by Jenny Oliver
He made a poor effort of brushing off the snow and folded himself down, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his head to look at her.
‘My brother is better today?’
‘No,’ she said with a laugh.
He nodded silently, then stared out ahead of him. ‘I have a problem,’ he said after a second.
‘No, really?’ She looked worried.
He laughed. ‘Nothing serious. I must buy a gift.’
‘Ah, I see. What kind of gift?’
‘I’m not sure yet. That’s my problem. I feel I will only know when I see it.’
‘A tricky gift.’ She laughed.
‘Mais oui.’ He sat back, stretching one leg across the other, raking a hand through his neatly cropped hair. ‘I am on my way to look now. I see you and I think maybe you would like to come? Your taste so far has been…impeccable.’ He smiled.
‘Oh, no, I can’t.’
He nodded and looked forward again, unmoving. ‘That is a great shame.’
‘I have to go back to class soon. I don’t have time.’
‘How long do you have?’ He checked his watch.
She looked guilty. ‘Forty-five minutes.’
He smiled again. ‘I understand.’
‘No, no, you don’t, it’s just I feel I need some time. Something happened in class. I just—’
‘Come anyway.’ He cut her off. ‘Come anyway, just because. Maybe just because I really do need some help.’
Rachel fiddled with her gloves, picking a hole in the wool. The snow had started to get heavier, dusting the pavements like icing sugar.
‘OK,’ she said after a pause. ‘OK, why not?’
‘Bon.’ Philippe stood up and held out his hand to help her up; she took it for a second but let it drop as soon as she was standing. As soon as she did she wished that she hadn’t.
He put his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat and they walked together to the row of little shops in the Marais.
‘Wait a second—what is this?’ Philippe stopped her halfway down the road and then peeled something off the back of her coat. ‘It is a new look, yes?’
She blushed as she looked at the tatty, wet napkin he was holding that she’d used to sit on. ‘It was to protect my coat,’ she said, grabbing it from his hand and scrunching it up in the bin. ‘How embarrassing. I walked the whole way from the park with it hanging off me.’
He blew out a breath. ‘No one will care. They will think it is fashion.’
She raised a brow as if that would never be the case and he laughed as if he completely agreed.
They walked on in the direction of the Marais, their feet leaving a trail of footprints in the light coating of snow as Philippe pointed out landmarks and places she might want to visit some time.
Approaching the network of narrow streets, she saw all the gift shops were bustling, looking warm and inviting, playing classical carols and serving glasses of vin chaud.
‘So what does your friend like?’ Rachel asked.
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Great start. Male or female?’
‘Female.’
She felt a bolt of jealousy that took her by surprise. Who would be buying her presents this year? Not Ben. She always insisted he shouldn’t bother and he never did. Jackie always gave her a bottle of champagne that they drank on Boxing Day. Her dad usually posted her a paperback. And her gran would declare that she was sending a donation to the RSPB or something similar in Rachel’s name—Birds, darling, I much prefer birds to humans. Then there was little Tommy from her class; he always gave her something. Last year it was a santa made out of a loo roll, painted red with a cotton wool beard. She’d left it up all year round.
Philippe paused next to a stall selling herbs and baskets of lavender and she watched as he scooped some dried oregano up and smelt it.
‘This is my favourite. I adore it. Here, smell.’ He held the little silver scoop out for her to have a sniff.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s his stall, you can’t just smell things.’
‘Why, of course you can. It is what it is here for. I think you worry too much about what all these people you don’t know think. You are a chef? Why do you not smell?’
Rachel caught the eye of the stall-holder, who nodded as if he couldn’t care less what she smelt, and leant forward for a quick sniff. ‘Very nice.’
‘Ah, oui. And this.’ He picked up another, crushed rosemary.
‘Again very nice.’ She did a quick embarrassed smell as he went on to sniff the lavender and the nutmeg and the big bags of ground cinnamon. ‘Do you smell everything?’
‘Everything,’ he said, very seriously, and asked the stall-holder to bag up some cinnamon for him. ‘For the vin chaud,’ he said to Rachel.
After paying they strolled on and Philippe turned to her and said, ‘Do you smell nothing?’
‘Well, yeah, I smell some stuff but not in the street.’
‘I think you are mad. The smell, it is the most sensual of all the senses. Here…’ They paused at a fruit and veg shop. ‘What about this?’ He picked up a fig and held it to his nose. ‘It is divine. It is much better than the taste.’
She peered forward, checked the shopkeeper wasn’t looking and had a smell of the fig. ‘It is very lovely. It reminds me of my holidays in Greece when I was little.’
‘Pas oui, of course, it is the best memory of them all. It reminds me of the tree we had in our garden. Henri would make me climb up it to get the biggest figs at the top. One day the branch break and I fall to the floor. And Henri he laugh and that makes me laugh, not cry. I was only six. All that from a fig.’
Rachel thought of her dough and her soft, sweet-smelling Mighty White loaf. She was about to say something about how it could sometimes be too powerful, the memory too overwhelming, but she stopped herself and laughed instead, saying, ‘You’re a crazy smeller.’
‘Yes, that is the case. I am. Look at my nose—it is built for the smelling.’
‘Mine too.’ She laughed, pointing at her own long straight nose that had been the bane of her life.
‘I think you have a very nice nose,’ he said, looking down at her face.
‘I think you have a very nice nose.’ She laughed.
And then they both looked away, as if they were both equally unsure what to say next.
‘I will buy the figs,’ Philippe said and disappeared inside as Rachel looked out into the street, at all the stalls selling gifts and trinkets and delicious delicacies, unable to hold in a smile to herself that he’d said he liked her nose.
Philippe came out with three bags and handed two of them to her. ‘A gift to say thank you for shopping with me.’
‘Oh, thanks, you shouldn’t have,’ she said, surprised, taking the scrunched brown bags from him and peeking inside. The first glistened like rubies—a bag of hundreds of tiny dried cranberries. The second was bursting with thin strips of candied orange thickly coated with crystals of sugar. They felt like the most perfect presents she’d ever been given. ‘These are lovely. Perfect. Thank you.’ She glanced up at him but he was looking away distractedly, staring ahead at the snow-covered canopies of the stalls.
‘They might be good for the baking, you know.’ He shrugged and started to walk on as Rachel had to do a little jog to catch up.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Mais oui.’ He turned to her and smiled. ‘It is all fine.’
‘OK.’ She nodded, shaking off any unease. ‘So say again what it is your friend likes.’
‘She likes beautiful things,’ Philippe said after a moment.
‘Don’t we all?’ Rachel laughed. ‘Expensive, beautiful things.’
‘Ah, non. Not expensive.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think expensive is what she’d want.’
‘Fair enough.’ Rachel stared into the shop window wondering who this perfect woman was. ‘How about a scarf?’ She nodded to the mannequin in front
of them.
‘Too plain. She has one already. Too boring.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘No, no, don’t take it that way. It was a good suggestion. I just think something maybe more like this—’ He pointed to a jewelled box in the next window.
‘Hideous,’ Rachel said before she could stop herself.
He laughed. ‘See, this is why I need a second opinion.’
They strolled on in silence. Rachel didn’t often do silence—usually chattering away to fill the spaces in her mind—but it felt as if silence was something Philippe was comfortable with. And somehow that started to make her comfortable too.
When they paused at a stall selling roasted chestnuts and bought a bag to share, she was almost reluctant when she said, through a mouthful of burning chestnut, ‘You know, I should be getting back.’
‘Mais oui, of course. I forgot. We can go this way.’ He touched her elbow to steer her down a side road and she felt a tiny jolt at the touch.
She thought about Ben saying she’d make someone a good wife one day and she’d known before she asked that it wouldn’t be him. She realised then, as she strolled with Philippe, that it hadn’t been Ben keeping her at arm’s length—well, of course, it had been—but it had been her, too. Who had a two-year relationship that lasted between the hours of four and six in the pre-dawn morning?
Ben was like Tony’s jam tart—looked good but no substance. And she realised, as this French stranger steered her down the street, that she had chosen that.
She had chosen tasteless. Bland.
Tasteless was easier than complexity and flavour. Less work. She had had a boring flan when really she should have been holding out for a coffee profiterole or a violet and blackberry macaroon.
‘Ah, what about this?’
Philippe had stopped midway down the cobbled street. Rachel turned and was caught by the beauty of the window display before she could summon up her usual disdain for anything Christmas.
It was a Russian shop—the window a scene from a fairy tale. Black lacquered boxes, painted with princesses in chariots pulled by fiery red horses and a wake of golden stars, were lined up like presents under huge frosted trees. A snow-capped forest towered high around a figurine of the Snow Queen, decked out in all her silver finery. And hanging from thick satin ribbons along the window were rows and rows of baubles, from big to tiny. There were diamond shapes and twirls or circles and hearts. Some white, some black, some shocking pink, with fairy-tale scenes intricately painted on each.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she whispered.
He clapped his hands as if decided. ‘J’agree. Merci, Rachel.’
‘You found them.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t have done without you.’ He started to walk on.
‘Aren’t you going to get one?’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘You have to get back.’
‘Oh, thanks. Yes.’ She glanced at her watch, having, in that moment, completely forgotten about the time. ‘Yes, I do.’
As they stepped out onto the main street she was checking the traffic to cross the road when her eyes fell on his coat. ‘Look,’ she said and pointed to where a thousand snowflakes had caught in the wool.
He paused, then picked one off and held it on the tip of his gloved finger. ‘It is perfect,’ he said, then took her hand and touched it to her glove where it sat tiny and perfect like a gift.
She felt him looking down at her, watching.
After a pause she blew it away, embarrassed by the whole gesture. ‘I can never believe that each one is meant to be different.’
‘Well, we are all different.’ He shrugged.
‘That’s true.’
‘Every one of us unique.’
‘I know, we could be anyone. I mean, if you think about it, I don’t really know you at all nor you me.’
She looked from his white-flecked coat back up to him and he seemed as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he just smiled and she noticed he had snowflakes on his eyelashes.
They had an hour and a half to make a Christmas-inspired bread.
Marcel was making an apricot, date and nutmeg Panettone. George was muttering about some sort of cherry-brandy yule-log buns. Lacey said nothing, just got to work. Abby looked perplexed—Rachel could see the competition was starting to get to her. She’d cried in the bar last night, weeping that she missed her kids. She’d Skyped them in the morning before class and had come in with red-rimmed, puffy eyes.
As Rachel watched Abby, Cheryl leant across her and picked some coffee grains off the shelf. ‘Sorry, hun, didn’t mean to push,’ she apologised, her cheeks flushing red.
‘No, it’s fine, I was miles away.’ Rachel stared at the ingredients. She thought about Philippe telling her she worried too much about what people thought—she felt it in herself, sticking too much with conventions and not going with her instincts. But her brain was blank. The only thing coming to mind was Easter. Warm hot cross buns that ripped apart like candy floss. She was reminded of the smells in the street today. Of the different spices and the sharp tang as they hit her senses. Of roasting chestnuts, mulled wine packed with star anise, cinnamon and nutmeg, and the brown bags of dried cranberries and candied orange that were stuffed in her jacket pocket.
That was it… Hot Cross Christmas buns. Warm and sticky and sweet. She’d pack them with candied orange zest and slivers of cranberry, raisins, sultanas and glacé cherries. Then glaze them with cinnamon syrup and white icing and when they were opened up she’d have a chocolate and chestnut purée that sank, melting into the warm, fluffy dough.
They worked in silence, heads down, kneading, flouring, rolling, shaping. As Rachel’s dough was rising she tore the skins from her roasted chestnuts, burning her fingers, popping one into her mouth when no one was looking.
Chef was called down to the pâtisserie as she was melting her chocolate and when he left it was as if everyone had been holding their breath and could collectively exhale.
‘Oh, my God.’ It was Abby who punctured the contented silence.
‘What?’ Rachel turned.
‘I’ve used salt instead of sugar.’
‘No, you can’t have done.’
Everyone paused except Lacey, who just carried on silently. Marcel strode over and picked up the container. ‘She has. She has used the salt.’
‘Shit.’ Abby slumped onto her forearms. ‘How can this have happened? I don’t have time to do more. Oh, God, I’m out. How can I tell my kids that I’m out because of some stupid sodding mistake from being tired? You idiot.’ She smacked herself on the forehead. ‘I’m just so tired.’
Rachel watched as her friend started to cry. Hot, fat tears falling into her failed dough.
‘Don’t cry,’ she said,. walking over to helplessly pat her on the back.
‘It’s useless. I’m useless. I’m a failure. A failure. A fucking failure with a stupid husband sailing the fucking Caribbean or wherever the hell Mauritius is.’
‘It is in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa,’ said Marcel.
‘Thank you.’ Abby wiped her nose on the tissue Rachel gave her.
‘Look, just have half of my dough,’ Rachel said.
‘I can’t take your dough.’
‘Yes, you can. Just pick the bits out and he’ll be none the wiser. You’re adding chocolate and vanilla anyway, aren’t you?’
‘But there won’t be enough.’
‘There’ll be plenty.’
‘It’s cheating.’ Lacey stopped kneading and turned round.
‘Who cares? We’re all adults. It’s not school, Lacey.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘And you know he’ll kick her out and she doesn’t deserve to go over a mistake.’
Lacey pursed her lips, tapping the wooden spoon in her hand against her palm.
‘I wouldn’t do it if I though she made crap dough. It was a mistake.’
Lacey was silent.
Then Abby said, ‘Would you tell, Lacey?
’
There was a pause. Rachel watched George and Ali exchange glances, Marcel raised a brow, intrigued at how this would pan out, and Abby looked on with pleading eyes.
‘It’s none of my business,’ Lacey muttered in the end and turned her back to them.
Rachel winked at Abby and went and pulled her dough out of the drawer, tore it in half and the two of them went about picking out all the cranberries and raisins she’d so lovingly folded in half an hour ago.
Chef strode in just as Rachel was running back to her bench, slamming her bowl of dough down hard by mistake. He paused, seemed to smell the air like a lion sensing a change in the atmosphere. Then he walked over to Rachel’s bench, reeking of fags, his expression suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Something happened. And it is usually you.’
‘No, Chef. I’m just mixing my chocolate into the puréed chestnuts,’ she said without looking up.
He waited, and she could feel him staring at her, as if he knew exactly what was going on. Her heart was starting to quicken as she tried to act as nonchalant as possible.
‘Hmm.’ He stuck his finger in the mixture and licked it. ‘You try to be very calm. You are never calm,’ he said, then walked away, not before lifting the tea towel off her dough and scowling at it.
When they came to laying out their breads Rachel had brought in a special box—one that Chantal had given her that Madame Charles had discarded. It was wooden, meant for a small hamper from one of the expensive food shops on the Champs Élysées. The name was embossed on the side in grand, swirling writing. Rachel had lined it with a strip of red wool and piled her soft, squishy but depleted buns inside. Each one had a white star of icing piped on the top. The chestnut and chocolate purée was in a little glass jar nestled in the corner.
Chef peered at it. ‘Presentation—better. Could improve.’
Rachel nodded, holding in a smile that she’d at least moved it up a notch.
He spread the thick chocolate on the ripped-open bun that was still warm and steamed in the cool air. He closed his eyes as he ate, savouring the sweet softness. ‘Very nice. Clever. I didn’t expect… Very nice,’ he said again, as if caught off guard, then he nodded and walked on. Rachel nearly punched the air. Abby gave her a thumbs up.