by Jenny Oliver
‘It’s not so bad,’ Abby offered.
‘And you had hurt your hands,’ Cheryl chimed in softly. ‘You can’t be expected to do your best if you’re injured.’
‘Yes. Absolutely. You’re quite right. That’s exactly what the wife said. She arrives this afternoon. I told her someone else already went out yesterday. We’ll have a couple of nice days in Paris. Spot of Christmas shopping and all that. Maybe go up the Tower. Nice view from the top of the Pompidou, so I’m told.’
‘Where are you staying?’ asked Rachel.
‘The Ritz.’
‘Oh.’
‘And you?’ he asked, whisky glass to his lips.
‘Not the Ritz.’ She laughed.
Around the table people had started talking about Christmas plans for when they went home.
‘I’m flying back on Christmas Eve, straight after the final event. Not that I’ve a hope after today.’ Abby poured more vin blanc. ‘Hopeless. How can you tell someone their pastry is hopeless? Like a soggy sock, he said. Here, taste this—does it taste like a soggy sock?’
Rachel took a bite of the boozy, sugar-encrusted mince pie and shook her head. It tasted sweet and delicious to her, of plump sticky raisins, spiced brandy and flaky, buttery puff pastry.
Marcel sat forward, twirling his half-empty glass of rum between his fingers, wolf-eyes locking on Rachel. ‘When do you go home?’
‘Boxing Day,’ she said, glancing away, hoping the conversation would move on.
‘Boxing Day?’ repeated George. ‘You got family here or summit?’
She shook her head. ‘No. No family.’
Marcel sat back, swirling his drink in his glass, and she could feel him watching her closely.
‘What will you do on Christmas?’ Abby asked.
‘Sleep probably. I think Christmas Eve will be a big day whether we’re in the final two or not.’
‘But it’s Christmas…’ said George, pulling open a packet of crisps and glancing round as some instrumental Christmas music started up as if illustrating his point.
‘I know. But really it’s just a day like any other.’
Abby looked at her as if that was certainly not the case.
Rachel shrugged.
Marcel leaned forward; the perfection of his features made her want to reach out and trace them. ‘So you do not do Christmas?’ he asked with a quirk of a dark brow.
‘Non.’ She smiled, a touch shyly under his gaze. ‘I like Easter.’ She laughed.
Abby asked why she didn’t like Christmas but Rachel did a Lacey and pretended she hadn’t heard.
‘Interesting. Well…’ Marcel sat back and licked his bottom lip. She felt a shoe brush her foot and pulled away before realising it was his. Brown hair falling in front of his eye, he pushed it away and went on, ‘If you get lonely, you are welcome to spend the day with me.’
Rachel giggled and felt her cheeks start to pink. ‘Merci, Marcel.’
‘De rien,’ he replied with a shrug, his lips turning up into the hint of a smile.
That night she strolled back from the bus stop; the rain had stopped for now and the sky was completely clear. The shadows of the plane trees speckled the road like puppets in the moonlight and the puddles of water glistened like crystal. Looking up at the few stars above her, she felt a rush of excitement.
‘Not bad,’ she said out loud. ‘They tasted not bad.’ And allowed herself a surge of pride.
At her door she found Chantal sitting on the thin wooden bench on the landing, knitting what appeared to be an incredibly long scarf in purple and maroon wool. She was buttoned up in her camel coat and scarf and Rachel wondered how long she’d been there.
‘Bonsoir, ma petite. What did you cook today?’
Rachel unlocked the door as Chantal packed up her needles and followed her in.
‘Cheese pies.’
‘Ah, très bon. I put the kettle on?’
‘OK.’ Rachel watched her from the doorway, a little warily, as Chantal made herself at home—filling the kettle, laying out cups and a plate for the pies, then hoisting another huge bag onto the chair.
‘I bring more things.’
Rachel unwound her scarf and pulled off her gloves. ‘Chantal, you don’t have to.’
Chantal looked round as if it was obvious she did. Then began laying out her bounty. Another bedraggled plant. A bright blue frame, a horse ornament with only three legs, a throw for the sofa, a green glass vase with a crack down one side, and a lace doily that she placed in the centre of the table under the teapot. ‘Et voilà.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Thank you, Chantal,’ she said, thinking of all her minimalist white furniture and key pieces from Anthropologie and Heal’s back home.
The flat was coming to life. Splashes of colour and all the little extras beginning to make it more homely. It wasn’t her taste but it was certainly better than it had been.
Before she left, full of cheese pies and tea, Chantal threw an orange linen napkin over the sidelight so it cast a soft, warm yellowy glow on the room. She stood back and said with pride, ‘It is nearly perfect, yes?’
Chantal was waiting the next night as well, when Rachel came home with strawberry tarts overfilled with crème pâtisserie so the strawberries wobbled precariously on top and most had slid off into the box.
‘Not very pretty.’ Chantal had laughed. ‘But très bon,’ she said, licking her fingers and depositing a clock, a stripy rug that had begun to unravel and a red and white spotty biscuit tin.
With the tea and cake over she clapped her hands together and beckoned to Rachel. ‘Now you come downstairs with me.’
Rachel looked outside; it had started to snow, light flakes frosting up the window. Chantal was wrapping up in her layers.
‘Come,’ she said again, more forcefully.
Rachel made a face behind her back, as if she really didn’t want to, but pulled on her coat and boots and tramped down the stairs after her thinking about how tired she was and how many steps she’d have to trudge back up again.
Outside Chantal beckoned her into the alley alongside the front door.
‘Really?’ Rachel questioned, thinking this might be some crazy human-trafficking ploy. How well did she actually know Chantal?
When Rachel peered round the corner, Chantal lifted a hand to point and said, ‘Et ici!’
Rachel looked at where she was indicating and there, tied to a lamppost with a chain and padlock, was a rusted old fold-up bike. Chantal slipped her the key.
‘My niece, she didn’t want it. She was going to leave it in the road.’
The bike was turquoise, scratched and rusted with Mirabelle written down the side in white bubble writing and a white wicker pannier on the front.
‘For your cakes.’ Chantal laughed, pointing at the basket, which she had strung with silver tinsel.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Rachel ran her hand over the handlebars.
‘You say nothing.’
‘I’m so touched.’
‘Ah, you are sweet. Joyeux Noël.’ Chantal patted her on the arm and walked over to her 2CV. Heaving open the battered door, she got in and drove away while Rachel stood where she was, one hand still clutching the handlebars, and waved.
The following day, Rachel cycled to the pâtisserie, the tiny specks of blizzarding snow hitting her cheeks, making her feel alive and excited as she pedalled as fast as she could. Who’d have thought she’d be cycling the streets of Paris like a local?
Locking up her bike, she saw Philippe, her Religieuse man, drive past and she put her head down, unsure why, but the thought of talking to him made her fumble her lock and then drop it in the snow by mistake.
As she walked round to the front of the shop she saw he was just coming down the street and it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him.
‘Bonjour.’ He smiled, waving from a couple of metres away. Like hers, his scarf was up over his chin to avoid the pelting snow and when he got close he had to wipe the
moisture from his face. ‘It is good weather, non?’
‘Hi. Yes. Bonjour.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Look, you know, I’m sorry about the other day. With Chef. It was very embarrassing’
‘It’s not a problem. I know what he’s like.’ Philippe shrugged. He was much taller than her, which she wasn’t used to, Ben being about five foot seven, and she had to glance up when he spoke. Brushing the snow off the front of his coat, he went on, ‘Henri’s my brother. We have worked in the same building for a very long time.’
‘Your brother? Wow.’
Stepping forward, Philippe opened the door for her. ‘I’m not sure wow is quite right, but, yes, he’s my brother. He is less…let’s just say his bark is worse than his bite.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You take my word for it. He er…’ He paused, changed tack. ‘He is consumed by it, by the baking. And I think it makes him—’ he blew out a breath ‘—frustrated when it doesn’t all go his way. As he would like. He doesn’t understand that not everyone is like him. Their brains are different. Oui?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Life has never worked out quite how it should for him. He’s OK. I promise.’
‘OK.’ She looked at him dubiously. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
As he gestured for her to go inside she hovered by the open door, pointing for him to go first instead, trying to be polite, but he stood firm, hand out to encourage her to go in. She hesitated and then they were suddenly both going through the door together, bashing into each other so their shoulders hit and they concertinaed in like an accordion.
Philippe laughed. She could feel the deep rumble where their bodies touched.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Rachel muttered.
‘It was my fault. Not like a gentleman.’ He laughed again and she noticed how his eyes crinkled up at the corners. And how his hair, neatly combed to one side, had flopped a little out of place. When he smiled his teeth were perfect and his long aquiline nose with its bump on the bridge seemed suddenly to give him an air of distinction. She hadn’t thought of him as good-looking—not in the conventional way like Marcel or Ben—but now, as he smiled in the doorway she realised he was handsome. Like a nineteen forties movie star.
And she also realised that she’d been staring.
‘OK, then. Good. Lovely. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir, Rachel. It was nice to see you again.’
‘Yes. You too. Yes. I have to go now. I’m going to be late. If I don’t get a move on.’ She was mumbling on as he watched.
‘Of course.’ He stood to the side to let her pass.
About to hurry up the stairs, she paused with her hand on the banister, wondering if she’d been rude. No man had ever been quite so gentlemanly with her before. Certainly not Ben and his four a.m. visits and no sleeping over.
‘Did you—?’ She turned back. ‘Did you enjoy your Religieuse?’
‘Very much.’ Philippe smiled, straightening his tie.
‘Good.’ She nodded, waited to see if he was going to say anything else and when he didn’t she turned and flew up the stairs, two at a time, without looking back.
Walking into the workshop, she found she was the last one to arrive. With poor Tony gone it was down to seven of them. Everyone was waiting, standing straight like toy soldiers behind their work stations.
‘Today is bread day,’ shouted Chef as he marched in the room.
Rachel had known it was coming. Lacey had told Marcel in confidence that bread was Chef’s pièce de résistance. It was all he cared about.
‘If I could—’ he stood at the front, hands on hips, nose in the air ‘—I would bake nothing. Nothing but bread. It is the essence of our existence. The food of generations. It is life. Bread. Le pain. Jesus—even Jesus—saw the promise of the loaf of bread.’
Rachel wanted to say that she thought the Feeding of the Five Thousand had another angle more important than the loaf but now certainly wasn’t the time. She glanced at Marcel, who rolled his eyes, which caught her off guard and made her burst out in a little laugh.
‘You find bread funny? Rachel, tell us what you find so funny about bread.’
‘Nothing. I don’t find it funny at all.’
Chef walked over and towered over her. ‘No. Rachel is the expert, it seems. Today Rachel,’ he sneered, slamming his hand down on the counter, ‘will be teaching us how to make the bread that she finds so funny.’
Chapter Eight
‘No, really. I couldn’t p-possibly,’ Rachel stammered at the idea of having to demonstrate to everyone.
‘Bake,’ he ordered.
‘Oh, really.’ Lacey sighed under her breath as she strutted over to Rachel’s counter.
‘We will all watch, Rachel.’
Rachel felt her hands shaking. Chef was standing so close in front of her she could feel his breath on her face. Everyone gathered round and stared in uncomfortable silence.
Gathering all her ingredients and a large mixing bowl, she took a deep breath and tried to calm the nerves that were shooting through her, but when she poured out some flour into her scales half of it tipped out into a heap on the counter.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Abby.
‘Non. It is Rachel’s work. Rachel will tidy it.’
Lacey tapped the surface, her diamonds clinking together, her lipstick drawing into the grooves around her pursed lips. Marcel was lounging back. For a second Rachel wondered if he had tried to make her laugh on purpose. She glanced longingly at the door. She’d swap this moment for a thousand Home Ec lessons with their Hitler teacher Ms Potter breathing down her neck.
Chef was clicking his fingers for her to get a move on. Ali was writing notes and was about to say something but Abby silenced him.
‘I don’t think I can—’ Rachel started to say as she scooped up the flour she’d wasted. But as she instinctively used it to cover the board for later, she was all of a sudden reminded of her mum doing exactly the same. Can’t waste it. Think of all the work that went into picking and grinding the little sods.
And it was as if she were there suddenly, pulling up the stool next to her; Rachel could practically smell the Estée Lauder. Why are you doing that? It’d be easier like this. Don’t worry too much about scales, feel how much you need—sense it. Bread should be about you. What flavour do you like?
Everyone at school has Mighty White.
Well, let’s make Mighty White, then. She’d laugh.
Rachel reached for the wheat grains and malt that her mum would add for sweetness and wholemeal to her starchy white bread. She glided through the motions as all the rest of them blurred into a mist beside her. She was aware Chef was talking, but she wasn’t listening. All she could hear was her mum, whispering words she’d been blocking out for years—the tone of her voice, her laugh, the touch of her hand on her shoulder, the way she’d brush her hair out of her eyes or sigh at how slow sieving things was. Shall we just chuck it in? Come on, no one will know.
It had been much easier to teach little kids their alphabets, Rachel realised, than step back into a bakery.
When she went to put the bread in the drawer to prove, she looked up and was surprised to find all the faces staring at her.
‘I’ll leave it for an hour,’ she said slowly, coming out of her trance.
There was silence for a second or two, where people glanced at one another, as if they’d all been somehow bewitched by Rachel’s demonstration. Finally Chef tapped the table and said, ‘Bon. Everyone please to the front.’ He seemed a littler quieter than usual. Less aggressive. ‘I will make soda bread while the dough rises.’
‘Was that OK?’ Rachel whispered to Abby.
‘Well, aside from you completely ignoring his every instruction, I’d say it was bloody marvellous.’
She didn’t listen to any of the soda bread instructions, just thought about the fact that twice now she had baked bread when she had been at her lowest point—lonely or afraid—and both times
it hadn’t been the horror that she had imagined. It had actually been quite comforting. Sort of like a hug.
Out of the oven Rachel’s bread was beautiful. Exactly like the fake Mighty White her mum used to make.
‘This is delicious,’ sighed George with his mouth full.
‘Very tasty,’ Lacey managed through a tight grimace.
By lunchtime everyone had had quite enough of bread and they were all going to the bar, but Rachel cried off with the excuse that she had some stuff to buy. Instead she sat in the park on her own.
She found an empty bench and brushed off the snow with her glove, then sat on an old Pret a Manger napkin she found in her bag. The air was sparkling like a shower of glitter as the snow fell through the pine trees that loomed above her, big and dark and exotic. Huge pine cones jutted from the branches, white tipped with snow like porcupines, and birds dotted from branch to branch shaking the dusty sleet from their feathers.
All Rachel could think about was bread. To begin with the memories had been beautiful. Now she just felt sad. Drained. Deflated and vulnerable, stripped of every barrier she had in place. It was as if she could see the hole in her heart and it was bigger than she’d ever let herself believe.
Christmas lights were twinkling in every tree, glowing stars dangled amongst the branches, and all along the street angels were looped across the road by their wings. She watched the people hurrying past on their lunch breaks, the pavement packed, everyone carrying bags of Christmas shopping. She heard carols echo from the nearby church choir practice and thought of her and Jackie singing in stupid voices as teenagers at the school Christmas choir service. Rachel pulled her hat down over her ears.
‘Is this seat taken?’
She looked up, surprised, and saw Philippe, his grey woollen overcoat hanging open over his suit. Rachel shook her head and moved her bag along to make room. ‘No, please sit.’
