by Jenny Oliver
‘Miss what?’
‘Your mum’s place.’
Rachel didn’t reply, but went back to pulling on the loose cotton and unravelling a strip of cushion embroidery.
‘I’ve sent you something,’ said Jackie into the silence.
‘What?’
‘You’ll see. I paid a fucking fortune for it to get there before Christmas day.’
‘Thanks. I think.’
‘No probs. What are you doing on Christmas day?’
Rachel paused, then said, ‘Recovering from the final.’ And laughed.
‘That’s the spirit. OK, I’m going. This is costing a fortune. Why is there no wifi there?’
She looked around the dingy little room. ‘If you saw it, you’d understand.’
‘That good, eh? Did I not do so well?’
‘I’m like Rapunzel at the top of a tower.’
‘Bon. Well, you’ll have to hope some French hunk comes to save you. I’m really going now. Oh, actually that reminds me, Ben asked about you. I said you were seeing a dashing Frenchman.’
‘Ha, thanks.’
‘OK, bye. Oh and, Rachel… You have to fight. Not necessarily dirty but you have to fight. You’ll regret it otherwise.’
‘Thanks.’
‘De rien,’ Jackie said and hung up.
Rachel pulled off the loose thread from the cushion and felt suddenly a bit sad that her friend wasn’t there in the room with her. It seemed awfully cold all of a sudden. Outside the snow was unceasing. Whopping great flakes like cricket balls were falling past the window, catching on the sill and making an arc across the panels like fake snow in a toy shop.
She thought of Nettleton, of what everyone would be doing. All the kids would be practising for the choir concert, while their parents would be deciding who would bring the mulled wine. People would be stopping each other in the street or as they were walking their dogs and planning what time they’d get to the pub on Christmas Eve. There’d already be queues outside the butcher for turkeys and the fishmonger would be getting ready for lines of people down the pavement in a couple of days. Rachel found herself actually missing the traditions. Especially the annual Christmas play that she usually rolled her eyes at and refused to be any part of. The others would haul out the moth-eaten Santa suit and the rest of the obscure array of costumes, half of which someone had once pinched from a BBC filming in the village, so Mr Swanson was usually a Regency duke and Jackie, without fail, was a serving wench. Last year they’d brought a donkey on stage, which the minutes of the next parish council meeting had noted as a mistake. She found herself wondering what the story was this year, whether there would be any farmyard animals, who would forget their lines and reduce the cast and audience to tear-filled giggles. One year her dad had played Captain Hook. She wondered if by some miracle he might step forward this year. Would her gran be able to persuade him? Probably not.
She went over to the stove and lit the gas under the kettle, trying not to wonder what her dad was up to and imagining instead the village green and the pond decked in twinkling Christmas lights. Hopefully her gran would get him to the pub at least. He could rarely resist a Whiskey Mac. She stood fiddling with the top of the flour bag as she waited for the kettle to boil, pulling the crumpled sides up so they were perfectly straight and then squashing them down again. It was pointless reminiscing, she thought. She was here in Paris, not home. And whatever else was going on she was there to do a job, they’d sent her there, made this all possible, and the least she could do was return home triumphant.
Tea made, she considered finally taking her exhausted body to bed, but, however hard she tried to ignore it, she knew she would lie awake thinking about what Philippe’s wife looked like. So instead she stayed where she was in the kitchen.
Tomorrow was petits fours. Tiny delicate delights served with coffee. When was the last time she’d practised a macaroon—the bright-coloured French kind with its soft, gooey centre? Or a truffle? How were her chocolate tuiles? Her brandy snaps? Her chocolate ganache hadn’t had the shine of Lacey’s on the first day. Nor had her crème pâtisserie been as glossy and rich.
Unrolling the flour bag again, she pulled out a set of rusty scales from under the surface and a sieve with great holes as if a mouse had chewed on it. Chantal had left her a bag of sugared almonds and some candied lemon peel from the market.
The almonds she decided to crush in a praline that she’d pipe between delicate slices of puff pastry for crisp, flaky millefeuille with a chocolate and orange-blossom icing. The leftover almonds she ground into her shortcrust dough, which she rolled into wafer-thin cups and filled with raspberry pâtisserie crème, candied lemon slices and a physalis.
The rest of the lemon became soft Armagnac truffles, from the leftovers of Marcel’s bottle, rolled in sparkly sugar, the sharp citrus heavenly alongside the bitterest dark chocolate. And unable to stop herself, she made some mint chocolate thins that she sprinkled with salted caramel and ate before they had properly cooled.
She worked for hours making perfect inch-square millefeuille, powder puffs of meringue dribbled with cranberry coulis, even mini round Christmas puddings that Chef would think revolting but pleased her. She packed them up in a box to save for her dad—always a favourite of his in the past.
Cars were starting to thunder down the Champs Élysées before she finally crawled into bed. But she had four hours of the most blissfully satisfying sleep.
Her only thought when the alarm went off was…
He has a wife.
It was probably a good thing, she thought next. No distractions.
He has a wife.
Chapter Thirteen
It was the day before Christmas Eve. The day before the final. Lacey, Rachel, Abby and Marcel were still in. Two people would go today.
Rachel had woken up early, walked to her bike in the snow and pushed it most of the way to the pâtisserie, but cycled in the little sections where the grit had melted the thick frosting on the street. She’d had an espresso and an almond croissant with Françoise, who’d wished her luck. She’d passed Chef, who’d said, ‘You have a nice drink with my brother?’ with a raised enquiring brow.
‘Yes, it was nice, thank you. I hope you had a good dinner,’ she’d replied but hadn’t listened to the answer. She’d had a work station to prep.
The room was silent. The stainless-steel work surfaces glinted in the winter sun that was just peeking through the windows. Her confidence was at its best.
‘Morning.’ Rachel beamed as Lacey strutted in, pausing with surprise at not being the first.
Ten minutes later Marcel breezed in and started to lay out his knives and pots and pans for the day.
She looked around for Abby but there was no sign of her. Chef was on the phone in the corridor. The clock was getting closer to nine. She wondered if Abby’d packed it in, dropped out because of the soufflé disaster. The idea of it made her sad.
At five seconds to nine, Abby burst into the room looking a mess. Haphazard clothing, hair all over the place, white-faced, no make-up—as if she’d just got out of bed.
‘Oh, you didn’t?’ Rachel said under her breath, just catching the glare that Abby gave Marcel.
She snorted into her scarf as she watched Marcel feign his innocent smile while Abby hissed, ‘You slimy little snake.’
While Chef was still distracted by his phone-call Abby started making a racket rummaging through the mound of ingredients on her work surface and the shelf next to her, then rattled through drawers and finally went to investigate the fridge before coming out with a jar of cornichons and fishing one out of the jar.
‘Marcel?’ she whispered and he turned.
‘C’est tres petit. Tres, tres petit. Oui. Comprende?’ she sneered, brandishing her little inch-long pickled cucumber.
Rachel laughed, Lacey looked shocked, while Marcel looked horrified. Abby crunched it between her teeth with a satisfied smile just as Chef strode in.
‘You ar
e hungry, Abby?’
‘Yes, Chef. I was feeling very unsatisfied. But I’m OK now.’
He nodded. ‘Bon. If we have all had enough to eat, we will begin. Quatre. The final four. I am interested to see what you can do. It is time for you all to step up the game, n’est pas? Today the final four will make petits fours.’ He laughed at the symmetry. ‘All day you will make, practise, hone and design and I will watch you either fail or not. Et voilà, we will be down to two.’
Rachel was on fire. She didn’t look up from her worktop once. Her fingers were dancing over ingredients. Slices of figs dusted with white snow sugar sat on squares of honey-infused filo with brandy syrup and a mascarpone cream. She made cubes of chocolate and pistachio sponge so light they dissolved on the tongue, with a coating of coffee caramel and a layer of chocolate ganache with a shine like a mirror and shavings of gold leaf that fluttered as she moved from one delicacy to the next.
‘Christ, no.’ A tray of Abby’s chocolate-dome marshmallows slipped and she had to catch them in her arms like a juggler, but Rachel didn’t turn to look.
Next she made tiny swans from swirls of crumbly hazelnut Viennese biscuit sandwiched with piped lychee and hazelnut cream with white-chocolate necks that dipped into little heads and beaks. Cherries soaked overnight in Armagnac drenched their alcohol into smooth bitter chocolate truffles rolled in chocolate filings and were placed in individual silver filigree cases. A rainbow of macaroons—purple lavender and almond, nutmeg and grapefruit, salted caramel and chocolate, vanilla, almond and blackberry—was laid to rest on baking trays as she whipped up the egg whites for billowy red-berry meringues.
The one time she looked up she saw, through the glass wall, Philippe walking up the stairs. He looked tired, his shirt collar was undone and his hair scruffier than normal. He paused, as if about to turn her way but didn’t. She went back to spooning out her quenelles of meringue.
There was a crash to her left, then she heard Marcel shout, ‘Merde!’ He’d dropped his tray of macaroons on the floor, the tiny discs rolling about all over the place. Abby gave a snort of laughter. No one went to help.
But when Rachel over-whipped her cream with four minutes to go Abby pushed her bowl over, gesturing for her to take a spoonful, but Rachel shook her head.
‘He’d taste your signature,’ she said and Abby smiled.
When the time was up Rachel looked down at her delights for the first time with unadulterated pride.
She’d brought with her in a basket some mismatched plates that Chantal had bought from a bric-a-brac sale. They were all different patterns and sizes, some flamboyantly gold-edged, others haphazardly painted with flowers or swirling blue and pink glaze. One had a hunting scene on the front, another fish swimming through reeds.
Each was the perfect stand for her treasures, which sparkled and glistened and winked like diamonds.
She didn’t look at anyone else’s. It didn’t matter about the competition. Hers would speak for themselves.
Chef went straight to Marcel’s bench. ‘This is all you have? The whole day and this is what you show me?’
‘They are here.’ Marcel pointed sheepishly to the trays of macaroons in the bin.
‘You should spend more time sleeping, monsieur. You would be less clumsy, eh?’ Chef tasted what was left of the macaroons with a shrug and tore apart his apple and nutmeg financiers, complaining of a stodgy lack of rise.
Moving on to Lacey he stood for what seemed like hours, taking second bites, rolling round praline slices on his tongue, snapping tuiles that broke with a loud crack. ‘They look magnifique. Magnifique. The taste…’ He kissed his fingers. ‘These, though, I am not so sure.’
Rachel peered over to see what he disapproved of—mini banana and maraschino cherry tarte tatins. She could have told Lacey that he wouldn’t want a tarte tatin messed with.
Rachel looked at Abby, whose hands were shaking as she brushed her hair out of her eyes when Chef strolled over, clearly enjoying himself.
‘Tell me,’ he said, pointing to Abby’s counter.
‘Erm well, these are um shortbreads with dark chocolate orange centres and er, these…’ Abby took a breath to calm herself down. ‘These are apple and blackberry macaroons, finger slices of cherry and amaretti Bakewell, over here are pink grapefruit and lavender bonbons, then sweet sherry and date puff-pastry slices and finally these are mint chocolate eclairs, which I’ve infused the crème pâtisserie with fresh mint and used an essence in the ganache.’
‘Bon,’ he said after tasting them all.
‘That’s it?’ Abby said, aghast.
He shrugged. ‘They are good. C’est bon. What more do you want me to say?’
‘I don’t know. I—’ She didn’t finish. They all knew that good wasn’t good enough.
Rachel could see the tears in her eyes and for a second she wanted to throw hers on the floor and save Abby’s place in the competition. She thought of her little kids waiting at home for Mum to win. But then she thought of the little kids waiting for her—3B and their Sunday School banner—and Jackie and the village waiting, willing her to win.
Gliding over to Rachel’s counter, Chef paused. He pushed back his mop of curly hair and stood against the stainless steel, looking, and finally leant forward, resting his chin in his hand.
‘Oh la la, Flower Girl,’ he muttered, before straightening up and spreading his arms wide. ‘Finally. Finally we see what you can really do. No more hiding, eh?’
She shook her head. He plucked a Viennese swan between finger and thumb and savoured the flavour on his tongue. Then he followed it with a cherry truffle and closed his eyes, before taking another. Finally he crunched on a macaroon and slapped his hand on the counter.
When he opened his eyes she thought maybe she might have seen a smile.
‘Superbe,’ he whispered. ‘Absolutely superbe.’
After that there was no question who was in the final.
The words were a formality but he said them all the same. ‘Lacey Withers and Rachel Smithson. Tomorrow, you will compete.’
Chapter Fourteen
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The final. The trial meant being at the pâtisserie at four a.m. They would have half the display counter each and they would make the treats for the hungry shoppers who crowded in on the day before Christmas, eyes wide, for the perfect delicacies to box up and take home.
The others—George, Abby, Cheryl, Ali, Tony and Marcel—would stock the shop with bread: baguettes, fruit loaves, soda bread, crisp white rolls etc. The winner was the contestant with the largest queue, the first to sell out and the one to wow Chef Henri and his customers.
Rachel walked out late, having stood absorbing the look of the counter and her new workspace for what seemed like hours. It hadn’t stopped snowing. The streets were coated deep and white like icing. Children in mittens were jumping in snowdrifts, their excitement contagious, and snowmen dotted the pavement as far as she could see. Some huge with carrot noses and wonky stone buttons, others tiny with little sticks as arms and feet and satsuma slices as mouths. As she shut the door of the shop she heard someone call her name and looked up to see Philippe unlocking his car over the other side of the road, his mobile to his ear.
She didn’t stop. Just smiled and walked away leaving his wave in the air. She didn’t need any distractions. This, now, was about her.
At home she boiled the kettle and got out her notebook and started planning. Dreaming. Letting her mind drift to locked places. Of peppermint fondants and miniature yule logs. Of chocolate Christmas cake, because her mum hated fruit cake, shaped like a house and roofed with chocolate buttons, the doorknob a silver ball and the windows piped white icing. Of glossy dark chocolate poured into antique silver moulds, with lumps of dried orange and cherry and hazelnuts, then pressed into coloured foil and hung from the tree. Of warm arms wrapped round her as she sneaked a button off the roof of the house or pressed the plastic robin into the Cadbury Flake chimney pot.
At the sound of a quiet knock on the door, she pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, redid her ponytail and went to answer it. Chantal stood on the doorstep, bags of shopping all up her arms, her winter boots on and coat buttoned up tight.
‘I can not stop but I bring you this.’ She turned around and bent to pick up a pot, all her bags sliding forward in a heap. ‘Oh, merde.’ She swore and, dumping the bags, picked up the pot properly and held it out to Rachel.
In it was a branch. Not silver but brown—the colour of its bark. It was pushed into Oasis in a terracotta flower pot and every twig was tied with silver bows.
‘For Christmas Eve,’ she said.
Rachel stared at it and as she did a lump the size of one of her mini macaroons formed in her throat. This woman had been so nice to her just because she couldn’t bear to think of someone living in such a dingy space at Christmas; she had made her flat look like a car-boot sale—but a lovely, colourful one—and given her a bike and been her friend and praised her cooking. And yet this she couldn’t take.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Rachel reached out and stroked one of the ribbons. ‘But I can’t accept it. I’m sorry.’
She could see the look of disappointment on Chantal’s face.
‘It really is very lovely. I just can’t have a Christmas tree.’
Chantal paused. Looked right and left and to her shopping on the floor. ‘You don’t like Christmas?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Something bad happen at Christmas?’
She nodded.
Chantal looked at the branch. ‘Well.’ She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. ‘This is not a Christmas tree,’ she said, glancing back up at Rachel. ‘It is a French brindille. How do you say in English?’
‘A twig?’
‘Oui. A French twig. For you.’ She held it aloft. ‘A good luck French twig. For you. Nothing to do with Christmas. Why you think it is Christmas? Does it look like a Christmas tree? Non. You see, I bring it for good luck.’
Chantal then put the pot down on the bench outside Rachel’s front door and gathered up all her shopping bags. ‘It can sit here. Bringing luck,’ she said, pushing her bulging bags back up her arm. ‘I have to go prepare dinner for all my family. They are all coming. Tomorrow.’ She rolled her eyes.