The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year. Jenny Oliver
for Gucci.’
Rachel nodded as they watched him disappear up the road. Marcel was chocolate-box handsome; perfect as if he’d been chiselled from marble and on show in a museum.
‘I find him very distracting,’ Abby mused. ‘I have to consciously not look at him during baking, otherwise I’d be all over the place.’
‘You have to get a grip—’ Rachel leant on the door, letting in a shock of icy air ‘—or he’ll sense your weakness.’
‘Please, God.’ Abby clasped her gloved hands heavenward. ‘Let Marcel sense my weakness.’
Passing the pâtisserie, Rachel saw the guy she’d passed in the corridor earlier standing drumming his fingers lightly on the counter. Same grey woollen coat, same thick dark hair, same instant flutter in her stomach. No one seemed to be serving. She glanced through the window, peering over the gold scrolled lettering that spelt out Salernes on each window, and saw no one except the customer. Where was Françoise? Had her boyfriend arrived already? She glanced from the shop back to Abby and said, ‘Do you think I should go and look for Françoise …?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ Abby shook her head, pulling her coat round her against the chill and blowing on her hands. ‘Stay out of it. Come on, it’s freezing out here.’
They walked on a step but Rachel found herself turning back. ‘I think I should. Look, he’s waiting … And I don’t want her to get into trouble,’ she added, refusing to acknowledge that her reason for returning had very little to do with Françoise.
Doubling back in through the side entrance of the shop, she checked the two cubbyholes to see why there was no one about. The back door to the patio outside was open, cold air was streaming in along with the raised voices of an argument. She ventured forward and, peering round the door, saw Françoise and a man who must have been the boyfriend from Bordeaux in the middle of an almighty row, arms waving in the air, voices raised, Françoise’s hair all loose and wild escaping from her plait and the boyfriend scowling as he flicked cigarette ash angrily onto the paving stones. It certainly didn’t look like the romantic reunion Françoise had been dreaming of earlier.
‘Françoise,’ Rachel whispered, but she didn’t turn.
Rachel coughed a couple of times to try and distract her but she was clearly in her stride, yelling and shouting all over the place, her finger stabbing him in the chest as he flicked the fag away and huffed out an exasperated breath, running a hand through his hair.
‘Shit,’ Rachel said out loud as she stepped back from the doorway and into the cubbyhole.
‘Is everything all right?’ the man asked, a look of amusement on his face as the insults from out on the patio streamed in through the back door.
‘I don’t think so.’ She shook her head and made a face as she walked forward towards the counter. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anyone to serve you.’
He shrugged. ‘Can you?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t work here.’
He frowned. ‘You look like you do.’
Rachel found herself watching, distracted, as his fingers drummed casually on the counter top, mesmerised by his eyes as they glanced over the array of cakes. Then realising she hadn’t replied, said quickly, ‘The owner would kill me if he found me here.’
The man laughed, his eyes crinkling softly at the sides. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen.’
‘No,’ she said, trying not to stare. He wasn’t her type, not at all, yet she wanted him to keep looking at her that way. Maybe it was just because he was French and exotic and she felt far from home. She was usually all about the rough and ready, love ‘em and leave ‘em types, not the well-groomed, mature alpha males who looked as if they would buy her red roses, talk about current affairs over dinner and shrug unfazed if someone mentioned commitment. ‘I er—’ She pointed to the door, without taking her eyes from him. ‘I er—should be leaving.’
‘That is OK.’ He cocked his head, not bothering to hide his amusement at how flustered she was becoming as he went back to perusing the rows of pâtisserie.
She started to walk away but then found herself stopping and asking, ‘What were you going to have?’
‘I don’t know. I never know what to choose,’ he said, glancing up from the counter. ‘I like the eclairs, but I also think maybe the millefeuille. Or sometimes the tarte Tatin. There is too much to choose from and my eyes they are, I think I heard the phrase once, bigger than my stomach.’ He laughed. ‘It is hard, non?’
‘Oh, I know. I’m like that too.’ Rachel found herself bending down on the other side of the counter to look at the array of desserts between them. ‘I just want everything,’ she said, then, embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, quickly glanced away when she met his laughing eyes through the glass.
There was a pause as she felt him watch her blush, and then she heard him say, ‘Who would have thought choosing just one little cake could be so difficult?’
‘Well, if it was me …’ She gazed over the rows and rows of treats that sat in front of her. Bright marzipan shapes, chocolate twists dusted with sugar, sticky millefeuille layers oozing with cream, tarts brimming with frangipani, coffee eclairs lined up like fat fingers, red berries piled high and tumbling off crème pâtisserie tarts. And on the shelf above were piles of glistening chocolates. Dark glossy liqueurs with cherry stalks poking out of the top, dusty truffles and striped caramels, fudge coated in ganache. Strawberry creams shaped like tiny fruits perched next to pralines wrapped like presents in gold.
But sitting perched on the tray to her left were Rachel’s all-time favourites. ‘I always like a Religieuse,’ she said, pointing to the tower of two round eclairs balanced with a ruff of cream piped around the neck. ‘They are my first choice whenever I get to come to France.’
‘The Religieuse—the little nun,’ he said and she watched him laugh through the glass. ‘Bon choix,’ he added, before glancing up and meeting her eyes. ‘You are here for Christmas?’ he asked.
Rachel nodded, caught off guard by the question. He tilted his head, as if processing the fact and mulling over another question, but said nothing more, just went back to studying the cake choices.
Then suddenly a shout from the doorway made her jolt upright, almost banging her head on the top lip of the counter. She heard a loud, angry voice shout, ‘What are you doing in my shop? Where is Françoise?’ and turned to see Chef standing, hands on hips, in the doorway.
At that moment Françoise came hurrying in, hair all over the place, pale-faced and terrified, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
As Françoise rushed past her Rachel grabbed her arm to hold her back and said to Chef as confidently as she could in the face of his scowl, ‘Françoise wasn’t feeling well. I said I’d help.’
The cosy warmth of the pâtisserie suddenly felt too hot as Chef looked between the two of them, disbelieving. ‘You are ill, Françoise, you come to me. Rachel—out. Françoise, serve the man.’
As Chef narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to leave, Rachel whispered, ‘Are you OK?’ to Françoise, who’d clearly caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall behind them and started scrubbing the black off her face.
‘Yes, yes, it is always the same,’ she muttered under her breath as she retied her hair. Then smoothing down her apron and giving Rachel a quick little wink, she added, ‘We will make up later.’ Rachel rolled her eyes and as she started to leave turned to look apologetically at her customer. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
‘It’s nothing. Merci beaucoup for your choice, mademoiselle.’ He tipped his head to her, his dark eyes crinkling with humour as he surveyed the scene. ‘I’m Philippe, by the way.’
‘Rachel,’ she said. She paused for a moment