The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year: The Parisian Christmas Bake Off / Winter's Fairytale. Jenny Oliver

      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—the look in his eye reminiscent of Ben, and Rachel found herself wondering for a moment what he was up to back in Nettleton, whether he’d found an adoring groupie to visit in the early hours. She felt a shoe brush her foot and pulled away before realising it was Marcel’s. Brown hair falling in front of his eye, he pushed it away and went on with a drawl, ‘If you get lonely, you are welcome to spend the day with me.’

      Rachel giggled and felt her cheeks start to pink. ‘Merci, Marcel.’

      Abby shifted in her seat, pushing her boobs a little closer together to enhance her already impressive cleavage and leant a touch closer to Marcel. But Marcel was looking only at Rachel when he replied with a shrug, ‘De rien,’ his lips turning up into the hint of a smile.

      That night Rachel 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.’

      Rachel stood back as Chantal squeezed past her while taking off her coat and hat, patting her hair into place and peering over the rim of her bifocals. ‘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?’

      Rachel nodded, desperate to ask her why she didn’t talk to her daughter any longer and—if the way she’d adopted Rachel was anything to go by—wishing that her daughter knew how much Chantal clearly missed her.

      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 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.

      ‘It was my daughter’s. She didn’t want it. She was going to leave it in the road. It has been in la cave at my house.’

      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 wicker basket on the front, 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.’ Chantal patted her on the arm and walked over to her 2CV. ‘Joyeux Noël.’

      ‘Chantal …’ Rachel called as she watched her heaving open the battered door.

      The housekeeper turned, her hat pulled low almost covering her eyes, white curls just poking out around her ears. ‘Oui?’

      Rachel wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say, so just asked, ‘Are you sure your daughter won’t mind?’

      Chantal shrugged. ‘She did not take it with her. I think she would like someone to have it.’

      Rachel nodded. ‘Will you thank her from me, you know, if you talk to her this Christmas?’

      ‘We will not talk,’ Chantal said, attempting matter of fact but the sharp intake of breath at the end of the statement gave her emotion away. Then she got in the shabby old car and drove away while Rachel stood where she was, one hand still clutching the handlebars, and waved, wanting nothing more than Chantal to talk to her daughter so she wouldn’t have to see her look so sad again.

      The following day, Rachel cycled to the pâtisserie, the tiny specks of blizzarding snow hitting her cheeks, making her feel