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

by Pippa James

  I freshened my lipstick, considering whether or not I should call Dominic right then. I had already been away for what seemed like an age and, as Michel knew about the text, I didn’t want him to think I was conducting a text chat.

  I’ll call him later or in the morning.

  As I walked back to the table, I thought that Michel looked distracted.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Just been thinking. There’s something about you. Something deeper, something I don’t know yet. You’re holding something back,” he concluded.

  “There are lots of things you don’t know,” I said. “My father is a farmer and Ireland’s horse whisperer. Did you know that?”

  “I did not. What else?”

  “I have a brother called Conor who is the greatest man who ever lived – according to him,” I added.

  “And your mother? You know all about my mother . . .”

  “Yes, my mother is Diana Delaney. She’s an artist – paints horses mostly, so you can see how Ma and Pa got together. She’s a free spirit. A wonderful mother, but often quite detached, dream-like.”

  “She sounds intriguing. Maybe that’s where you get your mysterious edge?”

  “Perhaps. It’s not something I’m conscious of, and I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets from you.”

  “You are private, discreet. That’s good. I don’t know why I keep telling you things about my life. I usually lie to everyone. But you listen so well, and you don’t judge.”

  * * *

  Later that night, when I was alone in my room, I felt a knot inside about the way I was ruining my friendship with Michel.

  Should I write to him? No, never put anything sensitive in writing, even I know that.

  I tried to push the deception out of my mind. I mean, it’s not as if we’re married or even a couple, I reasoned. And my book comes before everything – this is what Dominic has told me to do, so I must.

  60

  Elle

  I called Dominic first thing in the morning.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I was out for dinner with a friend,” I said.

  “Ah, do I know him?” he laughed.

  “Not this one,” I lied. (Tripping off your tongue now, Delaney!)

  “Once your identity is out there, as the author of this sweet, sexy little book, you’re going to have more offers of dinner than you could ever eat!”

  “Well, I’m on a diet, so that’s going to be a problem,” I said.

  “Don’t lose weight! You’re lovely as you are,” he assured.

  “And that’s why I love you!”

  “Ha, if only. Well, let’s get serious. I mentioned in the text that we could do with some subtle tricks now.” He said, turning to business.

  “Yes, what were you thinking of?” I asked.

  “Well, a magazine article would be great. In a glossy, with some lingerie on show, and cakes on fabulous stands, rich and Christmassy. A great headline, maybe something like: Stocking Fillers! Stollen Kisses! Classic Tarts! Or your Cream Tease! We’ll need a model, the cakes – and, of course, the magazine. Any ideas? Any connections?”

  I considered this. It all sounded great, and just right for the sorts of readers we had in mind. But it was all a bit last minute, as I explained.

  “Dominic, one concern is that they usually work very far in advance with these glossy magazines. Do you really think we’d get in the Christmas special now? It’s mid-November already!”

  “Yes, it’s all a bit of a long shot, but seriously, sales always do plummet from Christmas to spring, so we really need to act now or never.”

  I didn’t like the idea of this all fizzling away to nothing in the new year.

  “The only person I can think of who MIGHT be able to help is Clara’s sister, Annabel. She is editor of Elle. And as for a model . . .”

  “Daisy, you would look gorgeous, I know, but we’re still keeping you under wraps until we have a bigger following,” said Dominic.

  “Oh, Dominic, you’re so sweet, but I’m hardly right for that. Not me. Never. But I’m thinking of Kitty. She’s a perfectly proportioned size 8. She’d look amazing, I’m sure.”

  “Great idea!”

  “We have to find out if the magazine would consider this. I’ll call Clara and get back to you.”

  “Okay, if anyone can sort this, Daisy, it’s you!”

  “I’ll do my best. Bye for now.”

  I called Clara straight away and explained what was required.

  “Oh, fuck. Annabel. She’s such a bitch. But anything for you. We could try. This could be great for Voluptas too. Let’s see if we can persuade her. But I must say, Daisy, I think it’ll have gone to print already,” she said, echoing my own thoughts.

  “I know. I think so too,” I agreed.

  “I’ll try everything, darling, I promise! I’ll mention the ball dress I leant her in ’92 for the Oxford Ball. She can have the French villa every August! Whatever it takes! I will be charming,” Clara vowed, clearly getting fired up now with the idea.

  Clara was, in general, a changed woman. She’d found this energy inside her since she’d had to provide for her family, and she looked and acted ten years younger.

  * * *

  I paced around the flat, waiting to hear. I threw together the ingredients for Stollen, and Christmas pies, as well as a lavish chocolate roulade.

  An hour or so later, Clara called.

  “Okay, Daisy. We have to be at these studios tomorrow morning. Some place in Shoreditch. A photographer will be there. We have to take the lingerie, the cakes, the model – is that Kitty? Annabel can get hold of a great stylist for hair and make-up, Mandy Hinchcliffe. ‘Lucy Lovecake’ has to give an interview. I said you’d have to remain mysterious . . . so you won’t be photographed.”

  “Tomorrow! Wow! How are we going to do that?”

  “We are going to use superhuman powers. Annabel is holding back the second print run for us. Some of the Christmas editions are already in the market, but she’s going to run this as a bannered De Luxe December edition with Lucy Lovecake in it. How about that?”

  I did a twirl.

  “I’m spinning. Clara, that is too brilliant. I owe you one! Dominic’s going to be ecstatic!”

  “We’ll all benefit from this. Can you guarantee Kitty is going to be up for posing in underwear? She’s very shy and sweet.”

  “I’ll ask her. Persuade her, if need be.”

  “Okay, so if you could both come here this afternoon, we could sort out what to take, what looks you want, everything.”

  “Okay, let’s say two o’clock. And I’d better get baking!”

  Kitty was still in bed. When in doubt, be direct, I decided, so I came straight out with it.

  “Want to be a lingerie model in Elle magazine – shooting tomorrow?” I said.

  “Me? Model lingerie?” said Kitty, rubbing her eyes.

  “Yes! You have a beautiful figure! Please say you will?”

  “I’m not sure. For Elle magazine? Are you sure they’re going to accept me? They have really high standards.” Typical Kitty, putting herself down.

  “Kitty, please say you’ll do it. It will lift sales of French Fancy by thousands. Come on, please? You’ve helped me so much. We’re in this together,” I implored.

  “Oh, why not? If I had more than a day to worry about it, I’d probably be ill with nerves, but, hey, let’s get on with it.” She sounded decisive.

  I hugged her. “Thank you!”

  She examined her thighs. “Reckon you can get rid of cellulite in a day?”

  Dominic was delighted when I told him what we’d put together.

  “Well done, Daisy! This is going to be the making of it, I promise,” he said.

  “We are all working flat out – it’s really exciting. I think the shots will be gorgeous!” I told him.

  “Daisy, I love working with you. I can’t imagine life without you now.”

  That
’s a bit strong.

  “I mean work life,” he clarified. “We’re a good team.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But I must go for now. Will be in touch.”

  Later that morning, I missed a call from Michel. Too busy with my magazine shoot to return calls from famous French chefs!

  61

  Lingerie Again

  We spent the afternoon in the boutique. Clara had persuaded her sister Annabel to come over.

  She was very beautiful and not quite as monstrous as Clara had indicated.

  “Thank you so much for this!” I said. “It really is appreciated.”

  “Well, it’s got the blood pumping round the office, that’s for sure. We’re all so set in our ways, but I thought, well, if I can’t pull strings for my sister . . . ”

  “It’s too kind of you. This is Kitty. She’s going to be modelling for us.”

  “Great to meet you, Kitty. You’ll look great. I’ll brief the hair and make-up people. Yes, I can just see this! Very opulent, cute, sexy. How perfect for Christmas!”

  We started looking through the silks.

  “Absolutely the red,” said Clara, deciding on items we would take.

  “And the rosebud bustier for sure,” voiced Annabel.

  “Some ivory would be nice,” I said. “What will the backdrop be?”

  “I’ve organised for some crimson velvet falls and a bit of gold chiffon, plus lots of gold candlesticks, as well as a very traditional tree. Hopefully it will look fab – not much we can do if it doesn’t, actually!”

  * * *

  That night, I rushed around the kitchen.

  Buzz! Another missed call from Michel. I’d have to ignore it. I couldn’t bear to lie to him any more.

  Stollen kisses done! In the box.

  Christmas pies dusted with icing sugar! In the box.

  Chocolate roulade! In the box.

  Fresh cream chocolate truffles – finished. In a little gold box.

  I fell into bed at midnight. I didn’t even glance at my phone. The next morning I saw that there were missed calls from Michel and Dominic.

  Too busy for men. Shoreditch, here we come.

  Clara drove us over to the studios. I was a total mess, hair scraped back off my face, no make-up, wearing jeans, a polo and a parka. Boxes of cakes were piled on my lap. Kitty, for her part, was sitting in the front in a Tigger onesy with the hood up. Clara, behind the wheel, was joyful.

  “A name check in Elle! This could be a changer for our little silk store!” she said.

  I loved the way we were all benefitting from one another while helping one another.

  Once inside the building, which seemed like a disused biscuit factory, we met up with Annabel, who was in professional mode, a bit less fluffy than the day before.

  “She’s so Headmistressy,” mumbled Clara.

  “Consider your son’s school fees, think not of your dignity,” I said.

  The stylists started working on Kitty, while the “set” was constructed by the photographer’s assistants, brandishing bales of red velvet and gold chiffon. Nearby was the photographer herself, a feisty woman called Babsy, who peered into a laptop screen with glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  I set out the cakes, and an assistant produced lots of gold cake stands and platters from Fenwick’s. People were diving and dashing around in every direction. Corners were not cut as such – there were so many people, everything was given due attention and co-ordinated by Annabel, who was in full flight.

  We had fun arranging the set. Before long, some coffee, pastries and sandwiches arrived, though most of the magazine types floating around notably ate nothing at all.

  When Kitty emerged in the pretty rosebud bustier, her black hair piled high, her gorgeous face made up to perfection, we all knew this was going to work.

  62

  The Shoot

  “Left a bit!” Annabel screamed to Kitty.

  “Go easy,” said Babsy. “She’s not a professional model.”

  “Every pantomime needs a bitch,” said Clara.

  “Sorry,” called Annabel. “Kitty, you’re actually better than many a professional. I’m being so particular because you are so great. I don’t want to miss a trick. Forgive me, I’m going to be like this all day!”

  Kitty just smiled serenely. I guessed that nothing could be as terrible as her days in Prim & Proper.

  “You look gorgeous, Kitty!” I called.

  “Wish I could return the compliment!” she said.

  “Ha! I know. I’m the ugly best friend today!” I told her as I pulled an even uglier face.

  Lunch arrived. Sticky mango chicken with a massive green salad and mounds of rice. Nobody seemed to be “allowed” to eat rice. Except Clara and I. More for us!

  Only eight hours later, it was a wrap. Kitty was totally exhausted, but we viewed the images on Babsy’s laptop and, even before the edit, they were utterly spectacular.

  “Sis,” said Clara, “you might be a bitch, but you are a professional bitch, and I salute you.”

  As I was tidying up, I put the little rosebud bustier in my bag. I’ll pay for that next time I’m at work. I might want to wear it one day.

  63

  Daisy’s Secrets

  Within two days, a full double-page spread was e-mailed over to us. Kitty and I poured over it, incredulous.

  “Is that really me?” gasped Kitty.

  The whole piece was stunning, and it struck me that my book wasn’t a random collection of ingredients. It all blended together perfectly; the silk, the cakes, the love tips. The Lucy Lovecake interview sounded excellent, and at the very end of the article, there was the little bit of blurb which mattered: French Fancy by Lucy Lovecake is priced at £9.99 and is available at all good bookstores or by order from Amazon, or at www.bluebells.com.

  Kitty and I were out Christmas shopping on the high street when we bumped into Michel.

  “Hello, stranger!” he said.

  “Hi, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve been really busy!”

  “You always say you’re busy – but busy doing what? Your horse course?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, mostly that and some top-secret missions,” I said.

  “Yes, you are obviously an agent. That would explain it,” he said. Leaning forward, he whispered, “I’m quite excited by that idea.”

  I smiled enigmatically.

  This is so easy, turning men on when you don’t have time for them.

  “Why don’t you come into the city with me to help me do some Christmas shopping?” he suggested. “Say, tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I could do that,” I said. “Sounds nice. Do you have a big list?”

  He reached into his pocket. “Yes, here it is.”

  Maman.

  That was it.

  “We should manage to find something nice for her,” I said.

  “I’ll come round to your place about ten. Is that okay?”

  “Sure, I’ll be ready.”

  Kitty and I spent the evening tidying the flat and checking that all copies of French Fancy in all its forms (drafts, sections, finished copies) were well hidden.

  I was ready when he arrived – eager to get away as soon as possible. Michel was insistent on driving to Knightsbridge, where he knew of a great place to park.

  “Let’s go to Harrods” – which he pronounced Arrods – “I’d like to buy something nice for you for Christmas.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m not sure that I really need anything,” I said.

  “This is not about needs. It’s about desires.”

  I laughed at his corniness, but was unclear if he was being ironic or not.

  Inside Harrods, we wheeled around, through cosmetics, perfumes, handbags.

  “Anything you want, it is yours,” he said, though he hardly stopped long enough for me to look at any one thing.

  I saw a little purse, beaded, a bit like one I’d had as a girl.

  “That’s nice,” I sa
id.

  “It is £12!” he said.

  “I like it.”

  He bought it. “Lunch?” he suggested afterwards.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “I like the restaurant near the book department,” he said.

  “Whatever you say. I’m not familiar with any of the eating places in here,” I confessed.

  We went up to the second floor.

  “Let’s look at the books,” he said. “Maybe something will take your eye in there. And we’ll see if my lumps of forest are shifting.”

  “Okay, great idea,” I said.

  There was a display table with suggested Christmas titles in the middle of the department, positioned by a red-velvet armchair, faux fireplace with felt stockings, and a magnificent Christmas tree.

  “Ah! Gift ideas,” I said. “Shall we take a look?”

  My heart stopped, I’m sure it did, momentarily. In pride of place in the middle of the table with a label stating OUR CHOICE was a whole pile of French Fancy! The label further stated: The perfect stocking filler for him or her! Buy early to avoid disappointment. It’s the book everyone’s talking about – as featured in the new edition of ELLE magazine!

  “Nothing much here. Let’s look in the cookery section,” I said.

  “Hold on a minute.” Michel paused. “What is this cake book in the middle of the table?”

  I said nothing. He’ll gloss over this. His eye will go elsewhere. Please may he not examine a copy. He’ll see Bluebells and might think of Dominic. Then he’ll wonder about my texts with Dominic . . . me being at the barn dance . . .

  He picked one up. There were only the line drawings and nothing that especially linked it to me.

  Stay cool, Daisy. The real risk is if he sees the Elle piece! He knows Kitty, he knows the rosebud bustier.

  “You see this piece of tat?” he said. “This is the sort of facile nonsense that has ruined sales for me. Gimmicks. Probably ‘written’ by someone who has no baking credentials at all.” He examined the jacket more closely.