The Secret Ingredient Page 6

  One day she would find someone who she could trust enough to share her life and dreams with. One day.

  When the phone began to ring again, Lottie had to take a moment to blink away stupid tears before picking it up.

  ‘Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Rosemount. I trust that you slept well.’

  It was Rob!

  Her foolish girly heart skipped a beat and her stomach flipped so hard that she had to grab the mixing bowl of icing before it slithered off the worktop.

  Sleep? How did he expect her to sleep? It had taken hours to settle a very bouncy and over-stimulated Adele into Dee’s room and persuade her not to munch the entire contents of the biscuit displays. Followed by several hours of tossing and turning as she replayed the scenes with Rob on repeat inside her head.

  Breathe. All she had to do was breathe normally. Keep it casual. That was the key. Lottie’s mouth curved up into a smile. He was totally in her control, and that felt disgracefully good.

  ‘Splendidly, thank you,’ she lied. ‘Good morning to you, too. I hope that the bruises have faded?’

  ‘Not yet,’ a low rough voice replied. ‘Those packing crates were lethal.’ Then he gave a low cough. ‘I was wondering if my mother was awake yet. We had agreed to catch up about her plans for the day.’

  Ah. So that was why he had phoned. He was worried about how his mother was.

  Okay. She got that. As long as Rob remembered that she was the person who had invited his mother to stay in Dee’s room overnight, for the simple reason that she liked Adele Forrester and the poor woman was in no fit state to face the press.

  And definitely not because her son Rob had looked desperate.

  ‘As of ten minutes ago your mum was snuggled under Dee’s duvet and snoring lightly. That cold medicine and champagne combination make a very effective knock-out potion. It may be a while before she surfaces.’

  ‘Fine. See you in an hour. Try and get her up in time. Ciao.’

  And then he put the phone down on her. Unbelievable!

  Lottie glared at the handset in disbelief for a few seconds before shaking her head and returning it to the wall bracket.

  That man had no manners whatsoever.

  Lottie sniffed and picked up her spatula and got back to work filling an icing bag with the luscious soft-cheese-and-orange-zest icing for the mini carrot cakes that were already lined up in their cases and waiting for a soft swirl of Lottie’s special recipe topping.

  The cheek of the man. Just because he was a celebrity chef with his own TV show and food awards up to his armpits did not mean that he could simply order her about and expect her to say, ‘Yes, chef,’ like one of his kitchen brigade!

  Lottie tossed the spatula back into the bowl and squeezed the piping bag down until she had formed a perfect swirl in the bowl.

  But at least one good thing had come out of it all. Robert Beresford, international chef and gossip-columnist golden boy, had promised to turn up for the fundraiser at the hotel. And she was going to hold him to that, no matter what happened.

  ‘Oh, can I lick the bowl out? Please? You know I cannot resist your icing! Mmm, delish.’

  Lottie chuckled as her friend and part-time waitress wiped her fingertip around the scrapes of icing left in the glass mixing bowl and popped it into the mouth. ‘Oh, that is so good,’ Gloria moaned. ‘When are you going to give me the recipe, woman? My girls would love me for ever.’

  Lottie threw her head back and laughed out loud. ‘What are you talking about, Gloria? Your three girls already think you’re a goddess because you work here and go home loaded with edible swag every afternoon. And what about that handsome husband of yours? How did the chocolate melting-middle brownies go down last night?’

  ‘Go down? Oh, yes. I am going to need a regular supply, if that boy has the stamina to keep up with me,’ Gloria replied with a waggle of her eyebrows.

  Lottie glanced quickly at the tables, then leant across and wiped the icing from Gloria’s cheek. ‘You are terrible! And setting a bad example for the customers.’

  Then she flicked her head towards the counter. ‘How are we doing out there? Ready for the carrot cakes?’

  ‘Girl, we are always ready for that carrot cake. Pass them over and turn the oven on to make the next batch. They’ll be gone in an hour. And before I forget, the gals have been asking me about the Bake and Bitch club meeting next week. What special treat do you have lined up?’

  Lottie winked and started washing up. ‘Wait and see, Gloria. You are just going to have to wait and see.’

  * * *

  Rob stared out of the floor-to-ceiling office window at the overcast sunless skies of central London in June. It was hard to believe that only thirty-six hours earlier he had been eating barbecue in the glorious Californian sunshine with his restaurant brigade.

  His eyes felt heavy, gritty, and ready to close, but just as Rob rolled back his shoulders his talent agent, Sally Richards, finished the call on her mobile phone.

  ‘Good news. The first reviews and photos of the exhibition are all looking brilliant. The only photographs I have seen are when she left the hotel for the event last evening. Adele smiled sweetly on the way out and gave them a lovely wave before jumping into the limo. Not a word about her staggering home early the worse for wear. So relax, Rob. You got away with it.’

  ‘By the skin of my teeth and through the back door. What a nightmare,’ he replied and then covered a yawn with one hand.

  ‘So are you ready to rock and roll? Because I have to tell you, I have a tube of under-eye concealer in my bag and you need it more than I do. Did you get any sleep at all on the flight? Eight hours, wasn’t it? Nine?’

  Rob snorted a reply to the one talent manager he had used since he first stepped out from his dad’s Beresford hotel chain and started making a name for himself.

  ‘That was the New York leg of the journey. I had to stop en route from California to check up on a few things at the Beresford New York office. Then the traffic was horrendous. So I missed my flight to London and had to battle with the usual airport media scrum. So all in all just about a typical day’s travel in the crazy world I live in.’

  ‘Hey. That’s why you love it so much!’

  Rob looked around and blinked at Sally a few times before collapsing down on the leather sofa with a grin. ‘If you say so, but these past few months have been a nightmare, Sally. My mum...well, you know my mum. Hates medics. Always has done. She promised me that she would start taking the medication as soon as she finished the final piece for this exhibition, but I don’t know. I called her from the airport yesterday and she sounded high as a kite. But last night she was so doped up with cold medicine it was hard to know what was going on inside her head.’

  Rob ran his hand back and forth over his mouth and chin. ‘It’s been eight years since her meltdown at the last exhibition. Eight years, Sally! And the press are still baying for something juicy to say. I thought that if I came here I could provide some sort of diversion. You know what they’re like. Why bother with a clever artist with a fading reputation when she has a TV celebrity as a son? Who knows? If we goad him enough we might be able to set off some of those fireworks and get some photographs to sell to the highest bidder. And they have the perfect ammunition to do it with.’

  Sally walked around and perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Did you manage to keep it together?’

  There was something in Sally’s tone that made Rob sit back on the sofa and look up. ‘Barely. I would not give them the satisfaction. So don’t give me that look. I played nice and did not punch anyone, no matter how much I wanted to. Happy? Because I know that voice. There’s something else going on here. Fire away. Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Observant as ever.’ She smiled a
nd paused long enough to reach across the desk and pass a bundle of printed sheets across to Rob, who glanced at them once before tossing them onto the sofa cushion.

  ‘You cannot be serious. I’ve just finished filming the final TV series and it practically killed me fitting everything in. I’ve done the interviews and press calls and earned that money. And now they want me to do another series? What is that all about? We’ve been down this road before, Sally. Mum needs me to be close at hand. Travelling across the States then flying back to get her through this exhibition has been tough on both of us. She needs me to be in California. And I really need to get back to work in the Beresford kitchens. Sean has hardly seen me this year and I have been relying way too much on the chefs I trained. Time to get back to doing what I do best. Working with food and creating amazing dishes for the Beresford hotel chain.’

  Sally raised both hands in the air. ‘I did what you asked me to. I made it clear to the production company a year ago that you have had enough of the restaurant makeover show for TV. One more series and that’s it. But the audience figures are soaring higher month on month, Rob. Viewers cannot get enough of you. Look at the numbers, Rob. This is crazy money. Sign the new contract and you don’t need to work again unless you want to. Ever. This could be just the opportunity you need to build up that emergency fund.’

  Rob paused, then glanced up at the woman who had looked after his interests since he was seventeen. ‘Come on, Sally. You know this was never about the money. Every penny I have earned on the TV shows and personal appearances has gone into my mum’s account.’

  ‘And last time I checked, the investment plan we worked on was doing very nicely and bringing in a respectable income to cover her not-so-little spending sprees. But how long is that going to last? You are top news at the moment. But once you move back into your kitchen the focus will shift onto the next hot new chef and Rob Beresford will not be the man of the moment any longer. And you can stop glaring at me. Because I’m not the only person who has got their head about that fact. So far I have had three enquiries from documentary film companies. Every one of them wants the exclusive rights to a behind-the-scenes exposé of the real Rob Beresford. And if you don’t take part they will make them anyway. That’s the way it goes.’

  There were a few seconds of silence before Rob responded in a low voice. ‘Are you telling me that someone else is planning to write my life story without even asking me?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s why you should think about it. Because you know what would happen if they did. They are bound to focus on the one thing we’ve worked hard to keep in the background.’

  Rob pushed himself shakily to his feet and walked stiffly over to the window, his shoulders rigid with stress. ‘My mother would not survive. It took her months to pull back from the last bout of depression and I can’t force her to take the medication while she is painting. It has to be her choice. That was what we agreed.’

  ‘Then tell the story the way you want to before somebody else does.’

  ‘Tell my story? You think the readers would want to know about all of the gruelling years I spent in hotel kitchens? There is nothing exciting and glamorous about that way of life.’

  Rob rolled back his shoulders and winced. ‘Speaking of which, I have an appointment with a baker and something tells me that I had better not be late.’

  Sally coughed low in her throat and looked at him over the top of her spectacles. ‘A baker? Today? I thought you would be spending time at the gallery with Adele.’

  ‘I’ll explain later, Sally...if I survive.’

  * * *

  It was mid-morning before Rob pushed open the door to Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms and stepped inside.

  And almost whirled around on one heel and went straight back out again.

  Because he had just walked into what looked like a children’s tea party, complete with ear-damaging levels of laughing, calling out and crying, some sort of jangling music, and a group of toddlers swaying their bodies from side to side and waving their hands in the air just in front of the serving counter while the girl he now knew to be Lottie Rosemount was conducting the dancing with a large wooden spoon.

  She was wearing wide-leg navy trousers and a floral T-shirt covered with a large navy apron with a picture of a cupcake on it. Her blonde hair was tied back in a high ponytail and a pretty navy-and-white headband drew attention to an oval face that even without a trace of make-up still managed to be stunningly pretty.

  This was the place that Sean’s girlfriend, Dee, loved so much?

  He had survived restaurant opening nights that were quieter and more in control than this!

  After a ninety-hour week and several international flights the last thing he wanted to do was join in a school party. His job was to earn the money so that his mother never had to worry about having nothing in the bank ever again.

  But when could he ever refuse her anything?

  She was the one and only woman on the planet who he had promised to take care of for as long as she needed him.

  And he kept his promises. Even if that meant turning up to a small high-street bakery on a weekday morning.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Lottie called out. ‘That was simply amazing. Disco dancing and sporting stars of the future. No doubt about it. And don’t forget, the Yummy Mummy club meets at the same time next week. So if you are ready to say the word about the one thing we all love best in the whole world...wait for it, Helena, and please stop doing that, Adam...three...two...one. Let’s have a great big...cake!’

  Rob winced and half closed one eye as the wannabe dance troupe screamed out the word and then they all burst into a barrage of yelling and screaming and calling and jumping up and down.

  All he could do was stand to one side as the actually very yummy mummies wrestled their little darlings into submission and baby buggies and in some cases reins and shuffled past him towards the entrance and the busy London street outside on the pavement.

  Holding the door open for them seemed like a good idea. The first time.

  Except that the second each lovely mummy spotted him smiling politely at them the forward movement onto the pavement slowed down to the point where a very rowdy and disorderly queue had formed in the cake shop.

  ‘Hello, handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit like that horrible rude chef that shouts a lot on the telly?’ The second girl shrugged. ‘Only not as good-looking. Sort off.’ Then she covered her hand with her mouth and laughed before shuffling off.

  ‘I get that a lot. No problem,’ Rob called after her with a quick wave before helping a very attractive brunette with her buggy. His reward was a beaming smile and a small business card popped into his shirt pocket with a cheeky wink while the little girl in the buggy amused herself by painting the jam from her donut onto the leg of his trousers.

  Charming.

  Five minutes later he had to physically unwrap the fingers of one charming cherub from his jacket and slide backwards into the cake shop. In an instant he closed the door tight behind him, his back flat against the glass, and exhaled slowly.

  ‘It must be nice to be so popular.’ A familiar female voice chuckled and Rob opened his eyes to see Lottie staring at him from behind the counter. ‘Are you available next Thursday morning? I’m thinking of doing Zumba for the under-fives. You would be a great hit for the lovely mums.’

  ‘Sorry. Previous booking. And please tell me that it’s not always like that.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lottie tutted. ‘Sometimes it can be quite rowdy.’ Then she smiled. ‘But brilliant fun for the kids. They have the best time and the mums have a chance to meet their pals. I love it.’ Then she pressed her lips together. ‘Do you drink tea?’

  ‘Don’t tell Dee but I would love a coffee,’ Rob replied and stepped forwards to the counter.

 
Lottie pushed her lips out. ‘Let me guess. Double-shot Americano. The breakfast of champions.’

  Just for one split second Rob thought about calling her bluff but just the thought of that coffee was making his mouth water.

  ‘Damn. I hate to be predictable. Hit me.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ she whispered and then shook her head, rolled her eyes skywards and turned back to face him with a small shoulder shrug. ‘House rule. If you are a guest you have to eat something baked on the premises with your beverage. The donuts lasted thirty seconds but I have grown-up cakes galore.’

  Then she turned away and continued talking but he couldn’t hear a word above the hiss and explosive steam from the coffee machine.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that,’ Rob said and strolled casually around the counter and stepped up to Lottie as she tapped out the coffee grounds.

  In front of him was a kitchen about the same size as the one in his London penthouse apartment, except this kitchen was jam-packed with stainless-steel appliances and what looked like two commercial-size ovens. The air was filled with the most delicious aroma of baked goods. Spices and vanilla combined with the unique tang of caramel and buttery pastry and fresh-baked bread. Rob took a moment to appreciate the aroma.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ she muttered between clenched teeth and whirled around and pressed both hands flat against his chest and pushed hard.

  ‘Nobody—and I mean nobody—comes into my kitchen without asking me first. Do you let strangers just walk into your kitchen? No. I didn’t think so. Step back. All the way. And stay there. Thank you, that’s better. Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.’

  Then she exhaled slowly and stepped back to the coffee machine, mumbling under her breath as she went.

  ‘Apologies,’ Rob said and raised both hands in the air. ‘My fault entirely. I am so used to walking into other people’s kitchens I forgot my manners.’

  ‘Um, well, I hope that you remember at the fundraiser,’ Lottie replied and stabbed the coffee spoon in his direction. ‘The whole idea is to raise funds for scholarships to the catering college. Not scare the VIPs away.’