The Little Paris Patisserie: A heartwarming and feel good cosy romance - perfect for fans of Bake Off!. Julie CaplinЧитать онлайн книгу.
got back, she’d loaded everything in the fridge and completely forgotten to check the pantry.
‘I – I…’ Why was it, when he was around, she was reduced to an inarticulate wreck? ‘Where is the pantry? I’ll look now.’
He didn’t quite roll his eyes but he might as well have. ‘It’s at the top of the steps halfway along the corridor. Bloody stupid place to have it, which is why this building needs completely remodelling. And once you’ve done that, find out from Marcel if there’s anywhere nearby to get the batteries. Go buy some eggs and get back here pronto.’ Sebastian’s mouth tightened and with it came the familiar expression of dissatisfaction.
Nina came face to face with Marcel, whose mouth appeared to have permanently pursed like a prune – funnily enough, much like Sebastian’s – lurking in the corridor beyond the door at the top of the steps.
‘I need to take a look at the pantry.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Marcel. ‘It’s empty.’
‘Empty?’
‘Yes. The previous owner sold everything.’
‘Everything?’ She was starting to sound like a gormless parrot.
‘To a woman who was opening a patisserie school in Lille. She came with her campervan. Took everything.’
With a heart sinking faster than a lead balloon, she crossed to the pantry doors and flipped on the light switch. Shelves dusted with flour lay bare and forlorn, outlines of what was once there imprinted into the floury surfaces. Turning, she opened the double-doored fridge. Empty shelves mocked her.
‘Shit!’ She’d hoped that the basics would be there as Sebastian had assumed. Sebastian was going to have a cow. The shopping list was going to be huge and she didn’t have a clue how she was going to carry it all. She could hardly ask him for any help and Marcel, even if he’d been the least bit willing, needed to be at the shop. And there was no one to ask for help. Nibbling at her lip, Nina suddenly wished that her helpful family wasn’t quite so far away.
Her shoulders drooped and she closed the doors slowly.
‘Perhaps this might be of some use.’ Marcel pulled one of those old lady, brightly-coloured shopping trolleys from out of the corner of the pantry.
Nina took a minute to take a few deep even breaths, chasing away the threatening tears, before going back into the kitchen.
‘I’m popping out to get some eggs and batteries,’ she said, keeping her voice bright and cheerful.
‘Can’t Marcel go?’ asked Sebastian, looking up from his laptop.
‘He needs to be in the patisserie.’
‘Why? Don’t tell me there’s actually a customer in there? I’m surprised the place hasn’t closed down already.’
‘Erm … yes, there are a couple,’ she lied.
‘Well hurry up, I didn’t intend to be here this long.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good job I brought my laptop, I can work on the important stuff.’ He was already pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. ‘Yeah, Mike. Have the lights been delivered yet? The sparkies booked for tomorrow?’
He’d tuned her out, which was as well as it meant she didn’t have to tell him the full extent of the bare shelves. It would be yet another black mark against her which was so unfair. He had no idea what a state the kitchen had been in and how hard she’d worked to get it ship-shape. He was a bastard. A complete and utter unfeeling git with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
Did she really need to do this? Was it worth it? It was supposed to be a means to an end, but now she wasn’t so sure. Especially not after his scathing observation that it took years to become a pastry chef. She wasn’t completely naïve, she knew that, but she’d hoped being here would at least help her make a start. Suddenly Nina wasn’t so sure that coming to Paris had been such a good idea after all.
*
Thank goodness for Doris, as Nina had named the granny trolley Marcel had given her, officially her best friend, saviour and heroine, despite one slightly wonky wheel. Given that the pantry was Mother Hubbard bare, she’d decided to double up on Sebastian’s quantities on his list. She felt rather pleased with this efficiency, even if it did mean that poor Doris was positively creaking under the weight of what felt like several tons of flour, caster sugar, icing sugar, butter and eggs. (Thankfully, in a rare moment of solidarity, Marcel had sorted out the batteries for her.)
Bugger Sebastian. He had his laptop and his phone, he could carry on working in the kitchen, so she allowed herself to enjoy the sunshine and being away from the stress of the kitchen as she ambled down the street heading back towards the patisserie, taking her time staring in the windows of the nearby shops, a pet shop, a haberdasher with a striking display of three beautiful cable knitted jumpers, a bicycle shop and a florist.
The colourful display of flowers made her stop in her tracks and smile. Pink and yellow roses had been arranged in pretty posies, there were little silver pots of grape hyacinths decorated with lilac bows and a bucket packed with her favourite alstroemeria in pale pink, deep red and purple. A few steps past the florist and she stopped and turned back. A couple of bunches of flowers would brighten up the kitchen and the patisserie no end but there was no way she could handle them and the trolley. The little silver pots, however, she could manage and they would look cute on the tables and they would please her if no one else. Limited as he was to the kitchen, Sebastian would never know. With six bought and just about balanced in the top of the trolley, Nina set off again.
It was when the wonky wheel decided to veer one way, as she was hauling the trolley the other, that she realised she’d overloaded herself a pot of flowers too far. Wrestling with it pushed her slightly off balance and, with horrible inevitability, one of the silver pots started to take a nose-dive out of the trolley, darn it, when she was at the junction literally across the road from the patisserie. As she made a lunge forward grabbing it with cricket-fielding accuracy that would have ensured a shout of triumph from any one of her brothers, she let go of the trolley, which started to tip forward, unbalanced by the extra weight at the front.
‘Whoa!’ A girl appeared from nowhere and snatched the trolley’s handle as it was about to land and with a triumphant flourish pulled it upright, with a big grin. ‘Blimey, what have you got in here? Half a quarry?’ she asked in a very loud Brummy accent.
‘With rocks and everything, yes,’ said Nina, with a laugh, struggling to get hold of the flowers. ‘You’re English.’
‘Just a tad. Although I thought this beret made me blend in.’ She patted the bright red hat perched on her dark curls.
Nina eyed her sturdy frame and the belted trench coat before looking down at her footwear.
‘I think the Crocs might have given the game away,’ she said gravely, pinching her lips together.
The other girl burst into laughter. ‘They are so thoroughly English, aren’t they? No self-respecting French woman would wear anything this practical.’
Nina thought they might be Australian or American but from what she’d seen so far of French women, she was inclined to agree. She couldn’t imagine either Marguerite or Valerie de what’s-her-name being seen dead in the plastic rubbery shoes.
‘I stubbed my toe, think I might have broken the bugger. These are the only things I can wear. I was hoping that rocking the Audrey Hepburn look up top might stop people looking down below.’
Nina struggled to keep her face straight.
‘I’m not rocking the Audrey Hepburn look either, am I?’
Nina shook her head very slowly as if they might lessen the offence. ‘Sorry. No. But thanks for your help. You’ve no idea what a disaster that could have been. I’ve got three dozen eggs in there.’
Together, they pulled matching horrified eek