14
They were about to start interviewing Nora when they were interrupted by Don, who had followed them into the bakery. Nora got a pit in her stomach whenever she saw him. She had noticed that some of the others—Elnaz and Henrik in particular—didn’t seem to enjoy his presence much either.
He inspected her face, and then he turned away and yelled, “Sara, get in here!”
Nora sighed. What now?
Sara came in, and Don stepped aside.
“Can we do something about the wrinkles on her forehead?”
Nora blinked. Was this a joke?
Sara hurried off and immediately returned with powder and a brush, which she quickly swept across Nora’s forehead. Don scrutinized Nora’s face again. “I suppose that’s the best we can hope for.” He met her gaze. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered fillers?” He narrowed his eyes, still studying her.
Nora couldn’t speak.
“Enough, Don,” Sara snapped.
“What? It’s just a suggestion.”
By now Nora had regained her equilibrium. “Why haven’t you mentioned Henrik’s wrinkles?”
Don shrugged. “Because they’re masculine.”
“So you think wrinkles are unfeminine?”
He looked at her apologetically. Both Sara and Elnaz were staring at him, waiting for a response.
“This isn’t some kind of antifeminist thing,” he said quickly. “I think fillers and other interventions actually favor feminism. They even out inequalities and give everyone the same chance, regardless of age or appearance.”
Once again Nora was at a loss for words.
“It might be a little skewed, but that’s the way society works,” Don continued. “It was just a suggestion, I meant well.” He held up his hands in a gesture of resignation.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Elnaz said firmly, glaring at Don as she signaled to the cameraman.
“So how did you feel when Henrik criticized your rolls?” Elnaz looked apologetic, but Nora wasn’t sure whether it was because of Don or Henrik or even genuine. “And don’t forget to speak in full sentences so that the viewers can get the context.”
Elnaz’s questions were always tough, and Nora never managed to conceal her emotions. However, she and Henrik had shot a pleasant scene, so this interview for the camera shouldn’t be too bad. The problem was that she felt like a wreck. They had filmed until midnight yesterday, and then she’d had to wake up three hours later to prepare for the day. She was exhausted, and the constant criticism and relentless scrutiny—of the patisserie and now her appearance—didn’t help.
“Of course I don’t love his critiques. But he has a point—the rolls could be improved.”
“Is that really what your customers want? Or does Henrik have a cynical, urban snob’s view of what you do?”
Nora cleared her throat. “This idea of rustic life seems to be something of an obsession in Stockholm. Everything has to appear simpler—purer—but in reality, it involves a lot more work.” She sighed. “What can be simpler and purer than a bread roll? But that’s not good enough. It has to be made with flour from ancient grains, wood-fired, goodness knows what else. I don’t suppose Henrik has ever baked an honest, plain roll in his entire life,” she added with a snort. “And all his remarks about too wide a selection ... Maybe a celebrity baker is happy to serve raw food balls laid out on a thick stone slab in a venue with a concrete floor and walls, but in this town, people want the classics. And plenty of choice.” She thought about everything Henrik had said during filming. Too many cookies, too many ingredients, ugly setting, shabby utensils, tasteless bread. “You know what? I’m furious. He shows up here with all his opinions on what I do, and it’s not even constructive criticism. I can take that, but this is just whining and complaining. I’m absolutely livid.” She had worked herself up into a rage.
“This seems to be very important to you—the bread you bake?” Elnaz was gazing at her with a look that was meant to inspire confidence.
“It was ...” Nora paused. “Those rolls were my dad’s favorite.”
“But the sourdough seems even more important. Can you tell us about it?”
“As I tried to tell Henrik—who, I might add, wouldn’t even listen to me—my sourdough has a very special history. It’s a hundred years old and ...”
“No, I want to know what it means to you . I think you said it was the bread that you and your parents always baked together? And don’t forget to use full sentences.”
“The sourdough means a great deal to me. We baked it all the time, both at home and here, and we made it all kinds of ways—crispbread and loaves, with wheat flour and rye flour, but always with the same starter, and that smell ...” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, smiling at the memory. “I could pick it up as far away as the main square when I was on my way here, and I knew that the sourdough loaves were in the oven. We always had it with breakfast. The smell, the taste ... It means home, it means ...” She broke off. Maybe it was the lack of sleep and all the emotional strain of the past few days, but she felt suddenly overwhelmed by her grief and the enormity of her loss. It means Mom and Dad, she thought. She shook her head, fighting back the tears.
“It means . . . ?” Elnaz prompted her.
“The sourdough bread means home to me. It means security and ... unconditional love.” She didn’t know why she added those final words, but that was what she missed most of all—the love her parents had given her, the love that had been taken away from her much too soon.
“Thanks, that’s great,” Elnaz said. “I think Henrik wants to talk to you in the bakery.”
On the way Nora was stopped by Hassan, who was about to go on his break. “Do you have a minute?” He looked down at the floor.
“Sure.” She could see it was important.
“It’s just ... I should have been paid on Friday, but there haven’t been any deposits into my account.”
“What?” Nora frowned. Thank goodness Don couldn’t see her—the unfiltered sight of all those wrinkles would probably give him palpitations. “That’s odd, all the payments should have gone through. I’ll look into it right away.”
“Thanks, Nora.”
She took out her phone and logged on to her bank account. It was empty, and there was no sign of the increased overdraft that Anna had promised. Had they canceled her overdraft protection? Surely not—but if so, how many payments hadn’t gone through?
Her head was spinning, and she felt a growing sense of panic as she walked into the bakery. Elnaz showed her where to sit, directly opposite Henrik. She said something, but Nora wasn’t paying attention. She still couldn’t make sense of the figures she’d just seen.
They started filming, and Henrik placed a bundle of papers in front of her. “What are these?”
She looked down. Invoices from her wholesaler—Jonathan and his father. Where had he gotten hold of them? He must have taken them out of the folders she kept behind the counter.
“Er . . . invoices.”
“Exactly, itemized invoices, and this list ...” He shook his head. “Your expenses are unbelievable. And when I look at your overhead ...” With a flourish he produced another sheet of paper. “It’s obvious that you have a major problem.”
What was she supposed to say? She had no idea what she’d been thinking during all those months while things had been going downhill. She’d just kept telling herself that it would all sort itself out. She’d been counting on a miracle.
“Do you realize that you’ve driven this place into the ground?”
She simply stared at him, trying to quell the rising tide of panic. Her mind swirled with memories of her parents, the sourdough, all the happy times in this place, Henrik’s words. Was it true? Had she driven the business into the ground?
She suddenly saw everything so clearly, as if a curtain had been raised, exposing her failure. Could she have saved the patisserie if she’d acted earlier? She’d seen those invoices and the overhead each month with her own eyes; she’d spoken to the accountant, been in those meetings. She’d done her best, hadn’t she? Maybe she should have stomped on the emergency brake weeks ago. How could this have happened? Why had she done this? Why hadn’t she seen the magnitude of the problem until now?
Henrik’s words echoed in her mind: driven this place into the ground . She wasn’t sure whether he had actually said them again, or if they were just reverberating in her head.
“You continued to spend even though your overhead ...” That was his voice, and it was filling her head.
Continued to spend. Driven this place into the ground.
Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her hands were tingling. Oh no, this couldn’t happen now, not in front of Henrik and the production team, not on camera. Not now. Not now. It had happened to her only once before, but she recognized the signs. Maybe she could stop it?
She tried to take a deep breath, but her heart was beating faster and faster until it was pounding. The tingling in her hands spread up her arms to her neck, and her throat constricted.
“Can’t breathe,” she gasped, bending forward and clutching at her throat. “Can’t get any air. Can’t breathe.” She was desperate for air. She heard a strange noise, unaware that it was coming from her, and her whole body was suffused with pain. Then everything went black, and she felt as if she were drowning.