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

by Pippa James

  Thank you, Simon!

  “I was asked for my opinion, and I say, please don’t buy it!” said Michel. “Buy quality cookery books you can learn from, by someone who is besotted by food, not romance.”

  Georgie picked up from there. “Well, unequivocal words there from Michel Amiel on the popular new book French Fancy. The next question is about your cookery school. Is it true, asks Harriet, that you are planning to open new branches across the UK in the spring?”

  “Yes, that is quite true,” he said proudly.

  I paused the clip. My mobile phone was buzzing.

  Probably Branwell or Dominic.

  I was reeling. Michel was so vitriolic about my book. How dare he? But he doesn’t know it’s my book. How can he be loyal when he doesn’t know it’s your book?

  In a way, it made the guilt of deceiving him diffuse a little, the fact that he was so mean-spirited about someone else’s work. It could have been anyone’s book. How was he to know who he was offending?

  In particular, I hated the way he banged on about classic cookery, as if everyone wanted to learn to cook in a serious way.

  Books about food are about titillating and teasing as much as instructing, are they not?

  I looked at my phone. As I thought, missed calls from my agent and publisher. Dominic was hyper: Hey, can’t get a hold of you? Did you see the clips from This Morning? And the furore on Twitter. Now 780 posts of support on Lucy Lovecake’s page. This is FANTASTIC. We could not afford PR like this! The man is a twit, good and proper. And what a rat. I’m going to consider ending my business dealings with him on the chicken front. He’s a liability! No wonder he’s going down the tubes! Daisy, as I thought, everyone’s asking, Who is Lucy Lovecake? Not long until Valentine’s Day! Also, I think it would be in order for Lucy Lovecake to give a genteel but firm retort to the obnoxious French swine – see what you can do!

  A call came through as I was reading that. It was Michel. I wanted to speak to him.

  “Hi, Michel,” I chirped.

  “Daisy, you are going to be so proud of me!”

  “Why so?” I asked.

  “I am fixing my career. I’ve been on TV slamming my rivals, and I’ve got thousands of new followers today, even if some of them are shouting and swearing at me! I love it, the tweeting. It’s cool,” he said.

  “Right, well, as long as you are controlling your temper and not going on there drunk, then that’s all good,” I said, trying to sound encouraging as, after all, I’d suggested the new approach.

  “Can you meet? I want to see you again,” he said. “I want to tell you about the new recipes I’m working on.”

  It was lovely to hear him so enthused. “Sure, when were you thinking of?”

  “In a few hours?” he suggested.

  I thought of Dominic’s directions to get online and start bashing Michel Amiel in the voice of Lucy Lovecake.

  Oh dear. What a mess.

  “I’m sorry, I’m going to be busy tonight. Can I call you when I’ve got some time?” I said.

  “Oh, okay.” A disappointed Michel. “It’s up to you. Make sure it’s not too long.”

  “Yes, okay. Bye for now,” I said breezily, my mind aching with colliding thoughts.

  “Bye, beautiful.”

  I knew I couldn’t look him in the eye with all this going on. I had to make a decision before Valentine’s Day. He had to be told. But a weak little part of me thought it might be better just to withdraw from him, end our affair, and then it wouldn’t matter when he found out.

  * * *

  I lay on my bed, reflecting that I should feel so happy, but instead I was tied in knots. I would have to reply to Michel Amiel as Lucy Lovecake soon.

  Then I started that thing we sometimes do. I began to tell myself that I didn’t have feelings for Michel anyway, and that he was a horribly mean, jealous, and self-obsessed man, that I could do much better. Sometimes if you say such things to yourself often enough, you actually start to believe them.

  As if reading my mind, Michel sent a text late on: Daisy, you should know that I love you. Please do not withdraw from me. I need you. Mx

  At first it touched my heart and I longed to call him and tell him everything. But then I used that whole narrative about him being a loser, and I started to think, Well, he needs me, does he? What of my needs – does he ever wonder what I might need?

  A tiny voice inside me was saying: How can he know what you need when you don’t share your true self with him? Be fair to him. But I ignored that inner voice and ploughed on with my withdrawal from the man who excited and inspired me. There were many of his texts left unanswered, calls rejected by me. He was nonplussed. Gradually, I learned to live without the buzz of meeting him. I used up my energy on Lucy Lovecake matters.

  68

  Valentine’s Day

  Valentine’s Day. A bouquet of flowers arrived in the morning. I was curious to see what the card said. Branwell perhaps, thinking of my signing that evening? Dominic, in the same mode? Or Michel, still trying to reach me? It had been almost two weeks since I’d last seen him, and considering how delicious our first night together had been, it must have seemed very strange indeed to him that I had retreated so quickly. I must have seemed like a lunatic.

  Ah, from Dominic.

  I was delighted, of course, but I also felt troubled that Dominic’s note had a slightly personal tone to it: Daisy, love working with you, and everything about you. Can’t wait for the world to know how brilliant you are, Much love, Dom. x

  I like Dominic and maybe if Michel Amiel would completely vanish once and for all, then who knows, maybe something would bubble up . . .

  It had been a week since the last text from Michel. I kept thinking, or maybe even hoping, that he’d come round to the flat. But he didn’t. I think I’ve really hurt him, and confused him. No wonder. He was feeling so good, about tweeting and his new book. I’ve been so cruel.

  I had started to do that mad thing of looking at his Facebook and Twitter posts. How batty that sort of thing can make you feel. There was nothing of any great surprise – disagreements with other well-known chefs, abundant opinions and some photos of fresh fish, beef and cheeses he spotted in markets and shops as he went around London. It was all quite captivating – he was on-song about food, but I stopped looking and began to feel that our one night together was a moment in time, locked up in my heart.

  And now it was the day of my public outing as the author of French Fancy: Dating Tips from Lucy Lovecake.

  I was nervous about the big night ahead. I knew my parents would be there (they were staying in a small hotel round the corner from Harrods), and Kitty would be there, and of course Clara and Philip, plus her sister, Annabel, and one or two old friends from art school who now lived in London. I suppose I wanted all of this to get back to Tom Percy. Not that he really bothered me any more. I hardly gave him a thought.

  I had agonised over what to wear. Lucy Lovecake on Valentine’s Day. I had wondered about something red, enlisting Kitty’s help.

  “What about a warm pink?” she suggested. “A little softer than red, less tarty and more sensuous?”

  “Good thinking!”

  I’d gone to John Lewis and bought a pattern for a dress – very Fifties – fitted at the waist and bust, very curve-enhancing, and had it made up in ZIPPIT on the high street.

  “Wow,” said Kitty when she saw it during a try-on. “Could not be more flattering.”

  I was in the bath about three in the afternoon, trying to get in the spirit of the evening but feeling very shy and overwhelmed, when a text flashed up.

  I grabbed my phone from the chair by the bath and gulped. From Michel.

  Dear Daisy, please say you’ll meet me tonight. I’ve booked a table at the Ivy for 8pm. There is no one else I’d rather spend the evening with. Please say you will be there. I love you.

  I started to feel uncomfortable. Damn, why does this have to come through now? What shall I say?

/>   I started to shake. The last lie? Or time to come clean? There’s no time to come clean now.

  I wrote a short text, hands shaking: Michel, it’s lovely to hear from you, and I would love nothing more than to meet you for dinner, but unfortunately I am unwell! Could we try later in the week? Please say yes!

  69

  Anonymous No More

  No reply came back. I got ready with a heavy heart. He obviously thinks I’ve got another boyfriend.

  The dress fitted like a dream. Elegant kitten heels, cute box bag, hair up, soft make-up. Not too bad. I went to see what Kitty thought.

  “Daisy, you look lovely,” said Kitty. “Try smiling though.”

  “I’m nervous!” I said. “You look magnificent!” She was a picture in a black cocktail dress, not attention grabbing, just very, very classic and serene.

  The car arrived for us at 5.45pm; the signing was advertised to begin at 7pm, along with cakes, champagne and a talk from the real Lucy Lovecake.

  I checked my notes on the way over in the car. My mouth was dry, my heart raced.

  “This is a book for both women and men who want dating to be fun, and at all times delicious.”

  I felt panicky. “It sounds rubbish!”

  “Relax,” said Kitty. “This is going to be fine.”

  “But I had to turn Michel down, and he’ll never get in touch again now. Especially when he hears about the outing of Lucy Lovecake on social media.”

  “It’s inevitable that he will hear, Daisy. If only you’d told him early on!” said Kitty.

  I shot her a look.

  She seemed contrite about stirring emotion on the way to my big moment. “Sorry! But a few days ago you said you’d gone off him?”

  “I know, I’ve been convincing myself of that, but I’m just not sure. I keep thinking about him, but that’s probably just the guilt I’m feeling,” I said. “I’m sure I can forget him.”

  “Try not to let it spoil your night. I’d imagine you’ll not be short of male fans after tonight, especially when you appear in the press in THAT dress!”

  “I’m just starting to realise how scary it is, that it won’t be a secret any more. Oh, Kitty! Should I stay a secret?” I asked.

  “No. We’re here now,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Dominic and Branwell had done a great job of planning the signing event. As soon as we stepped out onto the pavement, someone from Harrods, a pleasant woman called Bridget, whisked us inside, into an elevator, and up to a beautiful lounge where we were offered an array of refreshments.

  “How many people are going to be at the event?” I asked.

  “Several hundred, but we are going to have an organised queuing system,” said Bridget.

  “Several hundred? Really? Gosh, how long will it all take?” I queried.

  “Probably until around ten. We thought you could make your speech first because everyone is going to be curious as we’ve billed this as the ‘outing’ event.”

  “Sure. May as well get it over with,” I mumbled.

  “Are you dreading it?” asked Bridget.

  “Yes, very much so. I think I’ve been living with the perfect scenario these past few months – a successful book and complete anonymity,” I admitted.

  “It’s going to be so much fun, though,” said Bridget. “You’ll be invited here, there and everywhere after tonight! I wish it was me! And by the way, I love the book. We all do in the store!” Bridget was so kind and soothing.

  “Thank you! You know, you’re right, it will be fun! I’m going to have a glass of champagne, relax, and enjoy myself.”

  Bridget dotted in and out between the lounge and the book department, telling me that my parents had arrived, my agent, publisher and quite a few others. But that I must stay “backstage” until given the wink.

  “No problem, I’m quite happily enjoying my last minutes of freedom here,” I said.

  Someone came to put a discreet microphone on me.

  “Sorry, this dress is rather tight!” I admitted.

  A wire was discreetly draped through the neckline.

  Finally, it was time to go through to the event. My legs felt like rubber as I approached the event space. Branwell and Dominic were waiting for me by a seat covered in a cupcake fabric. Mum and Dad waved, looking so proud. I’m not sure they understood the fuss on social media about this Lucy Lovecake, but they were delighted to be part of the occasion.

  70

  Unveiled

  One thing that surprised me was that there were more men than women in the audience.

  “Lots of men liking Lucy!” I whispered to Kitty, who was at my side.

  She nodded emphatically.

  Dominic handled the press, and after a few short words from him, setting out my credentials, I was propelled forward, hailed as the true author of French Fancy, and it was time for me to give my speech.

  There were gasps, mutters, giggles and some reassuring cheers as I took my place. I cleared my throat and composed myself.

  I delivered it slowly, surely, with as much grace as I could muster, apologising for the charade, thanking everyone for their interest, and expressing my disbelief at the popularity of the book.

  “I only hope that Daisy Delaney is as acceptable to readers as is Lucy Lovecake!” I concluded. “Otherwise, we’re in trouble.”

  Dominic winked at me when it was over and came to my side. “That was tremendous. Very well done!” he said.

  He turned to face the crowd again, which was so dense it was impossible for me to pick out individuals. I could see that there were lots of security men dotted around, and more and more people were arriving all the time, trying to push through the edges of the party.

  “Time for questions now, then Daisy Delaney will be signing and meeting fans,” Dominic explained.

  A whole sea of hands went up. Dominic selected a questioner and the microphone was passed to her.

  “Miss Delaney, have you not been tempted to shout your identity from the rooftops before now, with the book being such a huge hit?”

  I considered this carefully. “Not really,” I began. “Dominic – my publisher, as you know – always said that it was best to make people wonder. And I must say, it seems he was right!”

  “Lady at the back,” said Dominic.

  “My question for Daisy is: How did she research the book? I mean, what made you think of lingerie and cakes combined?”

  “Yes, ask her that!” said a voice I knew too well.

  Oh. My. God. Help. Me.

  71

  Accusations

  It was, of course, Michel. He came barging up the middle of the crowd, his face contorted with rage.

  “I’ve been listening to you from the back, Daisy Delaney!” he called. “Or do I mean ‘Lucy Lovecake’?”

  A hush fell over the throng.

  Michel made his way to the front, pushing people aside aggressively, and he stood in front of me, eyes glaring, mouth set in a twist of vitriol, a strong aroma of alcohol around him.

  “Deceiver!” he cried.

  I was frozen to the spot. From the corner of my eye, I could see Dominic move towards him, but the crowd was densely packed.

  My heart had either stopped or was beating so fast it was off the scale. Either way, I struggled for breath and clutched my throat fearfully.

  Michel continued, turning to face the stunned audience.

  Can’t someone help?

  “This woman has been encouraging me to spill my heart out to her. She has taken a baking course at my cookery school. She has lied to me time and time again. And there I was, at my dentist the other week, flicking through a magazine I found in the waiting room, when I saw an article in Elle magazine . . .”

  Security guards approached, two burly skinheads. One said, “Come this way, sir.”

  “I’m not finished,” growled Michel, being half-jostled now by the guards. “I asked her to dinner tonight – giving her one last chance to come clean – b
ut she LIED again! Said she was ill. Do not trust her! She pretends to be Lucy Lovecake. She pretends everything. She has forgotten how to tell the truth.”

  Dominic reached me as Michel was whisked away, arms flailing, knocking over a pile of French Fancy books as he went.

  I still couldn’t move, but I was aware of flashes going off – press photographers snapping gleefully – and mobile phones in the air, capturing footage of a madman on the rampage.

  Branwell was at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Dominic tried to calm things by taking command at the microphone.

  “Well, that was a vintage performance from Monsieur Amiel. Let’s be rather more British about things and pretend that didn’t happen! I think the best thing is that we start the signing, and you can meet Daisy in person. Please observe the queuing system, and continue to enjoy the refreshments. Many thanks for coming here this evening, and here’s to many delicious offerings from Lucy Lovecake!”

  He raised his glass, confirming: “To Lucy Lovecake!”

  There was a resounding echo: “To Lucy Lovecake!”

  Dominic ushered me across to the signing table.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “Not really, but I must do this,” I replied.

  “Yes, I think you have to. But you can come out of this well. He’s presenting as a bitter and twisted nutcase – it’s perfect PR for you, if only he knew it.”

  “But I betrayed him,” I said with half a sob.

  “Does he deserve your loyalty? Are you in a relationship with him? You had to keep Lucy Lovecake a secret. You did what you had to do for your career,” said Dominic firmly.

  But there was no more time to talk. The queue snaked all around the second floor of the store, and I had to get on with being a professional author, getting the books signed as efficiently – and charmingly – as possible.

  “Thank you for coming!” I said to the first in line, beaming.

  “Love the book, Daisy. It really cheered me up!” replied a rosy-faced lady of about thirty.

  “Thank you. I’m so thrilled to hear that,” I said, giving a grateful smile.