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

funny about bread.’

      ‘Nothing. I don’t find it funny at all.’

      Chef walked over and towered over her. ‘No. Rachel is the expert, it seems. Today Rachel,’ he sneered, slamming his hand down on the counter, ‘will be teaching us how to make the bread that she finds so funny.’

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘No, really. I couldn’t p-possibly,’ Rachel stammered at the idea of having to demonstrate to everyone.

      ‘Bake,’ he ordered.

      ‘Oh, really.’ Lacey sighed under her breath as she strutted over to Rachel’s counter.

      ‘We will all watch, Rachel.’

      Rachel felt her hands shaking. Chef was standing so close in front of her she could feel his breath on her face. Everyone gathered round and stared in uncomfortable silence.

      Gathering all her ingredients and a large mixing bowl, she took a deep breath and tried to calm the nerves that were shooting through her, but when she poured out some flour into her scales half of it tipped out into a heap on the counter.

      ‘I’ll get it,’ said Abby.

      ‘Non. It is Rachel’s work. Rachel will tidy it.’

      Lacey tapped the surface, her diamonds clinking together, her lipstick drawing into the grooves around her pursed lips. Marcel was lounging back. For a second Rachel wondered if he had tried to make her laugh on purpose. She glanced longingly at the door. She’d swap this moment for a thousand Home Ec lessons with their Hitler teacher, Ms Potter, breathing down her neck.

      Chef was clicking his fingers for her to get a move on. Ali was writing notes and was about to say something but Abby silenced him.

      ‘I don’t think I can—’ Rachel started to say as she scooped up the flour she’d wasted. But as she instinctively used it to cover the board for later, she was all of a sudden reminded of her mum doing exactly the same. Can’t waste it. Think of all the work that went into picking and grinding the little sods.

      And it was as if she were there suddenly, pulling up the stool next to her; Rachel could practically smell the Estée Lauder. Why are you doing that? It’d be easier like this. Don’t worry too much about scales, feel how much you need—sense it. Bread should be about you. What flavour do you like?

       Everyone at school has Mighty White.

      Well, let’s make Mighty White, then. She’d laugh.

      Rachel reached for the wheat grains and malt that her mum would add for sweetness and wholemeal to her starchy white bread. She glided through the motions as all the rest of them blurred into a mist beside her. She was aware Chef was talking, but she wasn’t listening. All she could hear was her mum, whispering words she’d been blocking out for years—the tone of her voice, her laugh, the touch of her hand on her shoulder, the way she’d brush her hair out of her eyes or sigh at how slow sieving things was. Shall we just chuck it in? Come on, no one will know.

      It had been much easier to teach little kids their alphabets, Rachel realised, than step back into a bakery.

      When she went to put the bread in the drawer to prove, she looked up and was surprised to find all the faces staring at her.

      ‘I’ll leave it for an hour,’ she said slowly, coming out of her trance.

      There was silence for a second or two, where people glanced at one another, as if they’d all been somehow bewitched by Rachel’s demonstration. Finally Chef tapped the table and said, ‘Bon. Everyone, please, to the front.’ He seemed a littler quieter than usual. Less aggressive. ‘I will make soda bread while the dough rises.’

      ‘Was that OK?’ Rachel whispered to Abby.

      ‘Well, aside from you completely ignoring his every instruction, I’d say it was bloody marvellous.’

      She didn’t listen to any of the soda bread instructions, just thought about the fact that twice now she had baked bread when she had been at her lowest point—lonely or afraid—and both times it hadn’t been the horror that she had imagined. It had actually been quite comforting. Sort of like a hug.

      Out of the oven Rachel’s bread was beautiful. Exactly like the fake Mighty White her mum used to make.

      ‘This is delicious,’ sighed George with his mouth full.

      ‘Very tasty,’ Lacey managed through a tight grimace.

      By lunchtime everyone had had quite enough of bread and they were all going to the bar, but Rachel cried off with the excuse that she had some stuff to buy. Instead she sat in the park on her own.

      She found an empty bench and brushed off the snow with her glove, then sat on an old Pret a Manger napkin she found in her bag. The air was sparkling like a shower of glitter as the snow fell through the pine trees that loomed above her, big and dark and exotic. Huge pine cones jutted from the branches, white tipped with snow like porcupines, and birds dotted from branch to branch shaking the dusty sleet from their feathers.

      All Rachel could think about was bread. To begin with the memories had been beautiful. But now that it was baked and eaten and over, she just felt sad. Drained. Drained by the memories and the emotion. Deflated and vulnerable, stripped of every barrier she had in place. She had felt her mum next to her as she had worked the dough, and, while at the time it had felt precious and perfect, now she felt as if she were back to those horrendous few months after she had died. It was as if she could see the hole in her heart and it was bigger than she’d ever let herself believe.

      Christmas lights were twinkling in every tree, glowing stars dangled amongst the branches, and, all along the street, angels were looped across the road by their wings. She watched the people hurrying past on their lunch breaks, the pavement packed, everyone carrying bags of Christmas shopping. She heard carols echo from the nearby church choir practice and thought of her and Jackie singing in stupid voices as teenagers at the school Christmas choir service. Rachel pulled her hat down over her ears.

      ‘Is this seat taken?’

      She looked up, surprised, and saw Philippe, his grey woollen overcoat hanging open over his suit, his scarf draped over his shoulders. Rachel shook her head and moved her bag along to make room. ‘No, please sit.’

      He made a poor effort of brushing off the snow and folded himself down, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his head to look at her.

      ‘My brother is better today?’

      ‘No,’ she said with a laugh.

      He nodded silently, then stared out ahead of him. ‘I wanted to apologise. For earlier. I was rude to you.’

      ‘Oh, no, you weren’t at all.’ Rachel shook her head, pulling off her woolly hat and trying to straighten her fringe. ‘I shouldn’t have gone on about you having a book.’ She laughed. ‘Who’d want a book anyway?’

      She saw his lips tilt up ever so slightly at the corners. ‘A lot of people I think would like a book.’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘Just not me, I am afraid.’

      Rachel nodded, unconsciously pleating the fabric of her hat in her lap.

      ‘But it is no reason for me to be rude to you,’ Philippe went on. ‘Why you are here has nothing to do with me, and I should not have made a point of it. Once again, I am not like a gentleman.’

      As far as Rachel was concerned no man had ever been quite so gentlemanly with her before. Certainly not Ben and his four a.m. visits and no sleeping over. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. We were both at fault,’ she said.

      Rachel watched as he ran a hand over his bottom lip, once more staring straight ahead. She took the moment to study his profile,