When Only Cupcakes Will Do (21 page)

‘Oh, that smells divine!' Lucie held back her curls and bent over the
torta
to inhale the warm, custardy aroma mingled with toasted pine nuts. ‘I can't wait to taste-test it. In fact, this will be my first review of a Cartolli family recipe. Watch out! You may want to prepare a speech!'

‘No touching until it's cool, I'm afraid.' Ed smiled and raked his eyes over her, taking in her pale-pink angora top (from Jess's wardrobe). ‘
Bellissima
. Now, let's get that drink.'

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ed pushed the door of the Fox and Hounds open and immediately Lucie was surrounded by the warm, buzzy atmosphere of a busy Friday night. Tourists and locals alike were gathered around the scrubbed pine tables savouring a break from their daily lives in the leafy suburbs, yet it probably mirrored the scenes being played out in the eateries of the Lake District or the Cornish coast or the Scottish Highlands.

A Friday night drink in a bar always held a sparkle of anticipation for Lucie, but today her visit had extra sprinkles. She preferred the honesty of the unpretentious fayre on offer at the Fox and Hounds to the overpriced elegance of central London establishments where plain gravy stock was elevated to a level akin to high-end wine, spoken about in hushed tones in terms of aroma, bouquet, texture and consistency.

After ordering a bottle of house red they made their way into the snug at the back of the bar. A group of local teenagers were playing pool, which ensured there was a vacant table.

‘So how does my authentic Sicilian dessert compare with the Greek pastries you ate in Crete?'

‘Oh, you're asking for my opinion of an Ed Cartolli special, are you? Well, maybe your
Torta della Nonna
is
a slight improvement on my smoked chilli tiramisu… Sorry, sorry, you can bask in the glory of knowing that my review of your
torta
will be a glowing five stars,' she grinned.

‘Every Sicilian prides themselves on their excellence in the kitchen. It isn't arrogance – it's more that for a Sicilian it's sort of like our birth right to be able to accomplish brilliance in the field of creative cuisine. And that extends to writing about it too.'

Ed swallowed a mouthful of his wine and grimaced. ‘What is this?'

Lucie laughed. ‘It's the house red. Don't worry, the more you drink, the better it gets!'

‘I'll take your word for it.' He took another gulp. ‘No, it's still infused with a bouquet of burnt car tyres and rotted elderberries. I'll get us something a little more, well, drinkable.'

Ed marched off to the bar and returned with a bottle of Chianti.

‘I had a great time being tutored in your family's favourite dessert, Ed, but I'm not used to being cast in the role of superfluous sous chef! In fact, next time I demand we switch roles. You can be my sous chef and I'll teach you how to make the most irresistible baklava you have ever tasted – it's an old family recipe shared by my friend Dimitri Stampouris while I was in Crete. What do you say?'

‘Challenge accepted. When can we start?'

Lucie's spirits soared at the genuine anticipation emanating from Ed's whole body. Perhaps he had reassessed his take on her culinary talents now he'd shared a whisk with her. If she had appreciated his Mediterranean good looks before, now that his whole demeanour seemed to be lit from within at the rekindling of his passion, he was simply gorgeous.

Her admiration was interrupted by the arrival of a second bottle of wine, this time a Merlot, and a wooden board stacked with a mouth-watering array of artisan cheeses and various pickles to share. Ed topped up their glasses and she savoured the smooth, velvety flavours, running the tip of her tongue around her lips to catch every drop. She eyed the platter of English cheeses with relish. She hadn't realised how hungry she was. She balanced a slice of Cheddar cheese on a chunk of home-made bread and topped it with a dollop of Branston pickle. As she was about to curl her lips around the tasty morsel, the pickle fell from its perch and dribbled down the front of her sweater.

Ed rolled his eyes. ‘If I'm going to be your sous chef, I think I might have to invest in some protective clothing.'

They finished everything. Lucie sat back in her chair, cradling her wine, a smile of satisfaction stretching her lips. She had been forced to consume most of the wine as Ed had told her he was driving back home to Notting Hill later that evening.

With her stomach satisfied, a warm feeling of mellowness descended over her. They continued to talk about their mutual appreciation of food. At one point in their conversation Lucie felt as though they shared a weird telepathy when they made the same comment in unison. She had laughed, but it surprised her and she wondered what it meant. Often when she had been with Alex there were occasions when she'd had to scavenge around the far reaches of her brain for a crumb of conversation.

‘So we're quits,' she smiled.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've made up for my inexcusable public display of rudeness by assisting you in highlighting the pleasures of Italian – sorry, Sicilian – cooking.'

‘You don't need to apologise, Lucie. In fact, I love a girl with a bit of a spark, someone who is prepared to champion her recipes in the face of criticism.'

Had he just said he loved her?

‘You know, when I asked you out for dinner that time in Paris, I genuinely did want to spend some time alone with you. Even if you didn't notice because you were too focused on prising the accolade of star pupil from my hands, I knew we had a connection and that it was more than a mutual interest in gastronomy.'

‘But you had a different girl hanging on your arm every night!'

‘No other girl has ever made such an impression on me as you, Lucie Bradshaw. I was devastated when you beat me to first place with your pistachio and mint millefeuille that week. I could feel your passion for baking radiating from your pores, like it was part of your DNA. Even though you turned me down – several times, as I recall – I admit I did still follow what you were getting up to when you left Le Cordon Bleu. I knew you went over to Crete before returning to London. When I came over to the UK last summer, I really hoped we would bump into each other – just not in the way it happened!'

Lucie smiled as she finished her Merlot. Life couldn't get any better.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The last weekend in May delivered warmth and sunshine. The children's birthday parties Lucie had done since the May Day fayre had garnered a decent amount of publicity for the Travelling Cupcake Company. Jess had paid to have a box of flyers printed and, along with an excited Lewis and Jack, they had spent a couple of fun afternoons driving around the suburbs, unleashing the tinkling chimes of ‘Greensleeves' on the unsuspecting residents and offering the leaflets to anyone who showed an interest.

Lucie had been overwhelmed by the compliments the ice-cream van generated. It seemed many people recalled the days when the ice-cream man could be relied upon to arrive in the street on a Sunday afternoon and dispense a 99, complete with a dribble of monkey's blood and a chocolate flake.

But that afternoon was Kate's sister Jemima's hen party – her first adult-themed cupcake party – and Lucie was experiencing an ever-tightening helix of nerves. It was important to her that the activities be a success as she wanted to expand further into that market. She didn't know what to expect, or indeed what the women would expect from the Travelling Cupcake Company, so she had spent the whole of the previous week experimenting with a plethora of flavours and adorning the little gems with a kaleidoscope of exotic toppings. Lewis and Jack had been in sugar-induced heaven!

The recipe she had liked the best was the Pina Colada cupcake – pineapple-flavoured sponge, topped with Caribbean rum-infused buttercream and finished with a sprinkle of desiccated coconut. Delicious. She had also devised a Bailey's cupcake – toffee-flavoured sponge with Baileys buttercream and curls of bitter chocolate to be sprinkled on the top – and an amaretto version, with fresh cherries, as well as a selection of alcohol-free choices as Jemima had warned her in advance that several of her hen party guests were pregnant.

Jemima had sounded excited on the phone when she'd called to discuss the details, thrilled that this was an activity that would suit everyone. This weekend was the final time her family would be together before her wedding at a village church in rural Oxfordshire on June the eighteenth. Harry, her fiancé, was also having his stag do that weekend. The men had arranged a day of mixed sporting exploits – quad bike racing, archery lessons, clay pigeon shooting – but they hoped to meet up later in the evening to compare notes.

As they trundled into the cul-de-sac that led to Kate and Jemima's parents' former vicarage, despite her anxieties about the hen party Lucie felt a smoulder of joy settling into her stomach, glowing like an ember whenever she tickled it with a thought of her phone call from Ed that morning. Her lips curled upwards at the corners as she allowed the feelings of happiness to swirl around her chest.

Her life was on an upwards trajectory at last. Not only had Ed assured her that she would be awesome at the hen party celebrations, she had also had a lengthy Skype conversation with her mother the previous night. Their chat had culminated in her mother telling her that she'd be delighted if she could come over to stay in Andalucía for a few weeks in July to present a cupcake baking session to her ex-pat cookery group.

Praise indeed!

But what had caused a necklace of tears to gather along her lashes was when she noticed a gilt-framed photograph on the mantelpiece behind her mother.

‘Mum? Is that my graduation photograph?'

‘Yes, it's one of my favourites. You look so happy with your head thrown back, laughing at the photographer, the whole wide world at your feet.'

‘But that's not the official photograph. That's the one that was published in the local paper.'

‘I know, dear. I have a scrapbook filled with every one of your triumphs. And Jess's. I've been meaning to get a few more photographs framed actually.'

It was in that moment that the realisation of how immensely proud her mother was of everything she and Jess had achieved hit home. That what she had thought of as her struggle to live up to her mother's expectations had been totally unnecessary. Her mother's pride in her achievements had been a given. Why had she ever doubted it? A huge weight lifted from her shoulders and she felt somehow brighter, more peaceful in herself.

They had gone on to spend the best part of an hour brainstorming Spanish-themed cupcakes – citrus cupcakes with Sangria-infused buttercream, fruit cupcakes with sherry-flavoured topping, and her mother's personal favourite, banana cupcakes with that horrible banana liqueur. She had closed the lid of her laptop basking in the unfamiliar warm glow of maternal pride. Maybe it was true; absence did make the heart grow fonder. She resolved that as soon as the Travelling Cupcake Company started to turn a profit she would book a flight out to Malaga.

As Lucie pulled the van up to the kerb, she gave a blast of the ‘Greensleeves' melody to announce their arrival at the pretty vicarage. Jess helped her to carry the basket-weave trunks and plastic tubs into the huge, surprisingly modern kitchen. With practised synchronicity, they worked together to unpack their utensils, put up the foldaway table and set a place for each of the guests. It had been Jess's idea to bring along the spirits they had used in the cupcakes and the buttercream and she intended to offer to shake up a cocktail matching the cupcake for those guests that wished to try one.

‘Oh, this is adorable,' exclaimed a willowy brunette who looked like she had never allowed a soupçon of sugar to pass her lips. Lucie watched amazed as Juliet devoured seven – yes, seven – amaretto and cherry cupcakes before laying into the tequila.

‘This is a lovely idea, Lucie. I bet Margot is as proud as punch of what you're both doing,' said Hilary, Jemima's mother, licking a splodge of Bailey's buttercream from her fingers and pouring Jemima's grandmother a generous measure of sweet sherry.

‘She is, yes,' replied Lucie, her face colouring with pleasure. ‘She's even asked me to go over to Spain to host a baking tutorial for her ex-pat friends. I've got loads more ideas for cakes too. Blackcurrant sponge with vodka buttercream, apple cakes with cider-flavoured icing, cake pops shaped like playing cards and dominos and chess pieces.'

‘Sounds like fun!'

‘Is everything ready for the big day?' Lucie asked Kate, the only hen party guest who seemed sober enough to have a meaningful conversation with, as they began to wind up the party and pack away the cocktail glasses and pretty china plates.

‘Yes, it is. Don't tell Jem I said this but she's a bit of a control freak. Poor Mum – she's exhausted with it all. Everything has to be perfect, right down to what lingerie she wants her bridesmaids, including her ancient married sister – that is, yours truly – to wear.' Kate rolled her eyes. ‘But I adore my dress – it's a gorgeous shade of peppermint – and the shoes… ahhh… the shoes… Jimmy Choos Bridal, no less. After the wedding I'm planning to display them in a glass cabinet in my bedroom like a work of art.

‘Ever since my sister clapped eyes on Harry she's been organising every last detail of her wedding day. Jem's the happiest I've seen her. And why shouldn't she be? He's a great guy. In fact, you might even get to meet him. He's just this minute called to say the men have finished the clay pigeon shooting part of their stag weekend, and he suggested that if any of us are still up for a drink we can meet them in the Fox. There're twelve hunky guys down from the city for a weekend of sport and drinking. You never know, one of them might be single, Lucie!'

‘Oh, I don't think so, Kate, but thanks for inviting me…'