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

by Pippa James

  I sat up. “Really? What would they do with a photograph of me?”

  “Sell it. To a newspaper or an online publication,” she said. “Daisy, you’re trending – since Hay.”

  “Oh no. I haven’t been online lately. What’s been happening?”

  “Let me make you some tea, toast and scrambled eggs, and I’ll bring you up to date with all that. Okay?” said Kitty, tidying up my bedclothes and fussing around my room.

  “Kitty, that would be lovely, thank you,” I told her. “I suppose I should check messages and what not.”

  “Well, check your phone, but don’t go on any social media until I speak to you about it, okay?” she said.

  “Sure, okay. I’m getting worried now, though. Should I be?”

  “Nothing to worry about as such. Just that your book, your brand, you – it’s all gone to a whole new level. It was something about that appearance with Michel. Your cake was so fabulous. You were so composed. His behaviour was so bizarre. There were so many tweets about it. Let me bring this tea to you,” she said.

  Kitty went off to the kitchen.

  I reached out for my phone. Text messages from Mum, Dad, Clara, Dominic, Branwell. Nothing from Michel. I had so many messages. When I went back two days, I noticed that there was one from Madame Amiel. She hated texting. I guessed it would be all upper case.

  DAISY PLEASE CALL ME URGENT

  I jumped out of bed.

  “Kitty!” I called. “There’s a message from Michel’s mother! It’s dated two days ago. Do you know if there’s anything up?”

  She came through with a tray laden with tea, buttered toast and mounds of softly scrambled eggs.

  “Not heard anything. He hasn’t posted anything for a day or two now,” she said.

  I felt ravenous, and as I ate, Kitty began to fill me in.

  “After you won the cake-off, the hits on the Lucy Lovecake pages went sky high, almost one hundred per cent supportive, save for one or two die-hard Amielites,” she explained. “Michel took to Twitter and he tweeted: ‘She’s a lovely woman but she deceived me’. This got everyone asking – how and why did Daisy Delaney deceive Michel Amiel? They don’t want to believe it’s just that you didn’t tell him you were writing a book. Conspiracy theorists put forward explanations for your spat.”

  “No! This is getting out of hand. Maybe we’ll have to come off Twitter.”

  “Well, that’s up to you, of course. But just as things were cooling a bit and nobody had any hard facts, step forward a Mrs Burton who runs the Swan Hotel in Hay.”

  “Oh God! We met her! We stayed there. Dominic and I. She didn’t—”

  “She did,” said Daisy. “She spoke to the Mail, saying that you and Dominic were an item, as you’d insisted on a ‘compact’ double room at her hotel.”

  I held my head in my hands. “But it was a mix-up and anyway this is not anyone’s business!”

  Am I more concerned about my privacy or about Michel’s feelings? Hard to know.

  Kitty nodded sympathetically. “But there are those who think when you blog and tweet and Instagram like crazy, when you become famous because of social media, that you have to take the rough with the smooth,” she said.

  “And do you think that, Kitty? Do you honestly think that?”

  “No, of course not, Daisy. It’s outrageous, but it’s what goes on. The invisible wall that people can hide behind online makes them so much ruder than they would be in person.”

  “So, did Michel tweet anything else after Mrs Burton waded into the mire?” I asked.

  Kitty looked down at her hands. “No, that’s when he went quiet.”

  * * *

  I sent a message to Rose: On my way, Daisy.

  She replied: THIS IS NOT DAISY, IT’S ROSE.

  I replied: I KNOW, I AM DAISY.

  I showered and dressed as fast as I could. Kitty called a cab. When the call came to say they were outside, Kitty went to check if the coast was clear.

  “No photographers that I can see,” she said. “Think I put them off earlier – said you were in Ireland. It was all I could think of.”

  “Well done, Kitty,” I said. “I’ll make a dash for it.”

  Within ten minutes, I was at Elsworthy Road. Rose let me in.

  “Madame, I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you! I wasn’t allowed.”

  “Daisy, he trusted you. He loved you,” she said simply.

  “I am distraught. I am, really!” I told her.

  “I can see this is so. Poor girl.”

  “Can I see him?” I asked.

  “I told him you were coming, and he says he doesn’t want to see you. That you are a double traitor, that he will never see you again,” she said.

  I sighed. “Can I just say something to him, through the door even? I must.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  Rose went upstairs while I sat in the sitting room, wringing my hands. Bloody Mrs Burton, nasty old cow.

  I started to wonder if Dominic had ever booked two rooms, but my thoughts were interrupted as Rose returned.

  “He has said some terrible things, that he doesn’t want to hear your pathetic, self-pitying excuses. He says: ‘Ask her why she didn’t stay loyal to me if she loved me so much?’”

  Madame looked at me, not judging so much as despairing.

  “Tell him I am sorry. I can’t live with histrionics, but I love him.”

  “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll tell him that.”

  When she returned, her head hung low, she sighed. “He says, ‘I’ll never change, forget me. You deserve better.’ He has turned his head to the wall.”

  “Madame, tell him to find me when he wants to talk. But I will not put my life on hold.”

  “Okay. I will tell him. You two are driving me crazy. Acting like teenagers. I’ve never seen him in love before. He adores you. So dramatic – what’s wrong with young people nowadays, eh? Making private thoughts public on the internet, sending messages and tweets which everyone can see – it’s undignified, appalling.”

  “You are right, Madame. I’m sorry you’re involved in this,” I said, embracing her. “Stay in touch.”

  I decided to walk home in the afternoon sun. On my way, I stopped in the park and sat on a bench. I just don’t believe that Mrs Burton would have spoken out. She’s of the same generation as Rose Amiel. She loved my book and we’d had some nice exchanges. But I suppose everyone has their price . . .

  Kitty and I ate quietly together that evening, dining on asparagus, poached eggs and toasted rye bread, neither of us daring to pick up the tablet and look at Lucy Lovecake’s accounts.

  “None of it is real,” I said.

  “Yes, but is this real? Sitting here in this little space in a corner of London. It seems real to us, but in the wide world, it is not validated, is it? How do we define reality?”

  “Something you can respond to with the senses?” I offered.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think cyberspace is fantasy. It’s just a new reality.”

  “True. It connects with the physical world, doesn’t it? All those people at Hay in the audience had first heard of the book on the internet. They’re not bots.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I am so weary. Might have to get drunk.”

  “Let’s.”

  “Yes, why not? And I really must call Dominic. I haven’t spoken to him since he dropped me off after Hay.”

  “How did it go, spending all that time with him?” asked Kitty.

  “You mean, spending the night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was lovely. I mean, I was preoccupied about the event, but it was beautiful. He’s . . . velvet, whereas Michel is . . .”

  “Broken glass?”

  “Ha! No, I was going to say leather!”

  “Don’t you think you need to put Michel out of your mind? Give this a chance with Dominic? You seem so right together. You have loads in common. Neither of you attracts police escorts with any regularity,
for one thing.”

  “True.” I went to make coffee.

  Kitty’s right. Michel makes me scared, uneasy, depressed. He will never change. Yes, I regret having to deceive him, but he is not a part of my life. I couldn’t have trusted him with a secret book, knowing how wild he becomes. Let go of the guilt. Let go of Michel Amiel. Enjoy your success without suffering.

  80

  Goodbye, Rosehip Lane

  Eventually the Hay-on-Wye fuss died down a little, and Kitty and I took to tweeting again. Michel recovered and went back to Paris, giving up his house in Elsworthy Road. This I heard from Madame. He never did seek me out, and I came to the conclusion that any explanations I could offer were flimsy. He was someone who had passed through my life, unsettling and inspiring me in equal measure. I had a farewell lunch with his mother. I asked how he was.

  “Depressed,” she said. “He loves you but will not back down.”

  I told her I was happy, that it had been a moment in time. “He should focus on his health,” I said.

  She said he was the most stubborn, infuriating and truthful man in the world. I agreed. The future of the cookery school seemed uncertain, but it remained there for now. Saying goodbye to her was awful, knowing that she’d probably never be a part of my life again.

  However, business was blossoming for French Fancy. It was proving to be a popular summer beach read, with high airport sales, and bookshops – both chains and indies – were ordering in big numbers for the run-up to Christmas. Dominic told me that we were on the fourth print run.

  “How many books in total have now been printed?” I asked.

  “About 250,000, including eBooks.”

  “What? That’s crazy!”

  “I know, and we’re going to Frankfurt in October, where we expect to sell this into twenty foreign languages,” said Dominic.

  “What happens in Frankfurt?”

  “It’s one of the biggest international book fairs in the world. All the rights teams sit in booths and have ten-minute slots to sell rights to foreign publishers. It’s a three-day event which feels like two weeks of work. But it gets results. It changes the game, opens things out to the international market. We’ve already had calls from European publishing houses about Lucy Lovecake, and the diary is filling up. I’m going to employ a new member of staff to look after your rights. I’ve been interviewing for that role.”

  “So I don’t have to come to Frankfurt?”

  “You can come to keep me company, but an author wouldn’t normally get involved in selling rights. You should be scribbling away on book two. We need fresh material. When something’s as popular as this, the next phase is that people want more.”

  I learned so much from Dominic, and Branwell was brilliant too, always advising me and nurturing my writing. I liked to send all drafts to my agent because I respected his industry knowledge and he would always have a clear view on what was and was not in the “voice”. Dominic and I saw more and more of each other, with business matters mixed up with our personal affairs, and vice versa.

  I was growing fed up of life in Primrose Hill. It made me feel hemmed in, and I spent more and more time at Bluebells. I loved the peacefulness, the country air, the privacy and the realism of the people there. It didn’t seem to matter that Dominic and I were tied together twice over: one minute we were talking about a literary event, next we were cooking dinner together, sleeping together, or caring for Minty.

  I spent the month of July very quietly at Bluebells. We picked fruit and made jam, went to the swing park with Minty, sunbathed on the terrace, sipping mojitos made by Dominic.

  “Are you happy?” he said as we lay side by side on sunbeds one Saturday afternoon in late July.

  “Very. Perhaps city living isn’t for me. Could’ve saved myself a fortune on rent over the years if I’d just moved out to a country cottage!”

  “But none of this would have happened, would it?” he said.

  “No, that’s true. And I’m so glad it did.”

  “Me too,” he agreed.

  I wondered where this was all heading.

  Suddenly, my phone rang, breaking the spell.

  “It’s Branwell,” I said, glancing at the screen. “I’d better take it.”

  Dominic nodded.

  “Hey, Branwell. How are you?”

  “Daisy,” his god-like voice boomed, “I wonder if you’d like to come to lunch in London soon. There’s someone who would like to meet you.”

  “Sure, when were you thinking of?” I asked.

  “Friday sound okay? He’s in town for a week and suggests lunch any day this week. I’ll book Joe Allen’s.”

  “Yes, Friday sounds great. I’ll get the train into Paddington. See you around noon?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  I hung up.

  Dominic was curious. “Did you say you’re going up to London?”

  “Yes, on Friday. There’s someone Branwell wants me to have lunch with.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted.

  “Did he say that I should come?”

  “No. Maybe it’s to do with the agency.”

  81

  London

  I had mixed feelings about my day trip to London. I was so used to open farmland now – just like in my childhood – that I was almost panicked by the whole idea of negotiating the city. First thing on the Friday morning, I soaked in a bubble bath, looking out onto the rolling Oxfordshire fields. I tried to think about very little. I was learning to let go of fears, and worry less. Minty and I went to the village hairdresser’s, Tasha’s, where they did a very smooth, bouncy blow dry for me while Minty read one of her picture books.

  Once back at Bluebells, I decided on a pale blue shift dress, simple, cool, elegant.

  “I’ll just leave the car in the train station car park, shall I?” I said to Dominic.

  “No, no. We’ll take you down there,” he insisted.

  “But what if I’m back late?”

  “Are you planning to be late? Why would you be late?” he quizzed.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what the meeting is about. I don’t want to trouble you if it’s near Minty’s bedtime, that’s all.”

  “Okay. Text me, though,” he said.

  I enjoyed the train journey, the patchwork of farmland gradually giving way to the grids of the city.

  When I got to Joe Allen’s, Branwell was already at a table with a silver fox, an American silver fox, I felt. Perfect teeth!

  They stood up. I kissed Branwell on both cheeks and shook hands with his guest, introduced as Tony from NBC.

  “Good to meet you!” I said, taking a seat. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Very pleasant, thank you. It’s all worth it, to meet you.”

  Now don’t go all schmaltzy on me or I’m going to take an instant dislike to you.

  “Ah, well you won’t be saying that by the end of lunch, isn’t that right, Branwell?” I joked.

  “He’ll be even more enchanted.”

  “Stop it!”

  “She doesn’t like compliments – until she does like them,” explained Branwell.

  Tony laughed.

  Branwell picked up the story of Tony’s visit.

  “Daisy, Tony has approached me about creating a TV show based on Lucy Lovecake’s Dating Tips,” said Branwell. “This would be based in Boston, a slightly Anglo version of Sex and the City.”

  “I see,” I said. “Fictionalised?”

  “Ish,” said Tony. “We’re envisaging a blend of fact and fiction.”

  “Scripted reality?” I said.

  “Not exactly. Viewers are tired of that. But the new wave from there is for programmes that educate as well as entertain. Our research shows there is a dating crisis. People want to know about ways to be successful in dating. We would present a show that does that. We’ve been looking for a vehicle for a long time, then we heard about your book. It was tren
ding on Twitter after Hay, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I confirmed. “Hay was a bit of a riot!”

  “Sure was – fantastic! We love all that stuff you have going with the chef guy,” Tony chimed.

  I was about to say that was at an end, but Branwell shot me a look.

  “It all sounds great, and I’m sure we’d love to see what you propose in more detail,” I said. “I’ll have to see what my publisher thinks, of course.”

  Branwell leant forward, hands clasped together. “Why?”

  “Because. He makes the books, and—”

  “Exactly,” Branwell cut in. “He makes the books. We didn’t sell him TV or film rights. This has nothing to do with Dominic, outside of the fact that it will boost book sales.”

  “Oh, okay. One of these days you’ll have to give me a lesson on rights,” I said.

  “It’s easy. Any book has ancillary rights outwith publishing. Such as TV, radio, theatre, games, serialisation in magazines. These all have a value. Your publisher agrees to make your story into a book. That does not mean they have the right to make money from these other forms of your story. That’s your right. Unless you sell these extra rights to them or others for a good price.”

  “I get it.”

  “Always remember that Dominic knows he has no right to ask about ancillary matters. Refer him to me if he does, okay?” said Branwell.

  “Yeah. I will.” But will I?

  We chatted to Tony for a while – he had lots of tales to tell about life inside American TV – mostly the terrifying blurring of make-believe and reality, which was becoming a preoccupation of mine. He excused himself after coffee, heading to another meeting, after which Branwell and I ordered a dessert to share and chatted some more.

  “Daisy?”

  “Yes?”

  “About your relationship with Dominic. It’s none of mine,” said Branwell.

  “That’s right.”

  “I just want to say this once, and I won’t mention it again, okay?”

  “Okay. Fire away,” I agreed.

  “No publishing career is without hitches,” he began. “And there are always points when an author and publisher argue. It’s a bit like a marriage. I can’t think of one author who has not had cross words with their publisher. You are in the ascendant phase right now, so all is well, but there will come a day—”