How to get a (Paul) Hollywood tan

Anyone who is a guest on Good Morning America, the Today program or the like has an agenda. They want to promote something — themselves, their new film, a charity, a political point of view. Of course, the presenters don’t like being used as stooges. And they have the power, because their show is live, of going off the agreed piste, and the guest has no way of stopping them. Last week I was on Good Morning Britain with my husband John to talk about our new ITV show, Prue Leith’s Cotswold Kitchen, and to be fair, presenters Susanna Reid and Ed Balls were hugely welcoming and gave the show a great plug. But our few minutes got chopped in half because the education secretary, Gillian Keegan, was suddenly slotted in on Zoom to talk about phones in schools (admittedly of more interest to most viewers). Then Ed wanted to talk about his grandmother’s shepherd’s pie and whether it should be called cottage pie as she made it with beef (I said yes) and Susanna asked whether John and I still lived in separate houses (no, we don’t). So, was it worth coming up to London the day before, getting up at six, and hanging around until 8:30? Of course it was. The truth is you don’t turn down a slot on any show with a huge audience if you need to get a message across. Besides, I love the attention. I get a buzz from being told to enter by the “Talent door.” “Talent?” Bring it on. Never mind if that means by the back door, through the prop store and past the bins.

In January, reef fishing in the Bahamas, John hooked a snapper. While he was reeling it in, a barracuda bit off its tail-end with an elegant, powerful swirl, leaving the other half on the hook. John left this in the water and, sure enough, the barracuda came back for the rest of his breakfast. He swallowed it, hook, line and fly — and was himself caught. When we opened him up, we found both halves of the snapper and two other whole fish. Greedy beast.

We came back to rain-swept home a month ago and I’m gratified to be still getting compliments on my tan. My response, because I’m too embarrassed to lie, is to admit it comes out of a bottle. And very good it is too. The new stuff no longer smells awful or leaves you with orange streaks and patches as it fades. The truth is I want to maintain the bronzed look until we are back on the Great British Baking Show set. I don’t like standing next to deeply tanned Paul Hollywood, looking like his ghost.

The other reason we were in the Caribbean was to attend a business conference on Necker Island, at which I had to speak. I confess to accepting because I couldn’t resist the lure of Richard Branson’s paradise, not because I boast some magic business touch. Indeed, almost all the big companies on whose boards I’ve served came to sticky ends: British Rail was privatized, Woolworths went bust, Safeway got swallowed by Morrisons, Leeds Permanent Building Society proved anything but permanent and the Halifax Bank merged disastrously with the Bank of Scotland, only to collapse seven years later. The only plc of which I was a director that is still thriving and independent is Whitbread. Even Belmond, the luxury hotel chain, has had to seek shelter in the gilded arms of LVMH. I hasten to say all these calamities happened after I’d left, but it goes to show how dicey, albeit exciting, business is.

I feared the Necker conference delegates would be designer-clad multi-billionaires, arriving in private planes, greenwashing their corporations and altogether too pleased with themselves. But Liberty Ventures, which staged the conference, backs businesses that are genuinely trying to do the right thing; and the boss, Alexander McCobin, handpicked the delegates, who mostly wore ancient T-shirts and scruffy shorts. There were only forty of them, some young geniuses bent on doing good through commerce, some old dogs who proved you could stick to your principles and make money, and some venture capitalists looking for young talent to back. It was just terrific.

Almost the best thing about holidays is having the time to read. My two recommendations are Wendell Steavenson’s Margot, a novel about a gifted but timid child repressed by her stultifyingly rich, snobbish, strict and stupid mother, Peggy, one of the most chilling characters I’ve met in fiction. The writing is original and sparkling. Equally captivating is No More Champagne by David Lough, which is yet another biography of Winston Churchill, but this time seen through his financial tribulations. Neither Churchill nor Clementine could ever economize. She spent a fortune on clothes, he on champagne, cigars, grand accommodation and gambling. Somehow he managed Europe’s destiny while on a constant financial knife-edge.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.