There’s Something About Cornwall. Daisy James
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of perspiration rolled down her temples and her hair had become more bird’s nest than Sunday Best.
She reached up to tie her unruly copper waves into a high ponytail and ran a critical eye over the mini stage set they had created. Her heart hammered a nervous concerto against her ribcage as anxiety gnawed at the back of her throat, scattering her lucid thoughts. She shook herself, inhaled a deep, steadying breath, and forcibly dragged her wandering concentration back to the present.
To Emilie’s trained eye they had designed the perfect backdrop for Lucinda’s duo of Cornish culinary creations. A lemon-and-white checked tablecloth stretched across a long trestle table and had been accessorised with saffron-yellow napkins on white china plates. Two huge oval platters decorated with tiny yachts with sunflower-yellow sails stood at either end awaiting the arrival of the biscuits. But in the starring role was a magnificent white china cake stand, complete with fluted rim running like a lacy ruffle around the edge that would frame the Cornish Saffron Cake when it arrived fresh from the hotel kitchen.
To complete the tableau of culinary excellence Alice had added a pair of crystal vases from Emilie’s prop box, and crammed them with yellow crocuses, which she had procured at great expense from a supplier on the Isles of Scilly – but no other floral accompaniment would have sufficed.
Alice had just slotted the last of her unused props into its designated place in her trunk and turned to offer her assistance to Emilie, whose various camera lenses and tripods littered the room, when there was a burble of voices from the doorway.
‘Okay, everyone! Lucinda has left the kitchen and is on her way up! Brace yourselves, shoulders back, smiles in place!’ The extremely handsome guy skidded to the side of the door, his back pressed against the wall. ‘Annnnd…action!’
Emilie experienced an unexpected impulse to giggle. All he needed was a clapper board! But she managed to rein in her mirth and bury it beneath the tsunami of anxiety that continued to coil around her body. She shot a covert glance at Lucinda’s assistant, all six foot of his lean, toned figure cloaked in an outfit of black: black polo-neck sweater – cashmere; black dress pants – Armani. Gosh, she smirked, with his espresso hair neatly gelled into an attractive quiff at his forehead he could pass for the Man from Milk Tray! Her twitch of amusement vanished as Lucinda swept through the door.
‘Marcus? Didn’t I ask you to check that the hotel’s pastry chef had at least some kind of training in the field of desserts? After all, this is Lucinda Loves…Desserts, is it not?’
‘Yes, Lucinda. His credentials were ex…’
‘He was clumsy, inept and downright rude. And don’t get me started on his fingernails.’
‘Sorry, Lucinda, I…’
‘I hope we don’t have to revisit the entire schedule to iron out any more avoidable oversights? I really need this whole tiresome road trip to run smoothly. Will you call my florist? I want flowers sent to Brandon Rhodes and tell Francis I won’t be fobbed off with one of his ridiculous ultra-modern arrangements. Then I want you to call that quaint little guest house you’ve booked me into for the Perranporth shoot. I thought I made it abundantly clear that I needed something a little more glamorous? Have you forgotten whom I will be entertaining that evening?’
‘The Risings is a five-star Tudor manor house set in five acres of pristine…’
‘Then call my husband and ask him to reserve our usual table at The Grange for eight o’clock on the night we’re in Falmouth.’
‘Yes, Lucinda.’ Marcus loitered on the threshold for a few seconds as he waited to see if the list of demands grew any longer.
‘And can you make sure the mineral water in my room is Pellegrino? You should know by now that I’m not in the habit of drinking the pond water I found by my bed last night.’ Lucinda stared at her assistant for a second before flapping her hand at him. ‘Off you go then.’
Emilie wound in her jaw just in time as Lucinda’s laser beam swivelled in her direction – but the woman looked right through her.
‘Ah, there you are, Alice. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is the girl they sent from the agency here yet? I hope you expressed my considerable disappointment that my first choice wasn’t available. What was his name, Blake or Brian something?’
‘Bradley Milligan, and yes I did. But can I introduce you to Emilie Roberts, also from the Dexter Carvill Photography Agency. She is an award-winning photographer in the field of food and product photography.’ Alice rushed forward to relieve Lucinda of the huge Cornish Saffron Cake she still held aloft.
‘Ah, yes, I see. I had expected someone a little more… Well, never mind.’
Lucinda stepped further into the room to turn her attention to the table they had spent the last hour dressing to the precise specifications previously agreed with the TV chef’s publishers and her management.
‘Is this the set I authorised for the shoot in Padstow? Why is it so difficult to get the backdrop right? Did my people not provide you with the brief in advance so you didn’t have to just throw something together at the last minute and hope for the best? Do you think it’s not important that my desserts are surrounded by props that accentuate their beauty? Unless, perhaps, you were aiming for some postmodern, tongue-in-cheek reverse psychology I’m not aware of?’
‘Lucinda…’
‘I can assure you that I would never have authorised something as predictable as those crocuses for the floral accent. Are you seriously suggesting that readers of Lucinda Loves… cookery books are imbeciles? That they are ignorant of the origins of saffron and need such a sledgehammeresque reminder? The pictures will scream arrogance! Get rid of them.’
‘Oh, no, Lucinda, I don’t think…’ began Alice, hugging her clipboard to her chest like a shield.
‘If not that then it’s a cliché. Are they sailing boats? I know this is Cornwall but couldn’t we have come up with something a little less banal? Alice, I’m surprised at you. Or was this the work of someone else?’
Lucinda’s dark chestnut eyes at last flicked across to where Emilie loitered. She took her time appraising her. Her smile was forced and she made no effort to disguise her disapproval.
Emilie swallowed, simultaneously realising her throat was parched and experiencing the disconcerting effect of the room zooming away into the background along with its inhabitants, so that she stood alone under the harsh spotlight of Lucinda’s evaluation. Whatever thoughts had been circling her mind before Lucinda’s scrutiny escaped their tethers and she was left with nothing but a blank canvas.
‘Have I used your agency before?’
‘Erm…no, I don’t think so,’ Emilie stammered, heat flooding her cheeks. She felt like she was standing before the headmistress of her primary school waiting for the pronouncement of her punishment for a minor misdemeanour. ‘The Dexter Carvill agency has excellent…’
‘Did I ask for a marketing presentation? All I’m interested in is whether you can take a few decent photographs of the desserts I’ll be creating before they disintegrate into a mound of mush?’
‘Erm…’ Emilie fumbled with her camera strap, her hands shaking so violently that she feared any image she snapped would end up blurred.
Lucinda withdrew her interrogation beam to concentrate on assisting the hotel’s pastry chef, who had arrived carrying what Emilie assumed must be the local honey-infused biscuits. She watched as Lucinda scrutinised each one in turn before allowing Alice to place them on the presentation plates with silver tongs. When they were arranged to Lucinda’s satisfaction, she glanced across to Emilie.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Inspiration?’ She turned her back and strode across the room to stare out of the conservatory window,