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

why, but the thought of talking to him, of the look in his eyes when he spoke to her—of confident amusement—made her fumble her lock and then drop it in the snow by mistake.

      But as she walked round to the front of the shop she saw he was just coming down the street, striding along in a dark cashmere suit, his long grey overcoat unbuttoned, 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, immediately flustered, immediately wanting to check her hair in the pâtisserie window. ‘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.’ Rachel raised a brow in disbelief, at the same time as trying to get a peek at the state of her hair in the reflection of the glass in the door.

      ‘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 watched his eyes crinkle up at the corners. And noticed 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.’

      ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said suddenly as he started to walk away, a realisation dawning on her. ‘If Henri is your brother, that makes you the other Salernes … You and him, you had the restaurant together. Oui?’ She smiled at herself, as if she were a regular Columbo, but her expression wasn’t reciprocated.

      ‘Oui,’ he said with a casual shrug but wasn’t forthcoming with anything more.

      ‘You’re a chef,’ Rachel went on. ‘You’re an amazing chef.’ From what she’d Googled, the Salernes brothers had taken the culinary world by storm, and it certainly wasn’t all Henri. While he was infamous for inventing mouth-watering desserts that challenged the very physics of pastry, his brother, this man standing in front of her, was responsible for some of the dishes that changed the way people cooked. He brought a simple, affordable casualness to the Michelin-starred nouvelle cuisine that was dominating restaurant fare. He learnt from the masters and then twisted the rules in his own unique way creating a culinary revolution.

      ‘Au revoir, Rachel. It was nice to see you again.’

      ‘No, wait. Hang on. You can’t leave just yet. I read about you. The other night.’

      Philippe cocked his head, a smirk on his lips.

      ‘No, I mean—’ She huffed out a breath, half embarrassed, half exasperated. ‘I Googled Henri and I read about you. You were amazing. People said you were amazing. I really admire what you did and the boundaries you broke with your restaurant. Especially in a country with such a strong culinary tradition.’

      Philippe shrugged. ‘I don’t cook any more. It is the past. Life, it has many cycles.’

      ‘But you should. People would love to see you cook again. You should do a book or something,’ Rachel carried on, moving down a step so she was a little closer to him, hardly able to believe that he could let such talent go to waste.

      ‘But I do not want to do a book.’ Philippe unwound his scarf and shrugged off his coat, shaking off the snow and deliberately avoiding eye contact with her. ‘You can learn everything you need to know from Henri. I am not interested, not any longer.’

      ‘It’s crazy. You have so much talent. You shouldn’t waste it. I would totally read a book by you.’ Rachel bit her bottom lip and stared down at him, her head shaking slightly.

      She watched as he paused, folded the coat neatly over his arm and draped his scarf over the heavy woollen material, then, running a hand over his light smattering of stubble, he looked up, his eyes just a touch narrower than they had been. ‘And what about you? What are you hiding?’ he asked, taking a step forward, almost invading her space. ‘Not many people would come to Paris alone over Christmas, not even to bake.’

      Rachel gave a little snort, retreating back into herself quick as a flash, and, stepping backwards up the stairs, muttered, ‘Point taken.’ Then she swept her fringe out of her eyes and said politely, ‘I have to go now. I’m going to be late. If I don’t get a move on.’

      ‘Of course.’ He stood where he was and watched her as she made to go.

      About to hurry up the stairs, she paused with her hand on the banister, torn, wanting to run away but also not wanting to leave it like that between them. She didn’t know him well but she’d liked him instantly and was frustrated with herself for prying, for pushing him when, as he said, she had her own issues that held her back that she wouldn’t want to air to anyone who asked. ‘Did you—?’ She turned back to look at him. ‘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