Daisy James - There’s Something About Cornwall

‘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, her arms crossed over her chest.

In profile Lucinda Carlton-Rose was smaller than Emilie had imagined, with chin-length chestnut 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.