by Pippa James
I tried to ignore the sound of raised voices and scuffles – clearly Michel was still acting up. But here I was at my book launch, a moment of my life that had been a long time coming, and I had no choice but to carry on as if I was unfazed. The truth was that I wanted to run after Michel, apologise, console him, and make things right.
Deep inside, I knew that was going to be an impossible task.
“When’s the next book coming out, Daisy?” asked a man in his early forties. “I loved it!”
“I’m working on a sequel,” I said.
“Oh, don’t say there will only be two of them!”
I smiled until my cheeks ached and spoke until my throat was dry and sore. The line of Lucy Lovecake fans seemed to go on forever.
Towards the end of the signing session, I looked up to find a man before me. A man I knew well but barely recognised.
“Daisy,” he said in a voice full of tenderness.
Tom Percy.
“Tom, how nice to see you.”
“I just got here. I’m sorry I missed your speech. Someone here tipped me off – just about an hour ago!”
“It’s all been very silly, the pseudonym thing,” I replied, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Dominic stepped in. “Daisy, sorry to rush you, but there’s still a bit of a queue—”
“Yes, sorry. This is an old friend of mine.”
“Can I call you?” asked Tom, stepping aside.
“It’s too late, Tom. I’m in love.”
72
Press Dishes up Michel
At ten o’clock, I was still signing and looked up to find my parents standing with their copy of the book.
“Daisy!” said Dad. “What a night for you! You’ve done so well, what a trouper.”
Mum looked misty-eyed with pride. “What a dreadful man. Was that the maniac French chef who is always making a fool of himself?” she said.
“Yes, that’s him. But he was right. This whole secret thing around Lucy Lovecake meant that I’ve been fibbing to him. I hated being dishonest. And now look what’s happened!”
“How could you ever confide in a right eejit like that?” said Dad, which made me laugh, briefly, through some tears.
Dominic came to join us. “Daisy, what a star you are. I was going to say ‘in the making’, but you are already. Thank you for carrying on after that astonishing disruption. That man has gone too far now. He will not be welcome at any functions across all of London. I hope he is sent back to Paris for good.”
“Hear, hear,” said Branwell, who had extricated himself from a conversation with a would-be author looking for representation.
“Where do you think he is now?” I asked.
“Most probably in a police cell, if he didn’t calm down by the time they arrived,” said Dominic.
“What? They called the police?” I sighed.
“Yes. He was out of control.”
I thought back to the book awards. It had been so easy to calm him down with some coffee and gentle words on that occasion. Then, when he’d come round with the taxi money, he’d inspired the book. And we’d had such fun together. But I could never recover his trust now. It was over, as I had always known it would be when my identity was revealed.
Maybe I was a coward about telling him, but I would never have had some of those special times if I’d told him sooner. I wouldn’t want to have missed any of those lovely moments.
“Shall we all go to dinner to celebrate this amazing evening, and the performance of a lifetime by Daisy Delaney?” said Dominic.
The consensus was yes. Dominic put his arm around me as we left the store. I couldn’t help glancing around for Michel, half out of fear, the other half hope.
“Don’t worry,” Dominic reassured. “He’s far away now. That’s the end of him.”
I felt a tear trickle down my left cheek.
* * *
I hardly dared to log in to my tablet the next morning. I just knew that the signing was going to get lots of coverage, but for all the wrong reasons.
Kitty knocked on my bedroom door.
“Come in, Kitty!” I called.
“Hi, Daisy. I brought you some tea,” she said.
“Tea and sympathy, huh?”
“Yes, exactly. Well, I say let’s just face up to all the reports. They’ll blow over soon enough.”
I braced myself. “Go for it.”
Kitty went to fetch her laptop.
“Shall I read the headlines and you can let me know if you want any expansion on those?” she suggested.
“Perfect.”
“Okay, here goes: ‘Violent-ine’s Day Disaster for Debut Author Daisy Delaney!’ ‘Fancy French chef flips his lid!’ ‘(Very) Hot Cross Buns at Book Event!’ ‘Lovecake not to everyone’s taste, as chef goes wild.’ ‘Bitter chef spoils tasty dish with too many sour grapes!’ ‘Chef Boils Over!’” Kitty paused. “Some of the photos are quite racy.”
“Really? From the magazine shoot?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, but they seem to have photographed you looking a bit Nell Gwynn last night as well! You are leaning over the signing table.”
“Oh no. Let me see!”
I shrieked. “That looks awful. This CANNOT get worse.”
I reached for my phone. Seventeen missed calls. I rang Dominic at his hotel.
“Good morning, Daisy!” he said, sounding jolly.
“What’s good? I’m totally mortified!”
“Don’t be. We have eight requests for appearances on TV for you already, six for radio interviews, and all the major papers and magazines looking for times to meet you. This is a perfect scenario! Monsieur Amiel has given us oodles of press on a platter!”
I knew I should be happy about that, but how could I feel happy when I felt so deceitful?
“Will it ever calm down?” I asked.
“Hopefully not,” he said, chuckling.
“I suppose I just have to get used to this, selling my soul for silver pennies,” I said.
“You have not sold your soul. Michel Amiel is a despicable person. You did exactly the right thing in keeping your identity as Lucy Lovecake from him. I am very proud of you.”
73
Where the Sympathy Lies
Kitty was now looking at Lucy Lovecake’s pages for feedback on those.
“I have to go and check out what the fans of Lucy Lovecake are saying about this,” I told Dominic.
“So, can I take it that you are willing to appear anywhere and everywhere? We can probably get this story spinning way out of the UK now, into Europe, the US, Asia. That’s what we need next, Daisy – foreign language deals, a TV show. I’ve got it all planned and so far that plan is unfolding pretty much perfectly.”
Good for you.
Why had I not noticed this very calculating side in Dominic before?
There was a note of glee in his voice and I wasn’t sure that it was ALL to do with the fresh batch of publicity.
“You must be exhausted, Daisy,” he said. “Why don’t you come out to Bluebells for a few days, relax here? We could do some walking, eat in the village pub, switch off from the whole hullaballoo?”
“I’ll think about it. Thanks. I’ve got a few things to catch up with here, but yeah, that does sound very nice.”
I needed some quiet time. But with Dominic?
I bathed, dressed and had some breakfast with Kitty.
“I need to get out, go walking, clear my head,” I told her.
“Sure. That’ll do you good,” she said. “I’ll do some replies to messages.”
“Thanks. I really don’t want to look at all that stuff for a while,” I admitted.
I wrapped up in a big coat and set off towards the park.
I was on the corner of West Street when I first noticed it. People nudging each other, giggling, staring at me.
Is my hair sticking up or something?
I carried on, but even in the park, dog walkers tittered and looked sideways as they went
by. And as I took refuge under a big chestnut tree, it dawned on me.
I am “out”. Lucy Lovecake, Daisy Delaney, whoever I am. People are recognising me from the newspapers this morning.
It was a horrible feeling because I couldn’t feel joyful about the growing success of Lucy Lovecake’s dating tips until Michel forgave me. And, of course, that was never going to happen. I had joined the ranks of women who had betrayed him. And I hope that Madame doesn’t hate me!
It was when I was walking that I realised how much his friendship meant to me. The thought of never sitting in the cinema with him again, or dining with him, or chatting through life problems. My eyes began to well up.
Don’t be silly, Delaney. It’s not as if you were in some big relationship. Don’t be a fool.
I didn’t plan to end up at Elsworthy Road, but that’s where I went.
I climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer. No reply. Of course, Madame Amiel was back in Paris, I knew that. But I was hoping that Michel would be back in residence. Surely he wasn’t still in a police cell? It’s not as if he actually hurt anyone.
I looked up and saw a curtain twitch at an upstairs window.
Someone is in there. It could be him!
I tried again. I heard movement inside. I peeped through the letterbox.
“Michel?” I called. “Are you in there?”
Nothing, yet I could tell he was there. A trace of his scent.
I couldn’t leave without saying how sorry I was.
“Michel, please forgive me,” I called. “I was sworn to secrecy, and by the time I wanted to tell you, I was in so deep it seemed impossible. I should have told you! I’m so sorry, I really am. I miss you!”
More footsteps inside.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it. From Michel!
Fuck off, liar.
I walked away, feeling desolate. He was not the forgiving type, I could see that from the way he spoke about his previous girlfriends and the way he went all the way with Eve before relenting and paying her off.
His disappointment in me was tangible, and understandable too.
When I got back to the flat, Kitty told me that she’d had a message from Dominic to say that I was to appear on a daytime show for the BBC – the next day.
“This is just the start of it, Daisy,” said Kitty. “You’re going to be so famous.”
“All I wanted was to have enough money for my rent,” I said.
“Daisy, Michel will come to his senses, you’ll see. I’m sure of it.”
“What makes you think that? I certainly don’t think so, Kitty.”
“He makes a huge fuss and calms right down, that’s his style. Just wait, be patient, leave him alone for a while.”
I hoped she was right.
“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”
“He will forget why he’s so annoyed. He’s had a shock, there’s more to you than meets the eye, but he likes you, Daisy, and he’s going to reflect on that.”
I envied Kitty the way she had been raised to reflect on problems calmly, never taking the impulsive route. Whereas, at that very moment, I was all for chaining myself to the railings at the front of Michel’s house.
74
Cashing Up
Over the next weeks, I saw nothing of Michel. I had messages from Tom Percy on Twitter and calls galore from Dominic McGann, but not the call I so badly wanted. I would rush to see what a ping on my phone heralded, always to be disappointed.
Life was changing for me in so many ways. I was due for a royalty payment at the end of March. Dominic e-mailed to let me see the calculation. I’d never had such a big payment in my life.
“This only takes into account a few weeks of market trading, because this royalty period ended at the end of December,” he explained. “In other words, your next one will be very much greater, as it will include the period of soaring sales, after Elle. However, all that said, you will be receiving your share of royalties via your agent for the sum of £28,546.86! That means you have cleared your advance, and it was a big advance already! Congratulations. We at Bluebells are delighted with this!”
I was thrilled as well. So many people had scared me by saying that you never make any more than your advance, and there I was after only a few months in the market, with fresh earnings and the advance paid off! Considering I knew how to live like a country church mouse, this new payment would suffice very nicely. As long as I didn’t have to buy too many new outfits for all my appearances.
75
Bound for Hay-on-Wye
Dominic had booked me into one festival after another. I’d had a few frocks made with tight bodices and swing skirts – and that was the start of the phase I call Lovecake on Tour. More like Tart on Tour. I would turn up anywhere I was asked – well, apart from a workingman’s club in Bradford, but that was just because the dates clashed. Dominic kept saying that there might only be one year of interest in Lucy Lovecake and that we had to roll with it, and that I could make my whole life’s fortune in this one year, so I may as well go for it. There was no disputing that Dominic knew what he was talking about when it came to contemporary marketing trends, so I didn’t argue, and with Michel no longer a part of my life, I was happy to be the hard-working singleton. Everyone knows that’s how to build a fortune, isn’t it? Avoid wasting time on the opposite sex.
But Dominic and I were getting very close. We were on the phone most days, discussing stuff like percentages for deals for Lucy Lovecake in Mandarin, and sometimes he came up to London for meetings or just to have lunch. He always stayed at his friend’s house in Notting Hill, but sometimes when we were out, we would slip into walking arm and arm, very comfortable and companionable. There had been a few times it seemed we might roll in the hay, but I was terrified of ruining our perfect working relationship. And as he kept saying I would only have a year of fame, I thought, well if we still like each other after a year, maybe we can develop things from there.
In late May, Dominic collected me in his open top Aston Martin and we travelled to the Hay-on-Wye literary festival together. The sun was shining, with not a cloud in sight, and the forecast said this was to last for days. It was the stuff of idyllic childhood summers – glorious, contented days when you thought it would never rain again.
I was wearing one of my sprig pattern sundresses for the journey and some 1950s white-framed shades I’d found at Portobello Market.
“You look lovely,” said Dominic as I got into the car, and he popped my little suitcase into the boot. I was so good at packing now I could practically fit everything into a clutch bag.
He played some lovely Louis Armstrong songs – “We Have All the Time in the World” and “My One and Only Love” – as we barrelled along the A40 to Hertfordshire in style. His mother was looking after Minty.
“I have you to thank for all this,” I said.
“I’m not feeling completely sure that’s a compliment?” He smiled.
“Ha, yes it is, actually. Of course, it’s all been rather overwhelming, and not being able to go to the corner shop incognito on a bad hair day is seriously annoying, but honestly, Dominic, I was looking at going back to Ireland before all this happened, getting a little job, giving up on my dreams.”
“Well, I’m so glad that didn’t happen. But Daisy, if I hadn’t published that book, a dozen others would have. I am the lucky one. You picked me! You changed your own luck with your talent and ingenuity.”
“You silver-tongued charmer that you are.”
We travelled in sweet silence after that, smiling occasionally across to one another, Dominic touching my knee lightly on occasion, while sometimes I touched his shoulder and told him how great his driving was. The early summer wildflowers decorated the fields and hedgerows with yellow, blue and pink polka dots. Chubby lambs frolicked in the fields, while whitethroats and willow warblers sang contentedly.
Could this be the weekend where things change between us?
Without say
ing as much, I had the feeling he was thinking the same way.
76
Lovecake on Tour
The main street in Hay was strung from side to side with coloured bunting, and the cutesy curiosity shops hid beneath striped canopies, shielding their small-paned windows from the heat of the sun. The little Kilverts Hotel was picture-book pretty, with tables and chairs to the front of it. People sat there happily, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the coldness of their beer, or sipping on refreshing pots of tea poured into china cups on saucers.
“This is just as pretty as I expected,” I said.
“It’s a bit cute, but I think it’s really special. I think you’re going to shine here. It’s the perfect place for you,” Dominic replied.
“Oh yeah. I forgot. I’m here to work.”
“I’m relying on you, Delaney, for that Caribbean island I’m hoping to buy.”
“Well, I’m going to get a helicopter first,” I jested. “Or maybe one of those yachts that you see moored at Cannes. That reminds me, why don’t we go to Cannes?”
So far, I’d earned £60,000, but I could dream.
Dominic knew only too well that none of that really mattered to me. All I wanted was enough in the bank for me to assess my life without fear of imminent insolvency.
“We’re looking for the Swan,” he said.
“There it is!” I said, pointing across the street to a little whitewashed hotel on a corner.
* * *
“There’s your key, Mr McGann,” said the sweet-faced lady, possibly the owner, who had introduced herself as Mrs Burton.
“Ah, I booked two rooms,” said Dominic.
“No, sir. Just the one. A double.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding. We will need a room each,” he said, looking at me with rolling eyes, as if to say, “Country folks, country ways”.
“We’re crammed for the next few nights, I’m afraid,” said Mrs Burton. “That’s the only room free, but it does have a sofa bed as well as the double.”