When Only Cupcakes Will Do

by Daisy James

  Would they ever have another booking?

  She took a couple of steps backwards towards the kitchen. She inhaled a deep, calming breath and managed to grab hold of her flying thoughts enough to realise how ridiculous she was being.

  Would the celebrated Edmundo Cartolli really review the catering at his niece’s fifth birthday party?

  Obviously, when they’d met again at Francesca’s his handsome features had been camouflaged behind the veil of her irrationality and indignation. Looking at him now, in the cold light of day, there was no mistaking his striking Italian origins – caramel skin, espresso-coloured curls, boldly drawn eyebrows and lashes the colour of liquorice that she would have given anything to possess. He’d clearly decided that, as it was the weekend, he wouldn’t bother shaving and the smattering of dark stubble only served to add to his attractiveness. And, despite increasing the distance between them as swiftly as possible, his citrusy cologne lingered in the air between them.

  But there was the small matter of the way her treacherous body was reacting to his presence. When they had trained together at Le Cordon Bleu she had watched from the sidelines in amusement and confusion as the women on the course drooled in his presence. She’d rolled her eyes and given him a wide berth. So why were sparks of electricity zapping around her body causing her fingertips to tingle?

  With Gabriella’s arms entwined round his neck as he balanced her on his hip, her sparkly scarlet party shoes dangling around his thighs, she couldn’t fail to note how his black jeans hugged his taut contours like a second skin. The rolled-up sleeves of his pale-pink shirt exposed forearms bedecked with a scattering of dark hairs that she was ashamed to admit sent a ripple of desire through her veins. A navy-blue cashmere sweater was draped effortlessly around his broad shoulders in typical Italian style. God, the guy oozed so much charisma it radiated through the whole room.

  She was shaken from her romance-infused reverie when she realised he was speaking to her again.

  ‘Would you rather I had waited outside? As you can see, Gabriella was expecting me and she is my favourite niece.’ He plastered a noisy kiss on each of the little girl’s cheeks and she giggled, stroking his beard with her fingers. Lucie experienced the most ridiculous sensation of wishing she could swap places with the birthday girl – and receive the same joy-filled greeting.

  ‘How on earth could you have known I was here?’ she blurted out, before Ed slid his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, extracted his iPhone and waved it in the air. ‘Ah! Of course. Twitter!’

  ‘Here it is. ‘#LividLucie is back! Check out these little iced gems from #TheTravellingCupcakeCo!’ Great name, by the way.’

  ‘Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…’

  ‘Gabriella? Oh, Ed, you’ve managed to grace us with your presence at last, have you? About time!’ Rosa waddled into the hall and embraced her younger brother, which presented Lucie with the welcome opportunity to escape into the kitchen.

  ‘Rosa, why don’t you take Gabriella home and I’ll follow you? I’ve got her birthday presents in my car outside.’

  ‘Sure. See you later.’

  ‘Bye, Uncle Mundi!’ trilled Gabriella.

  Lucie remained behind the kitchen door, motionless, straining her ears in the hope of hearing footsteps and the front door slam, anxious for Ed to leave the hall as soon as possible so she could finish washing the floor and hand the keys back to the vicar’s wife.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ed as he pushed the door into the tiny kitchen open.

  Lucie hadn’t been expecting his arrival in her temporary sanctuary. She took a couple of hurried steps backwards, tripped over a mop and bucket and landed, bottom first, in a crate of utensils and stainless-steel pans.

  ‘Oh God!’

  Ed stood and watched in amusement, his hands in his back pockets, laughter dancing across his face, as she struggled back to her feet, brushing her curls from her face and leaving a smudge of chocolate ganache on her cheek.

  ‘Well, I’ve heard of girls falling at people’s feet but I thought that only happened in Hollywood movies starring George Clooney or Brad Pitt, not for food critics who are scouring their lexicon of appropriate responses and coming up with a big fat blank,’ Ed smirked causing the familiar duo of dimples to appear in his cheeks.

  She noticed he didn’t offer his palm to help her up. ‘I…’

  ‘No, let me speak first. You might not believe me, but I had no idea you were the pastry chef at Francesca’s. Every review I write is the truth. It may not be what the chef or the proprietor wants to hear, but, when I decided to become a critic, honesty was the one attribute that was non-negotiable. What is the point of publishing a review unless you can stand behind your opinions one hundred per cent, with the knowledge and experience in your armoury to back up everything you write and have a well-researched answer if you are challenged? As you know, Lucie, like you I have the qualifications to allow me to appreciate every flavour, every texture, every aroma, every technique. You might have a problem with that, but I’m not going to apologise for having integrity. Can I ask you this? How would you have reacted if you went to a restaurant and were served dessert sprinkled with smoked chilli powder?’

  Lucie stared at him for a fraction of a second until she realised he was right and he hadn’t deserved the outpouring of emotion he’d received. When it came to food, as with everything else in life, honesty was always the best policy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ed. I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. It was not only unforgivable to lose my cool like that, but totally unprofessional. You of all people know how much this career means to me. I pride myself on my meticulous attention to detail and that night my standards slipped. Everything you wrote in your review was justified. But can I just say, in my defence, that at the time my brain was scrambled. I’d just proposed to my boyfriend – in Tiffany’s of all places – and he turned me down. I was in a bad place and took my craziness out on you.’

  ‘Apology accepted, Lucie. And to show there’s no hard feelings, why don’t you let me take you out for a drink? It is actually good to see you again. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to since you graduated from Le Cordon Bleu.’

  Lucie allowed herself a smile of relief. ‘I’d like that. You can bring me up to date with what you’ve been doing, too, and why you’ve swapped your Michelin-starred existence for the life of a food critic!’

  ‘Been keeping tabs on me, Lucie?’ Ed smirked. ‘I’m staying at Rosa’s so I’ll call you tomorrow.’ And with a twinkle in his eyes, he spun on his Italian loafer heels and strolled out of the hall.

  She watched his progress from the kitchen window as he strode to a silver Alfa Romeo convertible parked in the spot Lucie had indicated earlier in the day, and roared away without so much as a backward glance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucie arrived at Matt’s garage to collect the ice-cream van early the following morning as the sun played hide-and-seek with the scudding clouds. Thankfully the temperature had ratcheted up a notch since the downpour the night before and she had enjoyed the three-mile walk from home. Jess had decided to grab the opportunity to take the boys swimming and then to the river to feed the ducks. So, once she had driven back to her mother’s honey-coloured Victorian semi, she intended to park the van on the driveway and set to work scrubbing the interior until it squeaked.

  The street in Richmond where her mother had chosen to move after their father had left was a Hollywood director’s idea of leafy suburbia. The houses in their street were predominantly cast from red brick, which gave the onlooker the impression of their facades being dusted with a veneer of paprika, and crowds of tulips and daffodils danced merrily in the neatly maintained gardens and along the verges. There was a characterful pub at the end of the road, a selection of unique shops selling artisan produce – home-made organic cheeses, wooden sculptures, even a semi-famous potter displaying his creations in the tiny white-washed gallery – and not forgetting the church and th
e village hall, offering such varied pursuits as yoga sessions, mother-and-toddler groups and the monthly WI meeting.

  After completing the paperwork and a brief lesson on handling the unfamiliar controls, Matt waved her off. She crawled from the garage forecourt, scrapping the gears, terrified of causing an accident. However, after a few hundred yards she settled into the driver’s seat and was even beginning to enjoy herself until she rounded the corner into her road where the cars were parked on both sides. She struggled to manoeuvre the oversized steering wheel and in doing so inadvertently knocked the silver handle on the dashboard. A jolly spurt of ‘Greensleeves’ rang out into the air and her face flooded with warmth. She prayed a gang of ice-cream-deprived children wouldn’t race up to the window and demand a dozen 99s as she drew up outside the house.

  She leapt out to open the wrought-iron gate so she could pull the van onto the driveway. As she skipped over the pavement she heard an astonished voice.

  ‘Lucie? Is that you?’

  She cringed. Why, oh why, did these things have to happen to her? Why couldn’t she be caught taking a Ferrari or a Porsche out for a Sunday morning spin? For a moment she considered pulling the hood of her jacket over her curls and denying her identity, but she knew how ridiculous that would look.

  ‘Erm…’

  ‘I thought it was you. Is this what you’re driving now?’ asked Ed, his eyebrows disappearing into his fringe as he fought to keep his face straight while he took in the pink-and-white marshmallow of a vehicle parked in front of him. It was a losing battle and he displayed a wide smile of perfectly even teeth. ‘Haven’t seen one of these in years!’

  ‘Ed…’

  ‘Are you thinking of running an ice-cream-van business now? Does that mean you’re giving up on the cupcake parties already? I hope not because I actually think you have a fabulous business idea there. Rosa and Gabriella spent the whole of last night praising you to the stars and back. And after much persuasion I took a chance on one of those chocolate ganache cupcakes and have to say I was impressed. Your Parisian talents have not completely deserted you.’

  Ed strolled to the serving window and peered inside. ‘Wow, what’s that smell? Has something died back there?’ His upper lip curled in repugnance. ‘You’ve certainly got your work cut out. I reckon it needs a complete overhaul before you unleash your ice lollies on an unsuspecting public.’

  Lucie stared at Ed and the weird chemistry she had noticed between them the previous day began to bubble in her stomach. ‘Why are you here? I thought Rosa lived on the other side of Richmond.’

  ‘Would you believe she’s taken Gabriella to another birthday party? Not my idea of a relaxing Sunday afternoon so I decided I’d take a walk down to the river. Want to come?’

  ‘Erm, no, thanks! Like you said, I think I’ve got my work cut out.’

  Lucie glanced up the driveway to the paint-blistered garage doors in front of which her sister had gathered a plethora of cleaning equipment – buckets, mops, rubber gloves, scrappers, scouring pads and an extensive range of cleaning products that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a hospital store cupboard.

  She zipped up her fleece and placed her hands on her hips to indicate she should make a start, but Ed made no effort to take the hint and move on.

  ‘Want a hand?’

  She met his liquid chocolate eyes and couldn’t prevent her jaw from dropping. Had she heard him right? Who in their right mind would give up a sunny Sunday afternoon to clean an ancient, grime-encrusted ice-cream van? Give her a room full of screaming five-year-olds any time.

  ‘Sorry, did you just offer to help me to scrub the van?’

  ‘Yep. On one condition, though – that I can grab a pair of those rubber gloves.’ Before she had chance to reply, Ed had trotted up the driveway to the mound of bottles and sprays and yanked on a pair of bright-yellow, industrial-strength rubber gloves. ‘Do you need me to direct you through the gates? It looks like it’ll be a squeeze. Do you want me to do it?’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to do it. I’m quite capable of reversing a vehicle onto the driveway, thank you.’

  But she should have known. For some unfathomable reason Ed Cartolli seemed to have a knack of sending her usually competent brain into turmoil. It took her three attempts to scrape through the narrow opening and, mortifyingly, she managed to hit the silver knob twice so that her endeavour attracted a crowd at the front gate until she came to a halt in front of the garage doors, perspiration trickling down her temples and collecting beneath her breasts, her face a beacon of heat.

  She leapt down from the driver’s seat, refusing to meet Ed’s eyes. From what she remembered of him at Le Cordon Bleu, he excelled at everything he put his mind to and she knew he would have done it first time. She let herself into the kitchen and filled a washing-up bowl with warm, soapy water. Stepping over the overblown plastic garden toys Jess had liberated from the garage to make room for the van to be stored overnight, she carried the bowl over to the van.

  ‘Are we starting with the inside?’ asked Ed, clearly keen to get a look at the interior.

  ‘Yes, prepare yourself, though,’ she giggled as she stepped up into the passenger seat, inadvertently offering Ed a Grand Circle view of her jeans-clad behind. ‘I don’t think the cabin’s seen a cloth since it rolled off the production line. Oh, and by the way, I have not ditched the cupcake parties idea. This little beauty is the mobile part of the business from whose glorious interior I intend to produce an array of mouth-watering morsels for the guests’ delectation.’

  Lucie flung open the windows to encourage the dank aroma to disperse as Ed studied the nozzles of the silver ice-cream dispensers. She reached under a bench and removed a filthy stainless-steel tray encrusted with splodges of an unidentifiable liquid that looked suspiciously like dried blood. She crouched down on her haunches to sweep the floor below the tray.

  ‘Argh!’ she screamed and stepped back, knocking into Ed.

  ‘It’s only a mouse. Go throw it in one of those black bags over there. Then fetch the scrubbing brushes and the disinfectant. I’ll get stuck in.’

  Lucie gaped at him.

  ‘Still not wishing you’d gone to that birthday party?’ she called as she held the tray at arm’s length and emptied the deceased mouse into the sack.

  ‘Never been afraid to get my hands dirty, Lucie, you should know that. We’ve cooked together enough times. Life in the food prep fast lane isn’t one long picnic. Gastronomy, whichever branch you decide to dangle from, is a tough profession. Hard work, unsociable hours, difficult customers, irate pastry chefs – it has it all. But the best thing about it is that the harder you work, the more benefit you reap. I worked hard at Le Cordon Bleu, practised late into the night so that I learned everything there was to know about a subject I’ve been passionate about for as long as I can remember.’

  Lucie glanced over her shoulder at Ed. So that was how he managed to come top in every single subject, always pipping her to the post. However, she knew that not only had he worked hard, he’d played hard too! She had listened to the gossip between the girls on the course about his seduction techniques.

  But what she really needed to know was why, after studying so hard to become a chef at the top of his game, gaining the accolade of youngest Italian chef to achieve a Michelin star, he had given it all up to become a food critic. Why write about the glorious flavours, colours and textures when you could be experiencing them? Yet she didn’t feel she could intrude on his personal decisions. While it seemed they had called a truce, it was still a little shaky. She tossed her curls over her forehead but they fell straight back into her eyes. She touched her nose with the cuff of her fleece and resumed her task in companionable silence.

  The rhythmic scrubbing became almost cathartic. As they scraped, sloshed, hosed and wiped, Lucie realised she hadn’t once thought about her disintegrated relationship with Alex or the abusive tirade she’d blurted to the man next to her that had resulted in her dismissal.
She also made a mental note to call Steph to thank her for her perceptive foresight in knowing what her friend-in-need, well… needed. Steph was right – coming home to Richmond had been the best thing to do. At last her internal meanderings had emerged from the dark prison she had built for them. She was beginning to feel like her old self again.

  ‘Okay, I vote we call it a day and leave the van to dry out.’

  Lucie could feel her cheeks glowing from the exertion and refused to even contemplate what her hair must look like after she’d wrangled with a network of spiders’ webs, mercifully abandoned by their owners. However, Ed still sported Jess’s oversized Marigolds so she wasn’t the only one to have discarded sartorial elegance for practicality.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Ed. It would have taken all day to do that by myself.’

  ‘So, a mobile cupcake business from a vintage ice-cream van. I have to admit, it’s inspired marketing! What plans do you have for the equipment?’

  ‘Actually, that’s what I’m going to do this afternoon.’

  ‘Really, so what are we waiting for? Come on, let’s hit the shops!’

  Ed whipped off the incongruous gloves and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as he waited for her at the gates to lock the van and grab her list from the kitchen table. She was amazed that only yesterday she would have been horrified if someone had told her she would be spending the next day in the company of her sworn enemy, but she was enjoying herself immensely.

  As she climbed into Ed’s Alfa Romeo, Lucie knew she would have to harness all her willpower not to deviate from the shopping list she and Jess had created the previous evening over a bottle of her sister’s favourite Merlot. She loved shopping for kitchen utensils. Not for her the designer boutiques selling the next must-have handbag or the latest in cosmetics. Even shoes didn’t do it for her – not surprising really when her job meant she had to be on her feet all day and most of the evening. But show her a shelf crammed with whisks, baking tins and cookie cutters and she was in her personal retail paradise.