There’s Something About Cornwall

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Alice had clearly mistaken her horrified silence for awe. ‘It’s got two beds, a table and a tiny kitchenette. I just know we’re going to have an amazing expedition. I can’t wait to get started on our journey after the shoot this afternoon. It’ll be like we’re part of an Enid Blyton adventure.’

‘But it’s…it’s a camper van!’

‘Yes, what were you expecting? A Winnebago? I know it’ll be a bit cosy, but we won’t be spending a lot of time inside – only to sleep and have a quick breakfast before joining the crew for the shoot. Come on, don’t stand there like a soggy treacle pudding. Climb in. We need to get over to the hotel in Padstow to get the shoot set up so we can start the photography as soon as Lucinda’s bakes are ready. There’s lots to organise. Today is an indoor shoot in the hotel’s conservatory, thank goodness, but I’m sure you’ll want to have everything wrapped up before we lose the natural light.’

Alice leapt up into the driver’s seat but Emilie remained motionless on the footpath, clutching the handle of her beloved prop box so tightly her knuckles had bleached white. Confusion and a myriad of questions ricocheted around her brain. Why hadn’t she thought to check where she would be staying for the Cornwall-wide journey? If she were honest, she had assumed she would be in the same hotel as Lucinda and loyal her assistant, Marcus Baker – but how presumptuous was that? She was a lowly photographer, not a celebrated TV chef and bestselling cookery book writer. But still, two weeks in a VW camper van? Squashed into a makeshift bed next to neat-freak Alice? It was a recipe for verbal fireworks.

The passenger-side window scrolled down and Alice peered over from the other side, her slender body hunched over the steering wheel, her mahogany bob swinging around her chin.

‘Earth to Emilie! What are you waiting for? We have a very tight schedule to keep to. I wouldn’t recommend risking Lucinda’s wrath so soon in the proceedings. Surely I don’t have to remind you that upsetting her would be professional suicide?’

Alice’s words of warning somehow sliced through Emilie’s armour of denial. She grasped the silver handle and slid back the van’s side door to stow her precious trunk in the back, and then jumped into the seat beside Alice. With a stomach-churning crunch of the gears, Alice leapfrogged away from the kerb, revving the engine and crashing the clutch until she reached the junction outside the station. There she pulled into the path of a BMW Roadster, earning herself an indignant blast of a horn and a one-fingered salute. She graced the gesticulating driver with a bright smile and a wave and headed for the road to Padstow.

‘So, how exciting is this?’ Alice gushed. ‘Chocolate-box Cornwall – nine stops, a selection of local and traditional desserts in each. What a blast we’re going to have! Come on, Em, there’s no need to look so horrified. It’s only a camper van. Would you have preferred a tent?’

‘Good grief! No way! I haven’t camped in the great outdoors since I was in the Brownies and even then I was evicted from the tent and made to sleep in the kitchen hut for prolonging a midnight feast.’

‘Don’t you think it’s the perfect solution? It’s mobile, it’s comfortable and it’s a stylish way to travel. I bet we get lots more comments about our mode of transport than Lucinda does in her blacked-out limousine.’

Emilie glanced across at Alice to check if she was being sarcastic. Sadly she wasn’t. She truly believed they had drawn the long straw in the vehicle stakes!

‘We can make our own breakfast and eat on set at lunchtime. After all, there’ll be plenty of delicious cakes to sample.’ Alice laughed, gracing Emilie with a show of her movie star teeth. ‘And when the daily shoot is over we can drive to the next location, park up and party all night without having to check into some grotty B&B or worry about waking everyone up when we tumble in at two a.m.’

Emilie turned her head to look over her shoulder into the back of the camper van – her Home Sweet Home for the next two weeks. No, wait a minute, half of her home as she would be sharing the space with Alice. There was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, and a dual-burner hob with under-bench grill. There was even a minuscule fridge and a microwave built into the bright orange Formica units. Padded ivory leather seats, piped in matching orange, surrounded an orange table and, to complete the feeling of being imprisoned inside a satsuma, orange-and-yellow checked curtains were drawn neatly back at the windows.

Emilie wished she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Much as she liked Alice, she had an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach that their daily struggle to five o’clock was not going to be plain sailing.

‘Take a look behind my seat!’ Alice smirked.

‘Why?’ asked Emilie, straining her neck to take in a nondescript square seat topped with a matching ivory cushion piped in the ubiquitous orange.

‘Guess what that is?’

‘Oh, God, don’t tell me.’

‘It’s a porta-potty.’

‘If you think either of us is going to use that then you’re living in a hippie-dippie dream world!’

Alice smiled but knew when to change the subject. However, her new line of attack was no less uncomfortable for Emilie.

‘You might not think it at the moment but this trip is exactly what you need right now. Don’t look at me like that. You and Brad might have been the perfect couple when you started out, both amazing photographers in your own fields, but I did warn you that he wouldn’t be able to stomach the fact that you have acres more talent than he has and over time it would cause problems.’

‘He’s a great photographer, Alice. And he taught me loads!’

‘He’s good, yes. But you’re better. Ever since you clutched that golden trophy for Best Food Photographer of the Year to your sequinned chest in July, he realised that your star was in the ascendant whilst his was on the wane and he was jealous. Plain as that. That’s why he suddenly became so disparaging about food and product photography. Why he was always saying that it’s the agency’s poor relation, and by extension so were you. He should have been singing your praises from the rooftops, proud of your achievement and of his hand in it, but instead he’s constantly pulling rank and it’s destroyed your confidence. It’s just plain professional envy and it’s not attractive. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he went to Dexter and snatched the Venice job. When did he leave?’

‘Last Friday. I gave him a lift to the airport.’ She cringed when she saw Alice roll her eyes so she hurried on. ‘Even though we’re not seeing each other any more, there’s no reason why we can’t still be friends.’

‘He cheated on you with a clothes horse! Reason enough in my book.’

‘And we do still have to work together at the agency, especially now that the freelance venture is off the table.’

‘It doesn’t mean you can’t do it on your own, Em. Nothing’s changed as far as your awesome talent is concerned.’ Alice smiled.

Emilie swiftly averted her eyes but it was no use; Alice Jenkins was an emotional X-ray machine.

‘What? What else did he do?’

‘He borrowed my new camera.’

‘What? Not your prized Nikon?’

‘Yep.’

‘I take it you’ve protested in the strongest terms!’

‘You could say that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We had a blazing row over the phone when he was at the airport. He accused me of sour grapes about his trip to Italy and I told him where I’d like to stick my bunch of squashed fruit. It wasn’t pretty, but it felt good to get it off my chest.’

‘And?’

‘Okay, you’re right. Brad did change after I won that award, but I’m not sorry I got it. That night at The Dorchester was one of the best of my life!’

‘Attagirl!’

She was saved from Alice’s further analysis on the appropriateness of Brad as good boyfriend material as they had pulled into the car park of an imposing hotel on the seafront at Padstow. She glanced through the windscreen at the pewter-grey stone exterior and the almost subtropical foliage that surrounded it. The grand cornices above and around the entrance had been painted a brilliant white, but the undeniable grandeur of the hotel’s architecture receded into the background when she caught a glimpse of the view of Padstow’s harbour and the pretty fishing boats bobbing next to their larger, sleeker cousins.

Emilie refocused her attention on the hotel and her heart contracted with envy. Why weren’t she and Alice staying here?

‘That shade of green doesn’t suit you, Emilie.’ Alice laughed, swivelling round in her seat to look at her. Her smile slipped from her face as she grew serious for the first time since they’d left the station. ‘Okay, you haven’t worked with Lucinda before so let me give you a heads-up. As you would expect, she’s a seasoned professional. She demands absolute focus on the job in hand and insists on perfection first time – no excuses. I know she has a reputation for being a complete culinary ogre, but she gets results and she only demands of those around her what she expects of herself.

‘You have to admit her cookery books are bibliographic works of art. Every single recipe truly zings from the page; the colours are so sharp, the textures so perfect the reader can almost smell the intensity of the aromas, almost taste the exquisite flavours. Whenever you pick up a Lucinda Loves… cookery book you just have to pull on your apron and get baking! Just stay out of her way, remember the three rules of success, and you’ll be fine.’

Alice jumped from the driver’s seat and yanked open the side door to let Emilie grab her prop box.

‘Erm, what exactly are the three rules of success?’

Alice rolled her hazel eyes. ‘Preparation, preparation, preparation! Okay, it’s just after one o’clock. That means we have less than an hour to get everything set up for the first shoot and for you to take the test shots. We were only able to reserve the conservatory for a two-hour time slot because a wedding party is due to arrive at three. If we’re working to the schedule, Lucinda will deliver the desserts she wants you to photograph fresh from the kitchen at two p.m. precisely, which gives you an hour to get your shots done.’

Emilie experienced a sharp flutter of panic deep in her abdomen. Whilst she had an idea of how she intended to sculpt the light around the images of the Cornish league of desserts, she usually liked to take her time. Even when she thought she had the perfect shot, she still needed to extract every bit of potential from it. She liked to take photographs using her tripod and then using her handheld camera, exploring the subject from all angles, viewing it through different focal-length lenses and using a variety of light sources.

Next she would review each image on the LCD screen, checking the exposure, composition and sharpness before deciding how best to fine-tune the shot. Should she go in tighter? Back off to include more of the subject matter? Could the shot be improved with a vertical or horizontal format? Should she place the focal point in a different part of the image to see if it affected balance and flow? She knew she had a tendency to continue to question her work even beyond being satisfied – but the most fabulous shot ever could be just around the corner. She hated to be rushed.

Her mind went blank as she searched the crevices of her memory for the details of the desserts Lucinda was at that very moment preparing in the hotel’s kitchen with the Michelin-starred chef. It was always the same; she was nervous at the beginning of a new assignment until she’d got to know the personalities of the clients she was dealing with and could relax.

Her facial expression must have spoken volumes because Alice grabbed her elbow and all but dragged her up the sweeping staircase, depositing her in the conservatory that overlooked the rippling azure of the hotel’s heated swimming pool in the lush, tropical gardens. Beyond the horticultural paradise the view seemed to bask in a luminosity she didn’t see in London. Tourists sauntered or cycled along the beachfront pathways and children chased one another, shrieking with excitement – either anticipated or recently experienced.

The town was spotlessly clean, as though an army of enthusiasts had scrubbed the streets that morning especially for Lucinda’s arrival. There was a palpable buzz of contentment, of calm relaxation, which when she thought about it wasn’t so surprising – most visitors were keen to soak up the last precious moments of their break from the relentless daily dash to five o’clock that would resume the following day.

She watched as her friend rushed over to her own prop box and began to dress the table next to the window in accordance with the laminated cards she had no doubt prepared weeks earlier. As she did so, Alice maintained a constant commentary interspersed with snappy instructions to Emilie, whom she had clearly decided to treat as an amateur on the first shoot. But her famous organisational skills reaped rewards and the gastronomic stage set was ready with five minutes to spare.

‘Two desserts to photograph today,’ announced Alice as she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘There’s Cornish Saffron Cake and a batch of Cornish Honey-Infused Biscuits that will melt in your mouth. Hey, did you know they grow tea here in Cornwall? The Tregothnan estate is the only business to grow it commercially in Britain.’

‘Mmm?’ mumbled Emilie, too stressed to listen to what Alice was saying. She knew it was imperative to make a good first impression with Lucinda, yet beads 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.

Chapter Three

‘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, 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.

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.