The Little Paris Patisserie

by Julie Caplin

  ‘Mum, you don’t need to worry about Nina in that thing, she can’t pedal fast enough to get into any trouble,’ teased Nick.

  ‘A sewing machine’s got more power,’ chipped in Dan.

  ‘I do wish you’d get something a bit more sturdy. I worry about you getting squished by a bigger car.’

  ‘Ma, you don’t need to worry, Nick’s truck would go straight over the top of it.’ Dan, having won the battle over the lamb, dropped his knife and fork with a clatter on the plate.

  Mum shuddered again. ‘That’s even worse.’

  ‘I love my car, leave it alone,’ said Nina. She missed it desperately at the moment because she was so reliant on lifts from everyone else.

  ‘Tom in the pub’s wife is selling her car. I could take a look at it for you, if you wanted,’ said Dad. ‘It’s a Ford. They’re good reliable cars. Don’t cost much to run.’

  And as boring as hell, thought Nina.

  ‘Oh, that’s a good idea, darling,’ her mum added.

  Nina was about to say something calm and sensible like, ‘As I’m about to pay for the repairs, it’s probably not the best time to think about buying another car’, but she’d had about enough of them all thinking they knew what was best for her. Honestly, they still thought of her as the baby of the family. So instead, she jumped up, glared around the table and yelled, ‘I like my car as it is, thank you very much!’ before grabbing her coat and storming off out through the back door to her flat.

  As she slammed the door behind her it was rather satisfying to hear the shocked silence reverberating around the table.

  When the soft knock came at her door, as four sponges were cooling on the rack, she knew it would be Nick. Despite the fact he nagged her the least, he was the most protective of all her brothers. Part of her wanted to ignore him and pretend to be in bed but she knew that her uncharacteristic outburst would have already caused a stir, and if she didn’t answer the door, he would keep knocking.

  ‘Yes?’ She opened the door a couple of inches making it clear she didn’t want company.

  ‘Just checking you’re alright.’ His cheery grin held a touch of strain.

  Feeling guilty, she opened the door wider. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’ He took a step into the open plan studio flat, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Yes, just fine.’ She sighed. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  He raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘Something? You got a hidden stash of brandy or whisky I didn’t know about?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, would it matter if I did?’ She was way past being teased and didn’t care if she let her impatience show. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed I’m a grown woman. It was a figure of speech. You’ll be relieved to know that all that’s lurking in my sad cupboards are a couple of boxes of PG Tips.’

  ‘Ooh, someone put her grumpy pants on this morning – or was it a certain phone call earlier?’ Nick folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

  ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with flaming Sebastian Finlay. I’m fed up with the whole family treating me like a baby. I’m nearly thirty, for fu…’ She hesitated, as he frowned. If she actually swore, he really would go into a tailspin. ‘For flip’s sake. Mum and Dad fuss so and then bloody Jonathon and Dan join in. Cath and Gail both think it’s ridiculous how you all worry over absolutely flipping nothing. And you’re the absolute worst, coming over doing the big brother act. I don’t need it.’ She stood her ground, glaring up at him, her hands clenched by her side. Although it was tempting to flounce across the room and throw herself onto the sofa, it would look like a childish tantrum and she needed him to know that they were all driving her crazy. Maybe she was a bit hormonal today, perhaps a bit tired, but this had been brewing for a few months.

  ‘It’s only because we care,’ explained Nick.

  ‘I get that. I really do.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I … I feel…’ The problem was she didn’t really know what she felt. Frustrated. Irritated. Weak. Going nowhere. Treading water. Sukie, her friend from work, the pastry chef, was off to New York. Her career was taking off. Nina didn’t even have a career let alone the opportunity to take off. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the experience, let alone the cooking credentials or qualifications, to apply for Sukie’s job. Nick wouldn’t understand and neither would the rest of the family. They were all content and happy, although she suspected sometimes Nick would have liked to leave the farm and widen his horizons a bit. Only Toby, four years Nina’s senior, had moved any distance away when he’d gone to Bristol to study to be a vet, and now he’d come back he was only fifty miles away, although that was at least out of range of daily scrutiny.

  ‘I know it’s hard being the youngest and the only girl and Mum and Dad do worry because you had a pretty rough start—’

  ‘Don’t you dare say it!’ Nina held up a hand.

  ‘What? That you nearly died when you were born? But it’s true.’

  Nina buried her head in her hands. ‘Yes, and it’s history. You’d think I’d been at death’s door for most of my life. Apart from appendicitis and the usual coughs, colds, chicken pox, I’ve never been properly ill.’

  Nick didn’t say anything.

  ‘Have I?’ she prompted.

  ‘No,’ he admitted with a grudging smile. ‘So I’m not going to get a tea or something?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Nina did flounce this time, crossing to the kitchen area to flip on the kettle. It wasn’t as if she could go to bed yet, she was still waiting for the sponges to cool down before she could sandwich them together with the coffee cream and walnuts. ‘Oy.’ She rapped his knuckles with a teaspoon as he snaffled one of her freshly made scones and took a bite quickly.

  ‘Mmm, these are good.’

  She ignored him as she made a quick pot of tea. There was something soothing about making it properly and it was a definite delaying tactic.

  She brought the pot and, bowing to Nick’s bigger frame, a mug as well as one of her favourite vintage cup and saucers, over to the small round dining table to the left of the kitchen area. The open plan living area was perfect for one and she deliberately kept the number of seats around the table to a minimum. This was her bolthole and she’d made sure it was her space. She’d used pastel colours on the walls and bought pretty, delicate floral fabric to make curtains and cushions to stamp her feminine identity on the place. Being surrounded by four boys all her life had definitely influenced her décor choices. Growing up at the farmhouse, most things had been practical and robust. Colour had not been a significant feature. Jonathon and Dan’s idea of interior design had been to paint their bedroom walls in alternate black and white stripes to emulate their beloved Newcastle United.

  ‘Here you go.’ She pushed the mug of tea towards her brother.

  ‘So what’s brought all this on?’ asked Nick, his face softening in sympathy.

  ‘It’s been coming on for a while. I feel a bit stuck. Like I’m going nowhere and I’m never going to do anything.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Nina toyed with the edge of her saucer. It was a stupid idea. After all, she’d been there once and messed it up.

  Of all her brothers, she was closest to Nick. Perhaps because they were both in the same boat.

  ‘Don’t you sometimes want to get away from here? Be on your own.’

  Nick’s mouth twisted. ‘Very occasionally, I wonder if I’ve missed out. It’s not exactly easy to meet people round here. But I love farming and it’s not like I can up sticks and take the farm with me. And then I stand at the top of the fell and look down the valley, follow the curve of the drystone walls that have been there for centuries and I feel like I belong. It’s continuity.’

  Nina looked up at him and gave him a gentle smile. He’d always been her hero, not that she’d dream of saying that to him. His head was plenty big enough already. For all his childish banter and teasing, he was a good soul who
knew his place in the world.

  She sighed, not wanting to sound ungrateful. ‘At least you’re useful. You have a proper purpose and a proper job.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Pulling a face, she traced the edge of the saucer again. ‘Get away for a while. Be me. Find out who me really is.’

  Nick frowned looking confused.

  ‘Just now, I didn’t use the ‘F’ word because I knew you’d disapprove.’

  Now he looked even more confused.

  ‘I feel like I’m treading water. I want … I want to cook properly. Not just make cakes and things.’

  ‘You want to be a chef? But you tried that before.’ He pointed to her. ‘You know, the raw meat thing. The, er, having a meltdown, panic attack thing. Didn’t you throw up as well?’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me, but what I didn’t realise then was that there are other specialisms that wouldn’t involve handling raw meat. I could be a pastry chef. Sukie, who’s off to New York is, was, absolutely amazing. She’s inspired me. You should see the things she makes. I … I…’ Nina stopped. She’d been trying a few things out at home, with varying degrees of success. It had been difficult at work to spend much time observing her former colleague, when she was supposed to be waiting tables, although Sukie had always been willing to let her hang around. She needed to be trained. Go on a patisserie course.

  Ever since Sebastian’s call in the car, her mind had kept circling back to his announcement that he was running a pastry course. He needed legs. She had seven weeks free, well, almost. And surely Mum and Cath could find someone else to make cakes for a few weeks.

  This was the most serendipitous thing that had ever, ever, ever happened to her. She’d be mad not to pursue it. Surely it was meant to be, even if Sebastian was involved. This was the perfect opportunity for her to show everyone how passionate she was about patisserie. Prove to everyone that she’d finally found her ‘thing’.

  ‘Would you talk to him for me?’

  ‘Talk to who?’ asked Nick, puzzled.

  ‘Sebastian.’

  Chapter 3

  As she stepped off the train at the Gare du Nord, finding it rather wonderful and amazing that she was now in another country and that she’d whizzed underneath the channel, she was tempted to pinch herself. Just two hours ago she’d been at St Pancras and now she was in Paris. Gay Paris. On her own. Away from the family. It felt as if she’d shaken off a very heavy feather duvet that was in danger of suffocating her. Even as she’d climbed into the car with Dad to go to the station, Mum had slipped a handful of Euro notes into her hand and muttered, ‘For a taxi when you get there. So you don’t have to worry about the Metro with all your bags.’

  And then her dad had done exactly the same thing when he dropped her at the station. Bless them both. She wasn’t ungrateful, but really! She was perfectly capable of getting the Metro on her own.

  Despite listening to a French language app throughout her Eurostar trip, Nina was slightly disappointed to realise that she still couldn’t understand a single sentence of the thousand-words-per-second, rapid delivery of the man at the information desk. Unfortunately, he was determined not to speak any English and the only word they could agree on was taxi. So much for her first independent foray! At least Mum and Dad would be pleased.

  The taxi brought her into a wide boulevard, lined with trees shading small cafes and their bistro tables and chairs. On either side of the street were buildings of five or six storeys running the full length of the road, where all of the windows had those cute wrought iron balconies and there were imposing looking wooden front doors interspersed at regular intervals.

  Despite the old stone walls and the heavy wooden trim, the door to the building opened with an electronic buzz and she found herself in a stark entrance hall with a narrow, tiled staircase curling upwards. Sebastian had taken up residence in a hotel as there was no lift here at his apartment block. With a sigh, Nina looked upwards at the broad staircase. How on earth was she going to lug a big suitcase as well as the heavy tote bag and her handbag up to the top floor? This is independence. Remember — what you wanted. Even so she glanced around, almost hopeful that someone might materialise to help. But unlike in the movies, no handsome knight appeared offering to carry her cases for her. With a dispirited groan, she put her messenger bag across her chest, hefted her tote bag higher on her shoulder and picked up the suitcase and got on with it.

  As per Sebastian’s texted instructions, Nina rang the doorbell on flat 44b and almost before she’d taken her finger from the bell, the door opened, making her jump.

  A slender woman looked out. Her dead straight blonde hair was arranged in a sleek ponytail framing her face accentuating high cheekbones and a firm chin. She might have written the book on classy chic and haughty sang-froid, as defined by her indifferent expression, glossy pointy shoes, the wide-legged cream trousers and a high-necked silk blouse in pale blue, all of which made Nina feel doubly hot and sticky.

  ‘Bonjour, je suis Nina. Je suis ici pour les clés de Sebastian.’ The words burbled out in desperation and from the quickly concealed smile on the face of the elegant woman, she’d not made a terribly good fist of it.

  ‘Bonjour, Nina. I heard you coming all the way up the stairs.’ Nina felt her disapproval. ‘I’m Valerie du…’ She didn’t quite catch her surname, as Valerie sounded as if she’d swallowed every syllable. ‘Here are the keys.’ She held them out at arm’s length with a rather regal, keep-the-peasants-at-a-distance touch. ‘When you see Sebastian, please give him my very best wishes.’ Her flawless English and very sexy accent highlighted Nina’s sense of being under-dressed and travel-soiled. ‘I shall miss him, he’s such excellent company.’ Valerie added with a knowing, naughty look.

  Nina swallowed. ‘I will. Erm, thank you.’ Valerie looked at least fifteen years older than Sebastian. Without any more ado, Valerie shut the door.

  ‘Welcome to Paris,’ muttered Nina under her breath. ‘I hope you had a good journey. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask, as you’re in a strange apartment, in a foreign city and you don’t know a soul around here.’

  As she battled her way through the door, dragging her suitcases, her phone pinged.

  I’m assuming you’ve made it. I need you to bring some of my stuff over to the hotel from my apartment. Ring me and I’ll talk you through what I need. If you come over here, we can have a meeting about what will be required from you. I suggest about 3 p.m. Sebastian.

  She wilted slightly at the strictly business text. Couldn’t he give her a break? She’d been in the city for less than an hour and had no idea where the hotel was in relation to here. At the moment, her priority was locating a kettle and coffee and ransacking a cupboard to find something to eat. He could at least have given her chance to settle in?

  Sebastian was just being bloody pedantic, Nina decided as she hauled down a wheelie suitcase from the top of the cupboard in the hallway. Surely it would be easier to transport everything in this instead of the canvas holdall he’d asked for. The wheelie case, which looked like an oversized silver beetle with latched sides, would be much easier to pull along rather than having to carry the other bag.

  After a brief conversation, in which he’d given her the address of his hotel, she’d scribbled down the list of what he wanted. First up, his laptop and papers, which she gathered up from the table in the lounge. Then she moved to the bedroom. Five shirts, as requested, folded and packed, the toiletry bag filled from the bathroom and dressing table, including the Tom Ford aftershave he’d specifically asked for – and no, she didn’t do that girly thing of sniffing it, even though she did wonder what it smelled like. Next, underwear. Hesitantly she opened his top drawer. Yup, underwear drawer. Somehow she might have guessed he’d be a jersey boxer man. And Calvin Klein rather than M&S. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen plenty of men’s underwear in her time but … this felt too personal. Thinking about Sebastian in this. No, she was not
going there. He was just a bloke. Nick’s friend. A silly boy once. She’d known him forever. Telling herself to get on with it and quit being so stupid, she grabbed a handful, and as she did, she nudged a cardboard box. Shit. That was different ball game. Wincing at the double entendre, she looked at the box. Condoms. A pack of twelve. Featherlite. Open.

  Don’t look inside. Don’t.

  With a bump she sat down on the bed.

  Four missing. Sebastian. Had sex. Has sex. Is having sex.

  And it was absolutely, definitely, no way of interest to her. Nothing to do with her. She was not going to look at the use by date on them. And there was no earthly reason for her heart to have that silly, stupid, ridiculous pinching feeling.

  Sebastian was a good-looking guy. No state secret. Of course he had women. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had a girlfriend. And the time before that. Different ones. He had girlfriends. She knew that. This was hardly a surprise and meant nothing to her.

  Oh heck. So what was she supposed to do with them? Ignore them? Pretend she hadn’t seen them? But then he knew they were here. Would know that she’d see them. Or maybe he had forgotten. If she packed them, it would show that she was completely blasé about them being there. Show that she was grown up and worldly about such things. Although if he needed them, quite how he was going to manoeuvre with a broken leg would be interesting. And where had that thought come from? Hurriedly she stuffed them in. That was the responsible thing to do, wasn’t it?

  Unfortunately, there was a hold up on the Metro which made her late and then, when she emerged onto the street, it had started to drizzle. Of course it bloody well had, so her perfect bob which was supposed to represent her new, more grown up image, had gone slightly curly, her pointy high heels, showing Parisienne sophistication, were killing her and the horribly expensive sheer tights were splashed with dirty water. It also turned out that the five-minute walk to the hotel was technically correct, providing you were a certain Mr Usain Bolt.

  By the time she staggered to the top of the flight of steps of the hotel, tottering in her heels with all the élan of Tony Curtis in Some Like it Hot, it was nearer five o’clock. The concierge opened the door for her and she managed to raise a very small smile, which was quickly wiped from her face when her wet shoes slipped on one of the tiles. Saving herself before she fell, she sacrificed the wheelie case which promptly popped open exploding clothes in a rainbow of colour and fabric. And of course, the damn box of condoms had to go skittering across the floor before it came to rest beside the highly polished chestnut shoes of a tall, dark Gregory Fitoussi lookalike.