by Daisy James
She made a decision. She was going to call Alex and ask him to meet her. It had been three months since the incident. They’d both had plenty of time to analyse what had gone wrong and what they needed to do to move on in their lives. In fact, she was looking forward to it, because what better incentive to start afresh than the person she was sitting next to?
A concentrated blast of his aftershave caused her senses to swirl, and when she turned to smile at him she felt the echo of her heartbeat quicken. Edmundo Cartolli was extraordinarily attractive, especially with dampened curls flopping into his eyes. As he drove, she took the opportunity to scrutinise every detail of his face – every blemish, every wrinkle, every scar – and came to the conclusion that, to her inexpert eye, he was the most handsome man she’d ever had the good fortune to call a friend. She noticed the ripple of ebony hairs running up his forearm as he reached out to change gears and a flash of heat erupted in her abdomen like a miniature firework. No, he wasn’t handsome – he was hot!
Hollie’s words floated back to her, telling her to take a chance on the Italian stallion, and she had to stifle a giggle. She decided to concentrate on the road as they chatted about a French bistro Ed had reviewed the previous weekend, as every time her eyes strayed to his she lost her chain of thought. She had never noticed before how cute his earlobes were and she was shocked to find herself wondering what it would be like to nibble them.
There was no doubt about it. Despite Jess’s belief that Ed was the perfect diversion after the Alex fiasco, her reconnection with her old culinary rival had awakened passions within her she’d never known existed outside the field of gastronomy.
Could she be falling for Edmundo Cartolli?
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ asked Jess as she watched Lucie lower the final confectionery box into the boot of her Mini Cooper with the delicacy of a mother laying her sleeping baby to rest.
‘No, I’ll be fine. Everything’s perfect. The bride and groom won’t arrive at the hotel until two so that gives me over an hour to set up the pyramid for the cupcakes, sort out the vases and the jam jars for the cake pops and drape the bunting. The wedding planner will be on hand to direct the operations so once I’ve done my bit I can leave everything in her capable hands. I’m meeting Steph for a drink at Bart’s and then, when Hollie finishes work at the salon, we’re all going to a new Lebanese restaurant she’s been raving about so she can fill us in on her burgeoning romance with Elliott. Anyway, haven’t you and the boys got a train to catch? It’s not every weekend you get to take a trip to Cornwall! It should be me offering to help you!’
‘Oh, the boys have been packed since last week. And to be honest, so have I! A couple of days at the seaside are just what we all need to recharge our flagging batteries. Are you sure you don’t want to join us? You could catch a later train? Will you be okay here on your own?’
‘Jess, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a grown-up.’ Lucie giggled and hugged her sister a little longer than usual. ‘Have fun and I’ll see you when you get back on Sunday night.’
Lucie jumped into the driver’s seat, tooted an au revoir and manoeuvred the little car carefully along the London streets so as not to dislodge the five-tiered wedding cake and the highly decorated cupcakes she had stored in the boot for Tom and Georgina’s wedding, which was being held at the Berkeley. It was her most challenging commission yet, but when she’d added the final touches to the top tier, she knew it was the culmination of everything she had been training to achieve. It was a stunning piece of culinary art and she wasn’t ashamed to say she had shed a few tears of relief when Georgina had declared it to be every bit as perfect as she had hoped.
She had also baked over three hundred cupcakes – which she’d iced with champagne buttercream and tiny edible silver horseshoes – to slot into the conical stand, and had hand-crafted over fifty wedding-themed cake pops, from a miniature bride and groom with features resembling Tom and Georgina’s to entwined golden rings and love-hearts.
She was exhausted but it had all been worth it. She had a batch of business cards that she intended to leave on the table and she hoped this wouldn’t be the last wedding she was asked to cater for. Now all she needed was for her favourite London store – Fortnum & Mason – to knock at her door requesting a supply of her cocktail-inspired cupcakes and her life would be complete – well, her professional life at least.
She drew up in a bay next to the kitchen door and began the delicate task of unloading her precious cargo. Nerves swirled through her veins as one slip would have spelt disaster, not only for the Travelling Cupcake Company but for the bride and groom’s big day. She needn’t have worried as Dulcie, the wedding planner, had everything under military control, shouting orders into her headset as she ticked off each task on her clipboard, her face a picture of efficiency.
When Lucie had finished setting up the wedding cake and the old-fashioned, white-painted street barrow with her cupcakes, cake pops and a selection of vintage confectionery for the children – Black Jacks, fruit salads, pineapple cubes, powdery bonbons, chewy milk bottles – she and Dulcie stood back to admire the confectionery monument.
‘Fabulous,’ declared Dulcie, flicking her pen over her list. ‘Thanks, Lucie. By the way, I might have a new client for you. I’m doing a wedding in July at the Dorchester and they want the same sort of thing. I’ll pass on your details.’
‘Great, thanks!’ Lucie smiled.
She took one last look at the cake, brushed away a stray ball of icing and heaved a sigh of satisfaction. She pushed open the heavy oak door to the foyer, a smile of achievement lingering around her lips as she dug into her handbag searching for her car keys and ran headlong into a sturdy torso.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’
‘Hey…’
She looked up and her heart performed a mini somersault before bouncing up into her throat. Those mahogany eyes that had infiltrated her dreams every night since their drama in the rain were delving straight down into her soul. She felt the heat rising to her face and cavorting around her lower abdomen.
‘Lucie! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just dropped off my first wedding cake commission for Tom and Georgina. And you?’ She could hear a slight tremble in her voice. Why did Ed have to look at her with such intensity? And why did his presence always have to send her emotions flying around like bats in a belfry? She had never felt like that when she had bumped into Alex unexpectedly.
‘I’ve just reviewed their lunch menu for Anon. Appetit. Exquisite!’ Ed kissed his fingertips. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I will be bestowing this fine establishment with a well-deserved five stars.’
‘Well, I’m sure Tom and Georgina will be relieved their wedding reception is in safe hands.’
‘Jess not around?’
‘No, she’s taken the boys away for the weekend down to Cornwall.’
‘Ah…’
‘What?’
‘So, does that mean you have the house to yourself?’
Lucie felt the earlier surge of warmth pulsate around her veins. What exactly did he have in mind, she wondered.
Ed saw the expression on her face and laughed.
‘Actually, what I should have asked was – does that mean the kitchen is available? Remember I promised to show you how to make one of my grandmother’s famous Torta della Nonna? I’m free now if you are?’
‘Oh, yes, that sounds great.’
‘Come on, then.’
Ed slotted his arm through hers and guided her to the front door. As her heels click-clacked on the polished floor she saw the envious look the pretty receptionist shot in her direction. This day was turning out to be one of the best she’d had in a long time.
‘Are you sure your sister doesn’t mind if we trash her kitchen?’ chuckled Ed as they emptied several brown paper carrier bags of all the goodies they had bought from the delicatessen and artisan shops they’d pass
ed on their way home. Ed had also produced a plastic crate containing his own must-have cooking utensils for the family recipe from the boot of his car. Jess’s usually orderly kitchen already looked like a scene from the Richmond Culinary Massacre!
‘Who said we were going to trash her kitchen?’
‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect that you cook like you live – with passionate abandon!’
She laughed at his wildly inaccurate analysis of her personality. But then, he’d seen no evidence of her preference for calm and order in the kitchen. All he had to judge her on was her fiery meltdown in the dining room of Francesca’s when she’d realised he was trashing her desserts to a virtual audience.
‘Don’t worry. I can assure you there’ll be no smoked chilli sprinkled on the top of my creations today, Signor Cartolli. And before we go any further I want your solemn promise that there will be no sneaking of photographs for uploading to your social media accounts. I don’t think I could withstand another starring role on your blog. And if you refuse – I have a spatula in my hand and I’m not afraid to use it!’
‘I promise there will not even be a whisper of a mention unless you sign a release form in triplicate. Now, let’s make a start so there’s time to tidy up before your sister returns from her trip and has a coronary! You wanted me to show you how to bake an authentic Sicilian dessert and that’s what I intend to do. Ready?’
‘Ready!’ She placed the spatula to her temple in a mock salute.
‘So, in order for you to become a master pasticciere like my grandmother, you first have to learn how to make her signature dessert. I hope that when we are finished you will agree with me that Sicilian desserts are the best in the world. Rosita Cartolli made the most delicious Torta della Nonna in the village, just ask Rosa! When we were kids we could demolish a whole pie each. And you should try her Cannoli Siciliani! I’ll show you her recipe next time. Did you know that cannoli were originally prepared at the beginning of spring or for weddings – and that their tubular shape is supposed to represent male fertility? My grandmother used to wind them round a broom handle and fill them with ricotta cheese and chopped pistachios or chocolate chips. Delizioso!’
Lucie could see the fervour that being among raw ingredients in a kitchen instilled in Ed. Like every other chef she knew who relished his or her culinary addiction, Ed’s eyes sparkled, his lips turned up into a smile and his voice had lifted in tone. She watched carefully as he set about sifting confectioner’s sugar into one of Jess’s huge earthenware bowls, then added cubes of butter, a dribble of honey and vanilla essence, and a teaspoon of freshly grated lemon zest before passing the bowl to Lucie. His movements were swift and automatic. No perceptible difficulty was caused by his reduced dexterity.
‘Use your fingertips to make breadcrumbs and then you can add the egg yolks and the flour. Nonna always added a pinch of salt too.’
Wow, thought Lucie, as she worked the dry ingredients through her fingers. How striking Ed was, dressed in his starched chef’s jacket, which he’d unearthed from the boot of his car. Clearly he had hung on to it and all the other utensils of his trade after the accident and his conversion to food journalism. So, while he might not have returned to commercial cooking, he did still, subconsciously at least, harbour the desire to create.
She sneaked a glance from under her eyelashes at his damaged right hand, careful not to let him see her scrutiny. The wound had completely healed and, as she watched him prepare the loose-bottomed flan case, she saw he’d perfected a technique that enabled him to grip the tin with his right hand while buttering it with his left.
‘You know, Sicily’s most popular cake is Cassata Siciliana – layers of cake soaked in Maraschino liqueur and topped with glacé fruit. Another delicious dessert to add to your list.’
‘Definitely. I want to learn everything I can about Italian desserts, especially regional variations. I’d love to visit Sicily one day.’
She covered the pastry with cling film and popped it into Jess’s huge SMEG refrigerator, scattering pastry crumbs over the handle as she slammed it shut. She tossed her curls from her forehead, leaving behind a sprinkling of flour, and rejoined Ed to watch him prepare the filling for the tart. She had to forcibly drag her eyes away from appreciating the curve of his buttocks as he leaned into the bottom shelf of the fridge to grab a carton of milk.
‘Okay, so we start the custard.’ Ed placed a large, copper-bottomed pan on the hob and added the milk and caster sugar. ‘We stir until tiny bubbles appear around the edge of the pan and then remove it to cool. Are you listening?’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ But the tang of his aftershave had reached her nostrils as they stood working in tandem at Jess’s marble island unit and it had sent her senses into overdrive. She loved the way his ebony curls fell into his eyes as he concentrated on the fiddly job of grating a lemon and her heart galloped over the fields of her daydream, a situation not dissimilar to her favourite romantic TV drama.
Good grief, Lucie, pull yourself together! she giggled to herself as consecutive ripples of warmth flooded her body and headed south. The chemistry between them was sizzling and she was powerless to ignore it.
‘Next we add four egg yolks to the remaining sugar and flour and whisk. Okay, your turn to get involved.’
Ed passed the glass bowl over to her and as he did so their fingers brushed. The connection sent a shockwave of desire through Lucie. She was unable to disguise her attraction quickly enough and Ed’s lips curled into a mischievous grin.
‘Here.’
He handed her the whisk, still holding her eyes, and she could feel the heat rush up from her chest to her cheeks. She took the whisk and bashed the living daylights out of the mixture in the hope it would calm her raging hormones. Who knew that baking with someone you were attracted to could be so sensuous! She had been in many kitchens over the last three years, at home and in Europe, but had never before found herself responding to a fellow chef in such a way. Thank God! But then, they weren’t all Edmundo Cartolli.
‘Okay, you keep whisking and I’ll pour in the milk.’
Ed moved to her side and bent his head so that his lips were within an inch of hers as he gently poured the sweetened milk into the bowl and she continued to whisk. She was grateful to have something to do with her hands as delicious waves of heat pulsated through her body. She reluctantly moved from Ed’s side to replace the pan on the burner and continued to stir until the mixture coated the back of her spoon. She could make custard with her eyes closed but that wasn’t the point of today.
She strained the liquid through a wire mesh, then added the vanilla and lemon zest before giving it a final stir. She stretched a slice of cling film over the surface to prevent a skin from forming and placed it to one side to cool.
‘You zone out when you bake, don’t you?’ Ed asked, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest.
‘I love everything about food. I relish every single step of each recipe. If a cake or a biscotti or a flan is worth making, it’s worth making with love and attention to detail. I’ve felt the same since I was a small child. My mother’s passion for baking was infectious and that’s why Jess and I have found happiness and fulfilment in the culinary arena too.’
‘That’s exactly the reason I decided to make gastronomy my career. It was inevitable I would follow in the family tradition… well, until…’ He glanced down at the stubs where his fingers had once been.
‘Why did you stop cooking, though? You seem to manage to do everything just fine? And what about skydiving and all the other extreme sports you and your friends used to indulge in? Do you still slope off for a nifty afternoon of gorge scrambling or hang-gliding whenever you get the chance?’ Lucie knew it was a difficult question to ask of Ed so she busied herself with making a cafetière of coffee.
‘I admit that I went through a patch of thinking I should try a different hobby after the crash. Gorgio recovered quickly; the only thing he has to sh
ow for his dalliance with death is a two-inch scar on his elbow – a badge of honour he’s happy to show off to anyone who asks and many who don’t. He went back to work four months later. Me? I sport a permanently visible reminder of my injuries.
‘At home in Palermo I had to cope with swiftly averted eyes, stares of curiosity and raw pity, as well as gently probing questions about what happened every time I went out. I know people were being kind, concerned for my welfare and my speedy recovery, but it grew more irritating the longer it went on. So I decided to really make an effort to achieve my dream of becoming a cookery commentator, an academic really. My ultimate aim is to publish my Sicilian foraging cookery book. We Italians love to go out into the countryside and collect wild foods before heading back to the kitchen to turn them into something delicious.’
A thought popped into her head. Maybe she could mention his proposed off-the-beaten-track cookery manual to her mother. She was always talking about her agent looking out for the next big thing in the culinary literature market. However, on current evidence, food preparation was still as huge a part of the tapestry of Ed’s life as it was hers.
Ed’s soft mahogany eyes met hers and she knew immediately that Edmundo Cartolli’s name would be printed proudly on the cover of a glossy gastronomic tome in the near future regardless of whether she involved Margot Bradshaw or her talented agent. She knew he could do anything he put his mind to. Hadn’t she experienced that drive in the kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu? It was difficult to explain to anyone who didn’t cook professionally that part of being a chef was having the confidence to experiment, to gather whatever ingredients were freshest that day and turn them into something magnificent using every skill at your disposal, and Ed oozed confidence in his chosen field.
‘Count me in for a signed copy, please! I bet it’ll be a bestseller.’
Ed laughed, a mischievous glint appearing in his eye. ‘Well, the pool of industry readers has contracted a little since I set up my Anon. Appetit blog, don’t you think?’