“What? It’s just a suggestion.”
By now Nora had regained her equilibrium. “Why haven’t you mentioned Henrik’s wrinkles?”
Don shrugged. “Because they’re masculine.”
“So you think wrinkles are unfeminine?”
He looked at her apologetically. Both Sara and Elnaz were staring at him, waiting for a response.
“This isn’t some kind of antifeminist thing,” he said quickly. “I think fillers and other interventions actually favor feminism. They even out inequalities and give everyone the same chance, regardless of age or appearance.”
Once again Nora was at a loss for words.
“It might be a little skewed, but that’s the way society works,” Don continued. “It was just a suggestion, I meant well.” He held up his hands in a gesture of resignation.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Elnaz said firmly, glaring at Don as she signaled to the cameraman.
“So how did you feel when Henrik criticized your rolls?” Elnaz looked apologetic, but Nora wasn’t sure whether it was because of Don or Henrik or even genuine. “And don’t forget to speak in full sentences so that the viewers can get the context.”
Elnaz’s questions were always tough, and Nora never managed to conceal her emotions. However, she and Henrik had shot a pleasant scene, so this interview for the camera shouldn’t be too bad. The problem was that she felt like a wreck. They had filmed until midnight yesterday, and then she’d had to wake up three hours later to prepare for the day. She was exhausted, and the constant criticism and relentless scrutiny—of the patisserie and now her appearance—didn’t help.
“Of course I don’t love his critiques. But he has a point—the rolls could be improved.”
“Is that really what your customers want? Or does Henrik have a cynical, urban snob’s view of what you do?”
Nora cleared her throat. “This idea of rustic life seems to be something of an obsession in Stockholm. Everything has to appear simpler—purer—but in reality, it involves a lot more work.” She sighed. “What can be simpler and purer than a bread roll? But that’s not good enough. It has to be made with flour from ancient grains, wood-fired, goodness knows what else. I don’t suppose Henrik has ever baked an honest, plainroll in his entire life,” she added with a snort. “And all his remarks about too wide a selection ... Maybe a celebrity baker is happy to serve raw food balls laid out on a thick stone slab in a venue with a concrete floor and walls, but in this town, people want the classics. And plenty of choice.” She thought about everything Henrik had said during filming. Too many cookies, too many ingredients, ugly setting, shabby utensils, tasteless bread. “You know what? I’m furious. He shows up here with all his opinions on what I do, and it’s not even constructive criticism. I can take that, but this is just whining and complaining. I’m absolutely livid.” She had worked herself up into a rage.
“This seems to be very important to you—the bread you bake?” Elnaz was gazing at her with a look that was meant to inspire confidence.
“It was ...” Nora paused. “Those rolls were my dad’s favorite.”
“But the sourdough seems even more important. Can you tell us about it?”
“As I tried to tell Henrik—who, I might add, wouldn’t even listen to me—my sourdough has a very special history. It’s a hundred years old and ...”
“No, I want to know what it means toyou. I think you said it was the bread that you and your parents always baked together? And don’t forget to use full sentences.”
“The sourdough means a great deal to me. We baked it all the time, both at home and here, and we made it all kinds of ways—crispbread and loaves, with wheat flour and rye flour, but always with the same starter, and that smell ...” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, smiling at the memory. “I could pick it up as far away as the main square when I was on my way here, and I knew that the sourdough loaves were in the oven. We always had it with breakfast. The smell, the taste ... It means home, it means ...” She broke off. Maybe it was the lack of sleep and all the emotional strain of the past few days, but she felt suddenly overwhelmed by her grief and the enormity of her loss.It means Mom and Dad,she thought. She shook her head, fighting back the tears.
“It means . . . ?” Elnaz prompted her.
“The sourdough bread means home to me. It means security and ... unconditional love.” She didn’t know why she added those final words, but that was what she missed most of all—the love her parents had given her, the love that had been taken away from her much too soon.
“Thanks, that’s great,” Elnaz said. “I think Henrik wants to talk to you in the bakery.”
On the way Nora was stopped by Hassan, who was about to go on his break. “Do you have a minute?” He looked down at the floor.
“Sure.” She could see it was important.
“It’s just ... I should have been paid on Friday, but there haven’t been any deposits into my account.”
“What?” Nora frowned. Thank goodness Don couldn’t see her—the unfiltered sight of all those wrinkles would probably give him palpitations. “That’s odd, all the payments should have gone through. I’ll look into it right away.”
“Thanks, Nora.”
She took out her phone and logged on to her bank account. It was empty, and there was no sign of the increased overdraft that Anna had promised. Had they canceled her overdraft protection? Surely not—but if so, how many payments hadn’t gone through?
Her head was spinning, and she felt a growing sense of panic as she walked into the bakery. Elnaz showed her where to sit, directly opposite Henrik. She said something, but Nora wasn’t paying attention. She still couldn’t make sense of the figures she’d just seen.
