The Parisian Christmas Bake Off (9 page)

‘Why did it close?’

‘What?’ She looked up from where she was trying to win the dog back.

‘The bakery.’

‘You ask too many questions. In England men aren’t renowned for asking questions.’

‘Maybe not in France either. But I’m interested.’

She sat back in her chair, twiddled with the cuffs of her jumper. ‘It was lots of things. Lots of little things that built into big things. My mum got ill. We kept having to close. Another chain bakery moved in nearby. It was all those things, and I think we didn’t keep a close enough eye on it. Everyone in the village, they helped, they did shifts and it was really lovely, but some were better than others, d’you know what I mean? It was a bit of a disaster actually. It wasn’t their fault or anything. It’s just they didn’t love it like us. Nor did the staff we had to take on. They didn’t have the touch of my mum. People loved her stuff. They still talk about it now. “Oh, do you remember those eclairs, or those cheese scones and that bread?” It’s like it was an institution and it had to be her at the helm. I would have tried to do it but I was at school and my mum wouldn’t let me. I’d persuade teachers to let me out of classes early or come in really late because I’d baked the morning’s bread and they’d pretend they hadn’t seen me. People made us food—you know, coming round with casseroles like they do in films.’

Philippe took a sip of his drink and beckoned for her to continue.

‘In the end Tesco made an offer that at the time we couldn’t refuse. Tesco, you know, it’s like Carrefour or E.Leclerc. Our friends tried to offer my dad money to help him out to keep the bakery and stuff but he wouldn’t take it. I think he had enough on his plate looking after my mum and it was all too much for him. Tesco paid way above market value and the money would pay for the best hospitals there were.’

He nodded. ‘And that worked?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘It was so long ago. But you know, all of this—the smells, the tastes, talking about it—I’ve hidden it all away for so long that it’s almost a relief. It’s like being given a little bit of it back, you know?’

He paused. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, not away at the table or her glass but straight at him. He nodded and they were silent for a moment before she said, ‘You have really kind eyes.’

He laughed and she blushed, this time looking at the table.

‘Hey, Philippe.’ The door bashed open and there was Chef Henri. ‘We’re waiting. What you doing?’

Philippe held up a hand and nodded, downing his drink. ‘I have to go. I apologise.’

‘That’s OK.’ Rachel smiled.

Chef didn’t stop. ‘
Vite, vite
. We are waiting. Emilie, she is already there.’

‘Emilie?’ said Rachel.

Philippe paused. ‘My wife.’

Rachel realised when she got home that it was the first time in years that she’d told anyone about the bakery. At the time they’d just put their heads down and got on with it, but now it felt like a part of her soul that she’d sold. A part of her mum’s soul.

She stood at the window looking down at the Champs Élysées, at the myriad trees sparkling like beacons lighting the way.

My wife
, he’d said. And she’d gasped. An actual audible gasp.

Of course he’d be married. He was a handsome, clever Frenchman. And he was kind. Nothing had happened between them. He’d looked out for her as a friend. He’d coaxed out her secrets and she’d told them to him as a friend. They didn’t owe each other anything. She’d slept with Marcel, for goodness’ sake, but Philippe was
married
.

It was impossible how much that stung.

Her phone rang.

Jackie.

‘Have you won yet?’

‘There’s still another round.’

‘Chances?’

‘Slim. There’s some dirty fighting.’

‘You can fight dirty.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on. I’ve seen you in the staff room. What about with Miss Brown?’

Rachel pulled the window closed and went to sit on the hard blue sofa. ‘Yeah, but that’s for the kids.’

‘Well, I hate to break it to you but this is for the kids too. They’ve made you another banner at Sunday School. They’ve baked special reindeer biscuits with red noses that little Tommy said you’d talked about. There’s a village fund, Rachel.’

She stopped picking at the thread on one of the cushions. ‘What for?’

‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure. It’s possible it’s for a bakery.’

‘No way.’

Jackie was silent. ‘I’m nodding. I actually do think that’s what it’s for. Or at least some kind of small caravan with an oven. People miss it.’

‘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.

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 are 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.’