medically signed off anyway. So, there’s nothing you can do.”
He was dumbfounded. Next, he rushed out to the shop floor, calling her name.
I followed him out. “She’s gone.”
“I’ll get her for this. I’ll never give her a reference!” he ranted.
“No change there, then. You’ve been giving bad references to keep her trapped, haven’t you?”
“Says who?” he demanded.
I took out my phone, showing him an image I’d snapped of his vile slurs on her character.
“Fucking little sneak!”
I walked away feeling triumphant, and just a little nervous.
What have you done, Daisy? It’s not as if you’re a millionaire!
I forgot to call Dominic.
51
Tilly
Dominic was delighted with the way that Lucy Lovecake was picking up new followers on all platforms. He called during the week to congratulate me.
“This is exceeding expectations, Daisy. I’m thrilled. It’s given me a new lease of life. I tried to call you on Sunday, late evening?”
“Ah, I was probably asleep after a flight back from Paris.”
“Paris?”
“Yes. I went over there with Madame Amiel. She was in such a flap about Michel. Poor old thing!”
“So, did you see Michel?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Right,” he said. “I see.”
I changed the topic. “When do you think we should tease the Lucy Lovecake followers about the fact that a book is on the way?”
“That’s a good question,” Dominic replied. “I think the best thing would be to imply that we’ve only just thought of bringing a book out due to popular demand on social networks. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a genius at all this. I am so grateful to you. I wanted to mention something else,” I told him.
“Yes?”
“It’s about my best friend, Kitty. My flatmate.”
“Yes, works in a tea shop, taught you some baking skills?” he confirmed.
“That’s right. Well, I’ve recruited her to help with the Lucy Lovecake online presence and blogging. She’s between jobs, and she’s completely trustworthy. I hope that’s okay. I want to be straight with you,” I explained.
“That’s fine,” said Dominic, sounding relaxed. “Makes sense. You’re finishing off the manuscript, that’s
the main thing. Kitty can reply to tweets and add bits that you’ve approved. Sure.”
“Exactly. Thanks, Dominic. Just wanted to let you know. I think she can help build the following prior to launch.”
“Sure.” He paused. “So, did you have a nice time in Paris?”
“Paris? Oh, well, not as such.”
“Ah.”
“How is Tilly?” I asked.
“Tilly left Bluebells. We have a manny, Felix. He’s amazing.”
Interesting.
“Great. I look forward to meeting him.”
52
Blogging
The sun grew stronger as spring turned to summer, and Kitty and I were blissfully happy working together on the Lucy Lovecake sites. There was no need to invent fake problem letters! Every day, there were new followers and new ideas spawned from messages and questions left for Lucy Lovecake. So many people having dating disasters! And I thought it was just me.
Dear Lucy Lovecake,
I really fancy a man at work but he never notices me. What should I do?
Dear Lucy Lovecake
Is first date décolletage a good thing?
Dear Lucy Lovecake
We’re going away for our first weekend to a fancy hotel, what sort of underwear should I be packing?
Dear Lucy Lovecake
It’s his birthday and I’ve only known him for a few weeks. I want to bake a cake. Is that too keen and what sort might I bake?
Kitty and I had such fun working out what Lucy Lovecake would have to say on such matters.
“Is she a feminist?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“So, all this stuff about baking for men and dressing up in lace is okay, as a feminist?” she questioned.
“Yes, definitely,” I asserted.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It doesn’t mean women are objects, nor does it mean we are controlling men. It’s just a nice thing to do, for both parties. It’s about caring enough to make an effort. As for baking, that’s just what you do when you love someone, isn’t it?” I said.
“True. I do think you’re going to get some stick from intellectual second-wave feminists, though,” said Kitty.
“Well, I’m ready for that!” I replied.
“So long as we stick to a line. Powerful femininity. Empowered,” said Kitty.
“Agreed. It’s funny how we love all the retro 1950s stuff – the styles, the curves, the lady-like ways – but in reality, those were terrible times for women, weren’t they?” I said.
“Yes, but look at me. If you hadn’t got this book deal, I would have still been working for a monster who was blocking me from moving on.” Kitty was starting to wonder how she’d ever lived like that.
“Don’t think about it now. You’re well out of that, Kitty.”
* * *
I received occasional messages from Michel in Paris via e-mail. I didn’t reply too hastily. Sometimes he messaged twice before I replied. I felt for him and I wanted to help him, but I wasn’t sure if he was going to help himself. I asked how long he was going to be there.
Could be back in London within a month, he wrote. Why do you ask? Are you missing me?
I took my time in replying to that.
No, I just wondered when I’d have to start hiding from you on the streets of Primrose Hill again.
He came back swiftly. A nice double-bluff, you are obviously dying to see me, Delaney. And I can assure you, that’s mutual.
I left it there for a few days.
One day soon after, I received this message from Michel:
Dear Daisy
I’ve been thinking a lot about our walk through Paris, and your idea about my grand apartment. I’ve decided to move to a smaller place, and pay Eve the money. Why fight this in court? There is the legal law, and there is the moral law, and I will never find peace until I sort out the values in my life. Since you bumped into me in the V&A, I have thought about you every day. Perhaps you did put a spell on me. I am looking forward to seeing you soon.
Mx
53
Meringue Surprise
The fifth of August came and went. I did not even consider going to Tom Percy’s fancy launch in Liberty’s. He was part of my past and I was looking ahead.
I still worked two days a week with Clara, and the business was booming. We had a new customer: Gary Hopper, secret agent, from the book awards had found his way there and was always great fun.
Clara now did all her own beauty treatments and cooked several meals on a Sunday, which she froze for the week ahead for the family. “We are moving house and Phil is going to invest the surplus in a sailing school on the south coast – it’s something he’s always wanted to try,” she said. She glowed with happiness, and said Phil was happier than ever too.
Kitty had been for an audition at a modelling agency. They loved her and had taken some shots. She was waiting to see if any jobs came in.
I was madly finishing the book – there were some rewrites – plus, working on blogs and articles, and I was halfway through another batch of advanced baking classes, again paid for by Dominic, as he wanted my credentials to be just so.
“Imagine if you are invited to talk on a daytime chat show, for example, and you don’t know what goes in a Bakewell tart?” he had said.
“What does go in a Bakewell tart?” I asked.
“I rest my case.”
As Kitty and I lay on the grass in the park one glorious Saturday just before my baking class, chattering under a big cherry tree, I pinched myself at how much my world had changed since Christmas.
“We’ve come a long way in a matter of months,” I said.
“Yes,” Kitty agreed. “I’ll never be able to repay your kindness.”
“We’ve done this together, Kitty,” I said. “You have supported me, inspired me, guided me.”
“Don’t exaggerate!” said Kitty.
“Well, you’ve made scrambled eggs when I would have eaten Doritos,” I explained.
“I’ll agree with that.”
“Time for me to go to class. See you later on. Don’t get burnt,” I said, jumping up.
“Bye, Daisy. I’m going to log on here and check the Lovecake sites. I’m having so much fun!”
There was a whole different group in this baking class now, and it wasn’t taken by Catherine. This time, we were taught by an elderly lady, very like Miss Tiggywinkle, called Marguerite. She gave a wonderful meringue-making demonstration that Saturday, and I immediately started to think about how I could incorporate meringues into the book. Dominic said I only had a window of two more weeks to add new material. I was forever changing bits, and adding sections as they came to me, but I knew this couldn’t go on forever. After all, it was going to print in early October!
“Make-love Meringues” . . . dainty, chewy meringues, filled with sweetened chestnut cream, the perfect treat for sensuous Sunday afternoons . . .
I really focused on the meringues that day, intent on creating glossy, soft peaks, baked to chewy perfection. As for the créme de marrons filling, I blended chestnuts with sugar and vanilla, then added this to gently whipped cream. Once assembled in a pile of little clusters of creamy perfection on a cut-glass plate, Marguerite came to inspect.
“Well,” she said, studying my plate. “They look wonderful, but now to taste.”
My heartbeat quickened. The standard of my work mattered a lot to me.
Marguerite lifted a tiny, silver dessert fork and broke a dainty amount off one of the meringues, making sure she had some cream too.
She closed her eyes as it melted in her mouth.
Well?
“This is . . . quite perfect!” she declared.
I broke into a schoolgirl smile. “Really?” I said. “Thank you!”
“Everyone, gather round,” said Marguerite. “Daisy’s meringues and ‘marrons’ cream are simply scrumptious.”
Everyone tucked in, showering me with praise.
; I was so proud. I immediately photographed the pile of meringues and sent the image to Kitty for the blogs.
Within minutes, she messaged back: 65 responses already!
Dominic was so right about going on these baking courses. And so right about everything. He has turned around my life!
After my baking class, I bounced out into sunshine, trying to decide how to spend the day. To my complete surprise, I found Dominic and Minty waiting for me on the pavement, beaming broadly.
I was thrilled to see them.
“Hi, you two!” I said, hugging them, and ruffling Minty’s blonde curls, caught at the back of her head with a pale blue ribbon.
“Fancy bumping into you here!” said Dominic.
“Yes, how could you possibly know I’d be in baking class?! Checking up on me?” I laughed.
“We thought we’d come to the big city to see you,” Dominic explained. “And Minty here has been asking about you – lots.”
“Well, you must come to the flat, see where I live. Maybe we could go to lunch?”
“We’re one step ahead of you on that,” said Dominic. “Minty wanted to try some proper French French fries, so I’ve booked a table at Brasserie Rose, seeing as we supply them with chicken and eggs as well.”
I wasn’t sure about the reminders of Michel that would be there, but didn’t want to make a fuss. “That sounds lovely,” I replied. “I’m starving, come to think of it.”
Minty walked between us and we each took a hand. Every so often she jumped off the pavement as we took her weight. We all giggled as we made our way to Michel’s restaurant, which was just around the corner.
54
Brasserie Rose
The Brasserie was very traditional, with checked tablecloths, lots of shiny silver cutlery and sparkling little wineglasses. We were shown to a table and ordered heaps of fries, as well as steaks, omelette and salad. Minty climbed onto my knee and we did some colouring in. I was immersed in a decision between turquoise and deep pink felt-tip for the Cinderella gown when I noticed Michel.