—6 months ago—

The sun had peaked out from the trees as I strolled through one of the leafy green squares, on my way to the bakery, and I'd sat down for a bit to read a chapter in a fantasy novel I was digging.

Occasionally, my attention would be diverted by the kids splashing about in the fountain and their parents standing at the sidelines making sure they didn't get up to any mischief.

I was an only child. I had no idea what it felt like to have siblings, but I knew that when I met the right guy I'd definitely make sure any child of mine had a sibling, because, at times, it had been lonely.

My friends and cousins had thought that was pretty crazy, because their siblings drove them crazy most of time. That was understandable. Even so, it would have been cool if my mother gave birth a second time. She wasn't going through another pregnancy again when the first time had been painful as it was.

As I shut my book and stuffed it into my bag, sunshine-yellow to match with my dress, I strolled through the green, heading in the direction of my father's bakery with a spring in my step, waving at a few familiar faces — two construction workers that I'd chatted to.

When I finally arrived at the bakery, I saw there was a new face at the counter. He was a dark haired guy who looked as though he might have been in his late teens to early twenties. We had a lot of those types pass through over the years.

As he juggled the orders, he looked stressed out, even though my colleagues Sophia and Robert were there manning the counter. When he saw me, Robert, smiled at me, before he went back to serving a customer.

The new guy also glanced in my direction and I smiled instinctively at him; he looked like he needed the support. The guy forgot that he was supposed to be listening to a customer because he just stared at me and an intrigued smile hovered around his mouth.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as I saw the frustrated customer, a disgruntled looking man in a Hawaiian print shirt snap his fingers at him. The new guy snapped to attention. Apologised to the customer. Set about making his drink.

Yet...

He couldn't resist aiming a quick grin my way!

I mouthed a 'sorry' to him. I saw him stare at the coffee machine with dread as he tried to remember the correct combination of buttons to press to get the beast working.

Heading towards my father's office at the back, I knocked on the door. When I heard no answer from the other side, I opened it. He wasn't in there.

However, I saw that he'd been doing some paperwork as there were a few sheets scattered on the desk along with a few bundles. On the glossy surface, a few framed photographs took pride of place of my mother and I.

Before I left, I wiped the dust that had gathered on the glass with a tissue. There was one of my parents, much younger, in their twenties in front of the newly opened shop which had my name 'Candice' written in a simple elegant script at the top.

My dad was clean shaven, so he looked like a totally different man to how he looked today with his beard. On his shoulders was a five year old girl dressed in a red dress with stars. My mother looked like she was incredibly proud of him - I could tell by the admiring smile on her face. My dad was an inspiration to me; someone who'd effectively started from very little to set up his own business.

Because of sheer persistence and grit, Jeremy Carroll, a postman's son from Lancashire had left school when he was fifteen. Education hadn't been for him; from a young age, he had a passion for food and my grandmother Geraldine would tell me stories about how, from a young age, he'd cut short his playtime with the village children to watch her cook. Much to his father Fred's chagrin, he'd always wanted to help his mother in the kitchen preparing dishes and memorising the instructions in her cookery books.

Out of Fred Carroll's four sons, his younger son Jeremy was considered the oddball by his father who despaired that he'd ever amount to something. It was sad, but hardly much of a surprise considering Fred had outdated ideas about what professions and interests his sons should pursue.

He was a fifties man; an age when gender roles were dominant. After much conflict with his father about his poor performance in school, he dropped out and left home to go to London where he hunted for a job. By chance, in a pub, Jeremy learned from a guy that he'd befriended that his uncle was chef who was looking for a new apprentice. Of course, my father jumped at the opportunity and managed to persuade the chef to take him on despite his young age. He slaved in that cramp kitchen located in a restaurant which specialised in stodgy English bistro fare, while, privately, during his evenings he taught himself the French classical repertoire, reading a great deal of cookery books which challenged traditional cooking practices.

Instead of the books being heaped in haphazard piles on the floor in a dingy flat (he hadn't been able to afford furniture), the books now lived on a shelf in his office, which I ran my fingers against. I'd remembered the times when I was younger and I'd opened up his cookery books in awe, running my fingers over the pictures, the photography had seemed so real to me and I could imagine the flavours bursting in my mouth.

In the kitchen, I found my father dabbing butter on some mignardises. He always made a batch of pastries each morning, without fail, for nostalgia's sake. He'd been accepted into a cookery academy in Avignon in the summer of 1995, at the tender age of 19. How he'd got in had been through a mixture of luck and skill. He'd was also working for a removal company and one of the clients had been a young Frenchman, who he'd got to talking with as he lugged his furniture up the stairs. The man had been making notes in a notepad, slowly getting frustrated about his failed attempts to find the perfect solution for his bisque, muttering obscenities, eventually throwing the notebook against the wall, raising a bottle of wine against his lips and taking a huge swig. Once finished with his task, Jeremy had retrieved the notebook and glanced at the notes, in French, a language he'd been teaching himself, and calmly went over to the Frenchman who was lying prostrate on the shabby sofa, eyes closed, arm trailing against the floor.

'I think you're going about it the wrong way. The temperature should be higher...' Jeremy said, holding out the notebook to him.

The Frenchman didn't stir, so he thought that perhaps he was asleep, but seconds later his theory was dashed as one eyelid opened, squinting at him quizzically.

'Really? Why is that, my friend?' he said. There had been a edge of competitiveness in his voice, as though he wanted my father to persuade him.

My father took up his challenge. The Frenchman listened carefully to him; this time giving him the attention of both his eyes, not just one. In that moment, a life-long friendship was born as Clement Noir, seven years older than my father, learned from him. These two young men were inseparable as they experimented with French cuisine. It was through Clement's efforts that he managed to arrange for Jeremy to get a place into his father Michel's famous cooking academy. Clement offered him the chance to be his business partner, but although tempted, my father decided that to go it alone and set up his bakery instead. Not that he wasn't grateful to his friend, but he'd always been an independent man.

Clement was disappointed, but he didn't hold it against him. He'd set up a restaurant in London and he'd been awarded two Michelin stars. As he was my godfather, I'd also met his three children, two boys and a girl. Although, we hadn't seen each other since I was eleven, so we might as well have been strangers for all our childhood summers spent together.

When I was a little girl, I'd asked Jeremy why he was so fastidious about his morning mignardises and he said that old Michel had made him turn out a hundred of them for his inspection, and for weeks, he'd never managed to create the perfect one, until one day it just clicked. Making those morning pastries taught him the value of consistency and perseverance, which was the lesson Michel wanted to impart on him.

'Good morning, Dad.' I touched his back, watching him finish off the last of the pastries.

'How was badminton?' He smiled back at me, a cheerful one, which crinkled the skin around his bright hazel eyes, which I'd inherited from him.

'So-so.'

'Does that mean you lost?'

'No comment.'

'Next time, eh?' Dad slung his arm around my shoulders and kissed me warmly on my forehead. 'I predict that Candice Carroll will take back her badminton crown.'

Grinning, I rubbed some flour off his cheek and growled at me like a grizzly bear and I began to chuckle. 'Don't pretend to be an animal now, Jeremy.'

He stared at me like I'd said something wrong. 'Candice, what have I told you about calling me Jeremy?'

'It's your name though.' I was used to this routine.

When I was messing about with him, I'd call him by his first name because I knew how much it annoyed him. There had been a time when I'd started working in the bakery and I'd got it into my head to just call him by his first name because I didn't want to seem as though I'd only got the job because of nepotism, even though that was why I'd got the job. Besides, it seemed less embarrassing to call him Jeremy in front of my coworkers. Those two weeks had driven him mad, so he'd taken me to one side and told me that I could forget about the car rides home and I could just go on the bus instead if I was so determined to call him by his first name. I'd lasted for another week, before I went back to calling him dad because the bus journeys were too long.

'My name is Dad to you.' He gave me a little nudge on the shoulder, reproving me, but I knew that he didn't mind as much. As punishment, he got me to help him carry the trays to the ovens.

'Who's the new guy?' I said, as I watched him close the oven door.

'Oh, that's Jonny. He's a university student. Nice lad. It's his first day, so maybe you could teach him the ropes, sweetheart?' Dad wiped headed over to the sink and began to wash his hands.

I told him that I'd be happy to.

When I went back to front, Jonny was swearing at the coffee machine, the coffee cup was overflowing with liquid and he looked close to giving up altogether.

'Need a little help there, Jonny?' I said, smiling.

The dark-haired guy turned to me, groaning a little. 'I think this machine has it in for me...'

'Just watch.'

I came round to his side and prepared to teach him how the machine worked and when he'd successfully managed to follow my instructions and turn out a perfect cappuccino, he smiled brightly at me, as though he'd had an epiphany. 'Maybe I just needed Little Miss Sunshine all along.'

He held out his hand and before shaking it, I hesitated, inhaling the coffee granules and basking in the warmth of his obvious relief.