The Little Paris Patisserie. Julie Caplin

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      ‘Oh, look that’s me!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘I remember that day. He won his first cooking competition. And he came straight over to tell me and show me the trophy. Your dad took that one.’

      Nina remembered the lead up to the competition. They’d been his guinea pigs for weeks. Good job the whole family liked pork.

      ‘Nice one of him and his parents,’ said her mother, the hint of sympathy clear in her tone. Nina, still holding the phone, peered at the picture of Sebastian on graduation day, standing between his parents looking stiff and uncomfortable. He’d stuck out his degree to please his parents despite wanting to go in a different direction. A week after he graduated, he signed up for catering college.

      ‘Ah, that’s a lovely one of you.’

      ‘Me!’ Nina’s voice squeaked and bent to take a closer look at the picture in the corner that she’d completely missed. It wasn’t lovely at all. It was a hideous picture. She was grinning like a loon, her teeth and shining eyes white amongst the splashes of mud across her face, as she held up the medal she’d won in the cross-country championship. With a jolt, she stared at the happiness glowing on her face and felt her heart do one of those flutters, almost an echo of the past. Tears shimmered in her eyes for a second. She’d been so happy. Almost bursting with it. Not because she’d come first. Not because she’d beaten her personal best. Not because she’d qualified for the Nationals. She’d been so happy because Sebastian was waiting for her at the finishing line. Because he threw his arms around her. Because he hugged her so tight. Because she thought his lips might have grazed the top of her head. Because his eyes were shining with pride and happiness when he looked at her. Studying it again, juxtaposed among all the other important events in his life, she frowned. She couldn’t believe he’d kept a photo of her, let alone this one. She couldn’t help but wonder why he had kept it.

      A bold pigeon pecked around her feet as her croissant shed a flurry of crumbs with her last bite. She felt rather proud of herself that she’d ventured out and ordered a coffee and a croissant in a local bakery, which was exactly what she’d told her mum she would do when she finished their call. Tipping back her cup, she downed the rest of her coffee and stood up from one of green park benches that lined the path leading up to the Eiffel Tower. The sunshine warming her skin had tempted her out. It really was far too nice to be inside and talking to her mother had reminded her why she was here, pickpockets or no pickpockets. And today she was taking the day off. She was done with cleaning and organising, although she was rather pleased with all her neatly labelled shelves and the smooth sliding drawers where, as far as she was concerned, everything was now in the right place.

      With a definite bounce in her step, tightening her hold on the strap of her messenger bag, she set off to walk towards the huge iconic tower, stopping to take and send pictures to the family Whatsapp group, Hadley Massive. Honestly, so much for escaping. She shook her head. Mum’s phone call this morning was the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the family were equally voracious for news, demanding regular updates. If it wasn’t Nick texting her to ask how she was getting on, then it was Dan emailing or Toby direct messaging her on Twitter. She was seriously considering losing her phone.

      Playing it safe and wanting to get a sense of the geography of the city, she spent the morning walking at a slow amble, crossing the bridge from the Eiffel Tower to the Trocadero, mindful of the rather daunting traffic. As far as drivers were concerned, pedestrians were an annoying irritant and, if they put so much as one foot in the road, fair game. No one seemed to pay any attention to the designated crossings or red traffic lights as motorists and moped riders constantly nudged forward and nipped into free space like lions pouncing on prey.

      Following the map she’d borrowed from Sebastian’s apartment, she walked along the Left Bank, or rather, Rive Gauche, which was still a perfume in her head, and followed the wide open span of the Seine before she bore left towards the Champs-Élysées to take a look at the Arc de Triomphe which was so much bigger than she’d expected and the traffic surrounding it even more terrifying. It hadn’t gained its reputation for being the craziest roundabout in Europe for nothing.

      Enjoying the sense of freedom and not having to consult anyone else, she decided to stop for lunch at one of the restaurants off the Champs Elysees because she could. Her brother Nick would have balked and immediately suggested they avoid the main tourist drag as it would be too expensive, Dan and Gail would have looked up the TripAdvisor recommendations for the area and her Mum would have spent ages perusing the menu outside before allowing any of her chicks to set foot over the threshold.

      Feeling spontaneous and independent, she chose a restaurant she liked the look of and went in.

      The moules she’d selected were delicious and she relished every drop of the rather decadent glass of wine she’d decided to treat herself to when she’d seen that most of the French diners ordered wine with their lunch. Although she was thoroughly enjoying her meal, she did feel a little self-conscious about eating on her own in the busy restaurant. She’d been stuck on a table in the corner by the loos. To stop her feeling completely Billy no mates, she kept scrolling through her phone and almost dropped it when it suddenly began to ring.

      ‘Sebastian, hi.’

      ‘Nina, we have a problem. I needed my suppliers to do me a rush job for the other restaurant. The new chef wanted to do some recipe testing. It means they can’t deliver the fresh ingredients to the patisserie today. You’ll have to go and do the shopping.’

      ‘Today?’ she looked at her watch. ‘Can’t they deliver tomorrow?’

      ‘Today would be better. I don’t like leaving things until the last minute. Unless, of course, it’s too much trouble for you.’

      Nina gritted her teeth. Oh, the man did withering sarcasm so bloody well.

      ‘I realise that, but …’ She had absolutely no idea where to go shopping. Paris wasn’t exactly teeming with Tescos. Was there anywhere near the patisserie? There was no way she was going to ask him.

      ‘Is there a problem?’

      ‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Absolutely not.’

      ‘Excellent, I shall see you tomorrow. You do remember that you’re coming to the hotel to pick me up. I’ve asked the concierge to book a cab for eight-thirty. Paris traffic is horrendous, so make sure you get there on time.’

       Chapter 7

      Nina asked for a key card for Sebastian’s room and the same receptionist as last time gave her a look as if to say, ‘What, you again?’

      She knocked so that she didn’t give Sebastian a nasty surprise but before she could swipe the key card in and out of the slot, the door opened, making her jump.

      ‘You’re not Sebastian,’ she said, stepping back and looking into dark brown eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ It was the rather handsome French-actor lookalike she’d seen down in the foyer when she’d been on her knees.

      ‘Ah, the lady with the misbehaving suitcase and the …’

      ‘They weren’t mine,’ she said, ‘That was Sebastian’s stuff. I was bringing it over for him.’

      A rather cute dimple appeared in his cheek as he tried to suppress his amusement. ‘I’m sure they’ll come in useful in his current incapacitated state.’ His unexpected Scottish СКАЧАТЬ