There’s Something About Cornwall. Daisy James
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curls highlighted with golden strands that sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Her fingernails shone with her signature vermilion polish, which matched her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. The instantly recognisable image was completed with a pair of pearl earrings.
The only evidence that she’d spent the last three hours cooking up a storm in the hotel’s kitchen was the fact that she still wore her apron. Lucinda was renowned for having an extensive apron wardrobe – some culinary commentators putting the number at over a thousand. Today, in honour of the first stop on her baking journey through Cornwall, her candy-pink apron had been embroidered with the words Lucinda loves… under which a miniature depiction of the Cornish Saffron Cake she had just prepared had been stitched, followed by the legend: ‘Padstow, Cornwall’.
If Emilie didn’t know better she could have easily mistaken Lucinda for a friendly domestic science teacher. Clearly this was the persona she chose to project on screen to her loyal TV audience and which was splashed on the front covers of her cookery books – the cosy image that won her many fans and avid readers.
Emilie thought back to the conversation she’d had with her mother when she’d told her she’d accepted the Lucinda Loves…Desserts location shoot. She had almost combusted with delight and demanded regular updates from every stage of the trip, accompanied by photographs of course, and had spent an hour regaling her daughter with favourite Lucinda Carlton-Rose recipes she had tested out on her husband over the years.
She’d scoffed when Emilie mentioned her reputation for being an ogre in an apron, declaring that anyone who could produce such wonderful cakes had to be a wonderful person. She’d chastised her daughter for listening to, and repeating, second-hand gossip and advised her to wait to draw her own conclusions.
At last the icy fear that had formed in Emilie’s veins began to defrost. What was the matter with her? She had worked with difficult and discerning clients before. She swallowed through the dryness in her throat and moved towards the table, grateful for having taken Alice’s advice to prepare each shot with a mound of stand-in custard creams before Lucinda had arrived. Emilie began clicking.
As she bobbed and crouched to adjust the angles and change the focus of the backdrop, the fragrance of warm caramel and baked sugar tickled her nostrils and permeated the room. Her stomach growled embarrassingly loudly as punishment for skipping lunch. But she had always functioned best on black coffee – and the occasional indulgence in a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps, which she’d had for breakfast.
Emilie’s creative passion had woken to overtake her nerves. She soon slid into her well-honed routine as each frame improved on the last until she was satisfied with the results. She sent up a fervent litany of thanks to her personal guardian angel for being on duty that afternoon on the spectacular north coast of Cornwall. Emilie heaved a sigh of relief that the photographs on today’s schedule were simply of the food and did not include a personal portrait of Lucinda demonstrating her techniques. She needed time to build up to that level of challenge.
‘Okay, I think I have what I need.’
‘You think? Have you or haven’t you? Please bear in mind that I want my readers’ jaws to drop in salivation at the exquisite recipes not yawn with boredom at the creative predictability. I shouldn’t have to tell you that people taste with their eyes first. I want my desserts to effervesce with vitality and freshness, not slump like leaden puddings.’
‘Erm…then yes, I do have everything,’ confirmed Emilie as assertively as she could. Her throat had tightened and her voice had started to waver now that she had finished the photography part of the shoot and Lucinda was addressing her directly.
‘Good.’
Relieved, Emilie took a step back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She inadvertently managed to propel herself at speed over a camera case she had carelessly discarded in the middle of the room. It had been crying out as a tripping hazard. She tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her left shoulder and buttock. The searing pain of carpet burn shot out to her extremities. If her clumsiness had stopped there she might have got away with it, but on her way down her elbow had caught the rim of one of the nautical dishes, which meant the biscuits were tossed into the air like edible confetti.
Warmth rushed to her face as she scrambled to right herself and straighten her cardigan around her chest. She glanced across at Alice who was skulking next to the door. Alice was clearly taking her own advice and steering clear of Lucinda, who was staring at Emilie in abject horror. Lucinda eventually swung her eyes away from the impromptu comedy sideshow, rotated her head slowly in the direction of the scattered biscuits, then back to stare at Emilie as though she had just landed from outer space.
Silence spread into all four corners of the room. No one dared be the first to break it. After an interminable few seconds, Emilie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry…’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot?’
‘Well, it was just an unfortunate accident. I…’
‘Don’t worry, Lucinda. I’ll sort this out, get everything cleared up,’ gushed Alice, at last scooting to Emilie’s rescue. ‘Things like this often happen on first shoots. Remember Rick and the mango puree disaster? But didn’t that shoot turn out to be one of the best ever? Rest assured that it will not happen again. I’ll make sure that Emilie is briefed more thoroughly next time.’
Lucinda gave an audible tut and stalked towards the door with Marcus scurrying in her Dior-infused wake. She paused on the threshold and turned back, causing everyone to freeze in their positions like an adult version of the child’s game of Silent Statues.
‘Okay, Alice, but I will hold you personally responsible for ensuring the rest of this assignment goes without a hitch. And I expect you to inject more individuality into our Perranporth shoot! I’d like to make one thing clear before we embark on this journey – the contents of my brief are absolute, my artistic requirements inflexible. When I specify perfection that is what I expect to get. Perhaps you can also apprise Millie of the calibre of my expectations in advance?’
‘Of course, Lucinda.’
‘Oh, actually it’s Emilie, not Millie,’ blurted Emilie, unable to stop herself before it was too late.
Lucinda turned her disdain-filled eyes towards Emilie. She held her gaze for several long seconds – during which Emilie prayed for the ground to turn into quicksand and swallow her into its all-encompassing embrace – before disappearing from the room.
What a culinary diva! thought Emilie. Lucinda even had the theatrical flounce off to a tee, never mind the inevitable scuttling assistant to cater to her every wish. The concrete block that had pressed against her chest from the moment Lucinda had walked onto the stage eased and she found she could breathe normally again.
‘Oh, God, she hates me!’ she groaned, collapsing in a cane armchair by the window, oblivious to the picturesque landscape beyond the glass, which was strewn with nature’s wonders: the sweeping expanse of blonde sand, the undulating aquamarine waves topped with frills of froth galloping towards the beach where they melted away until their cousins joined them. Nothing in the bucolic outlook breached Emilie’s radar as she massaged her temples and rotated out the knotted muscles in her neck, before moving on to check her scuffed elbow.
‘She doesn’t hate you,’ soothed Alice. ‘Actually, that was Lucinda at her most amenable. She didn’t bawl anyone out. You want to see her when she’s really irritable. You definitely want to take cover when that happens. I thought the shoot went really well.’
‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Alice. It’s not that I’m ungrateful but perhaps being fired at the beginning of the trip would have been for the best?’
‘Everyone’s anxiety levels are set to Gas Mark eight when we start out on these kinds of photo shoots. You know that – you’ve done enough of them. And have you taken a look at the images yet?’
‘No.’
‘I