So You Think You're A
Celebrity... Chef?
By Caroline
James
At a Gourmet Food Festival, in
Ireland, where anything goes!
When media agent Hilary Hargreaves travels
to Ireland to look at a campaign for a new cookery school, she meets a blast
from her past - the romantic but feckless chef Mickey Lloyd, who is hell-bent
on resurrecting his flagging career. Her tough demeanour is rocked as it
becomes apparent Mickey's intentions involve more than a stint behind a stove
in his quest to pursue her. But as plans for the school gain momentum, she
realises that she's developing more than a passing interest in reformed
alcoholic Long Tom Hendry, who owns the crumbling old mansion where the school
will be homed. Hilary has many ingredients to juggle with her demanding client
list - which looks set to boil over if she doesn't keep control. From London's
bustling Soho, to Southern Ireland and the sunny shores of the Caribbean, has
Hilary got too much on her plate and is she really prepared to risk it all for
love?
Review By Darcey
Pickett
As with any
good recipe you need to have the best ingredients, a no holds barred media
agent, a has-been celebrity chef, a con man, a rock star and a food writer to
make a story well worth reading.
Hilary
Hargreaves, the agent of the celebrity chef, knows how to juggle the
interesting clients she has and trust me there are several. She is no nonsense, hard working woman who
has taken her agency to the next level, but not without a price.
She is
approached by Lenny Crispin, a con man, who is trying to convince her to
represent him and be involved with his plans for a new culinary school. She has a feeling something is not right, but
just has no idea what it is.
Her ex-boyfriend tries to win her back and rebuild his career at the same time, and an ageing rock star who intrigues her, it could be the time for Hilary to follow her heart rather than listen to her head.
Her ex-boyfriend tries to win her back and rebuild his career at the same time, and an ageing rock star who intrigues her, it could be the time for Hilary to follow her heart rather than listen to her head.
This book was
delightfully tasty. I love stories that
take me to other worlds. Hilary is a
woman of power and I love that there is a main character like her in this
novel, if I only had a boss like her...
Caroline James, made me want to hop a plane and visit my roots in
Ireland.
Excerpt
Hilary
pressed a security code onto a keypad. It buzzed and she pushed the front door
to her office open and entered, then flicked it closed with her kitten heel
pump and climbed the stairs. Her footing was cushioned by the soft red pile of
an expensive carpet. Bob had assured her that red was a good feng shui colour –
associated with romance, wealth and happiness. Hilary sighed and wondered why
she put up with his nonsense.
The
foyer of Hargreaves Promotions was deserted and Hilary cursed as she swept past
Lottie’s cluttered desk. The girl was nowhere to be seen and the switchboard
lights flickered like traffic lights as they remained unanswered. A curious
sound emanated from Bob’s office, the drone was low-pitched and sounded
painful. Hilary peered through the frosted glass on the panel door then thrust
the door open.
“Good
grief, Bob, have you been tangoed?” Hilary planted herself in the doorway and
stared at her assistant in his vivid outfit. He was all beads, bangles and
Buddha since he’d come back from Tibet and Hilary’s patience was wearing thin.
“Where in God’s name did you get that suit?” she asked. “You look like a space
hopper!”
Bob
ignored his boss. He kept his eyes closed and fondled the prayer beads. “Go
away, Hilary,” he said quietly. “It’s my lunch break.”
“No,
it isn’t,” Hilary said. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and this place is
like the Marie Celeste. Where’s Lottie?”
Bob
tucked himself under the worn leather top of his mahogany desk and folded his
arms. “She’s gone to get a panini,” he replied. “We’ve never stopped all day
and I shall faint if I don’t get some carbs.”
Hilary
stared at a book on Bob’s desk – My Spiritual Journey, Dalai Lama. Bob
leaned forward and stroked the cover protectively.
“Goolanga,”
Hilary muttered. “Aren’t you a little old for all this Hari Krishna nonsense?”
“Don’t
knock something you know nothing about,” Bob said and gazed fondly at his
hero’s image.
“I
know that my office has ground to a complete standstill the moment I step out
for a quick meeting.” Hilary tapped her elegant 1950s suede shoe’d foot. “Go
and answer the phones please, then make us both an espresso. I want to hear all
about the literary festival in the Cotswolds.” She turned to leave but called
over her shoulder, “When you’re quite sure that that your chakras are where
they should be and you’re ready to do some work…”
Bob screwed his eyes up and let out
a hiss between clenched teeth as he watched Hilary retreat. He glanced at the
clock on the wall – Hilary’s “quick meeting” had been the best part of four
hours. He stroked his beads and breathed through his nose and filled his lungs with air, then exhaled slowly.
He’d give Hilary five minutes then brace himself for her interrogation.
Bob closed his
eyes again and thought about the weekend. It had been awash with literary
luvvies who’d flocked to the annual festival. Hilary had insisted that Bob
chaperone one of their clients, Prunella Gray, who was appearing at the
festival to talk about her recently published autobiography. The festival was
set in Chipping Hodbury, a quintessential English town in the heart of affluent
middle England. Pretty limestone buildings, adorned with flowering window
boxes, lined the high street which led to a double-arched bridge where the
River Hod meandered beneath. Chipping Hodbury Theatre was surrounded by tall
weeping willows and gracious lawns which swept down to the banks of the river
where ducks and geese waddled about, searching for scraps of discarded
sandwiches whilst the literary crowd sipped chilled white wine and picnicked in
the glorious sunshine.
Bob thought
about the dashing compere, Anthony Merryweather, who’d watched their arrival
and rushed down the theatre steps to open the door of their courtesy car and
greet them. He welcomed them to the festival then swept Prunella away to
prepare for her audience. After several drinks backstage, Anthony and Bob
exchanged numbers and the weekend suddenly brightened for Bob. Prunella had
given a riveting talk and left the stage to a standing ovation. Enthralled fans
hung onto her every word as she embroiled her life story and described the many
perils she’d encountered in the kitchens of well-known establishments during
her career progression. Prunella was an established household name in the world
of food and drink and her warts-and-all autobiography looked set to be a best
seller. She had Hilary to thank for her success but “thanks” was a swear word to Prunella Gray and
she’d been ruthless in her climb to the top. Bob had strict instructions to
stay with Prunella all weekend and Hilary’s warnings rung in his ears – Prunella was not to be left alone, especially with journalists!
It had been
exhausting as Prunella had a rampant appetite for vodka. She was known as the
Poison Dwarf in culinary circles and, in Bob’s opinion, was an absolute bitch.
He’d seen chefs freeze like snared prey and jack-knife away to avoid her at
restaurant openings and media events, where Prunella tracked her victims. Her
sweet little face peered out from a heavy dark fringe and reminded Bob of the
Bette Davis film What Ever Happened to
Baby Jane. Baby Jane was most definitely alive and well and lived in a town
house in Queen’s Park, where he’d deposited a drunken Prunella in a heap on
Sunday evening.
Bob smiled as
he remembered that he was meeting Anthony the following evening at a restaurant
called Dabbous. He couldn’t wait to drop this in to Hilary – there was a long
waiting list for a table but Anthony knew the manager and had procured a table
for eight o’clock.
A tapping
sound startled Bob.
Lottie, the
company receptionist, pushed open the door with her pert bottom. Her size three
feet, daintily encased in pink pumps, danced into the room. She balanced a
plate of prawn filled panini in one hand and a mug of peppermint tea in the
other and teetered over to Bob’s desk.
“You’ve got
two minutes to eat this. Hilary is on the war-path and wants you in her office
pronto.” Lottie shook her tousled hair and adjusted a polka-dot bandana.
“Prunella’s been on the phone,” Lottie continued. “She says you abandoned her
all weekend and copped off with a compere as camp as Christmas, then left her
to her own devices.”
Bob spat out
several prawns. He gazed at Lottie with saucer-like eyes. “Shite!” he mumbled.
“That’s not
very Dalai Lama – you’d better say a few chants before you go in.” Lottie
wandered away to her desk in reception. She slipped a head-set on and began to
take calls on the pulsating switchboard.
“Hargreaves
Promotions. How may I help you today?”
Caroline James was born in Cheshire and wanted to be a
writer from an early age. She trained, however, in the catering trade and
worked and traveled both at home and abroad. Caroline has owned and run
many related businesses and cookery is a passion alongside her writing,
combining the two with her love of the hospitality industry and romantic
fiction.
Caroline can generally be found with her nose in a book and her hand in
a box of chocolates and when not doing either, she likes to write, climb
mountains and contemplate life.
She writes fun, romantic fiction and is a member of the RNA and The
Society of Authors. She has had numerous short stories published and writes a
regular column for a lifestyle magazine.
Connect with Caroline at:
Caroline is hosting a fun giveaway.
Be aware that the first three prives are for the UK only and the last prize is international.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
