Lucie’s Vintage Cupcake Company

‘Can’t you do anything, Steph? You’re a lawyer. Can’t you send him a letter or a subpoena or something? Make all this stop?’

‘I’m a divorce solicitor, Hollie. And even if this was my area of expertise, there still wouldn’t be anything I could do. It’s out there like a metaphorical bull in a china shop. In fact, to be fair to Mr Cartolli, not one of the uploaded videos has appeared on the Anon. Appetit blog or his Facebook page or Twitter feed. These posts are the work of the diners who were at the restaurant, which have been shared and retweeted ad infinitum.

‘And even if I could get one person to take their post down, there are still others who are sharing it. God, Lucie, Hollie’s right. It’s gone viral! We should have done more to stop you going into work after what happened with Alex. You could definitely plead temporary insanity to your crime against karma. My considered advice, as a lawyer and as a friend, is to lie low for a few days; don’t under any circumstances comment or react, and wait it out until someone else stumbles inadvertently into the spotlight and messes up big time. The bandwagon rolls on and people forget.’

‘So there’s nothing I can do? You’re telling me to crawl under a stone and never show my face in public again, is that it?’

‘Well, no, not “never”. Just for a few weeks…’

‘You said days a minute ago. Oh God! What am I going to do?’

‘Hey, maybe Francesca’s reservations will improve?’ said Hollie. ‘That happens sometimes, you know. It’s called rubbernecking, I think. And don’t people say that any publicity is…’ Hollie shrank under Steph’s warning glare and took refuge in her wine. She noticed her glass was empty again and jumped up to order another bottle from the hunky blond bartender she’d been ogling for months. When she returned she was giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Steph.

‘Maybe Lucie will get a slot on Hell’s Kitchen? Like a female Gordon Ramsay?’

‘Hollie… You’re not helping.’

Hollie jumped back onto her bar stool and, while Steph replenished their glasses, started to fiddle with her phone again. ‘Wow, look at your Twitter account, Lucie! You have twenty thousand followers! Hang on, hang on. I’ll just check Francesca’s Facebook page. Oh my God, nearly five thousand new likes!’

‘Likes? People “like” what has happened!’ exclaimed Lucie, her face glowing with heat as tears threatened to spill once more.

She didn’t care what was happening on social media. She intended to close her accounts immediately. That was easy enough to do, but what was she going to do without a job? No restaurant manager worth their salt would be clambering over themselves to offer her a job. Who would be crazy enough to risk employing her at the moment? She was a pariah! And she couldn’t contemplate working anywhere other than in a kitchen. Food was her passion – no, her obsession – and this was accompanied by a burning desire to continually improve, to hone her talent, to expand her knowledge.

‘I can’t just crawl into a hole for the next few weeks, Steph! I need to work. I need to cook. Every memory I have has food in it somewhere; whether it be an aroma, a flavour on the tongue, a texture under my fingertips. Every aspect sends my memory zooming back to Mum’s kitchen when I used to watch her prepare for her next TV appearance. It’s the thing in my life I love the most – especially now that Alex has ditched me.’

Lucie’s hand shot up to her mouth.

‘Oh God, Alex! He’s bound to have seen this! Now he has every reason to hate me. Do you think it will affect his partnership prospects at Carter & Mayhew? I can almost feel his relief at choosing to walk away from the disaster that is Lucie Emily Bradshaw. No wonder he’s severed all contact. Who could blame him?’

She slumped back in her stool, her elbow resting on the bar. She slotted her chin into her palm, staring at Steph and Hollie in turn, begging for understanding like a lost dog that has been left out in the rain. She took in the expressions on the faces of her two best friends in London. It was clear they were suffering as much as she was and this only added to the turmoil in her heart. How could she have done this dreadful thing to her friends? She was ashamed of what she had done at Francesca’s and wished with all her heart she could spin back time. But her former unhesitating confidence in the power of love and her belief in the restorative effect of oestrogen solace had been punctured by the sharp nib of a poisoned pen.

‘Well, actually, I happen to think being fired is a good thing,’ countered Steph. ‘You have to use this cock-up as an opportunity to shoot for the gastronomic heights you know you’re capable of. Your unbridled enthusiasm for all things food-related is an integral part of who you are. I’ve tasted the results of your experiments and they would put Nigella to shame. You’re a genius! You can’t allow a poor excuse for a chef turned food critic to destroy your life. I, for one, won’t let you. I’ve never understood why you’ve waited so long to exploit your talents.’

‘Steph…’ Hollie gaped at her friend who, while renowned for her straight-talking, had never been so forceful. It was as though she was making her final submissions to a judge in one of her viciously contested divorce hearings.

‘No, Hollie, it’s okay. Baking is more than a professional passion. It’s my raison d’être. Jess and I grew up in a home filled with food and a plethora of exotic recipes. Every time I stumble on an unusual recipe or a new ingredient my spirits soar. I know it sounds ridiculous, but when I marry herbs and spices, I feel like an alchemist creating a little piece of magic. Perhaps now is the time to stop talking and take action!’

Lucie slipped down from her bar stool and looked her friends in the eye as excitement began to bubble into her chest. It was a fabulous feeling.

‘Steph’s right. I should turn this disaster into an opportunity. Running my own business is what I’ve been planning since I first held a wooden spoon. Why did I work so hard in the kitchens at Le Cordon Bleu if I didn’t intend to squeeze out every last drop of knowledge and hone my natural flair for creating desserts? Why did I slave twelve-hour days in that Parisian hotel absorbing everything there was to learn about French patisserie? Why did I spend a whole summer in a cramped, over-heated kitchen in a Cretan tourist resort learning the intricacies of authentic Greek pastries? I love Gino and Antonio, but why have I been wasting my time in a tiny trattoria to gain an insight into the mysteries of Italian confectionery?’

‘I rest my case,’ smiled Steph, stepping forward to hug her.

‘I really, really want to start my own cocktail cupcake business – well, every kind of cupcakes, actually. I’ve got loads of other ideas – Liquorice Allsorts, Sherbet Lemons, even Fab! Ice Lollies, remember them? I think I can make it a success. But, Steph, there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. I don’t have a job. I haven’t got a handy slush fund to splash out on such extravagant dreams at the moment, and after all this social media notoriety, there’s no way any bank would lend me a penny!’

‘Listen, Lucie. I have an idea. It’s not that Hollie and I don’t love having you stay with us, but why don’t you go to Richmond and stay with Jess and the boys for a few weeks until the furore dies down? Reconnect with your family and with reality. This little storm in a teacup won’t seem half as serious from the outside. A lot has happened to you in a short space of time. It’s no wonder you had a meltdown. But every storm passes, every Twitter star fades and everyone can recover from a broken heart with the love and support of their loved ones.’

Lucie stared at her friend, her brain whirring through the possibilities of what she was suggesting.

‘Yes! That’s exactly what I’ll do! Thanks, Steph. Watch this space, girls! Lucie Bradshaw is about to unleash her culinary talents on the world!’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_e6e81e51-16f4-514a-9ef8-d38bf39de646)

It was Easter Saturday and the day had dawned clear and bright for a change. Since she had landed on her sister’s doorstep a week ago the weather seemed to have joined her in the doldrums, offering only bruised skies and continual drizzle. But if the meteorological gods had deserted her, thank goodness her creative dexterity had not. She had just finished whipping up a batch of fat cupcakes and decorating them with a generous swirl of pink buttercream icing topped with edible glitter. The sweet buttery fragrance of warm cakes piled high on a triple-tiered china cake stand tickled her nostrils. It was the best aroma in the world and her spirits edged up a notch. Hope may have been an absent friend in her life in the last few weeks but she still believed in its restorative power.

‘One cappuccino,’ said Jess as she yanked a hoodie over five-year-old Jack’s unruly blond curls, identical to Lucie’s own, and sent him off to play on the trampoline in the back garden.

Lucie sipped the coffee her sister had set down on the marble island in front of her, relishing the taste of the frothy milk adorned with a generous sprinkle of powdered chocolate. She glanced around the engine room of what had previously been her mother’s home in a leafy street in Richmond before she emigrated to Spain, and which was now her sister’s.

The kitchen was the only arena in which Lucie had ever clashed with Jess, her sister’s preference being a culinary version of mayhem. To Lucie’s mind, tidiness meant safety, control. Every polished surface screamed of her crusade for domestic orderliness and her list-making addiction, but her methodical attention to detail was a necessity in her line of work. She couldn’t understand her sister’s penchant for scattering culinary clutter when orderliness would have made her busy life of testing recipes for celebrity chef, Ella Carter, so much easier. In fact, her sister’s job required skills more befitting a forensic scientist than a cook, so she would have thought it was even more important to run a tidy kitchen.

Maybe when she had her own home and family to care for she would appreciate the reasons behind her sister’s tendency to bring chaos to an empty room. However, she would make an exception to her kitchen tidiness rule for the side of the huge SMEG refrigerator which had morphed into a stainless-steel noticeboard and displayed a patchwork of juvenile artwork, postcards and scribbled shopping lists, as well as a planner crammed with appointments and reminders.

Yet her sister was undoubtedly on to something. The room exuded homeliness, which had rubbed off on Jess to produce a calm stoicism in the face of Lewis and Jack’s daily misdemeanours. Just being in her sister’s farmhouse-style kitchen, wrapped in the soothing aroma of caramel and melted chocolate, was a welcome refuge from the harshness of the world beyond its doors and had lessened Lucie’s trauma immeasurably. But, on the down side, she had to endure the constant repetition of her sister’s favourite lecture, a message which had been honed and polished as she strove to bring up her two sons single-handedly after she split from her husband, Dan, when Jack was only a few months old.

‘Look at these cakes. They’re like works of culinary art! I really think you might be on to something with your business idea, Lucie. Maybe you should start by offering them to the café on the High Street. What was your verdict on their cupcakes? “As heavy as old porridge” I think were your exact words?’

Lucie giggled. ‘Well, they did taste a little like the plastic they came wrapped in!’

‘Everything you bake is superb, always was even when we were kids. Everyone who tastes your creations says the same thing. If I might be so bold – they even beat Margot Bradshaw’s!’ Jess chuckled. ‘Just don’t tell Mum I said that.’

Their sisterly camaraderie spread a mellow warmth through Lucie’s veins and she enjoyed being in the cosy kitchen in the company of the person who cared for her the most. She missed her mum but, until she could afford the plane ticket to visit her in Spain, Jess did a fabulous job of surrogacy. It was the first time since Alex had rejected her proposal that she felt like herself again and she experienced a surge of confidence, quickly followed by a sharp dip when reality stuck its nose into her plans.

‘I can’t start up a business without any capital, Jess, even if it has been my dream since I was five years old. Do you remember when we used to drag the wallpaper table out to the front gate and sell our butterfly buns to passers-by?’

‘I do! And yours were always the first to go! Those were happy days, weren’t they?’

‘Remember the race to spend our hard-earned pennies on 99s and lollies from the ice-cream van that used to come along the street on Sunday afternoons? Every time I hear ‘Greensleeves’ I think of that little pink ice-cream van. I wonder where they have all disappeared to? I haven’t seen one for ages. Hey! I’ve just had an idea!’