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entrance of the shop, she checked the two cubbyholes to see why there was no one about. The back door to the patio outside was open, cold air was streaming in along with the raised voices of an argument. She ventured forward and, peering round the door, saw Françoise and a man who must have been the boyfriend from Bordeaux in the middle of an almighty row, arms waving in the air, certainly not the romantic reunion Françoise had been dreaming of earlier.
    ‘Françoise,’ she whispered, but she didn’t turn.
    Rachel coughed a couple of times to try and distract her but she was clearly in her stride, yelling and shouting all over the place, her finger stabbing him in the chest as he huffed out an exasperated breath and ran a hand through his hair.
    ‘Shit,’ Rachel said out loud as she stepped back from the doorway and into the cubbyhole.
    ‘Is everything all right?’ the man asked.
    ‘I don’t think so.’ She shook her head and walked forward towards the counter. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anyone to serve you.’
    ‘Can you?’
    ‘Oh, no, I don’t work here.’
    He shrugged. ‘You look like you do.’
    ‘The owner would kill me if he found me here.’
    The man laughed, his eyes crinkling softly at the sides. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen.’
    Rachel was about to reply but found herself not saying anything, caught instead in his look. He wasn’t particularly good-looking and he certainly wasn’t her type, not at all, yet she wanted him to keep looking at her that way. ‘I er—’ She pointed to the door, without taking her eyes from him. ‘I er—should be leaving.’
    ‘That is OK.’ He cocked his head, slightly puzzled. Probably, she thought, because he was wondering why she was staring at him so inanely.
    She started to walk away but then stopped and asked, ‘What are you going to have?’
    ‘I don’t know. I never know what to choose,’ he said, looking down at the counter.
    ‘Oh, I know. I’m like that too.’ Rachel found herself bending down on the other side of the counter to look at the array of desserts between them. When she glanced up she met his eyes over the trays of pâtisseries and quickly glanced away, shyly, as she felt herself start to blush.
    ‘There is just so much to choose from,’ she heard him say.
    ‘Well, if it was me…’ She gazed over the rows and rows of cakes that sat in front of her. Bright marzipan shapes, chocolate twists dusted with sugar, sticky
millefeuille
layers oozing with cream, tarts brimming with frangipani, coffee eclairs lined up like fat fingers, red berries piled high and tumbling off crème pâtisserie tarts. And on the shelf above were piles of glistening chocolates. Dark glossy liqueurs with cherry stalks poking out of the top, dusty truffles and striped caramels, fudge coated in ganache. Strawberry creams shaped like tiny fruits perched next to pralines wrapped like presents in gold.
    ‘I always like a Religieuse,’ she said in the end, pointing to the tower of two round eclairs balanced with a ruff of cream piped around the neck. ‘They are my favourite.’
    ‘The little nun,’ he said and she watched him laugh through the glass.
‘Bon choix.’
    Then suddenly a shout from the doorway made her jolt upright, almost banging her head on the top lip of the counter. ‘What are you doing in my shop? Where is Françoise?’ Chef was standing, hands on hips, in the doorway.
    At that moment Françoise came hurrying in pale faced and terrified, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
    Rachel grabbed her arm to hold her back and said, ‘She wasn’t well. I said I’d help.’
    Chef looked between the two of them, disbelieving. ‘You are ill, you come to me. Rachel—out. Françoise, serve the man.’
    ‘Are you OK?’ Rachel whispered as Françoise, who’d clearly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall behind them, started scrubbing the black off her face.
    ‘Yes, yes, it is always the same.’ She retied her hair and