The Mysterious Bakery On Rue De Paris - Excerpt

One

The storm had really taken hold by the time I got to Dublin airport. A leaden sky lashed down rain onto the tarmac and buildings with a fury, as though the God's themselves had something negative to say about my decision to leave.

"Paris? In France?"

"Yes Dad, we've been through this a million times, and I do wish you'd stop saying it as though it's the outer reaches of Mongolia." As I checked I had my passport for the umpteenth time, the trusty old Ford came to a halt outside Departures.

"I don't mean to Edie, it's just..." he hesitated, rubbing his early morning stubble and fixing his gaze on anything but me. "Are ya sure now?"

I wanted to scream – 'of course I'm not sure you bloody idiot, I'm scared shitless, but if it's a choice between sitting at home wondering 'what Mum would've done', and setting out into the complete unknown, the answer was simple.

"Oui Papa", I replied in my thick Irish accent, producing a reluctant smile from his lips. "You're just put out because you won't have me popping in every day to do the housework," I cajoled. He smiled at that. "I'll be grand and so will you." Placing a quick kiss on his cheek, I pushed the door open to brave the elements and extricated my case from the boot.

I thought it would take all of my resolve not to look back, but a boisterous wind held no such sentiment and pushed me towards the glass doors, as if hastening my departure. Walking through the airport with people milling around like ducks in thunder (one of my Dad's old sayings), I felt truly cosmopolitan and significant, for the first time in years. Wearing my beige Mac that screamed sophistication and chocolate brown boots, I trailed my new hard case behind me with an exaggerated swagger of confidence. However, as the tannoy announced last calls and missing passengers for exotic locations such as Egypt and Singapore, something inside of me flip-flopped. Things started to become blurry around the edges and it became clear that I didn't know where I was going, or worse still, why. Thankfully a woman close to my own age, dressed in an emerald green uniform greeted me with an impossibly huge smile and asked to see my ticket.

"Oh lovely, you're off to Paris is it?" she said, as if people did this kind of thing every day of the week. It never entered her head that some saddos had only been to an airport once, and that was a school trip to London.

I nodded dumbly, unable to verbalise any kind of reply.

"Right so, you're over here at the check in desk on the left," she said, guiding my arm like a nurse in a care home, "and enjoy the city of love!"

"Oh I, well yes okay", I finally found my bumbling voice, but she had already moved on to her next patient.

After a nice wander around the duty free, I had regained my composure somewhat. There was bound to be the odd moment of weakness, I assured myself. After all, I had spent most of my life living in the same area, seeing the same people and doing the same things. For the first time in my life, I was stepping outside of my comfort zone and it felt both exhilarating and terrifying. I had felt so confident answering the ad in the paper:-

Wanted: Shop manager for a quaint little bakery in Paris. Accommodation provided. English required.

It would hardly be Galeries Lafayette, but it was something I knew I could do despite the language barrier. My Leaving Certificate French left a lot to be desired, but I had been brushing up on my phrase book for the last few weeks and watching re-runs of Amélie. My daydreams were filled with visions of a chic, sophisticated boulangerie in one of the posh quartiers of Paris, modern but with a nod to vintage. Frankly I was surprised with how quickly I got the job, even without a proper interview. I couldn't quite believe my luck. A few quick-fire questions over the phone, ensuring my high level of spoken English and a background in the service industry, and that was it. My career path had been something of a cul-de-sac, in that I never really figured out what I wanted to do, so I just ended up waitressing. It was meant to be a temporary thing; a way to earn some money while I figured things out. But over time, my future became more and more unclear and my job was the only stable thing I had to hold on to. At the age of thirty-five, I just couldn't see myself doing anything else. Until Paris came calling.