19
The following morning, Nora called the bank before she went down to the patisserie. A strange sense of relief flooded through her when it went to voice mail. Thank goodness she didn’t have to deal with her overdraft situation just yet.
Filming was much less dramatic today. They continued to talk about bread and various sandwich combinations. Henrik was critical as always, but unusually sympathetic. Nora thought everyone was behaving as if she were a ticking time bomb.
When the team had left, her sense of calm returned. She was about to get a full week away from filming, and she just wanted to be left in peace, pretend that nothing had changed. The renovations were due to start the day after tomorrow, but for now she could go back to business as usual.
She told Hassan and Emil that they could go home. Then she refilled the coffee machine, tidied up the display counter, and served a few late-afternoon customers—enjoying these tasks without a camera in her face, without Henrik observing every move she made.
There were only a couple of people left in the café, so Nora poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the kitchen.
She sipped her coffee, which tasted excellent. Henrik must have gotten a bad batch.
She knew she ought to call the bank again.
The phone rang for a while, and someone finally answered.
“G?ran Fredriksson.”
“Oh, hi, my name is Nora Jansson. I wanted to speak to Anna B?ckstr?m—isn’t this her number?”
“It is, but Anna has just had a baby, so all her calls are being forwarded to me.”
“Okay. So the thing is, my overdraft protection doesn’t seem to be working—I don’t understand what’s happened.”
“If I can just ask you a couple of security questions to confirm your identity, I’ll look into it right away.”
“No problem.”
She did as he asked, and she heard him tapping away on his keyboard. “Let’s see ... Ah.” Silence on the other end of the line. An alarming silence. “You’re ... the Nora Jansson who owns Nymans. I was going to contact you this week, ask you to come in for a meeting.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t like to do this over the phone, but I’ve looked at your overdraft situation. None of the overages have been paid back, and in fact the amount has increased significantly over the last month. That’s why the protection has been withdrawn.”
“But ... when I spoke to Anna recently, she agreed to raise the limit, because I’m taking part in a TV show that will significantly boost my income.”
“A TV show?”
“Yes— Let’s Get Baking . It’s already brought in more customers.”
“So Anna said you could delay repaying your debt because of this ... TV show?”
“Exactly.”
“I see. I’m sure it’s because she was pregnant, not thinking straight. She needs approval from the board to increase your limit in a case like this, and as far as I can see, the figures don’t add up. So unfortunately I’ve had to lower your overdraft limit, and stop any further withdrawals until you can make the necessary repayments.”
“You mean I have no credit? You can’t do that ... I have salaries to pay and invoices for all my pre-Christmas orders. I won’t have anything left.”
“If you can’t cover your expenses, you won’t be able to continue to run your business. I suggest you close the patisserie before you incur further debts.”
She was sure he was smiling.
“We’re turning things around. I’ve already noticed an uptick in sales.”
“I’m afraid there’s not a thing I can do for you right now. Not until you come back to me with a financial projection that makes sense, or repay seventy-five percent of your overdraft debt.”
“Seventy-five percent! But that’s impossible, where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
G?ran sighed loudly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss that with your accountant.” He paused, sighed again. “It’s after five, I have to go. Get in touch when you have a solution.”
With trembling hands, Nora fetched the broom and started to sweep the floor, and then she began to prep for the next day. Without feeling, without thinking, she moved from one task to the next, anything to avoid plunging into an abyss of fear and anxiety. She mixed dough while listening for the doorbell and new customers. When they arrived, she went and served them. At six thirty she locked the door, swept the floor, and wiped down all the benches and work surfaces. She worked mechanically, eyes fixed on the cloth as she moved it back and forth across the tables.
She switched off the lights, went up to her apartment, and stepped into the shower. Only then, with the water flowing over her body, did she allow her mind to return to the conversation with the bank. She couldn’t absorb the full implications of what G?ran Fredriksson had said, so she focused on the TV show. She ought to cancel her drinks with Henrik tonight, contact the producer and let them know she was going to have to close the patisserie. There would be no TV show. Her body began to shake as the realization hit her. Would she really have to close?
She took a deep breath. She would speak to her accountant, review her income this month; maybe there was a solution. But she had run the numbers and knew that even if business had increased over the last week or so, she was nowhere near being able to repay 75 percent of her overdraft.
Her legs were trembling as she switched off the water, wrapped a towel around her body, padded across the cold, drafty floor, and sank down on her bed. She dried her hair with the towel. One thing at a time. She would meet Henrik tonight, tell him. Then she would call Elnaz.
While she put on her makeup—she didn’t want to look as bad as she felt—she wolfed down some leftover pasta salad. She scrutinized herself in the mirror. She looked pretty tired, and the lines Don had pointed out on her forehead were deeper than ever.
She pulled on a pair of dark-blue jeans and a white cotton shirt that she loved. She piled her hair on top of her head in a loose bun and put on an extra slick of red lipstick, as if the color might give her strength, before she put on her quilted jacket and set off to walk the short distance to Harry’s.
On the other side of Fiskartorget, the water was shimmering in the glow of the streetlamps along the quayside; its dark, rippling surface looked like liquid gold. She took a second to inhale the fresh, salty air. The endless darkness of the sea calmed the storm within her.
Henrik was already there, taking a selfie with one arm around an older woman. The woman beamed and gave him a hug, just as he spotted Nora. He nodded to her, handed back the phone, and came over. He offered his hand as Nora leaned in to hug him, so they collided and she fell against his arm. He caught her, and she smiled as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. It might have been meant as a response to her attempt at a hug, but it came across as a gesture of consolation more than anything.
“What would you like to drink?”
“A glass of red would be good, but I can go and order ...”
“No, no, let me do it. You sit down.”
She did as she was told and sat down in a leather armchair as he went to the bar. She gazed at him. Blue jeans and a cotton checked shirt. Leather boots. Well built, bearded, and a baker ... He was everything she dreamed of in a man, at least on paper. It was a shame he was such an arrogant shit.
“Hi, Nora.” A male voice interrupted her train of thought. She glanced up. The Veg Guy. Had he come to present her with all his unpaid invoices?
“Hi, how are you?” She got up and gave him a half-hearted hug.
“I’m good. I heard you’re going to be on Let’s Get Baking ?”
“I am—we started filming a little while ago.”
“Fantastic.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t paid the last few invoices, but ...” She wondered what to say. She might never be able to pay. Ever. Hopefully there would be something left for her creditors when the business was wound up. Both Jonathan and his father had been good to her. “But it’s all in hand,” she said, dredging up a smile.
“No problem. Now you’re on Let’s Get Baking , business is bound to take off.”
She nodded. “Let’s hope so.”
There was a brief silence. Jonathan looked as if he was working up the nerve to say something else, but then Henrik reappeared with their wine.
“Oh, you’re here with Henrik Eklund?” Jonathan was clearly impressed. He held out his hand. “Hi there, Jonathan, I’m a big fan.”
Henrik put down the glasses and shook his hand. “Good to hear.”
“I won’t disturb you. Nice to meet you.” Jonathan cleared his throat and turned to Nora. “See you soon.”
“Another of your admirers?” Henrik said when Jonathan had gone.
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t call him an admirer.”
“It’s just the way he looked at you.”
“He wants his invoices paid. And possibly a roll in the hay. Nothing more.” Nora smiled, then realized how it sounded.
“He wants to be paid for a fuck?”
“No, that’s not what I meant ...” She laughed. “I mean he might want to sleep with me. For free. There’s nothing else between us.”
“Okay, sk?l .” They clinked glasses. “ Sk?l for a fuck. Congratulations.”
She narrowed her eyes, then laughed again. “Sk?l.”
“Here’s to working together in harmony.”
Her smile dissolved into a frown.
“Okay, so maybe we’re not there yet,” Henrik conceded. “But I do want us to work well together, which is why I invited you out this evening.” He sipped his wine. “I really am sorry about what happened the other day, and I apologize if I pushed too hard. I promise that the rest of the filming will be a more pleasant experience.”
“It’s fine. I know I might have been a little difficult at times ...” She took a big gulp of her wine. It felt rough against her tongue, but she was incapable of tasting anything. She should have gone for sparkling instead—it was easier to knock back. “I ... I need to tell you something. I’m afraid the show isn’t going to happen.” She swallowed hard. “I’m going to speak to Elnaz tomorrow.”
“Oh?” She had taken him by surprise. “Why? Have you changed your mind again? It’s too late to pull out now, and if this is about the incident the other day, I’ve ...”
“No, it’s not that. I spoke to the bank.” Another gulp of wine. “They’ve frozen my overdraft limit, which means I can’t afford to buy anything or pay anyone. I can’t even afford to stay open for another week. And if we have to close for the renovations, there won’t be any money coming in at all.” Though she felt ashamed, saying the words out loud brought an enormous sense of relief.
He nodded slowly, gazing into the distance as if he were letting it all sink in. Would he get mad? Give her another lecture on how worthless she was, running her business into the ground?
“There has to be a way to fix this,” he said, much to her surprise.
“But how? I simply don’t have the money.”
He looked at her. “Give me a week. The production company will lose a fortune if we have to cancel the show after all the time and money we’ve invested in it. We have to figure out a way to make it work. I’ll speak to them and see what we can do.”
“That’s very kind of you, but ... I don’t know if I’ve got a week. The invoices are piling up. To avoid a complete disaster, I’ll have to close within a week!”
“Did Elnaz mention the meet and greet at the bookstore next week?”
Nora nodded.
“Apparently the tickets sold out in a day. The plan is for you to do the catering—I can try to get you paid in advance. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can do on my end, okay?”
“That sounds amazing.” She released a long breath and smiled at him. “Thank you. But the renovations ... having to stay closed ... I don’t know if ...”
“Of course we’ll compensate you for the days you lose to the renovations. I’m pretty sure that’s in the contract. But again I can arrange for you to have the money now. That will give you a few days’ grace.”
“Thank you,” she said again, more hesitantly this time.
“There’s no need to thank me—I want the show to go ahead, so this is not an act of charity.”
“I realize you’re not doing this for my sake,” Nora said quickly. “But thanks anyway—this might just be my salvation.” She shook her head. “I really can’t understand how it’s come to this.”
“I can,” he said, looking her directly in the eye.
“Oh? Because I serve bad coffee?” she said, half joking.
He made a face. “No. And by the way, all that business with the coffee—I have to confess that was all scripted by Ted.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid so. You serve excellent coffee.”
She was so relieved—she had begun to wonder. Although lying to her wasn’t fair.
“It’s come to this because of the selection you offer.” Henrik’s expression was serious. “I’m not saying that just to make you mad, but because it’s true.”
She didn’t say anything for a while. “Not just to make me mad—but that’s part of it?”
“Okay, yes.” He smiled, but immediately grew serious again. “Even if I pushed too hard the other day.”
She met his gaze. “You did go too hard. I don’t know what the production company wants, but it was a terrible experience, and even though the last thing I want to do is to close my business, I have to admit that the bank’s decision felt like a way out. No more filming.”
“I promise things will be better from now on. You have my word on that.” He sipped his wine, leaned a little closer.
She picked up his smell and shivered. He was good-looking, that was why he had this effect on her, she told herself. And because she hadn’t had sex with anyone since the Veg Guy, hadn’t even been anywhere near a man in ages. Her primitive self had no defense against the handsome, divine-smelling man before her. But her rational self knew all too well that he was unbearable.
“I’ll ask the production team to help you with your current financial difficulties, but in return you have to promise to listen to what I say. Your offering is too broad, and your purchase list is too long. Seriously.”
Nora remained silent. She didn’t like the fact that he was right.
“Can I ask a question?” he went on. “I get that this is what you want to do—apart from being a famous political pundit on TV.” He gave her a teasing smile, then grew serious once more. “But if you had opened Nymans yourself, without any traditions to consider, would it have looked the same? Would you have offered so many different kinds of cakes and cookies?”
She thought for a moment. “Probably not,” she said, to her own surprise.
“So why not do it your way? The fact that your parents and your grandmother did it one way shouldn’t stop you, should it?”
Nora took another sip of wine, tried to marshal her thoughts. “You know how people find it difficult to throw things away after someone has died, or can’t bring themselves to sell a house?” She kept her eyes fixed on the flickering candle flame as she spoke. “That’s kind of how I feel. There’s a memory attached to every single cake or cookie. I remember icing the Catalans with my grandma. I remember my dad eating the ends of the Brussels cookie dough when he thought no one was looking. Mom’s favorite was the Mazarin tart. It makes me think of them, keeps their memory alive.”
“Just because you change something doesn’t mean you’ll forget them.”
“I know. But they’re my family, and I’ve lost every single one of them. This is all I have left.” She felt the familiar lump in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away, pretended to look out the window, then drank some more wine in an attempt to pull herself together before she went on. “I know you think I’m incompetent, but I’m not stupid. It has struck me that I ought to simplify things.”
“So why haven’t you done it?”
She shook her head. “I tried once, but ... everything went wrong.” She didn’t really want to revisit those memories, but she felt she had to make him understand. “Mom always insisted on keeping things exactly as they were. When I took on a bigger role in running the business and saw the numbers, I suggested a total rethink. That was just before she got sick.”
“She didn’t like the idea?”
“No. I was seduced by the idea of a sort of rustic industrial direction, with a few decent loaves and cakes and stone ovens, but that’s not Nymans. And Mom took it really badly. I think she felt that Nymans—the place that had been her dream, our life, the place I had grown up with—was no longer good enough for me. Then she got sick, like I said. When she got her cancer diagnosis, we hadn’t spoken to each other for several weeks. The diagnosis brought us back together, of course, but we never brought up my suggestion again. Then she died, and somehow it seemed important to keep it exactly the way it was when she passed.” Nora shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe it might be too late.”
Henrik gazed at her, then placed his hand on hers. Her whole body reacted to his touch, but she managed to maintain a cool facade.
“It will be fine.” He squeezed her hand and looked at her with those dark-brown eyes. His hand was big, warm, and rough, yet somehow soft too.
After a while, he let go—slowly, hesitantly.
Nora cleared her throat. The unexpected touch had made her head spin.
“The bookstore would like you to serve something filling,” he said quickly. Had he been affected, too, or was she imagining a hint of nerves? “Maybe your crispbread? And your sourdough? They want mulled wine, and they’re expecting my gingerbread cookies.”
She suddenly realized that he was nervous. She’d made Henrik Eklund nervous! There was something quite sweet about it.
He sipped his wine, straightened his shoulders. “I make them with brown butter.” His usual self-confidence was back.
“The most important thing with gingerbread cookies is to use classic spices and to toast them.” Her voice was steady. She had no intention of letting him see how his touch had affected her.
He stared at her for a few seconds. “You make your crispbread and your sourdough. But they’re expecting my gingerbread cookies.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll send you the recipe.”
Nora rolled her eyes. The dynamic between them was restored.