The Little Paris Patisserie

by Julie Caplin

  Blinking furiously, because bloody tears were not going to help, she hammered on the door for the third time, stupidly crossing her fingers, as if that would help, and praying that someone would answer. Why had she let the taxi driver drop her at the bottom of the path? She should have made him wait but no the taxi had roared off, twin brake lights vanishing into the distance leaving her totally alone. On the journey here, she’d only seen two cars. Two! Both going the other way.

  Why hadn’t she stayed the night in Reykjavik?

  With a shiver, she glanced around into the total blackness, the only light from her phone. There was absolutely no sign of life, not human anyway. As she got out of the taxi, after a two-hour drive in the pouring rain — it hadn’t stopped raining since the plane landed in Reykjavik four hours ago — there’d been a low growl to her left and the glow of yellow eyes as she swung the torch on her phone in that direction. Did they have wolves in Iceland? The pathetic beam of light caught the flash of a tail as something slunk away but she’d been extra wary as she’d traipsed up the path, picking her way over the stones, her suitcase complaining with each jolt and dip.

  Now standing outside the solid wooden porch trying to peer through the glass lights on either side of the double front doors, she could see the place was in complete darkness. Above her she could hear the rustle of the grass on the roof or were there more creatures lurking. There were far too many Lord of the Rings images dancing fancifully in her head. With a last burst of energy, she wrenched down the ornate iron scrolled door handle, with that fruitless bang your head against a wall hope that she’d got it wrong and the door had been open all along, even though she’d tried it umpteen times already. So much for everyone leaving their doors open, which she was sure she’d read somewhere about the country. She banged her fist on the door, before looking at her phone and the rapidly dwindling battery. Sinking to the floor, she slipped off her gloves, which weren’t going to cut it in this climate and phoned the only contact number she had. Mr Pedersen, the hotel owner, currently in Finland, was the man who’d officially hired her, but he’d given her the number of one of the hotel employees. For the second time, her call went straight through to voicemail and this time she listened with growing despair to the message in a stream of what she assumed was Icelandic, a volley of harsh syllables and guttural sounds.

  Taking a deep breath and hoping she didn’t sound too panicky she spoke. ‘Hi, this is Lucy Smart from London. It’s eleven o’clock and I’ve arrived, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.’ She’d sent an email with her date of arrival. And had received one back in confirmation from someone called Hekla Gunnesdottir. Her hand shook, her grip was so tight on the phone. Where the fuck is everyone? But she didn’t say it because she was going to have to work with these people and she was desperate to make a good impression. ‘I wonder if you could give me a call back.’

  More than a good impression, she needed them to keep her on after the two months. She had to survive at least a year here to make her CV viable again. Besides, she had nowhere else to go.

  Half an hour later, her phone battery had died and she was pacing up and down, trying to keep warm, although the rain had now stopped, as her mind feverishly raced through the options. All of which seemed in short supply. One, walk down the road and see if she could find any kind of settlement nearby despite the complete absence of any lights in the near vicinity, two, stay put and hope that someone had listened to her message or three, break in. How much longer should she give it before she started breaking windows?

  Scudding clouds streamed across the night sky, periodically revealing pockets of a star laden universe. The number of the pinprick lights was astonishing. No light pollution here. Lucy had never seen so many stars and in one brief break in the clouds had even seen a shooting star in the last few minutes.

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark and the cold had numbed her fingers and toes, she decided to circle the building. Maybe she’d find an unlocked door. With a shiver she walked along the front of the building. Did she dare pick up a stone and break a window? Although, in the images of the lodge on the internet there’d been rooms with floor to ceiling windows. She couldn’t break one of those.

  Rounding the corner praying she’d find a stray door or window that had been left unlocked, she felt her way along the cold damp stone walls and quickly realised the structure of the lodge wasn’t in her favour. There didn’t seem to be any windows or doors on this side of the building. After a while she could feel the ground level starting to fall away, quite steeply and she stumbled as her ankles felt the sharpness of the sudden decline. She could just make out the shadowy corner of the building. With a sigh, she wilted, watching the icy puff of white breath roll away from her. She could however see a faint glow as if there was a light on around the next corner of the building. Maybe there was someone at that side and she could attract their attention.

  Carefully she began to pick her way down the steep slope, slipping and sliding on lose scree. Each crunch and skitter of stone echoed noisily making her jumpy and disorientated. Every now and then she paused and thought she could hear water lapping but the sound bounced around in the darkness and she couldn’t quite determine where it was coming from. Cocking her head to one side, she listened carefully and took another few steps forward and then stepped into thin air.

  As she stumbled forward, arms flailing like spokes on a spinning bicycle wheel, she registered the glint of water and tensed for the cold as she pitched in face first.

  If it weren’t for the weight of her clothes and the unexpected shock of falling headfirst into shoulder deep water, the warm, no, piping hot, water, might have been quite pleasant, except for the rush of water up her nose and swallowing a great mouthful. Yeuch. Lucy shoved her head up to the surface spluttering and gagging. That was disgusting. Her head felt even colder in contrast to the cosy cocoon from the neck downwards. The heat flooded Lucy’s fingers and ears with sharp pain like pins and needles just as a flashlight came bobbing around the corner and tracked its way across the stony ground to land full on her face.

  ‘No using the hot springs after nine pm,’ called a deep voice, brimming with amusement as the light came closer and closer. Lucy muttered to herself, ‘Kill me now,’ feeling at a distinct disadvantage under the nearing dancing spotlight. Her sodden parker suddenly seemed to wrap itself around her like a duvet weighted with rocks, her ankle boots loosened almost floating away with each step and her jeans seemed to have a stranglehold on her legs as she floundered towards the edge.

  ‘Here, there are steps,’ said a second singsong voice with a musical up and down inflection, using the torch to guide her along the wooden edge towards a set of steps that rose up out of the water.

  Lucy put her shoulders back and waded through the water towards the wooden handrail the other side of whatever she was in, with as much dignity as she could muster given she was close to tears.

  Lights suddenly came on illuminating the whole area. She was in the equivalent of a small swimming pool sized hot tub surrounded by wooden decking, with two sets of steps descending into the water. Above her on the side were two figures, wrapped up against the cold night air.

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked the taller of the two crossing quickly and holding out a hand to help her, stepping down into the water to grasp her arm and help her counter balance the weight of her ten-tonne coat.

  Kind eyes, thought Lucy as she caught a glimpse of concerned blue eyes above a tartan woolen scarf as she let him haul her up the steps.

  ‘Let’s get you inside quickly before you start to chill down. That heat isn’t going to last long.’ Kind voice too. The slight Scottish burr was soft and gentle, a rather wonderful contrast to his firm and decisive hold as he pulled her forward and steered her off the decking.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said subtly shaking off his grasp, even though for some contrary reason she didn’t want to. Kindness had been in short supply in her world for a while. ‘I’m
fine,’ she added, with more of a sharp bite to her voice. After everything she’d been through this year, she was never taking anything at face value again. Kind was as kind did or whatever the phrase was.

  ‘I’m Alex.’ The man’s hand still hovered by her side as if ready to catch her. ‘And this is Hekla. I’m so sorry there was no one to check you in. We weren’t expecting any guests today.’

  ‘No. It is most strange. Did you have a booking?’ asked Hekla, in her glorious voice.

  ‘I’m not a guest. I’m …’ Lucy swallowed. No crying. Dripping from head to toe had put her at enough of a disadvantage as it was. ‘I’m the new manager, Lucy Smart.’ Automatically she lifted a business-like hand and then dropped it quickly as she realised how ridiculous it must look, with water dripping from her sleeves.

  ‘Oh!’ The girl’s voice echoed with surprise. ‘But you are not expected until next week.’

  ‘Everything was confirmed by email,’ said Lucy. The last thing she wanted was these people thinking she was a bit slapdash or all over the place.

  ‘But we had a phone call yesterday saying your plans had changed and you would be coming next week.’

  ‘Well that wasn’t me,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Must be the elves up to mischief,’ said Hekla with a straight face, nodding. ‘But you’re here now and we’d better get you inside, quickly,’ she paused and then added with a mischievous twinkle that once upon a time Lucy might have been charmed by, ‘It is usually best to wait until daylight before using the hot springs.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting to get inside for the last half hour,’ muttered Lucy, wincing as her feet splish sploshed on the wooden decking, the water squelching out of her favourite boots and great clouds of steam rising from her sodden clothing. Great, just bloody marvellous. These people were clearly her new colleagues. So much for making a good impression from the start.

  Feeling unaccountably tearful, she pinched her lips and took in a half sob half breath and ducked her head as if concentrating on maintaining a secure purchase on the slippery wet planks.

  ‘Hey, let me give you a hand,’ Alex’s voice lowered, his tone gentle. She jerked her eyeline to meet his. Warmth and compassion lit those kind eyes as he took her elbow. For what seemed far too long they held hers with a serious steady gaze, as if he could see right through her to the constant shadow of misery that resided in her chest. When he gave her a reassuring smile, his eyes never leaving her face, she felt a funny salmon leap in her stomach.

  More from Julie Caplin

  Grab your passports and get ready to fall in love all over again with…

  The Northern Lights Lodge

  The Little Brooklyn Bakery

  The Little Café in Copenhagen

  Acknowledgements

  Each year, my friends Shane and Jenny O’Neil organise a quiz and raffle in aid of the Alzheimer’s Society and this year the first prize in the raffle was the winner’s name being used in my next book. Imagine my surprise when the winning ticket belonged to the couple sitting next to me in our quiz team! Huge thanks go to Peter and Jane Ashman for lending me their names. I’d like to think I’ve done them proud and they agree that the imaginary Peter and Jane are just as lovely as the real ones.

  I also owe a special thank you to my lovely friend Alison Head who bought me the most wonderful book on Parisienne patisseries which was absolutely invaluable, especially when I planned my research trip to Paris. I have to thank hero husband, Nick, who patiently escorted me around dozens of patisseries in central Paris without a peep, when I think he really would have quite liked to have had nice cold beer instead.

  I met some lovely people while researching this book, most notably the fabulous Sophie Grigson, food writer and broadcaster, who runs a pop up cookery school in Oxford. Thanks to her brilliant Easy Patisserie course, I can now make a mean coffee éclair, whip up a crème pậtissière and knock out delicious madeleines.

  Endless gratitude goes to fellow author Donna Ashcroft, my writing buddy, who is so supportive and generous with her time when I’m trying to work through plot problems, character misbehaviour and suffering from that frequent writer’s I’m-rubbish-at-this malaise.

  And super special thanks go to the two people who really are my rocks, my gorgeous editor, Charlotte Ledger and my wonderful agent, Broo Doherty. Writing might be a solitary profession but getting a book out into the big wide world is a team effort. I couldn’t do it without either of these warm-hearted, generous spirited and hugely talented women. Thanks my lovelies.

  Last and most certainly not least, I must thank all my readers, especially those that take the time to let me know how much they’ve enjoyed my books. I tell you, when I’m slaving away at my laptop when the words are that bit too elusive, your kind messages and heart-warming reviews are the things that keep me going. Keep them coming and I do hope you have enjoyed The Little Paris Patisserie.

  Jules x

  Julie Caplin is addicted to travel and good food. She’s on a constant hunt for the perfect gin and is obsessively picky about glasses, tonic and garnishes. Between regular gin tastings, she’s been writing her debut novel which is set in just one of the many cities she’s explored over the years.

  Formerly a PR director, for many years she swanned around Europe taking top food and drink writers on press trips (junkets) sampling the gastronomic delights of various cities in Italy, France, Belgium, Spain, Copenhagen and Switzerland. It was a tough job but someone had to do it. These trips have provided the inspiration and settings for the trilogy, The Little Cafe in Copenhagen, The Little Brooklyn Bakery and The Little Paris Patisserie.

  @JulieCaplin

  www.facebook.com/‌JulieCaplinAuthor

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