Introduction

From the million-copy bestselling author of The Lost Bookshop 'A delicious book that I couldn’t resist devouring in one sitting. It was a delight to lose myself in the world of Edie and the mysterious baker. I would recommend to pastry lovers and book lovers alike!' Sally Page, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Keeper of Stories

Nestled among the cobblestone streets of Compiègne, there existed a bakery unlike any other.

Rumors were whispered through the town that its pastries offered a taste of magic, chasing away the darkest of sorrows.

Just one bite of a croissant might bring luck, unlock a precious memory or reveal hidden longings.

But dark clouds were looming on the horizon…

For Edie Lane, a recipe for disaster doesn’t require that many ingredients. Take an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking and a sprinkle of desperation and that’s how Edie left everything behind in Ireland for her dream job at a bakery in Paris. Except the bakery isn’t in Paris – and neither is Edie.

This might not be where Edie intended to be but she soon realizes it's exactly where she needs to be…

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Excerpt

Chapter One

A recipe for disaster doesn’t require that many ingredients. An unhealthy amount of wishful

thinking, mixed with a large dollop of devil-may-care when it comes to reading maps. Add a sprinkle of desperation distilled from wanting so badly for things to change, and you had the perfect recipe for my current situation – barricaded inside a toilet cubicle at the Gare du Nord with only my shame and embarrassment for company. I wasn’t sure when I would come out, if ever, and so I decided that the best thing I could do now was replay all of the events that had led up to this moment so I could make myself feel

even worse.

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 Gods 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 ?xing his gaze on anything but me. ‘Are ya sure now? It might just be one of those, mid-life thingies. Would you not consider, I dunno, getting a cat?’

Great. The only thing worse than having a midlife crisis was ?nding out about it from your father. I took my phone out of my purse and con?rmed that the ?ight was still on time.

‘I have to go. Listen, I’ll be grand and so will you.’

‘It should be me saying that to you,’ he said a bit sheepishly.

It wasn’t the ?rst time our roles had been reversed. Way before my time, I’d become ?uent in the world of adult emotions, and that was why I had to do something drastic. I had to strike out on my own and ?nd out who I could be without my past weighing me down. I had felt so con?dent answering the ad online. I’d spotted it one night, after a couple of glasses of wine, when I indulged in my usual fantasy of moving abroad. Scrolling through the website English Jobs in France, I typed in ‘Paris’ and suddenly it popped up.



Assistant manager wanted for a quaint little bakery in Paris.

Accommodation provided. English required.

I’d sat up in bed and stared at the words. This was something I could actually do. It was something I knew I could be good at, despite the language barrier. All at once, my imagination was ?lled 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?re questions over the phone, ensuring my ?uency in English and a background in the service industry, and that was it. My career path had been something of a cul-de-sac. I never really ?gured out what I wanted to do, so I just ended up waitressing in a café. It was meant to be a temporary thing; an escape from the pressures at home and an easy way to earn some money while I ?gured 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 twenty-nine, I just couldn’t see myself doing anything else. Until Paris came calling.

Once inside the airport, I tried to distract myself from the awkward goodbye with my father by trying to choose between a Mac blusher and a liquid eyeliner. I wouldn’t ordinarily treat myself, but this was Paris after all. I had to up my game. Just then, I heard a breathy young woman sing the announcement:



‘Final call for passenger, Edith Lane, travelling to Paris on ?ight EI754. Please proceed to gate nine immediately, as the gate is now closing, thank you.’

I grabbed both products and practically threw money at the shop assistant, making a dash for the ?ight. This was my great adventure and I intended to soak up every second of it. For years I had watched old ?lms with my mother, sighing enviably at elegant actresses like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, who embodied the kind of self-assured, fearless woman I hoped to be. Lying on the couch with my mother and listening to her old jazz records, dreaming of the day I’d ?nd the courage to be the star of my own movie, brought back bittersweet memories. For when the time came for me to ?ee the nest, she needed me to stay. Not that she would ever have asked it of me, but it was natural as breathing, caring for her. Then those movies, High Society, Breakfast At Tiffany’s, became our escape. More recently, my own additions, Amelie and Moulin Rouge, created a world of timeless fantasy where we could pretend reality didn’t exist. Ever since I could remember, I’d been obsessed with the city of love. My parents had their honeymoon in Paris and spoke about it as though it was the most magical place in the world. Whenever we needed cheering up, we’d take out their photo album and my mother would point out all of the amazing places they’d visited. I chose French as my foreign language at school and I spoke incessantly about living in Paris one day. My father, being a pastry chef, had always promised that we would go, as a family. But there are some

promises you can’t keep, no matter how hard you try.



Sitting in my seat, as the rain lashed relentlessly against the oval window, I noticed a tall, silver-haired man scanning the aisles for his seat. There was something in his piercing blue eyes that caught my attention. I tried to arrange my features into a nonchalant yet inviting look and to my great surprise, he smiled back and deftly swerved into the seat beside me.

This is it, I thought to myself, an actual meet-cute and we haven’t even left the tarmac yet!

He removed his coat, revealing a distinct, white dog collar and a cross pinned to the breast of his shirt. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ he asked politely.

‘No, not at all,’ I sighed, breathless with disappointment. Oh, well, at least God would be keeping an extra special eye on the plane. Which was just as well, for when we made our laboured ascent into the angry sky, I and my fellow passengers recited silent prayers several times over as our ?ying tin can lurched up and down in the turbulence. Babies cried, children whimpered and I anxiously chewed my nails, wondering why the universe had picked today to unleash a storm.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the dapper priest at my side, startling me out of my fear-induced stupor.

‘Oh, me? Yes of course, I’m grand,’ I assured him, undecidedly pleased to have a man of the cloth at my side.

‘There’s no need to worry at all,’ he continued, closing



the Ken Bruen crime thriller he was reading. ‘I’ve read the end of this story, and we all arrive safely in the end.’

This statement, coupled with a mischievous wink, made me laugh and automatically I relaxed a little.

‘What takes you to Paris?’ he enquired.

‘I’m starting a new job, running a little bakery.’

‘Well, that’s very interesting. Isn’t it amazing that they couldn’t ?nd someone in all of Paris to do that job?’ he marvelled, shaking his head.

It struck me as most peculiar that this thought had never once entered my head, and it irritated me no end that he was the one to spot such an obvious oversight. I smiled politely in agreement, but inside felt a mountain of doubts towering over my new life. What did I really know about where I was going? And why were they so quick to offer me a job without so much as an interview?

‘Do you have family in Paris?’ he interjected again, not ?nished with his interrogation.

‘No, no family. Just going on my own,’ I replied in an upbeat tone that felt contrived.

‘Aren’t you the brave one,’ he said.

I wasn’t sure I liked this guy anymore. Every remark made me feel like I was being undermined. I gave a slight nod and turned my attention towards the window, unof?cially ending our interaction.

A ?ash of lightning lit the entire inside of the plane with a blinding spotlight, silencing everyone on board for a moment and then causing the children to cry even harder.

Oh, shit, I thought, that’s what you get for being mean



about the priest. I kept my eyes closed and for some reason, hugged my handbag to my chest, as if I’d need it close to hand when the plane went down. I whispered quietly, ‘Help me Mum, help me.’ Eventually, the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom and assured everyone that all was well and we were now beginning our descent into Charles de Gaulle airport.

I could still see the lovely woman’s face, Julie, the proprietor of the boulangerie on Rue de Compiègne. I recognised the facade immediately – I’d spent long enough drooling over their pictures on Instagram. As I crossed the street, I could hear music in the air. Outside, a trio of musicians played the same classic French soundtrack of jazz music I’d saved on countless playlists. One sat squeezing an accordion, the other strumming a guitar, while a tall thin man wearing a flat cap strummed a double bass. I had arrived! But following a haltering conversation of broken English and French, my stupid mistake became clear.

‘Désolé, mais je crois que vous vous trompez,’ Julie said, while placing some cups on a tray for the waitress to take to a table of four.

Tromper, I knew that word… Se tromper – to be mistaken. I took out my phone and pulled up the ad I had answered. Julie pulled a pair of glasses down from her head and peered at the screen.



‘Ah, voici La Boulangerie sur la Rue de Compiègne. Vous cherchez La Boulangerie sur la Rue de Paris. A Compiègne.’

My emotions were a swirl of embarrassment and panic. Even my bum cheeks felt as though they were turning red. Despite my broken French, I knew what she was saying. I was at the wrong bakery. Worse still, I seemed to be rooted to the spot. Julie was waiting for me to leave, our business was at an end, and yet, I couldn’t quite move. I had simply run out of steam. And where the hell was Compiègne?

The waitress returned with an empty tray to the counter and on seeing my face, must have taken pity.

‘I speak some English, may I see?’

I nearly cried at her kindness. Keep it together, Edie, I warned myself. The last thing we needed was a scene! She looked at the screen and nodded af?rmatively. Thank God, I thought to myself, at least someone knows where I’m supposed to be

‘You must take the train to Compiègne, is approximately one hour north of Paris.’

‘Sorry, did you say one hour north of Paris? No, there must be some mistake. I’m here to take up my position in the Boulangerie et Pâtisserie de Compiègne … in Paris,’ I said, feeling a little less con?dent now.

‘I can show you, if you like,’ she said, pinching the map on the screen. ‘See, it is in the ze department of Oise, in ze region of Picardy, see? Vous voyez là?’ she asked, pointing to the map.

‘Oui, je vois, yes,’ I whispered in response, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wasn’t going to be living and



working in Paris at all. And if that was true, what else had I been misled about? The helpful young woman continued and even wrote everything down, as I must have looked completely lost. And besides, what was a ‘department’ when it was at home?

‘Alors, nous sommes juste à côté … we are right beside La Gare du Nord,’ she assured me, from where, apparently, I could get a train to the bakery, where I actually had a job. Maybe. Did it even exist? Had I been scammed? I thanked them both and followed their directions for the train station, where I now sat, weeping in a toilet cubicle.

‘Right,’ I said, to no one but myself. I had to do something. I couldn’t spend the night in the toilet. I wanted to ring home so badly, but I couldn’t let Dad know that he was right and that this had all been some foolish plan to reinvent myself (which it absolutely had). My ?nger hovered over my friend Gemma’s number. We’d started working together at the same café on the same day and she’d become the closest thing I’d had to a best friend. But even Gemma didn’t get to know the real me. I was so used to keeping the sunny side out at home, I’d begun doing it with the people around me, too. That’s when I realised that I couldn't call her, either. She had been so enthusiastic about me ‘?nding my true self’– how could I turn around and tell her the truth; I had no clue who my true self was, and she certainly wasn’t here. No. I had to make my own decisions now and stop wondering



what everyone else would do in my shoes. First things ?rst, I had to ?nd out if the job I had applied for was real.

I found the number for Madame Moreau – my future French employer at the Bakery and after several rings where my heart seemed to stop beating, she answered.

‘Âllo?’ came a croaky old voice.

I recalled the line I had been practising and responded. ‘Um, oui … hello, eh, bonjour Madame Moreau … eh, ici Edith Lane?’ I planned on ending every sentence with a question, as in ‘Do you understand me?’ Even though I had spent the last few weeks cramming with language apps and watching reruns of Amélie, my level of French felt painfully inadequate now.

‘Que voulez-vous?’

‘Yes well, je suis here, in Paris and um, you’re not.’ Silence.

‘Je cherche la boulangerie…?’ My voice wavered.

‘Ah, vous êtes la ?lle qui va travailler dans la boulangerie, c’est ça?’

‘Oui, yes, the girl you hired to work at the bakery. I’m Edith from Ireland – Irlandaise!’ I sighed with relief at her recognition of my name. I wasn’t going mad. The job was real.

‘Vous devez aller à la Gare Du Nord, et vous prenez le train à Compiègne, d’accord? A plus tard alors.’

‘Yes, no, I know that part, it’s just––’ The line went dead.

‘Eh hello? Âllo, Madame Moreau?’

I puffed out a sigh of indignation. ‘Fine, I’ll just google



it, then, shall I?’ Great, now I was talking to myself out loud. The search results for the bakery’s location came up and pointed to a little street with no name.

‘Well, that can’t be right,’ I said, squinting. On top of everything else, I probably needed glasses. Yet another unwanted sign that the years were rolling by, whether I wanted them to or not. I put my phone in my bag and used my irritation as fuel to get out of the cubicle and take some action.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw a very sorry sight indeed. The rotund chignon I had so carefully pinned my hair into this morning had completely unravelled, my chic, cream coat was creased and the Mac eyeliner I’d bought at the airport had smudged and leaked giving me watercolour panda eyes. My chin began to wobble at the sight of my dishevelled appearance and my broken dreams.

‘Look, you’re a grown woman; get a hold of yourself!’ I shouted, giving myself a quick smack on the cheek. Wrong move; that just left me feeling sad and bullied.

‘Right, different approach. OK, no one said this was going to be easy,’ I assured myself, like an audio self-help book. ‘Every heroine must face her obstacles and that’s all this is: an obstacle.’ Talking in such a positive tone began to calm me down and I reached for some tissue to start rebuilding my façade of confidence with make-up. ‘So I won’t be living a glamourous life in Paris,’ I mumbled, ‘but this Compiègne place can’t be that far, and who knows, maybe it’s the most picturesque part of France.’ That was the spirit, and besides, how would it look if I



gave up on my big adventure before it had even truly begun?

Just then a woman stepped out of one of the cubicles, giving me a wary look.

‘Oh, never mind me, just talking to myself!’ I joked, and received a stony-faced glare for my troubles. I was already a major hit with the French.

‘Alors, ze trains depart every ?fteen minutes and ze ticket is twelve euros and ?fty cents,’ said the woman at the ticket desk, who took pity on me and switched immediately to speaking English. ‘I wish you a good journey Madame.’

‘It’s Mademoiselle,’ I croaked, trying to focus on the map she had given me, full of odd street names and road numbers.

I boarded the train on the Paris–Saint-Quentin line to Compiègne. I found a seat by the window, though by this stage the sky was growing dark and as the train pulled away from the station, the lights of Paris blinked a luminous farewell. Monuments gilded with gold, fountains splashing generously and red-white-and-blue ?ags ?ying proudly on every building. I was already leaving Paris behind. I let my head rest against the glass and tried to ?nd some scrap of positivity. I thought back to all of the old ?lms I’d watched with Mum and my aunt. The storyline never did run smoothly and the good people didn’t always get what they deserved, at least not until the end. I had to



believe that, no matter the bumps along the way, the journey would be worth it. Maybe it wasn’t about dreams coming true (although that would be nice). Maybe it was about becoming the kind of person who chases them, regardless. Well, I would soon ?nd out.

I took my phone out and called the number I reserved for very special cases – when my heart really needed a hug. It clicked straight onto answerphone and I heard my mother’s voice singing.

‘Smile, though your heart is aching, smile even though it’s breaking,

when there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by, if you smile through your tears and sorrow, smile and maybe tomorrow,

you’ll see the sun come shining through, for you…’ view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. How does Edith's relationship with baking evolve throughout the story, and what does this reveal about her character development?

2. Discuss the significance of the bakery as both a physical place and a symbol in the novel. What does it represent to different characters?

3. How does the author use food, particularly the special vanilla ingredient, to explore themes of memory and connection?

4. What role does the ghost of Pierre Moreau play in the story? How does his presence affect the other characters?

5. Discuss Madame Moreau's journey from initial hostility to acceptance of Edith. What causes this transformation?

6. How does the author weave historical events into the contemporary narrative? What effect does this have on the story?

7. Consider the theme of identity throughout the novel. How do different characters struggle with who they are versus who they want to be?

8. What role does music play in the story, particularly in Edith's personal journey?

9. Discuss the significance of Hugo's transformation throughout the novel. What catalyzes his change?

10. How does the author explore the concept of family throughout the story? What different types of families are portrayed?

11. Consider the setting of Compiègne. How does the town itself become a character in the story?

12. What role does community play in saving the bakery? What does this reveal about French culture?

13. Discuss the parallel between Edith's grief for her mother and Madame Moreau's past losses. How do these experiences connect them?

14. How does the author use the contrast between Paris and Compiègne to explore themes of expectations versus reality?

15. Consider the novel's ending. How do the various storylines resolve, and what message does this convey about second chances?

Weblinks

»	Author's website
»	Follow the author on Instagram
»	LISTEN to French Cafe Music on Spoitfy
»	Recipe for Madeleines
»	Publisher's book info
»	Listen to an Audiobook excerpt

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