Julie Caplin - The Little Paris Patisserie - A heartwarming and feel good cosy romance - perfect for fans of Bake Off!

She blinked at him. ‘You want me to go shopping?’

‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘No, but there’s a lot more involved than I thought there would be.’ She bit her lip.

‘Say now if you think you’re not up to the job.’

‘Of course I am. I just didn’t realise there’d be so much to do.’

‘I’m not paying you to twiddle your thumbs. You wanted to come, it’s not going to be a picnic. I’ll expect you to work. And work hard.’

She straightened and ignoring the flash of fury inside, she said calmly, ‘I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘Excellent.’ ‘He wriggled again, poking a finger down the top of his cast before he checked his notes. ‘I think that’s everything, then. Although I will pay you an extra day this week as there is more to do than I’d originally anticipated to get started. It’s Thursday today. You’ve got four days to get yourself organised and set up. I’ll see you on Tuesday, we’ll go over to the patisserie and run through things ready for the course starting on Wednesday.’

He pushed the empty soup bowl over to her side of the table and put down his notes. ‘You can put the plates back on the tray and leave them outside the door when you leave.’

‘Do you want me to … well, do you want any help?’ She nodded to the top of the cast which was dangerously close to his crotch. Realising what it might look like she blushed furiously. ‘You look like you’re itching. But I meant, like, help with washing your hair or anything.’

His ferocious glare could have frozen her at sixty paces. ‘I employed an assistant, not a carer.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘And what’s wrong with my hair?’

She widened her eyes with innocence. ‘Nothing.’

He pulled his laptop onto his knees and started tapping at the keys.

‘I take it I’m dismissed then,’ said Nina, unable to keep the snarkiness at bay any longer.

He pursed his lips. If he’d worn glasses, he would be giving her one of those over the top of his specs sort of looks.

‘I’m gone.’ She picked up her bag, gave him a jaunty wave and headed towards the door. ‘Bye.’

‘Bye Nina. See you on Tuesday.’

As she strode down the corridor, relieved to escape, she shook her head. She was so over the crush she’d once had on him.

She almost walked past Patisserie C. That was it? She tamped down her disappointment, trying to find something positive to say about the outside of the double-fronted façade. It was difficult given the rather sad state of a too-virulent shade of turquoise paint which was curling and cracking, shedding its layers around the woodwork frames, making the shopfront look like an old lady that had been tarted up using too much make-up, while the door frame had an ominous stoop to it and the cataract-cloudy glass in the windows could have done with a good clean.

Peering through them, she could make out a rather functional looking café which bore no relation to the traditional, old-style, gilt-trimmed interior of her imaginings. Bentwood chairs, which had seen happier days, surrounded bistro tables arranged in stark, uniform rows, making it look like a prison holding bay rather than somewhere to go and enjoy a cake and coffee. In fact, it didn’t look as if enjoyment was on the menu at all in this place.

She hadn’t intended on actually going inside the patisserie as today was about getting her bearings, but as the weather was so miserable, she decided she’d warm up with a quick cup of coffee before heading back to the apartment.

Hesitantly she pushed her way through the doors into the gloomy interior. There was one customer, an older lady, seated at one of the tables and a man behind a run of glass counters which had a small selection of chocolate éclairs, fruit tarts and macarons, all housed in one central cabinet as if they’d congregated there for company. The cabinet hummed rather loudly as if it were struggling to keep up. The man didn’t deign to look up, he just kept polishing a glass in his hands.

‘Bonjour.’ Nina gave him a tentative smile, already feeling from the intense frown of concentration on his face that he wasn’t the sort to appreciate a friendly overture. He had a ‘repel the boarders at all costs’ sort of hunch as if he were trying to hide his face from the world.

‘Ow can I ’elp you?’ He lifted his head with the slowness of an octogenarian tortoise.

‘You speak English?’ That was a relief. ‘How did you know I was English?’

The look he gave her spoke the sort of volumes a megaphone would be hard pressed to beat and then to add further insult, he included a you-are-completely-stupid-but-I-will-bear-with-you-because-I-have-to roll of the eyes.

Seriously? All from one Bonjour ?

‘I’m Nina. I’m … going to be working for Sebastian,’ she said, trying to sound confident, which wasn’t that easy in the face of his utter disinterest. If she thought Sebastian was intimidating, Marcel’s cool indifference made her question whether she should be here at all.

Yesterday’s meeting with Sebastian had rocked her more than a little, rather destroying her rosy vision of suddenly becoming a shit hot pastry chef. In the brief few days before coming out here she’d imagined observing him at work, absorbing everything like a sponge, while chopping things up, practising her skills under his tutelage as well as being his not so glamorous assistant. It certainly hadn’t occurred to her that she’d be so involved in the donkey work, doing the setting up, buying things or being left to her own devices so much.

‘Sebastian?’ Was it possible for his mouth to curl up any more?

‘Sebastian Finlay, he bought the patisserie.’

‘Ah.’ Or was it a pah? ‘The new bossman.’

‘That’s right. He sent me to check on the ingredients for next week and look at the kitchen.’

‘Feel free.’ With a sweep of his hand the man waved towards the back of the shop. ‘You won’t be bothering anyone. Perhaps a few ghosts of chefs past who will be rotating very fast in their final resting places. Bistro!’ He shook his head, a strand of hair slicked back to one side becoming dislodged, which he swiped away impatiently, his eyes flashing with indignation.

‘Your English is very good.’

‘I lived in London. I was mậitre d’ at the Savoy for some years.’ As he said it, he pulled himself up with a regal sneer. Nina imagined that behind the counter, his feet had clipped together.

‘Wow.’ Nina looked at him with renewed respect. The mậitre d’ at Bodenbroke was a cross between a mother hen, a sergeant-major and a sheepdog, soothing, cajoling and ordering everything into place while juggling the needs of guests and staff in the restaurant with calm unflappable authority.

‘I’m Marcel. For the time being…’ He paused. ‘The general manager here at Patisserie C.’

Making a quick decision, Nina held out her hand. ‘Nina – and I’m very pleased to meet you, Marcel.’ What was that phrase? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Making friends with Marcel seemed like a smart move.

Marcel ignored her outstretched hand and carried on polishing the glass in his hand.

Undeterred, Nina glued a pleasant smile onto her face. ‘Perhaps you could show me around, when you have a moment, but in the meantime, I’d love a coffee and one of those delicious looking éclairs. Is it OK if I sit over there?’ She pointed to one of the tables beside the window. She lied, the éclairs looked rather sad and forlorn. Worse still, Marcel’s lip curled as if to say, if you think that, then you’re an even lower life form than I’d originally thought .

‘If you must.’

Nina winced inwardly. This was going to be so much fun. Not.