4
Henrik Fucking Eklund. He had been every bit as supercilious as she had expected. Okay, so she might not have been particularly cooperative, but the way he had criticized her cinnamon buns and then walked out was just arrogant. Nora was in the meeting room at the bank, waiting for her personal banker.
She took out her phone while she was waiting. Wondered whether to message Bea about the meeting, but decided she didn’t really want to talk about Henrik Eklund.
I see Maryam and Tess have dropped out of floorball tonight. Are you going? she wrote instead, hoping that the practice session would be on; she needed an outlet for her aggression.
Sorry, Ahmat is working , Bea replied. Nora wasn’t surprised. She made it to practice more than the others, despite the long hours she worked at the patisserie. The four of them had originally met when they found themselves on the same indoor floorball team in high school and quickly became a close-knit gang. Nora had been the most athletic and played the longest. She had joined the club’s women’s team and played pretty seriously until the patisserie became too much for her mother to run alone. A couple of years ago, she and her friends had put together a group who played four against four one evening a week in a school gym that they rented out for next to nothing.
In that case maybe I’ll skip too. Then again, if no one is there the pace will be more manageable ...
However much Nora needed and enjoyed the exercise, she mainly participated to see her friends. Bea, Tess, and Maryam all had relationships and families of their own, and floorball practice was the one night of the week when Nora recaptured a small part of the friendship of their youth.
She sent the message, and Anna came into the room. She was about Nora’s age, and was responsible for Nymans’ account. She had a cup of coffee in each hand and a laptop tucked under one arm. She passed one cup to Nora, put the other down on the table, placed the laptop beside it, then squeezed her heavily pregnant belly between the table and the chair.
“Thanks—you didn’t need to do that. I could have fetched the coffee.” Nora put down her phone.
“It’s fine, it’s good for me to keep moving.” Anna smiled and adjusted her chair, then opened the laptop and started tapping away at the keys.
“I believe you wanted to discuss the patisserie’s financing?” Anna fished up her glasses, which were hanging from a cord around her neck. Did people really use that kind of thing these days? Maybe it was coming back into fashion.
Nora cleared her throat, took a deep breath. “I did. The thing is, I need a little more credit. I invested in a new oven last summer, and I need some extra money to cover the Christmas season, which always involves considerable expenditure.”
Anna nodded, her expression serious as she made notes on the computer. She frowned, considered for a moment, then looked up at Nora. “I’m sorry, but we can’t raise your overdraft limit any further. You have no security, and you’ve already borrowed the maximum you can against the business. I see here that you own the property, including the apartment above the patisserie.” Anna paused and studied the data on the screen. “But I’m afraid you can’t borrow any more.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that your account is in the red, so you don’t have any funds available.”
“So I don’t have any money at all ?”
Anna shook her head. “What’s the outlook for the next month in terms of your income?”
“Obviously I hope to make a profit.” Nora sighed. “The problem is that I need the money soon, as I said, I have a lot of outgoing expenses coming up ...” Nora broke off. “Are you sure I can’t increase my overdraft limit?”
“I’m afraid not.” Anna clasped her hands together. “Unless of course you can show me evidence of a major change in income streams in the near future—substantial regular orders, for example, a contract with a business client, something along those lines. Then I might be able to arrange something.”
Nora thought hard. Her shoulders slumped.
“I’m as disappointed as you are,” Anna added sympathetically.
Nora was pretty sure this wasn’t true.
Anna sighed. “It’s terrible to see a small business owner having to beg, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Suddenly Nora couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t buy supplies or pay her staff. What was she supposed to do? Close? Was she really going to have to put an end to her grandmother’s life’s work, a business that had meant everything to Nora’s mother when she inherited it? Was the patisserie going to fold on Nora’s watch?
“But that means I can’t stay open.” Nora could hear the desperation in her voice. “If you could just increase my limit by a small amount, and give me a few months’ grace on the repayments, I can fix this. I will fix this. I’ve done it before.” Nora was referring to when she took over the patisserie after her mother fell ill. There were already financial problems, but her mother had never said anything, and Nora had to bite the bullet. Nora had done the hard work of trimming staff, checking every purchase, and launching new breads and cakes. She had marketed their sourdough loaves harder than ever, because sourdough was hot at the time. Well, to be fair, the sourdough trend had already peaked, and Nymans was late to the party, but even so ... She had managed the transition without any major changes, doing her best to retain as much as possible, because that was what her mother had wanted. It was what Nora had wanted. Nymans had flourished for a few years. Then that hip bakery had opened nearby and lured away customers with its croissants and cardamom buns, and the supermarket started producing fantastic cakes and sandwiches. Espresso House had lured away the high-end coffee crowd. A series of unfortunate circumstances had brought her to this point, but she knew she could turn the ship around again.
Anna heaved another sigh. “I know you’ve done it before, but I can’t see what’s going to change. Things have been going downhill for almost two years, and if you don’t have a plan to turn things around, then I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“I’m going to be on a TV show,” Nora blurted out. “ Let’s Get Baking . Maybe you’ve heard of it?” She couldn’t believe what she’d just said.
Anna raised her eyebrows. “ Let’s Get Baking ?” She was clearly interested.
“Yes, and according to the production company, bakeries that have taken part have doubled their sales figures during the first month of recording.” She had read that in the email thread between Bea and the company that Bea had forwarded to her.
Anna nodded slowly.
“And I’m going to be in the Christmas special, which is their most popular slot. Filming starts very soon, and it will air in mid-December.”
Anna leaned back in her chair and smiled. “That definitely changes things. That show is incredibly popular.”
“They only choose businesses that meet their high quality criteria, and all of them have experienced an upswing. Several have even become tourist attractions as a result of appearing on the show.”
“Exactly. I went to the one just outside Gothenburg, the old guy who had an inner courtyard with lots of different berries, it was fantastic. We had to stand in line to get a table.” Anna straightened up. “Amazing jelly. If that’s the case, I can increase your credit limit by another hundred thousand, but I’ll need something in writing from the production company.”
Nora did a rapid mental calculation. That would keep the business afloat for another couple of months.
“Thank you.” But even as she said it, she couldn’t believe what she had just promised. She really needed to replace the ventilation system; she had been planning to borrow the money, but that was out of the question for the moment. She wasn’t even sure it was possible. She and Henrik hadn’t exactly gotten along.
She took a deep breath and gave Anna a big smile. She would just have to call the producer and sort it out.
The bank and a ridiculous TV show were going to save the patisserie. Nora felt as if she had sold her soul twice over.
After closing the café that evening, Nora made ten sourdough loaves. Whenever she was feeling frustrated or simply in need of solace, she baked something with her sourdough starter. It didn’t matter if Renée had already produced enough earlier, still she stood there kneading and shaping. If there was too much, she would give a loaf to a regular customer or a friend.
The fresh, sharp aroma and the feeling of the cold, soft dough on her fingers were the purest form of therapy. It took her straight back to the times she had baked with her mother, and all the tension left her body as she worked. The sourdough had meant so much to her mom, who had often said it was a link to her childhood. It meant just as much to Nora and reminded her of everything she had once had: a family, parents who loved her unconditionally, a sense of belonging so complete that she never questioned it—or imagined that it could be taken from her.
Hugs should be soft and kisses hard. That was exactly what her mom had been like: soft and hard. She was either loving, or arguing. Not so different from Nora, which was probably why they had often clashed.
Without her father as a buffer, Nora’s relationship with her mother had become even more volatile after his death. The quarrels were worse, but their connection was stronger. What bound them together was that they both missed Nora’s father. And they both loved the act of baking and the patisserie itself.
Nora thought about her mother often. Her loud laughter and early mornings. Floral dresses in the summer. The jeans and T-shirts she wore the rest of the year. Nora had kept a couple of her favorite dresses, and they made her think of vacations.
In the aftermath of her mother’s death, Nora had felt angry more than anything. So angry. Then grief would take over for a while, but then she always reverted to anger. And it had been like that ever since; she was angry most of the time, angry about what she had lost. The fact that she would never get to know her parents better, watch them grow old, share her life with them.
She shaped the loaves and left them to cold proof overnight. She tidied up, locked the door, and headed for the grocery store. She planned to buy herself some Brillat-Savarin, a soft cheese that was so creamy it simply oozed out, accompanied by a mellow red wine. She wanted to watch the party leaders’ debate, and at least one episode of the baking competition she had missed that fall, when Sweden’s most prominent bakers tackled classic cakes and pastries. As long as Henrik Eklund wasn’t one of the judges. Shit, maybe he was? No, she didn’t think so. She would probably fall asleep on the sofa anyway. Every evening for the last month she had promised herself a TV evening with charcuterie, cheese, wine, and the baking show, but she had always ended up working late or falling asleep over the cheese.
It was dark by now. The stores along the main street had just closed, but the restaurants were open, casting a warm glow over the sidewalks. Espresso House was still open, of course. They could afford to keep generous hours. The same applied to the hip bakery; it was impossible for her to compete.
She hadn’t managed to get ahold of the producer earlier, so she tried Elnaz instead. She hadn’t answered, but she’d sent a text promising to contact Nora later.
Had she sabotaged her chances? Would Henrik refuse to work with her? Why had she messed up so badly?
However, the meeting with Elnaz had gone well. They were about the same age, and she seemed to understand Nora’s reluctance. Maybe she was used to slightly difficult owners. She gave the impression of being good at dealing with people, while Henrik appeared to assume that everyone would be charmed by the fact that he had bothered to show up. He clearly didn’t understand that some people might not love having their business dissected by His Highness in a prime-time slot. As soon as he walked in, Nora sensed that he thought she ought to worship the ground he walked on and fall all over herself with gratitude that he was paying her poor little patisserie a visit.
In the grocery store she made a beeline for the deli section and chose the softest piece of Brillat-Savarin she could find.
“You know we have a special offer on cheese?” Maggan smiled at her from behind the counter. “And I’ve got that Spanish ham you like—it’s just come in.” She picked up the enormous Iberico ham and cut Nora a generous slice. Nora placed it on her tongue, closed her eyes, and reveled in the delicious umami flavor.
“I’ll take four ounces.”
As Maggan went back to the slicer, Nora’s thoughts returned to the meeting earlier that day. She couldn’t stop brooding about the way Henrik Eklund had strolled in, looking as if he owned the place. Unbearably self-confident. She also had to admit that he was unbearably good-looking. Considerably more attractive in real life than on TV. Casually dressed in a checked shirt and blue jeans, he was quite capable of pulling off the lumberjack look, even if he was probably incapable of chopping wood, like the city boy he was. Not that Nora was particularly adept with an axe herself. In fact, she’d never used one.
His firm handshake was ... pleasant. And to be fair, he had introduced himself with his full name, as if she didn’t know who he was. Maybe that was a sign of a certain level of humility. And he had a nice smile—a smile she had seen many times on TV, in that commercial for flour, and in photos of red carpet events that appeared in the gossip magazines she read in the hair salon. She was struck by his white, even teeth behind that thick, dark beard.
Maybe she had been even more unbearable than him, come to think of it. She sighed and took out her phone. One missed call: Elnaz.
Maggan brought over the ham slices and wrapped the package in stiff paper.
“I’ll take two ounces of the truffle salami too,” Nora said. “I just need to make a quick call.” She gave Maggan an apologetic look and moved away. Elnaz answered immediately. The hum of voices could be heard in the background.
“Hi, Nora. Wait a second, I’ll go somewhere quieter. There you go, that’s better.”
“Hi, I just wanted to say that the meeting with Henrik didn’t go too well ... And I’d like to apologize. If there’s any doubt about my desire to participate in the show, I can assure you that I really want to do it.” She did her best to sound enthusiastic.
“That’s great, thank you. But what happened during the meeting? I spoke to Henrik a little while ago, and he didn’t mention anything.”
Shit, had she said too much?
“Oh, okay, good, I was afraid I’d given him the impression that I didn’t want to do it.”
“But you do? Or have you changed your mind for some reason?” Not surprisingly, Elnaz sounded confused.
Nora took a deep breath. “I definitely want to do it. Henrik and I just had a bit of a misunderstanding, so I wanted to be clear and let you know that I do want to be in the show.”
“Great. I’ve spoken to the producer, and we need to get started pretty soon—next week, in fact.”
“Next week?”
“Yes, both Henrik and I will be recording Christmas with the Eklunds in a couple of weeks, so there will be a break then, but we need to get going right away if we’re going to fit it all in.”
Next week! Nora’s entire body screamed in protest. She just wanted to bake her bread and cakes, make cookies, and chat with her customers. But then she reminded herself that the patisserie’s entire future was at stake.
“Next week is fine.”
“Excellent. I’ll sort out the contracts—there’s a confidentiality agreement, rights, and so on. We’ll book you in for a lunch so that we can go through everything and get your signature, okay?”
“Absolutely. Sounds good.”
“The producer will be in touch. I’m really looking forward to this, Nora. You’re going to be great on TV. Have a nice evening!”
Nora slipped her phone into her pocket and returned to the deli counter, where Maggan was weighing the little plastic box of salami. She sealed the lid with a sticker and handed it over. Then she smiled.
“I heard that Henrik Eklund was in town.” She lowered her voice. “Is it true what everyone’s saying? That you’re going to be on Let’s Get Baking ?” She looked expectantly at Nora. The rumors had certainly spread fast.
“It’s true,” Nora said without further comment. Had she already broken some kind of confidentiality agreement? Was she allowed to say anything at all? Oh well—she hadn’t signed anything yet. Let them sue her.
“Wow, maybe I can be on TV too? I mean, you’ll have customers in the café when they’re filming, won’t you?”
“I expect that’ll be okay,” Nora said, though she had no idea. “I’m not sure how it works.”
Maggan beamed, as if the fact that a TV crew was coming to their little town put her on the path to a life of unending glamour.
“This is amazing! Aren’t you looking forward to it? It’s not just good for the patisserie, I think it’ll be great for the whole town. To think you were chosen out of all the applicants!” Nora knew she was right—this was an incredible opportunity.
She returned Maggan’s smile. “Absolutely. It’s unbelievable. So cool.” She almost meant it.
Nora lived in the apartment above the patisserie that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had made some minor renovations, while keeping the turn-of-the-century details. The leaded windows were now double glazed, and the depressing kitchen tiles had been replaced by gleaming white subway tiles. The thick natural stone counter had cost a fortune, but it also served as a baking table when she was trying out new recipes. The dark cabinets were back in fashion. She had sanded and polished the beautiful wooden floors, and repainted all the walls pale gray.
Some of her grandmother’s furniture, like the half-moon-shaped hall table and the teak TV unit, was still here. She had also moved a few pieces from her childhood home, including the not particularly attractive pine dining table around which the family had gathered each evening. No matter how tired she was, she still sat there for a little while every evening with a cup of tea.
When she got home, she changed into yoga pants and a sweatshirt, then arranged her cheese plate, along with a spoonful of the jelly she had made from currants in Bea’s garden, and broke off some shards of the crispbread she had baked earlier that day.
As she opened the cabinet to pull out a wineglass, it occurred to her that she’d forgotten to buy any wine. She scanned her shelves and breathed a sigh of relief when she spied a bottle at the back. Nora had intended to save it for a special occasion, but her friend Tess always said you should drink good wine on an ordinary rainy Tuesday.
And today was a rainy Tuesday. Nora reached for the bottle and poured herself a glass. She carried her meal into the living room and was about to turn on the TV to watch the party leaders’ debate when she got a text from Ahmat, Bea’s husband.
I’m working tonight so I’ll miss the debate—do you want to save it until tomorrow and come here to watch it?
She smiled and replied: Sure—it’s been a long time since I argued with anyone, and I really need an outlet for my aggression.
In addition to their love for Bea, she and Ahmat shared a keen interest in politics, and they always had lively discussions.
OK—I’ll clear away anything breakable. And I’ll use plenty of bubble wrap on the display cabinet.
Ha ha. For the thousandth time, it fell off the table.
During a leaders’ debate a couple of years ago, Nora had waved her arms during a heated argument with Ahmat, and one of Bea’s china cats had ended up on the floor. He had never let her forget it.
Admit it—you were grateful! she added.
Eternally grateful. That cat was terrible.
She took a sip of her wine and switched on the television. Oh wow, she thought as the wine hit her palate—strawberries, raspberries, black pepper, something herbal, and ... cedar wood? She sank deeper into the cushions and scrolled through the channels looking for the baking competition. Instead she landed on Let’s Get Baking . It was probably a good idea to take a look. She ought to be prepared if she was going to be on the show. She took another big sip of wine.
It started off pretty well, with a sob story about a widower running a bakery in ?sterlen. He and his wife had had the business for fifteen years, but when she fell ill, the bakery had suffered.
Soon Henrik took over. A montage showed him baking on the big stone slab in the bakery. The camera did a close-up of his biceps as he kneaded the dough, then moved up over his broad shoulders and fixed on his face, which was furrowed with concentration. Henrik Eklund was hot, she had to admit that. Bearded, dark, tall, and well built.
As she had expected, he treated the widower like a child as he explained how the finances in a bakery work. Then the camera followed him as he walked around, inspecting the layout and the big ovens. He somehow got the idea that there might be a stone oven buried behind the walls of the picturesque Sk?ne long house. The widower dug out old drawings and photographs, after which Henrik visited the town’s archive department and found even older drawings and plans. And what do you know, there was indeed a real treasure hidden away.
The next day a team of builders arrived, knocked down a wall, and found the oven. Henrik explained to the widower that he could create something unique, selling stone-baked bread and nurturing the tradition that his bakery and the town had inherited. As if Henrik, a Stockholmer through and through, would know more about ?sterlen’s food culture than a local resident ...
But Henrik was popular with the viewers. The only thing that made him human was his highly publicized breakup with TV sommelier Bente Hammar. They had been something of a power couple, but then she had apparently cheated on him. This had made Henrik even more popular—out of sympathy, presumably.
Nora grabbed her phone and popped on to Tinder, mostly out of habit. She already knew everything that was on offer in V?stervik, but then a pretty cute guy popped up. Age thirty, about ten miles away. She swiped right. A match. She assumed he was studying at the college outside town. She had once met up with a student there, then wondered what the hell she was doing with her life when she woke up in his dorm room to discover him sitting on a dilapidated sofa with his friends, strumming away on a guitar and discussing utilitarianism and the nature of goodness.
In the summer it was simpler, because people were only passing through. There was a wider choice, and none of them wanted anything long term, which suited her perfectly.
The guy she had matched with hadn’t messaged her yet, and she didn’t message him either. She pressed “Play.” The episode ended with Henrik being hailed as the messiah, and the hint of optimism she had felt earlier died away. Was this what was going to happen to her? She knew her business better than anyone, and she certainly didn’t want to play dumb on TV. Was it too late to pull out? She hadn’t signed anything yet. It was perfectly possible to ditch the whole thing; recording wasn’t due to start until next week. She thought about what Elnaz had said, that she would come across well on TV. She had taken it as a compliment, but maybe it was an insult? Did she mean that Nora was the perfect target for Henrik’s cruel humor?
She lay down on the sofa and gazed out into the November darkness. The rain hammered against the windowpane. The fruity red wine had made both her body and mind feel deliciously soft. The street outside was deserted, and the patisserie sign in the window below cast a red fluorescent glow on the facade of the building opposite. That sign was a part of the fabric of the town. It appeared on many postcards, along with the pretzel that hung above the door.
That was when she realized what was at stake. If she didn’t fix the patisserie now, she would lose it.
Nora had her pride—but what would that be worth if she no longer had her business?