The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year: The Parisian Christmas Bake Off / Winter's Fairytale. Jenny Oliver
would do anything for it not to end now.
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was just trying to help. I didn’t know. I did know. I know it was wrong. Oh, God—’
‘I should throw you out the door. You hear me? You waste my time. You make a fool of me.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘You throw this away. That is what you have done. This chance that you ‘ave to be good and you have thrown it away.’ He paused, taking a deep breath.
She glanced up tentatively. Saw a look of confusion and annoyance pass over his face. It felt suddenly as if he wasn’t talking to her but that instead the words were ringing truer to himself. She thought of the stories she’d Googled. All that success that he had let slip through his fingers, the crown that he had allowed to topple, the reputation that had ended up in tabloid ridicule. In the moment’s pause he seemed to deflate before her eyes, his cheeks less puffed out, his colour less red. She bit her lip and tried to show the depth of her apology in plaintive eyes.
‘Merde, and I know what it is like. You are stupid.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his face.
Rachel nodded, sensing something odd was happening between them. That she was teetering on the edge of being on the next train home but something, some emotion flickering over Chef’s face, might just be about to save her, throw her a rope and pull her back. ‘I’m sorry.’
He exhaled like a bull about to charge and ran his fingers over his stubbled chin. ‘I give you one more chance because you have a shred of promise. A shred. I am stupid to do it. But fuck me over again … you have no more chances. Comprende?’
She nodded, flooded with relief as if she might collapse into a puddle on the floor, and pleaded with herself not to cry.
‘Comprende?’ he said again.
‘Yes, Chef.’
That night Rachel got so drunk out of relief that she was still in the competition, terror at having been yelled at, and shock at the haunted look in Chef’s eyes. Her stupor meant that she didn’t pull her foot away from Marcel’s when he pushed his against hers under the table. Nor did she look away when he smirked at her across the table, his flirtatious eyes glinting beautifully. He had that familiar predatory nature of Ben that was surprisingly comforting.
When she’d walked into the bar Marcel had singled her out, got up to give her his seat, poured her a glass of wine, complimented her on her bake. He had made it more than clear that he was interested and the attention was intoxicating.
‘I think you are the best cook here. Without doubt. Chef, I think he is jealous,’ he’d whispered. ‘And—’ he’d paused ‘—you’re the most beautiful.’
She’d glanced away, blushing, but the words had hit their mark. He was pumping up her deflated ego, as if he knew exactly where her weaknesses lay, and she was lapping it up. Anything to take the attention away from her run-in with Chef.
Women were looking at Marcel from the bar, glancing round to see if he might be interested in them but he wasn’t; he was looking at Rachel.
‘So what did Chef say, Rachel?’ Abby leant forward, her eyes darting to Marcel as if trying to attract his attention, swirling her wine round in her glass.
‘Nothing. Just a reminder to work on my presentation.’
‘Ooh, special treatment for Rachel.’ She whistled, supposedly joking, but Rachel caught a weird look in her eye. ‘You and George had it nailed today,’ she said, taking a great gulp of red wine and pouring some more.
The air between them all was definitely changing. It was as if this really was a competition and for the first time in Rachel’s life she was near the top—not just hovering over average but up there in sight of the prize—and that clearly made enemies.
‘Don’t be daft.’ She laughed, brushing the comment away and reaching for a glass and the carafe to pour herself some wine. ‘He just loathes my mess.’
Abby raised a brow, disbelieving, clearly still smarting from her failure, and seemingly pissed off that Marcel wasn’t paying her the attention he was Rachel, and downed her drink before holding her glass out for Rachel to top her up.
‘A dark horse in the race, Flower Girl,’ drawled Marcel and, under the table, she felt his hand scrape her thigh. He had perfect hands, neat blunt nails and a dirty tan as if he’d spent the summer on a yacht in St Tropez and skied all winter. She decided that, in his black cashmere jumper, he actually looked fresh from the slopes of Val d’Isère. Close up she could even make out the remains of sunburn on the tips of his cheekbones.
‘Is there something on my face?’ he asked and she realised she’d been staring.
‘No, no. I was just wondering if you skied. You know, why you had a tan in December …’ She cringed at the embarrassment of being caught.
‘Mais oui, I spend every weekend in the Alps. It is my passion.’ He examined his hand to check out his own tan. ‘Do you ski?’
Rachel thought about the time when the hill on the edge of Nettleton had been caked in snow and Jackie had strapped her into her snowboard. You’ll be fine, just point it downhill and sit down if it goes too fast.
It had been a disaster not to be repeated. Rachel had sat down almost straight away and shot down the incline head first, one foot flailing about having popped from the binding and the other dragging the snowboard along with it. She’d waved her arms about in the air with the aim of getting someone to help her; instead the whole village had stopped what they were doing to watch. A photo of her at the bottom of the slope, caked in white like the abominable snowman, legs skew-whiff in the carved-up muddy slush, had appeared on the front page of the Nettleton News.
‘I snowboard.’ She shrugged, as if it were nothing. ‘Sometimes.’
A forgotten memory popped up of her and some of her class piled into an old canoe later that same day, winning a downhill race against Jackie and most of 3F on garden sacks, which was much more pleasing and obviously gave her a look of casual confidence that appealed to Marcel.
‘We should go together some time. Maybe.’
‘Maybe.’ She smiled, high on the attention, flirtily trying to tousle her hair.
‘Ooh, I’ll come,’ said Abby. ‘I’ve never been skiing. We could all go—it could be our reunion.’
‘Pas oui, definitely. The more the merrier. That is the phrase, oui?’
When Rachel nodded, Marcel squeezed her leg under the table and whispered, ‘I would prefer just the two of us.’
‘Me too,’ she whispered back, catching her smile with her teeth, relishing the attention, enjoying the haze of the wine and their intimate secret little club of two that was pulling back all the confidence she’d earlier let slip away.
‘Would you come, George?’ Abby leant forward, her boobs pushing together between her upper arms and, while not having the desired effect on Marcel, working well to get George’s attention.
‘Where?’
‘Skiing.’
George snorted into his beer. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, come on, it’d be fun. We’d all have to go.’
‘I think I’m a bit old to be throwing myself down ski slopes.’
Abby stuck her bottom lip out as if he’d ruined everything and George laughed. ‘I’m here, in Paris, isn’t that enough?’
She tipped her head from side to side. ‘I suppose.’ Then took a great gulp of wine and said, ‘Where did you learn