The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

by Jenny Oliver

  ‘They are untidy, haphazard. Merde. They are untrustworthy. They have no timings, no precision, ah no. No regular, reliable precision. And they make some things that are complex but many that are simple, for the children. The food, it is a disaster.’ He shook his head, stared down at the dirty floor. ‘But,’ he said, looking back up at the group. ‘But the flavours, they are sensational. The combinations—delightful. I taste and I am in heaven. It is…’ He shook his head. ‘It is incroyable. Some things better maybe than I could have made.’

  Abby did an excited little clap and Rachel tried to hold in her smile while George punched her on the arm.

  ‘It is difficult. Très difficile. I am in a position that I do not find myself. My ‘eart and my ‘ead, they are at war.’ He laughed to himself. ‘So I think who is ready. And I think that one of the people is and the other is not. They have only just begun.

  ‘I want to tell you that I took a wrong path too early—you will understand. I did everything too quickly, too young. I was in too much of a hurry. I was cooking and baking someone else’s style before I had found my own. And this I think is why I am here. Why I am not like the others, on the television. I am not Raymond or Gordon or Marco. I am here, because after everything I want just to be me. And I want to have my style, my way. And I do not need the books or the prizes to tell me what that is.

  ‘You all have a signature and a style, but some are less loud than others. With practice they will get louder. I have pushed you all to make them as loud as they can be, for now.

  ‘A baker’s signature must be strong and confident. And that is what I see in Ms Lacey. And that is why she must win. Because she is ready. She ‘as her style. Congratulations, Lacey. You are my winner.’

  Chef wiped his eye with his cuff as if perhaps there was a hint of a tear.

  There was silence in the room for a moment. Rachel waited to feel a sense of overwhelming disappointment but it didn’t come. So instead she started clapping and then slowly everyone else joined in and she jumped off her stool and gave Lacey a hug.

  ‘Congrats.’ She smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lacey was having trouble controlling the tears streaming down her face, as if someone had tipped a bucket over her head. ‘I’m so ashamed,’ she wept. ‘I’m so ashamed I didn’t say good luck to you, Rachel.’

  ‘Forget about it.’ Rachel waved her away.

  ‘You were tough competition. Well done. I would have liked it if we both could have won.’

  Rachel raised a brow. ‘No, you wouldn’t.’

  Lacey laughed and blew her nose. ‘No, you’re quite right, I wouldn’t at all.’ It seemed the personality Lacey’d kept locked tight was finally being allowed out to play.

  Everyone gathered round to congratulate her and Rachel stood back, watching. She felt a strange sense of relief come flooding through her and as she breathed out it was as if she hadn’t exhaled since four a.m.

  ‘I wanted to choose you.’ Chef was suddenly at her side. ‘But I couldn’t.’

  Rachel looked up at him. ‘I know. It’s good. It was right. You’re right. I’m not ready.’

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘I see you, Rachel. I see what you have, and that you struggle with it. But you are good. I said once you have a shred of promise, but I was wrong. You have a lot of promise. A lot. And more important you have your own way. Don’t ever stop now. I stopped and it let me find what I really wanted. I think this is the same for you. You have stopped and now you start again. And any time you want to come for help or advice you come to me. Oui.’

  ‘Oui. Thanks, Chef. Not such a tyrant after all, are you?’ She bashed him on the shoulder and grinned. ‘And any time you want to come to a picturesque English village, you come to me, oui?’

  ‘Mais non.’ He shook his head. ‘That will never happen.’

  Chef walked away over to Lacey and Abby pulled herself up on the stool next to Rachel. ‘You were robbed.’

  ‘No. It was the right choice. I mean, blimey, did you actually see my croissants? Grotesque doesn’t even cut it.’

  Abby laughed. ‘The Grotesque Baker. That’s what you could call your shop.’

  ‘That’d have them queuing up!’ Rachel raised a brow and shook her head.

  ‘I’ll never forgive myself, you know, about the soufflé.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘I really am sorry.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’

  Abby undid her apron and, pulling it off, folded it neatly in her lap, then asked, ‘Do you want to come back to the UK with me tonight for Christmas?’

  ‘Ahh, thanks, but no. I’m gonna stay here. Catch up on some sleep. Maybe even do some baking, you never know.’

  The bell above the door tinkled as someone walked in and looked around, confused at the lack of stock.

  ‘We are closed,’ Chef shouted. ‘Go away and come back after New Year.’

  Abby snorted. ‘He certainly has a way with the customers, doesn’t he? Good job probably that you don’t have to work with him for a month.’ She hopped down off her stool. ‘Rachel, I have to say that I don’t really like the idea of you being alone for Christmas. If I didn’t have the kids I’d—’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’ Rachel thought of the snowflake drifting down to land on the tip of her nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not really alone.’

  Abby looked puzzled but knew from the look on Rachel’s face it was pointless pushing any further.

  Then Chef cut in by yelling, ‘Françoise! The champagne.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Christmas Day Rachel woke up late to church bells ringing. Opening the shutters, she was greeted by a snow-white Champs Élysées and a twinkling avenue of trees. For a few seconds at least it was completely still, no sound of traffic at all.

  The box from Jackie had arrived the night before and she’d put it under her Christmas branch.

  With tea and a hot almond croissant she untied the bow and pulled off the lid. Inside were lots of crumpled tissue paper and some pine cones, like a real Christmas box. It’d been sprayed with some kind of pine scent that pervaded the whole room. Underneath the pale blue tissue paper was a beautiful, gilt-edged notebook from Jackie. Inside the front cover she’d written, ‘Our Star-Baker’s Notes.’ Rachel flicked through the empty pages and imagined herself filling them with all the new recipes and tricks she’d learnt. Putting it to one side, she lifted the next layer of tissue to find a copy of the latest best-seller from her dad and a card from her gran with two baby goats in a box on the front saying she’d adopted ‘Pierre and Marie’ and they were living happily in a sanctuary in central France, about two hours south of Paris—perhaps she could pop in and see them if she had time. She gave a snort of laughter at the idea of visiting a pair of goats, and propped the card up on the window sill next to her snow-globe.

  At the bottom of the box was a crisp white envelope. Croissant in her mouth, Rachel tore it open to find a card signed by practically the whole village; she had to turn it on its side to read all the different messages that had been squeezed onto the paper, all wishing her good luck and best wishes and hoping she came home safely because they missed her. She held it to her chest for a moment and had to wipe her eyes with the cuffs of her jumper.

  About to screw up the envelope with the rest of the rubbish, she just caught the edge of something else nestled inside. Pulling it out, she saw it was a photograph of an empty high-street chain bakery. On the back Jackie had scrawled, ‘Mrs Norris has said two-year lease, rent-free first year (She’s desperado to let it. There’s a bright side to the recession!)’

  Rachel stared at the picture, holding it as close to her eyes as possible to see every little detail. Then she kissed the image of the bakery and closed her eyes for a second before propping it up on the window sill and standing back to stare at it from a distance.

  It was all getting a bit too much; she had to take a small breather and drink her tea, her eyes continually drawn
back to the cards and the photo. Never had she wanted to be back home more.

  After a couple of minutes she went back to the box and found the last gift. Stuffed in the corner underneath a wodge of tissue was a pile of cut-out snowflakes, each one different, each with one of her pupils’ names scrawled on in coloured pencil. Then next to them was an angel, made from a loo roll painted white with silver pipe-cleaners for arms and legs. She turned it over in her hands and smiled at its lopsided face.

  The snowflakes concertinaed out when she held them up, joined together at their tips, and she reached up high to hang each end from her empty curtain pole where they bobbed like falling snow. Then she leant over and balanced the angel on the tip of her branch where it sat, skew-whiff, with one wing falling off and little Tommy’s name written in block capitals on the back. Its big red smile beaming at her.

  Getting dressed and taking a second and third look at her presents, pausing for longest on the photograph, she pulled on her scarf, gloves, hat and boots and headed outside. She took a walk around the silent, empty streets of the city, stared at shop windows dressed for Christmas, had a coffee in a café full of single old men drinking wine and then found herself drawn into a church where she caught the tail end of a carol service and lit some more candles, this time for her dad and Gran as well and one for the whole village. By the time she was sitting on a bench feeding some pigeons and a couple of aggressive crows the remains of a baguette she felt she’d done her Christmas. She’d got through it. And it had been better than the last ones. She was better.

  A pigeon cocked its head at her, its spiny footprint trail behind it in the snow.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she whispered, saying the words for the first time in years. ‘You probably don’t understand cos you’re French. Joyeux Noël. But then you probably don’t understand that either because you’re a bird.’

  The pigeon flew away. Rachel pulled her scarf up over her nose as it started to snow again, glistening flakes catching the sunlight like prisms, and walked back to her flat, planning to watch TV for the rest of the afternoon.

  Inside her building the staircase was decorated with garlands of green tinsel, red berries and big silver bells. She trailed her fingers through it as she took the stairs, slowly, tireder than she thought from her walk.

  ‘Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Rachel?’

  She heard the door of Madame Charles’s flat click open behind her as she trudged past.

  ‘Bonjour, madame.’ She smiled, pulling off her hat and clutching it in her hands.

  ‘Bonjour, Rachel. Joyeux Noël. You have a good day?’

  ‘Ah oui, très bon.’ Their limited language meant that this was the longest conversation they’d had since the first day.

  ‘You are leaving demain?’ Madame Charles asked. She was wearing her beige polo neck again but had paired it with a cashmere white skirt that skimmed just past her knee and had on a mohair cardigan flecked with gold thread that touched down to the floor. Around the collar it was trimmed with fur that had been dyed dark maroon. Her hair was neatly curled around her head and her glasses hung round her neck on a chain like Lacey’s, but Rachel assumed that the diamonds were probably real.

  ‘Oui, I go tomorrow. Early. Very early. I’ll leave you the key.’ She held it up. ‘La clé.’

  ‘Ah oui.’ Madame Charles nodded but didn’t step back from the doorway. ‘Chantal is here. And I have a few of my friends. Not many, four or five.’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’ Rachel smiled, wondering when would be appropriate to carry on up to her flat.

  ‘We er…’ Madame Charles leaned against the wall, took a drag from her cigarette holder. Rachel wondered for a moment if she was nervous. ‘We would like to invite you inside.’

  ‘Inside?’ Rachel couldn’t disguise the shock in her voice.

  ‘With us.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, merci. It’s fine. I don’t want to intrude. It’s your day. Non.’

  ‘Intrude?’

  ‘Erm I don’t know it in French. Maybe, intrusion?’

  ‘Ah non, non, non. We have oysters and champagne. Too much. And salmon, tuna tartare, meringue. Beautiful meringue that Chantal bought.. Too much for us.’ She smiled and nodded encouragingly.

  Rachel glanced from Madame Charles up to her own brown chipped front door and back again. As she was trying to think of a better reason to excuse herself Chantal appeared in the doorway dressed in a russet jumper and matching skirt and tights.

  ‘Rachel! Entre, entre. Vite. Ici. You must join in. Me, I celebrate Christmas Eve with my family and today it is just a day to indulge. Oui. It is our tradition. The little oysters are ready. Champagne?’ She reached to a table behind her and held up a crystal flute.

  ‘It is because I have no family, Rachel.’ Madame Charles smiled. ‘Just my cats. So I have my friends. And I would like it if you were here too. It would be an honour. I have heard you do very well at the cooking. We have lots of food. Lots of oysters. Please. As my guest.’

  Rachel couldn’t help a little laugh. Hadn’t this been what she’d wanted right from the start?

  Hopping down the stairs, she said, ‘Merci beaucoup, Madame Charles. It would be a pleasure.’

  ‘Bien.’ Madame Charles kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Welcome.’

  Stepping inside was like entering the Snow Queen’s castle. White walls, glass tables, pristine cream sofas. In the corner a huge antique gold clock ticked and a crystal chandelier hung low in the centre of the room, watching and winking at them all. It smelt of riches and Diptyque’s Verveine candles that she never had enough money to buy and were now flickering in abundance all over the mantelpiece.

  Chantal thrust a cut-glass champagne flute into her hand and said, ‘Drink, drink. There is plenty.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the loveliest non-Christmas Christmas Rachel had ever had. Madame Charles’s friends had been charming—all fascinated to hear what Henri Salernes was like as a person—the Persian Blue had stalked haughtily as they shucked salty oysters drizzled with lemon and ate gorgeous smoked salmon and duck pâté, cold roast chicken and chicory and walnut salad followed by bitter chocolate tart.

  Quite unexpectedly Madame Charles pulled Rachel and Chantal aside and handed them both a gift wrapped up in red paper with a green bow. ‘They are for you both. Do not give me anything. I had these left over, from my assistant when she shopped.’

  Unwrapping it to find a stunning cashmere scarf of the palest grey, Rachel had tried to give it back but Madame Charles had waved her away. ‘You take it. It is a favour for me.’

  As they thanked her and walked away Chantal whispered, ‘It happens every year. She just buys too much always, just in case.’

  Rachel had it wrapped around her now, soft and snug, as she waited for the Eurostar. She had gone back to her flat after the party and baked a tray of less luminous macaroons: hazelnut and white chocolate, violet and blackberry and raspberry and bitter dark chocolate. She had left them in a box tied with ribbon outside Madame Charles’s apartment with a note of thanks and the key, which when it came to it she was sad to leave.

  Her good luck Christmas branch she’d tucked down the front of her case so it poked out like flotsam on the shore. The bows waggled in the wind of the trains.

  As she stood, freezing, on the platform she suddenly heard her name being shouted.

  ‘Rachel. Rachel, un moment.’

  She turned, her face half concealed in the massive new scarf, and saw Philippe running down the platform.

  ‘I nearly missed you,’ he said, panting. He looked different out of his suit, younger, more relaxed dressed in a navy woollen jumper and tatty old jeans.

  ‘How did you get on the platform?’

  ‘I bought a ticket.’

  Rachel looked shocked. ‘You’re not coming with me.’

  ‘No, I know. I just wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘You paid a hundred and fifty Euros just to say goodbye?’

  He was bent ov
er, had his hands resting on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Don’t, Philippe. You have a wife.’

  ‘Yes, I do have a wife but I also don’t have a wife.’

  ‘What is she—invisible?’ Rachel looked down at her wheely bag and kicked it with her foot.

  He stood up straight, shaking his head. ‘Listen to me, just for one minute, please.’

  She turned back to him, her face pulled further down into the scarf like a tortoise. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I am married. I married very young and my wife and I have not been right for many years.’

  Rachel huffed a disbelieving sigh.

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it is not as simple as it looks, Rachel. Have you been married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, we have been very unhappy. My wife met someone else last year. When she told me we thought we should try one more time. We went for counselling, we have tried and tried, believe me. But there is nothing worse in the world than being together when you have fallen out of love. I promise, it is the worst feeling. Every day you know you are out of love with each other and nothing will bring it back. It is lonely. I am lonely.’ He ran his hand through his hair and laughed. ‘We are both lonely. We did not spend yesterday together or the day before.’

  Rachel looked down into her scarf; she didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘You can think whatever you like about me but I wanted you to know the truth. I could bring Emilie here too and she would tell you the truth. We made a mistake when we were very young and the world, we, have changed. We are both miserable. When I was with you, I wasn’t miserable.’

  There was a pause; the announcer called her train.

  ‘Listen to me. When I was young it was a mess in my house. Henri, he became the man and he worked and he worked and then he became famous and he leaves. Suddenly there is a bit more money and my mother, she doesn’t have to work two, three jobs and I am finished school and I think I need to become a man now, too. And what did I do? I got married. I think maybe that will make me a man. It was very stupid but I was not going to be a famous chef and I was going to work and I was going to be a husband.’ He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, looking across at the train. ‘I do not try to excuse it, Rachel, I try to tell you how it was, what happened. There was always something that kept us together. When everything goes wrong for Henri we are there for him, Emilie and I, we take him in, we help him. And then it just becomes life. It is what is normal. Unhappy becomes normal and normal becomes life. But we do not want to be unhappy any longer.’