The staff at Damour hadn’t changed much except for three new hires, as her parents had informed her. The flagship patisserie was at 4 Place du Trocadéro, where it had a view of the Eiffel Tower. One door opened directly into the patisserie section and the other into the tea salon, although both sections were connected on the inside. It just made it easier for the customers to get into two lineups, and at certain times, especially on Saturdays at lunchtime, people could line up for up to an hour to get a seat in the salon.
It wasn’t so busy on a Thursday afternoon, except for the bakery, so Clémence went in through the salon door. The hostess, Celine, greeted her.
Celine gave her a kiss on each cheek. They were around the same age, and they had been pretty good friends ever since Celine started working there three years ago. They had kept in touch by email when Clémence was away. Sometimes Celine would fill her in on the gossip among the staff or funny anecdotes about store regulars.
After catching up a little, Celine introduced her to the wait staff who were there, Pierre and Christine. Then there were the cashiers in the patisserie section, Marie and Raoul. Caroline, the manager that day, who was a friendly middle-aged woman with dark-blond ringlets, came out to greet her.
Pierre and Marie were new, but they both seemed very friendly. Clémence’s parents were very particular about who they hired—they only wanted people who were happy to work there. Paris had a bad reputation for poor customer service, and they wanted no part in that at Damour, which was partly what made the place so popular.
The inside of the place was the same aesthetic as her house: a mixture of classic baroque and modern contemporary. It had her mother’s influence all over it. There were chandeliers and floral porcelain teacups, and modern tables and chairs cut from clear plastic. Her mother really had a great eye. She had also overseen the branding, which used lavender packaging with a gold logo. The walls of the store were painted in lavender and other pastel colors.
The back kitchen was Clémence’s favorite place. She loved watching the pastries getting made. She was a mean baker herself, but she was out of practice. The chefs and bakers greeted her kindly. Sebastien Soulier was their star baker. He had been only an apprentice when Clémence first met him years back, but he’d recently been promoted to head baker.
Sebastien was making the shells for pistachio macarons, piping the pale-green mix onto a baking tray in one-inch circles. In an American twist—her mother’s invention—this one had Oreo-flavored cream filling. It was absolutely delectable.
The Soulier brother and sister were both young and innovative as well. It was the reason why her parents hired them. Both had strawberry-blond hair, which could be categorized as red under direct sunlight, and flawless skin. Sebastien’s eyes were hazel, while Berenice’s were green. Clémence liked them both a lot.
“So glad you’re back,” Berenice said. “We’ll have an extra hand in the kitchen again.”
“Plus an extra tongue,” Sebastien said. The girls gave him a funny look. “For taste testing. Get your minds out of the gutter. Clémence can help us with our new inventions.”
Clémence picked a couple of fresh macarons from a tray and began munching. Miam. It was too good.
“I have some ideas of my own,” Clémence said. “I’ve spent a good amount of time in Asia. How about an Asian-inspired line of macarons for this summer? I’m thinking green tea, red bean, lychee.”
“Good idea,” Berenice said. “Maybe cherry blossom too.”
“We can get started right away,” Clémence said. “Tomorrow, that is. I’m still not in the headspace.”
“Don’t worry,” Sebastien said. “You have plenty of time.”
Clémence stifled a yawn. “Suddenly, I’m feeling so drowsy. Maybe I should take a nap.”
“Maybe you can sleep really early and wake up early,” Berenice said.
“I’ve never been a morning person,” Clémence said. “But maybe this is a perfect time to start.”
Before she left, she got a box of sixteen macarons for la gardienne. Her mother had mentioned that she liked the pistachio-and-chocolate ones the most, so she selected four of them along with the usual chocolate, vanilla, and raspberry, and some Damour inventions, such as a cheesecake-flavored one, a s’more macaron, and even an olive oil and mint combo, which tasted better than it sounded.
She also got a box for the Dubois family, as they had taken care of Miffy for the past week.
The macarons were packaged in special collector’s item boxes. She chose a chic zebra-pattern one for la gardienne and one patterned with little lipstick kisses for the Dubois family. Each came with a lavender bag with the store’s gold logo.
She felt a lot better after reconnecting with her staff. Her parents were away, and the staff were the closest thing to family. She did have an aunt and uncle who had property in Montmartre, but they usually lived in Dubai. May was a month when many Parisians went away due to the various religious holidays. It was why some of the staff were away and the shop wasn’t as bustling as it was normally.
La gardienne was inside her apartment when Clémence got home. She could hear la gardienne’s TV through the door.
“Madame?” Clémence knocked.
There was no response, and Clémence tried again, knocking harder.
La gardienne wore a sour expression, and the nostrils of her bulbous nose flared.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Clémence said. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me the keys. Maman told me how much you love our macarons.”
Clémence handed her the bag. La gardienne’s expression seemed to soften… just a little.
Clémence could tell that she still wasn’t thrilled about her. She tried not to take it personally, as la gardienne apparently didn’t like anyone, really. After she slammed the door shut, a dismissed Clémence went to the third floor.
“Ah, Clémence. Nice to see you again. Would you like something to drink?”
A little white dog, a West Highland terrier, came running up to her. Miffy! She jumped up Clémence’s legs, her tongue out and tail wagging.
“I’ve missed you too, girl!” Clémence kissed Miffy on top of her head.
A couple of boys ran into the living room after Miffy. The Duboises were a large family. They were Catholic. There were seven kids in all, the oldest son being Clémence’s age and the youngest son being seven. There were five boys and two girls in the family. The younger sets seemed to be troublemakers, and the older ones were taciturn and snotty. Clémence had only ever talked to Madame Dubois, as she was the friendliest out of the whole bunch.
The oldest son, Arthur, poked his head in. He had his own dog on a leash, a Jack Russell terrier with a red handkerchief tied around its neck.
“Clémence is house-sitting for the year,” Madame Dubois said to her son. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of her. Arthur has been the one walking the dogs this week.”
“Thanks so much,” Clémence said.
“No problem.” Arthur backed away. “Well, I’m off.”
Arthur was tall and dark haired. He would’ve been handsome if he smiled more and wasn’t a complete snob. He had always rubbed Clémence the wrong way, and she hated his pink dress shirts and preppy cashmere sweaters that her American friends probably would’ve ridiculed. He wore the sweaters tied around his neck sometimes like a typical bourgeois guy.
A couple of times when Clémence had come to visit her parents for Sunday brunch, she’d seen Arthur coming out the side of the building with a different girl each time: good-looking girls in tight clothes and heels, doing the walk of shame.
Arthur didn’t bring them home to his parents’ house with all his siblings, of course. He had his own room on the top floor. In these Haussmannian buildings, the servants used to live on the top floor, because back then there were no elevators. To reach the top floor, one had to take a separate staircase, a harrowing, dingy one accessible through a small door beside the grand entrance door of the “real” apartments. The staircase took you directly to the top floor although, on each floor, it was connected to the kitchens of the main apartments.
Arthur was too old to be living at home, but he didn’t want to part with the luxuries of doing so. He and his brother each took a servant’s room, where they were free to commit whatever debauchery they wanted.
The Damours also owned two servant rooms. One was so small, and windowless as well, that they thought it was inhumane to allow anyone to live in it, so they used it for storage. Another room was a bit more spacious. It had a window with a view of the beautiful rooftops of Paris and a small shower next to the tiny kitchenette. Tenants changed from time to time, but right now, they had a British guy living there whom Clémence hadn’t met yet.
The rent for these rooms was extremely cheap compared to the rent for a proper apartment. The other tenants were nannies, cleaners, or students. The rooms were practically dorm rooms. Arthur, however, had a housekeeper to clean up after him, and he went home for all his meals since the family employed a chef.
Clémence could tell that Madame Dubois wanted Arthur to pay more attention to Clémence. In the past, she had tried to coax Clémence’s mother to set them up, but it wasn’t happening. Clémence and Arthur were like oil and water. She just hoped that he had been good to Miffy while they were away.
“So glad to have you back, girl.” Clémence stroked Miffy’s ears. She was beyond happy. With Miffy, the big apartment wouldn’t feel so empty.
