There’s Something About Cornwall. Daisy James
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.’