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

turned.

      ‘I’ve used salt instead of sugar.’

      ‘No, you can’t have done.’

      Everyone paused except Lacey, who just carried on silently. Marcel strode over and picked up the container. ‘She has. She has used the salt.’

      ‘Shit.’ Abby slumped onto her forearms. ‘How can this have happened? I don’t have time to do more. Oh, God, I’m out. How can I tell my kids that I’m out because of some stupid sodding mistake from being tired? You idiot.’ She smacked herself on the forehead. ‘I’m just so tired.’

      Rachel watched as her friend started to cry. Hot, fat tears falling into her failed dough.

      ‘Don’t cry,’ she said, walking over to helplessly pat her on the back.

      ‘It’s useless. I’m useless. I’m a failure. A failure. A fucking failure with a stupid husband sailing the fucking Caribbean or wherever the hell Mauritius is.’

      ‘It is in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa,’ said Marcel.

      ‘Thank you.’ Abby wiped her nose on the tissue Rachel gave her.

      ‘Look, just have half of my dough,’ Rachel said.

      ‘I can’t take your dough.’

      ‘Yes, you can. Just pick the bits out and he’ll be none the wiser. You’re adding chocolate and vanilla anyway, aren’t you?’

      ‘But there won’t be enough.’

      ‘There’ll be plenty.’

      ‘It’s cheating.’ Lacey stopped kneading and turned round.

      ‘Who cares? We’re all adults. It’s not school, Lacey.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘And you know he’ll kick her out and she doesn’t deserve to go over a mistake.’

      Lacey pursed her lips, tapping the wooden spoon in her hand against her palm.

      ‘I wouldn’t do it if I thought she made crap dough. It was a mistake.’

      Lacey was silent.

      Then Abby said, ‘Would you tell, Lacey?’

      There was a pause. Rachel watched George and Ali exchange glances, Marcel raised a brow, intrigued at how this would pan out, and Abby looked on with pleading eyes.

      ‘It’s none of my business,’ Lacey muttered in the end and turned her back to them.

      Rachel winked at Abby and went and pulled her dough out of the drawer, tore it in half and the two of them went about picking out all the cranberries and raisins she’d so lovingly folded in half an hour ago.

      Chef strode in just as Rachel was running back to her bench, slamming her bowl of dough down hard by mistake. He paused, seemed to smell the air like a lion sensing a change in the atmosphere. Then he walked over to Rachel’s bench, reeking of fags, his expression suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Something happened. And it is usually you.’

      ‘No, Chef. I’m just mixing my chocolate into the puréed chestnuts,’ she said without looking up.

      He waited, and she could feel him staring at her, as if he knew exactly what was going on. Her heart was starting to quicken as she tried to act as nonchalant as possible.

      ‘Hmm.’ He stuck his finger in the mixture and licked it. ‘You try to be very calm. You are never calm,’ he said, then walked away, not before lifting the tea towel off her dough and scowling at it.

      When they came to laying out their breads Rachel had brought in a special box—one that Chantal had given her that Madame Charles had discarded. It was wooden, meant for a small hamper from one of the expensive food shops on the Champs Élysées. The name was embossed on the side in grand, swirling writing. Rachel had lined it with a strip of red wool and piled her soft, squishy but depleted buns inside. Each one had a white star of icing piped on the top. The chestnut and chocolate purée was in a little glass jar nestled in the corner.

      Chef peered at it. ‘Presentation—better. Could improve.’

      Rachel nodded, holding in a smile that she’d at least moved it up a notch.

      He spread the thick chocolate on the ripped-open bun that was still warm and steamed in the cool air. He closed his eyes as he ate, savouring the sweet softness. ‘Very nice. Clever. I didn’t expect … Very nice,’ he said again, as if caught off guard, then he nodded and walked on. Rachel nearly punched the air. Abby gave her a thumbs up.

      Chef prowled the other benches, tasting, criticising, praising faintly. Marcel’s Panettone hadn’t risen very much but looked amazing. He muttered that Ali’s pumpkin, cider and marzipan buns were too sweet but better than he’d expected. Poor Cheryl’s coffee and pistachio tea-loaf had burnt on the top and risen unevenly. The dough inside was undercooked and Chef refused to put it in his mouth.

      ‘This will be the last day for you, Cheryl. You will go home. You understand?’ he said, prodding the soft dough with his finger.

      George gasped.

      Cheryl nodded silently, her hair falling forward so it was hard to see the reddening of her cheeks. When Chef walked away, Rachel watched her dab a tea towel to her eye and hold it there for a second as she took some deep breaths.

      George’s, Chef thought, was marvellous; he couldn’t get enough of it. He even laughed at how he’d managed to make a bread look like a yule log.

      ‘This is very inventive. I like it.’

      George was beaming.

      Chef came to Abby last. Rachel felt her pulse start to speed up. When he put the chocolate twist in his mouth and paused, she thought she could actually feel the minutes tick by. By the time he swallowed and said, ‘Très bon,’ Rachel thought her heart might have leapt out through her chest and run out of the room.

      ‘That is OK.’ He nodded. ‘A good dough. Some OK flavours. But a little small.’

      ‘Christ,’ said Abby as they stumbled out, laughing. ‘I thought I was going to die.’

      ‘Me too.’ Rachel was clutching her chest.

      ‘Thank God it’s over.’

      A door slammed above them and then she heard her name being called from behind her. ‘Rachel! Stop there.’

      They paused and turned to see Chef standing at the top of the stairs. ‘A word.’

      Abby made a worried face and squeezed her hand before sloping out while Rachel backtracked up a floor.

      Chef was waiting, thumbs slung in the string of his apron. Rachel paused on the top step but he beckoned her to come further forward, to stand right in front of him.

      She waited, glancing from his weathered face to the slogan of the pâtisserie on his apron, to his polished black shoes.

      ‘You think after twenty years I cannot taste?’ he asked.

      She looked at the floor. Staring at the patterns in the carpet.

      ‘Let me tell you something,’ he sneered. ‘All good bakers have a signature. Did you know that?’

      Rachel shook her head.

      ‘A cake, a loaf, a tart … it is signed by their own hand. You—’ He pointed at her. ‘You leave a signature. And I can read it.’

      Rachel glanced up.

      ‘Yes, that’s right. A big, bold signature.’ He almost spat it out.

      She was suddenly terrified that he was going to boot her out.

      Over the last few days this competition had gone from being a burden to the most important thing in her life. She’d started to find