by Jenny Oliver
Rachel glanced up at him, at the narrow eyes and tightness of his lips as if he was trying to force his feelings on her with a look.
‘You should have told me,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, I should have told you. I told her.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I think she was relieved. Rachel, we have no children. We made a mistake.’
‘Yes, you keep saying that. But you are still married.’
Philippe sighed. ‘And we never should have done. But when you are nineteen you do stupid things. Christ, look at this.’ He pulled up the edge of his jumper to reveal a tattoo of a scorpion on his lower back.
She tried not to let him see her smile.
‘Sometimes you don’t find out about your mistakes until it is too late. I like Emilie very much but I do not love her and she does not love me.’
Rachel nodded.
‘I like you very much.’
She looked away. ‘I like you, too.’
There was another call for passengers to board the train on the platform.
‘But—’ she bit her lip and turned back to him ‘—I don’t want to be chosen for the wrong reasons. I don’t want you to leave her for me. I want you and her to decide what to do for the two of you, to part or try again because it’s right for your relationship. I want to be chosen for me. By someone who isn’t looking for an escape.’
‘I’m not looking for an escape.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you know that, yet. I don’t think you can be certain. Do you think you can really be a hundred per cent certain that I didn’t just come along at the right time to make you realise you’d messed up your life?’
He didn’t reply, but looked down and scuffed the floor with his Converse.
She glanced down too and smiled. ‘You’re mad—Converse are really cold. I think they absorb the cold from the floor.’
‘Tell me about it.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t even have a coat.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I had to get here!’
‘Oh.’ She laughed.
They stood looking at each other on the platform, the final call booming out for passengers to King’s Cross St Pancras.
‘You don’t even like your job, Philippe.’
‘I know.’ He nodded, then took a deep breath and she thought maybe he might cry.
Rachel reached forward and squeezed his upper arm. ‘Go home and get a coat, and then… Decide what you want from your life.’
He cocked his head. ‘Maybe I should sign up for Henri’s next apprenticeship.’
‘Worked for me.’ She laughed.
He put his hands on her shoulders and said, ‘Well, what now? What if I decide that it is you?’
‘Well, then, maybe you have coffee with me in six months.’
He snorted a laugh as if that wasn’t what he wanted to hear at all but knew that was the only option she was going to give him.
‘I’ve learnt loads this week, Philippe, and one of those things is that if something is right it is always there. You can’t run away from it because it follows you.’
‘Meet me in six months.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You haven’t—’
‘I know I will feel the same as I do now. Meet me in six months at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower. Six months from today.’ He got his phone out and scrolled through his calendar. ‘June 26th. Midday on June 26th.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Seriously?’
He nodded.
‘Maybe.’ She looked dubious.
‘I’m putting it in,’ he said, tapping on the screen of his iPhone.
‘Fine.’ She shook her head, disbelieving. ‘Now go and sort your life out.’
He pulled the sleeves down on his jumper and blew into his hands. ‘OK.’
‘OK.’
‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Rachel,’ he said and, leaning forward, kissed her on both cheeks goodbye. She breathed in deep and smelt that familiar scent of aftershave and soap and skin and closed her eyes, trying to absorb it as if that were the smell of Paris and her whole trip.
‘You also.’ She smiled and he picked up her bag, the branch waving away out of the top, and put it on the carriage for her. She stepped in after it and he held her hand to help her up.
Just as she was about to walk away down the corridor he said, ‘Ah, un moment.’
Then he jogged back to pick up a white plastic bag he’d left on the platform. ‘For you.’ He held it up. ‘It is a little bashed. Maybe broken. I apologise.’
She looked at the bag and nearly said, ‘Aren’t we all?’ But instead she said, ‘Merci beaucoup. Au revoir, Philippe.’
‘Au revoir,’ he said. ‘Till next time.’
Ensconced in her seat, the train pulling out from the station, she reached into the bag and found a plain white box inside. In it sat nestled her bauble. The Russian princess in a carriage with her prince, pulled by bright red horses dancing through the starlit night. She held it up by the ribbon watching as the black lacquered ball twirled around, the princess disappearing away from her, and then she saw down the back it was cracked from top to bottom. As she traced the break with her thumb, it seemed to make her like it all the more.
Sitting back in her seat, she shut her eyes and replayed the whole week in her head, from her first telling off for the flowers to the men at the counter eating her reindeer biscuits. She thought of all her friends, even Marcel who’d apologised to both her and Abby and tried to give them both very friendly goodbye kisses. Lovely George, who’d invited them all up north for a summer reunion. And even Lacey, who was still in Paris; her husband had flown out to meet her, and she’d start her apprenticeship on the second of January. Chef had invited Rachel to join them but she’d declined. She had a home to get back to, which hopefully hadn’t been wrecked by the retired Australians, and a village to see. She had her box of mini Christmas puddings to give her dad. She had years to make up for. She had a silver-ribbon-tied branch to lay on her mum’s grave and thank her for teaching her to bake.
When her taxi pulled up in the village she was amazed to find a welcoming committee. The Sunday School banner held aloft by all the kids: ‘Our Star Baker, Rachel.’ The end drooping as little Tommy was waving instead of holding.
Mrs Norris was standing arms folded across her brown jumper, the keys to the new bakery dangling from between her fingers.
‘Woo hoo, well done, Rachel.’ Jackie came running forward and gave her a hug. Then peered into the taxi. ‘No French hunk.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I left him at the station.’
‘Oh, really.’ Jackie snorted. ‘I’ll bet.’
As the crowd cheered Rachel searched through all the faces trying to find someone, but as she did little Tommy was suddenly squeezing her tight as he threw himself against her legs and said, ‘Will you not be teaching us next year?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She pushed out her bottom lip in a sad face. ‘But you’ll be able to come to the shop and eat cookies now, just like I did when I was your age. You can come whenever you want.’
He beamed and ran back to his parents.
‘Have you seen my dad?’ she asked Jackie.
‘I don’t think so.’ Jackie shook her head, looking a bit sorry for her.
‘OK, that’s fine. I didn’t think he’d be here.’
Rachel took a moment to take in the scene before her. The Christmas tree was as huge as ever, looming at a precarious angle and flashing like a beacon. Lights and bunting had been haphazardly strung between all the branches of the chestnut trees around the green and, in its own way, it looked as beautiful as the Champs Élysées. The pond was beginning to freeze, the pair of swans waddling on the glassy surface while some of the kids were stamping on the edges trying to make it split. Mr Swanson and his wife had brought Thermos flasks of mulled wine and were serving it out in plastic cups along with plates of mince pies, any excuse for a little party. And she heard
someone say that there would be a cheese board and turkey sandwiches in the pub from seven.
As she stood watching a cloud of perfume enveloped her as suddenly her grandmother was by her side. ‘Darling, you look wonderful. I always think the Paris air does wonders for a person.’ She winked. ‘And the flat’s marvellous. One broken plate and a million recommendations for places to go in Melbourne if you’re ever in the area.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Rachel feigned wiping her forehead with relief. ‘Is Dad here?’
‘Christ, no. He’d never come to this.’ Her grandmother looked round her at her luggage. ‘What is that monstrous branch?’
‘It’s a French Christmas tree.’
‘I don’t think it is, dear. I don’t know who told you it was but I think they were pulling your leg.’ Julie flicked one of the ribbons with her finger.
‘Looks like a jolly good Christmas tree to me,’ said a voice behind her.
‘Dad!’ Rachel turned to see him standing by the pavement, mustard-yellow jumper, green cords, brown boat shoes.
‘I hear there’s going to be a new bakery,’ he said.
She nodded, holding her breath for his reaction. She felt her gran’s hand slip into hers, cool and comforting.
There was a pause as her dad rolled his lips together, then he clasped his hands in front of him and said, ‘Well. It’s about bloody time.’
Chapter Nineteen
June 27th
‘You didn’t go?’ Jackie slammed her cup down in its saucer.
Rachel shook her head. ‘It was really busy here.’ She pointed around the tiny bakery, at the loaves racked up along the shelf behind her and the trays of summer fruit tarts, mint chocolate eclairs, strawberry cream horns and her newly invented cumquat and maraschino cherry truffles, as if to show all the work that had kept her in Nettleton.
‘And you only think to tell me about it now. When it’s too late?’
‘I knew you’d make me go.’
‘Too bloody right. Christ Almighty. You fool.’
‘She’s quite right, you know,’ her gran shouted from out the back where she was rolling out some filo pastry squares. ‘You’re a fool, Rachel Smithson.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Rachel moaned, unnecessarily rearranging a tray of hazelnut praline millefeuille.
‘Oh, give me one of them while you’re there.’ Jackie tapped the glass counter pointing at some chocolate tarts topped with fresh-picked summer berries. ‘I mean, come on. Christ, everyone makes mistakes. Poor bloke. He married the wrong person. What did you want—fresh out the box? Or did you think there’d be someone better here? Hello. Have you seen an eligible male in Nettleton? Ever?’
Rachel, gloomy now, pulled out a tart and plonked it on a plate. ‘Stuff that in your mouth and don’t mention this again.’
Her gran walked forward, wiping her hands on a tea towel and checking her hair in a hand mirror. ‘Yes, you really are a fool. That’s a very good word. Have you learnt nothing? Chances, Rachel, they’re for the taking.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve got it now, thank you.’
Yanking off her apron, she went outside with the excuse of checking the window display but really she just needed some air.
On the pavement she stood with her hands on her hips and looked up to the powder-blue sky, at the starlings, swooping and diving, and the big candy-floss clouds sliding across each other, then she shut her eyes and counted to ten.
When she opened them again there was a figure walking up the street from the station, jacket slung over his arm, light blue shirt undone at the neck, hair that needed a cut just flicking the edge of his collar.
Rachel watched, her hand shading her eyes from the late morning sunshine as he got closer and closer. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, could hear it in her ears.
He stopped just a foot away. ‘Bonjour,’ he said, raking a hand through his hair.
‘H-hello,’ she stuttered, dropping her hand down to her side.
‘You missed a beautiful view from the Eiffel Tower.’ His expression was unreadable. ‘It looks good in the summer.’
She looked down, toying with the embroidery on the trim of her T-shirt. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
A wisp of cloud inched its way over the sun, dappling the pavement, while the leaves on the avenue of lime trees made patches of shade dance on the street. Rachel didn’t know quite what to say, how to make up for the fact she had stood him up.
But then he smiled. ‘De rien. I didn’t think you’d be there.’
‘No?’
He shook his head. ‘Nice bakery.’
‘Thanks. Why are you here, then?’ she asked, not quite able to look up at him.
‘Well, I’ve made a lot of changes in my life. I no longer sit in an office. My ex-wife is now happily settled with her partner. I’m pretty sure I know what I want in life. My brother is calmer, happier, although he’s still waiting for his favourite baker to visit. And I thought—’ He looked up and focused on something he clearly wasn’t expecting to see. When he paused she glanced to what had caught his eye and saw the Russian Christmas bauble, where she had hung it by the counter, catching the light through the glass. Then he went on, a little more confidently, ‘I thought that it was time to take a holiday. See a bit more of the world.’
‘And you chose Nettleton?’ She laughed.
There was a crash as a tray of chocolate mint thins fell to the floor and Rachel glanced inside to see her gran pulling herself back from where she’d been practically lying across the counter to get a good look outside. Jackie was pretending to be engrossed in the remains of her summer-berry tart.
She shooed them away and when she looked back Philippe was trying to keep a straight face. ‘I chose Nettleton.’
‘Why?’ she asked, too quickly. ‘I mean, there are lots of nice English villages to visit. What made you choose Nettleton?’
‘Well, there are a couple of reasons.’ He laid his jacket down over the top of his case. ‘First I am starting an MBA in London, which I think is maybe forty minutes from here. So it is a close village for what I am doing. And then—’ He waited for a second, took a moment to look around at the picturesque little street. ‘Then I need to find somewhere to open my restaurant. A little place that will be cosy, not too formal, and I liked the look of this place when I look it up on the Internet.’
Rachel nodded. ‘And you like it now you’re here.’
He paused. ‘It smells good.’
She laughed. ‘It does smell good, you’re right.’
Philippe took a step forward. ‘There is another reason as well, why I have come here.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘It is mainly because someone that was right for me was here and I came to find her.’
‘You did?’
‘I did.’
It was silent for a second. Philippe rolled the cuffs up on his shirt as the dappled light played on his face. Rachel looked down at the apron she still had clutched in her hand, her name and the flowers embroidered across the top, and then she glanced into the bakery at Jackie who couldn’t hide the fact her eyes had popped out of their sockets. And her gran, who was pretending to wipe down the countertop. Then she looked back up to Philippe, his head angled in question, waiting, his eyes disguising a worry that maybe she might send him away back to Paris. His mouth was almost smiling though; he knew that she wouldn’t.
‘Would you like to come inside for a coffee and a squashed croissant?’ she asked.
‘I can think of nothing I’d like more.’
CARINA™
ISBN: 978 1 472 07376 1
THE PARISIAN CHRISTMAS BAKE OFF
Copyright © Jenny Oliver 2013
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