British Bachelors: Fabulous and Famous

‘Here and there. I finished my apprenticeship with Valencia Cagoni when you fired me. You can check the rest on my website later.’

The creases in the corners of his eyes deepened as Lottie inhaled a powerful aroma of spicy masculine sweat, which was sweet even against the perfume of the fruit and nuts in her food.

His gaze hovered over her ring finger, then flicked back to her face, eyebrows high.

‘Not married? Or are you too rebellious to wear a ring?’

Lottie almost choked on a piece of pastry from her tart and quickly swallowed down a slurp of coffee before wheezing out a reply.

‘Not married, engaged, dating, or anything else. Where would I find the time for that?’

‘If you wanted it enough you would find the time.’ His eyes flashed a challenge that was definitely hot enough to warm the coolest of breezes.

Wanted it? Oh, she wanted it. But it had to be the right man who wanted the same things. And so far they were thin on the ground.

‘Not very high on my priority list at the moment,’ she lied, but not very convincingly because that smile on Rob’s face lifted into a knowing smirk of deep self-satisfaction.

Damn. She had fallen straight into his trap.

‘So it’s all work and no play for the lovely Miss Rosemount. That doesn’t sound like much fun.’

‘And your life is one great circus of constant amusement because your business runs itself. Is that right?’

Damn him for making her snappy.

‘I never said that,’ he replied with a twist of his head towards the door where a young couple was staggering in with a baby buggy and shopping bags.

She couldn’t move. There was something electric in the few inches of air between them, as though powerful magnets were pulling them together.

At this distance, she could feel that frisson of energy and strength of the man whose whole professional life had been spent under the glare of public scrutiny—by choice.

This was the kind of bloke who was accustomed to walking into a cocktail bar or restaurant and having head waiters fawn over themselves to find him the best table.

Well, not this time, handsome!

She could stick this out longer than he could.

It was Gloria who saved him. Her friend came galloping down the stairs from the bedroom and third-floor studio and instantly twisted her mouth into a smile.

‘Well, hello! You have to be Rob. You mum has been telling me all about you, scamp. I’m Gloria.’

With a laugh she turned to Lottie. ‘Adele decided to take her breakfast to the studio with Ian. They’re having a great time up there so I thought I would leave them to it.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from across the table. ‘Ian?’

‘My friend Ian Walker,’ Lottie said. ‘You must have met him last night. He was the photographer who worked with your mum on the exhibition catalogue for the gallery. Tall, thin, about forty. And a great fan of your mum’s work.’

Suddenly Rob was standing ramrod-straight next to her, his back braced, and looking horribly tall, as though he feared the worst.

‘Then I think it’s time I caught up with them, don’t you?’ he said. ‘So you have a studio?’ he went on. ‘That is different. I have been to plenty of artists’ studios in my time but above a bakery? My mum and her pals would spend more time scoffing the goods than working.’

Her mouth opened and then closed before she answered him with a smirk. ‘Ah. So this is going to be a first. And who said anything about artists? Prepare to be disappointed. Follow me.’ Then she caught his smile and her eyes narrowed. ‘On second thoughts, you can go first. Straight through that door. Then at the top of the stairs take a sharp left and carry on up to the third floor. You can’t miss it.’

Rob took the stairs two at a time then slowed down to take the narrow second steps, conscious that Lottie was by his side the whole time.

His mother was alone with a man who he had never met; he certainly did not recognise the name. In his book, that meant trouble. Lots of trouble.

Especially when they stopped outside what looked like a bedroom door.

Lottie stepped forwards and gently turned the brass handle, casually swung open the wooden door and stepped through.

The walls and ceiling were painted in brilliant white.

Light flooded in from the plain glass windows, illuminating one single picture hanging over what must have been the original chimney breast.

Staring back at him was a life-size formal portrait of Lottie Rosemount—the impact of seeing her captured knocked Rob physically backwards.

He was so stunned that it took a few seconds for him to notice that Lottie had moved forwards and was chatting to a tall, thin, older man, who he vaguely recognised, standing next to a long table covered with a pristine white cloth.

His quick brain struggled to take in what he was looking at.

It was the complete opposite of what he had been expecting.

Instead of the chaotic blend of noise and bakery odours and general chaos he had walked into in the cake shop, the third-floor space was a haven of quiet sunlight and calm.

It was a separate world. An oasis. And totally stunning.

The studio had clearly been a loft and the ceiling was angled away into one corner, but half of the roof was made from glass panels, which created a flood of light into the centre of the room. The outside wall had two wide panels of floor-to-ceiling double patio doors. And sitting outside on a tiny patio chair, cradling a large white cup, was his mother.

She was wearing a silk kimono, her hair was already styled, and there was a china plate stacked high with pain au chocolat and Danish pastries, which he knew that she adored. Next to an open box of tissues.

‘Darling. There you are! What a lovely morning. Do come and look at this wonderful view. Isn’t it divine?’

Rob rolled back his shoulders and, with a nod to Lottie and Ian, who were totally engrossed in looking at some images on a laptop computer, walked out onto the narrow roof terrace.

He pressed his lips to his mother’s hair and wrapped his arm loosely across the back of the chair as she blew her nose.

‘How are you this morning, Mum? Cold any better?’

‘Much. I have it down to sniffles. And I slept for hours! Hopefully I shall stay awake at the gallery today when the great British public arrive. It was such a shame that I did not last much of the evening.’

He rested his chin on her shoulder so that they were both looking out at the same panoramic view across the London skyline towards the river Thames.

‘Now, tell me what you have been up to this morning.’

Perhaps it would be better not to mention last night after all.

His breath caught in his throat.

All of the Beresford hotels in the city had views over London, but this? Somehow being on this tiny terrace reminded him so much of the house where he had grown up with his dad. The window box full of red geraniums. The wrought iron railings. The tiled clay roofs that spread out with the old chimney pots. Church spires. And the faint sound of the busy London street just below where they were standing. Red buses, black cabs. The whole package.

He had missed this. He missed the real London.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he whispered. ‘This is special.’

‘It’s wonderful. How clever of you to persuade your friend to allow me to stay here. Because I have to tell you, darling, your hotel is charming and so efficient but this place is divine and Gloria and Lottie have been perfect hosts. And the studio...’

Adele pressed one hand gently to the front of the kimono and Rob was shocked to see the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes.

‘When I first came to London your father tried so hard to find me somewhere to work and the closest I came was somewhere just like this. A third floor of an old stone house that had belonged to one of the Impressionists. I loved it, for a while.’

Then she waved one hand. ‘It was not to be, but that is past history and there is no point living with regret. Strange, I had almost forgotten how special this city is.’

‘London? I thought that you hated it here.’

‘Hated it?’ his mother replied and turned around to face him. ‘Oh, no, darling. I could never do that. I was so young and I simply couldn’t find my balance.’

Then she looked out across the rooftops. ‘We’ve both come a long way since then, kiddo. A hell of a long way.’

A killer grin lightened her face. ‘This is wonderful and I intend to enjoy every minute of it before heading back to the gallery. So scoot. Go and talk to Ian. That man worked miracles with my catalogue and Lottie needs your help. Call me before you go. But in the meantime, I am simply splendid.’

And with that she snuggled back in the chair and picked up a flaky pastry and bit into it with moans of delight.

It was the happiest that he had seen her for weeks.

Well. So much for all of his concerns about finding his mother a wreck!

Perhaps he had to thank Lottie Rosemount for a lot more than he’d first thought.

* * *

He loved his mother very much.

Lottie exhaled slowly as the thought crept into her mind that she had made a horrible mistake.

She darted a quick glance towards the terrace where Adele was quite happily enjoying the June sunshine with Rob chatting so sweetly by her side, his arm draped so protectively close, and swallowed down a moment of deep humiliation.

She had been wrong.

Last night had not been about Rob trying to save his credibility and reputation at all.

It had all been about protecting his mother. Not himself.

That was why he had been so concerned about going to the hotel.

He had been terrified that his mother would embarrass herself and the press would be full of photographs of Adele staggering about looking half drunk and falling out of a limo onto the street in front of the cameras.

How could she have been so stupid?

When Rob Beresford had walked into that art gallery all she had been able to see was the man who had treated her so unfairly.

But what about the rest? It was gossip. Tittle-tattle scandal about Rob’s many conquests and how he had ditched Debra without a moment’s notice.

A low icy shudder ran across her shoulders.

She was a fool. No, worse than that. She had allowed her memory of what had happened when they had last met to cloud her judgement.

This was not just unfair, it was wrong.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She had made a total fool of herself by doing the very thing she’d promised she would not do again: judge people based on what they had done in the past.

And if she was guilty of that she was woman enough to put it right.

Right now.

‘Rob.’ Lottie smiled and strolled over to the terrace. ‘Can I drag you away from Adele for a moment? You’re an expert on recipe books and this is my first. Do you remember Ian? This lovely man has bravely taken on a very different kind of challenge: making my novelty birthday cakes look good enough to eat. Welcome to my budget photo shoot!’

* * *

On a white cake stand on a pedestal in the middle of a long table covered in a white cloth was a cake.

It had been shaped into a racing car Rob vaguely recalled seeing on movie posters for a children’s cartoon film some months ago.

The long low body was covered with bright red fondant icing with a white stripe running down both sides. The wheels were white discs and the whole design looked so realistic it might have been mistaken for a toy. Except that Lottie had just finished icing liquorice round sweets in place of the headlights and steering wheel.

All in all a perfect cake for a car-mad little boy.

It was brilliant.

Rob stepped closer and nodded to Ian, who stopped work adjusting a light stand and an elaborate studio camera system on a tripod to come forward and shake his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Rob. Adele has told me a lot about you.’

‘Really?’ Rob answered and glanced towards his mother, who was now chatting happily to Lottie and eating croissants. Because she has not said a word about you. ‘Congratulations on the exhibition catalogue. Everyone I spoke to last evening loved the layout.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ Ian shook his head. ‘Although I confess that I didn’t expect to meet Adele here this morning when I turned up to work on the charity cookbook Lottie is pulling together. Do you have an interest in food photography, Rob?’

‘Me? Not at all. I leave that to the experts. I simply prepare the food and the stylists and photographers get to work on the recipe books.’

He quickly scanned the room, taking in the high ceilings and natural light from the skylight and tall windows. ‘Has this always been a photographer’s studio?’

‘Not as far as I know. Lottie refurbished the loft as soon as she bought the place. It is quite something. And I need to get back to it or the cake will dry out. Later.’

A quick tour of the loft revealed that Lottie’s taste in books ranged from classic French cuisine to high finance and shared the space with a fine collection of spiders’ webs and dust.

At the far end, away from the windows, was a screened-off area, and Rob could not resist peeking behind the découpage screen.

A double bed with a Victorian carved wooden headboard was flat against the wall. Dressed with white bedcovers trimmed in lilac satin and a soft-looking duvet.

Feather. He could tell from the way it was made.

Hmm, interesting. He wouldn’t be trying that bed out. Way too girly.

But who slept in a bed that size?

He was just about to investigate when there was a sharp cough from behind his back. ‘Found anything interesting back there,’ Lottie asked and he knew without bothering to look that she had her hands on her hips, ‘Mr Nosy Parker?’

‘My natural, insatiable curiosity cannot be contained, Goldilocks.’

‘Goldilocks? What do you mean?’

Rob peeked at her over one shoulder and smiled. ‘Thought so. I have discovered your secret hideaway. Not a bad spot. Not bad at all.’

‘Actually, it’s lovely. I don’t mind sleeping in the studio for six months during the summer. It’s not such a bad place to wake up in the morning.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

Lottie strolled over to the screen and gestured to the terrace where Adele was just finishing off her breakfast.

‘When I was in business my first Christmas bonus paid for an apartment in the city with a view over the Thames. At the moment I am renting it out to one of my former colleagues while she is working on a project in central London and wanted a home rather than a serviced apartment.’

Lottie dropped her hand. ‘You know the statistics about how many restaurants and cafés never make it to their first birthday? Well, I am just coming up to eight months and—’ she tapped on the wooden frame on the screen ‘—so far, so good. But who knows? Things change. People change.’

Then she paused. ‘What gave me away?’

Then he gestured with his head towards the garment bags and clothing hanging on two garment rails behind the decorated screen. ‘Designer clothing is not really Dee’s style.’

‘I could have put my clothes in storage but I prefer to have them handy. A girl has to be ready for all eventualities.’

‘Is this what you are wearing on Saturday evening?’ Rob picked up the skirt of a stunning slinky mocha-coloured satin slip with a lace trim and lifted his eyebrows before releasing it. ‘Because I am not sure the Beresford Richmond is ready for this kind of allure. Va va boom.’

‘Please don’t touch the frillies. And my gown is going to be a surprise, so do stop looking.’

‘Fair enough. What time shall I pick you up?’

‘That’s okay. I’m meeting you there.’

‘Why, Miss Rosemount, surely you are not frightened of tongues wagging if we walk in together, are you?’

‘Not at all. But I am going to get there early to help set things up. That’s all.’

‘Is that it? Or do you have a rule about not dating chefs?’

‘Dating? Of course not. I don’t have any problem with chefs. Far from it. I have spent three years working my backside off becoming one.’ Her gaze locked on to his chest but slowly, slowly, lifted to his face. ‘Just arrogant chefs with egos to match the size of their name on the menu.’

Lottie gave a small shoulder-shrug. ‘Any girl who dates a chef who likes to have his name in the gossip columns knows what she is taking on and I am not just talking about the long hours and bad tempers.’

‘Harsh. You could say that about any type of successful person, the kind that has earned that reputation through sweat and puts the work in for that success. Publicity is not a bad thing. Not when restaurants are closing every week. The press love me just as long as I give them something to write about. It’s part of the job.’

‘Ah. Well, there you have it. You can glory in the glare of publicity for the charity and we lesser mortals shall scurry around in the background making sure that everything is working. Win-win. I can hardly wait. It promises to be a very interesting evening.’

SIX

It was like going back in time.

Rob Beresford stood at the entrance to the park across the street from the West London Catering College where he had spent two of the most gruelling years of his life learning how to cook at a professional level.

The building might look a little cleaner and they had added more glass and pale colours to the entrance to make it look less like a prison, but otherwise it was just the same.

Somewhere in a storage unit in London there was a box stuffed with his diplomas and degree certificates for what the college liked to call the culinary arts and professional cooking.

From what he remembered it was mostly culinary sweat and manic activity fuelled by industrial quantities of cheap coffee and cheaper carbohydrates.

He had grown up in London and spent the first nineteen years of his life here. It would always feel like home.

And now he was going to a Beresford hotel to raise funds so that some other youngster with nothing but a fire in his belly could have a chance to show what they could do.

How ironic was that?

With a low chuckle he shook his head and strode out along the sunlit pavements and turned the corner, away from the college and into the world he lived in now. Sean had done a great job refurbishing the Beresford Richmond and Rob waved to the reception staff as he jogged up the staircase to the main conference room and flung open the doors to the cocktail bar.

He scanned the room looking for Sean or Lottie and walked slowly between the drinks tables, waving and saying a brief hello to familiar faces from the hotel and food world, flashguns lighting up his back as he tugged at the cuffs of his evening shirt.

He was a Beresford working the crowd in a Beresford hotel.

This was the one time he was willing to put his handmade tux on show for the press and wear his heart on his sleeve.

His father, Tom Beresford, had founded the Beresford hotel chain from nothing and worked hard to create a line of luxury hotels in cities around the world. But Rob admired him for a lot more than that. No matter where his mum had gone to find artistic inspiration, his dad had made sure that Rob had his own room and a stable home and school life. It had been a shock when his dad had announced that he was going to marry again. Until then it had only been the two of them. But she was so lovely. And as a bonus—he got a new brother.

And there he was. Sean Beresford. Hotel troubleshooter and the current manager of the hotel he was standing in, greeting the sixty or so especially invited guests in person, same as always. Charming but professional.

Rob took the initiative by thumping Sean on the back in a half hug. ‘Heard that there was a charity auction tonight and thought I might pick up a few bargains. How about you?’

He was rewarded by a short snort. ‘Dee is in China. Again. But somehow Dee and Lottie persuaded me to host their fundraiser here. I even agreed to be the master of ceremonies. So behave.’

‘I am behaving! And well done on the refurbishment. This is a fabulous venue.’

‘Thanks. Hard work but worth it. VIP events like this are a perfect way to get word-of-mouth publicity. Gold dust. I had no idea that Lottie knew so many people in high places.’

His brows came together. ‘Lottie Rosemount?’

‘Absolutely. That girl has a contact list to die for. If anyone deserves praise for making this benefit a sell-out it’s Lottie. Oh, have to go. Enjoy the party! And I hope you like the food. We’re trying that new event menu from the Beresford Paris which has been so popular.’

‘Wait up. What are you serving? Surprise me.’

‘Canapés followed by plated cold starters, three choices of hot buffet, salad and cheese. And I know you are going to sample some of everything because you always do before the desserts arrive.’

Sean gestured with his head towards the swing doors that led to the kitchen. Waiters were clearing away what little was left of the patisserie.

‘I have a head chef in there who has been screaming at her brigade all night that Rob Beresford is in the room and they had better cook as though their jobs depended on it. Forget the other city chefs. You are the one my team want to impress. They are nervous wrecks in there! So don’t worry about the food. Your job is to do the celeb thing. And good luck with that. See you later.’ And with that Sean strode over to greet the cluster of new arrivals who had packed the reception area behind him.

Rob stepped to one side, and tried to bring his breathing back down to a level where he could control it.

What the hell was the new event menu from Paris?

He was supposed to be responsible for the entire food-and-drinks range across all of the Beresford hotel chain.

His mother’s exhibition and the filming of the TV show had sucked every second of his life for the past few months but surely he would have heard about a new menu?

Why had no one told him about it? Or worse. They had told him but the message had got lost in the hundreds of emails he received every day.

Of course he had to trust the hotel chefs. He had personally picked them, got drunk with them and slayed them with cooking better than them. But as for trusting other people to create an entirely new menu? Forget it.

He needed to get to the hotel kitchens and find out exactly what they intended to serve at this function.

He glanced around the gilt high-ceiling dining room. Top hoteliers, company directors in designer suits, food journalists and, if he was not mistaken, several of the college lecturers who were responsible for what skills he had. So overall pretty much everyone in London with an interest in developing amazing new chef talent.

Brilliant for the charity. And a nightmare waiting to happen if this new menu was not totally spectacular.

And walking towards him around the edge of the room, one very, very pretty girl.

Lottie Rosemount. Only not the hard-working baker version of Lottie he had spent most of the day with.

This Lottie was dressed in a pale lilac cocktail dress that fitted her perfectly, the fabric draped close to her waist then flaring out over the slim hips to just above the knees. Then long, slim but muscular legs and high heels.

Tonight Lottie Rosemount was every bit the young female corporate mover and shaker he had seen at parties all over the world. Efficient. Brilliant. Organised.

Only he knew the real Lottie. The woman who had taken a high-street bakery and transformed it into something spectacular. Doing what she loved to do, her passion. On her own terms.

When had he last met a woman like that? Not often. Oh, he had met plenty of glossy-haired girls with high IQs who had claimed they were doing what they truly loved, and plenty of lady bakers had studied business, but so few people were able to combine the two skills to create a successful bakery.