Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,53

came up of him looking absurdly drunk with two models draped over him and a gossipy headline in Se og Hør saying “No Sightings of the Playboy Prince . . . Is He in Rehab?” and he winced and turned round quickly in case anyone at the hotel had seen it. Thank God they didn’t read the Norwegian papers. He had been briefly outraged, wanted to say of course he wasn’t in rehab—but the real story, of course, was worse, and oh my goodness, the last thing he needed was everyone to know he’d actually been banished. He’d shut the web page and decided to block everything out from the outside world. It was actually rather easier to do that on Mure than he’d realized.

Finally, at last, he found an old artist who said he could maybe do it. He lived in the north and worked with light and was willing to come in—at great expense, but Konstantin never noticed expense, and fortunately Joel’s budget was generous—and “see if the space worked for him.”

Konstantin had asked if the space often worked for him and didn’t receive much of an answer, but it was the best he could do. The artist insisted on flying in for a morning and out again, by which time apparently his artistic sensibilities would have taken in all they needed to know.

“I need to charm him,” Konstantin announced to the kitchen. “He needs to want to make one of his creations here.”

“I thought it was just hanging lights on a lamppost,” said Isla.

“Me too,” said Konstantin.

Konstantin was much more crestfallen than he would admit. He was used to impressing people fairly easily, something about himself that had somewhat evaporated in the last month. Still, either the artist wouldn’t care or he’d tell the papers, neither of which was ideal.

“I don’t know how to impress him. And he’s only here for breakfast.”

“You could make croissants,” said Isla. She meant it as a joke, but Gaspard came skidding across the kitchen like he was on roller skates.

“You make croissant?” he said, his lip curling.

Isla couldn’t help it, by habit she trembled slightly under his gaze. “Uhm . . . Flora showed me once.”

“You do it?”

“Well, I—”

“Aha! I knew it. Do not lie of croissants!” He turned to stalk away.

“I am not lying of . . . about croissants.”

The only reply was a contemptuous sniff.

“Okay then! We’ll do it!” said Isla, surprised at herself.

“You cannot pronounce the word, how you do it?”

Isla couldn’t believe where she found the courage. “You’ll see,” she said.

“I will see,” said Gaspard, but there was hope as well as disdain in his voice. “Pot boy, he help you.”

“I’m sure I can do it by myself.”

“No. You watch and learn.” He pointed at Konstantin. “Or if ees rubbish, you can forget.”

Which was how they found themselves, the night before the artist, Gunnar, arrived, up at four o’clock in the bloody morning—Isla resigned, Konstantin astounded—Isla having to come in the freezing dark to the warm, still kitchen in the middle of the night.

Gaspard had refused to let her use Flora’s recipe and left his own instead. She didn’t really remember much of Flora’s methods anyway. Spread chilled butter. Then roll it into the dough she’d started the night before. Then fold over the dough. Then chill. Then do it again. And again.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, looking at the enormous mound of butter. “How does anyone ever have the patience to do this? I forgot it was such a pain.”

“No, is croissant,” said Konstantin, trying to figure out the coffee machine and hoping if he did it badly enough that Isla would just take over and do it for him. She didn’t get his joke either. He straightened up. “Don’t people make croissants every day?”

“Yes,” said Isla. “Insane people.”

Outside an owl hooted. It was so late and dark and odd to be in the kitchen, they both half smiled, Isla immediately stopping herself in case it looked like she was smiling at him on purpose.

They parceled out the dough between them and tried to smear the cold butter over.

“If anything gets warm it is . . . ‘poubelle,’” said Isla, reading carefully off the instructions. “What does that mean?”

“It means you put it in the bin,” said Konstantin without thinking.

Isla glanced at him. “You speak French?”

Konstantin shrugged, annoyed he had given himself away. “Ah, hardly any.”

He certainly didn’t mention he also spoke Swedish and German.

“I mean, why are you working here?” said Isla. “You obviously hate