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

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.

She headed to the little table and as she passed, the sole occupier of the other table reached out and tapped her on the arm, giving her a quick conspiratorial smile before saying very loudly, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll soon cheer up.’

Marcel shot them both a dirty look which suggested that soon was a relative concept.

‘I’m Marguerite. It’s very nice to have you here.’

‘Hi … erm, I mean hello.’ Marguerite did not look like a ‘hi’ sort of person, although she gave her a big smile. ‘How do you do? Are you the owner? I mean old owner. I mean not old, previous.’ Nina tripped over her words conscious of the grace of the older woman, who was immaculately groomed.

The woman let out a delightful peal of laughter, as she lifted her chin and trained periwinkle blue eyes on Nina. ‘Alors, no, my dear. I’m accustomed to being the only customer here. I suppose I do think of it as part of my little world. And what brings you here?’

‘I’m going to be working for the new owner. Just for the next few weeks. Helping him with the patisserie course that he’s running.’

‘Ah, you are a patissier. Now that is a wonderful talent.’

Nina glanced round and lowered her voice; there was something about the woman’s enquiring gaze that encouraged the truth. ‘Actually, I’m assisting but don’t tell Marcel, I’m not sure he would approve. I’m not even a proper chef. It’s an opportunity to learn a bit more. I shall only be here for seven weeks.’ Sebastian’s caustic point that it took years to become a pastry chef still rankled. She knew that, of course she did.

‘I would love to be able to make patisserie.’

‘So would I,’ said Nina with a rueful smile before adding politely, ‘You should do the course.’

The woman looked at her gravely for a moment.

‘Actually, I think that’s a very good suggestion.’

‘Oh,’ said Nina completely nonplussed, suddenly remembering that Sebastian had been rather pleased that there were only three on the course.

‘Unless you think I shouldn’t.’ Marguerite’s face settled into stern lines.

‘Absolutely not,’ replied Nina. One more person wouldn’t make that much difference to Sebastian. ‘I think that’s an excellent idea. You’re never too old to learn new skills … except of course, you’re not old.’

‘My dear, I’m not in my dotage, I have all my mental faculties and I also have a mirror in my apartment which, alas, is rather honest.’ Her face softened and she smiled.

‘Well, you look good on it,’ said Nina.

‘Oh, I think I’m going to like you a lot.’

Nina grinned at her. ‘I can book you on the course, if you’d like.’

‘Excellent. And you still haven’t told me your name.’

‘It’s Nina.’

‘And as I said earlier, I’m Marguerite. Marguerite du Fourge, I live very near to here. Would you like to join me?’ She inclined her head at the spare chair.

Nina sat down, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. Marguerite was one of those very elegant older ladies who had that same self-contained superior air that Valerie had exhibited. Was it a Parisian thing? Her silver hair was coiffured – there was no other word for it – in perfect silver waves and her make-up was discreet with a fine dusting of powder that softened the wrinkles around her eyes. In a rich russet-brown long skirt and a vibrant teal shirt, she made Nina, in her black jeans, black sweatshirt and ballet flats, feel like a dull sparrow next to a peacock.

Marcel brought over her coffee and the éclair and refilled Marguerite’s cup without being asked.

‘Merci, Marcel.’ She gave him an approving nod and his whole demeanour changed as he said something in rapid French back to her.

‘He’s a good man,’ said Marguerite to Nina as he bustled away like an important penguin. ‘He hides it rather well.’

‘Do you come here often?’ asked Nina, intrigued once more. It didn’t look like the sort of place that someone like Marguerite would frequent – surely there were much smarter places around?