Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

‘Average.’ Abby’s pies.

‘A waste of good Armagnac.’ Marcel’s chocolate.

‘Intriguing.’ George’s tarte Tatin.

‘Disgusting.’ Ali’s basil creation.

Then he stopped at Rachel’s. She watched as he cast a disapproving eye over her bench. He picked up and dropped her sopping cloth, then prodded her haphazard pile of pies. Their innards were squelching out as they squashed each other without the proper time to cool.

He took one between finger and thumb, holding it as if he found it as distasteful as the dirty cloth. He blew on it, tore it in half and listened for the crack in the filo. Satisfied by the sound, finally he put it in his mouth. Biting, waiting, smelling, biting again, swallowing, pausing.

Her palms were sweating. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted to impress him.

‘Rachel,’ he said. Paused. Seemed to disappear from the moment for just a second. Took another bite. ‘Your food, it looks like shit. But it tastes … It tastes not bad.’

‘The drinks are on me.’ Rachel didn’t know if it was happiness or relief but, God, she felt good.

Most of the group was crammed round a booth table in the corner of the bar; a carafe of white wine and a stack of tumblers were in the centre. Dressed in a black shirt and leather jacket, Marcel was loping back in after a smoke and Lacey hadn’t come because she didn’t like to socialise with the competition. Poor old Tony hadn’t fared the pastry test well and was pulled aside at the end and told not to come back.

He was sitting now, head in his bandaged hands, nursing a whisky and soda.

‘Bloody hard, wasn’t it? I mean, tough competition. Tougher than I expected.’ Tony was a proper English gentleman. A deputy head at a private boys’ boarding school in Suffolk. ‘I’ll have to lie to the kids. Can’t have them thinking I went out first round. That would never do. I’d never live it down,’ he said, taking a large gulp of his drink and shaking his head as the fire hit the back of his throat.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Abby offered.

‘And you had hurt your hands,’ Cheryl chimed in softly. ‘You can’t be expected to do your best if you’re injured.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. You’re quite right. That’s exactly what the wife said. She arrives this afternoon. I told her someone else already went out yesterday. We’ll have a couple of nice days in Paris. Spot of Christmas shopping and all that. Maybe go up the tower. Nice view from the top of the Pompidou, so I’m told.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Rachel, taking a sip of her wine while an image of her depressing little flat popped into her head.

‘The Ritz.’

‘Oh.’

‘And you?’ he asked, whisky glass to his lips.

‘Not the Ritz.’ She laughed.

As more drinks were bought, and tiny bowls of nuts and olives plonked onto the table by a moody waiter, round the table people had started talking about Christmas plans for when they went home.

‘I’m flying back on Christmas Eve, straight after the final event. Not that I’ve a hope after today.’ Abby poured more vin blanc. ‘Hopeless. How can you tell someone their pastry is hopeless? Like a soggy sock, Chef said. Here, taste this—does it taste like a soggy sock?’

Rachel took a bite of the boozy, sugar-encrusted mince pie Abby had handed her and shook her head. It tasted sweet and delicious to her, of plump sticky raisins, spiced brandy and flaky, buttery puff pastry.

Marcel sat forward, twirling his half-empty glass of rum between his fingers, wolf-eyes locking on Rachel. ‘When do you go home?’

‘Boxing Day,’ she said, glancing away, hoping the conversation would move on.

‘Boxing Day?’ repeated George. ‘You got family here or summat?’

She shook her head. ‘No. No family.’

Marcel sat back, swirling his drink in his glass, and she could feel him watching her closely.

‘What will you do on Christmas?’ Abby asked.

‘Sleep probably. I think Christmas Eve will be a big day whether we’re in the final two or not.’

‘But it’s Christmas …’ said George, pulling open a packet of crisps and glancing round as some instrumental Christmas music started up as if illustrating his point.

‘I know. But really it’s just a day like any other.’

Abby looked at her as if that was certainly not the case.

Rachel shrugged.

Marcel leaned forward; the perfection of his features made her want to reach out and trace them. ‘So you do not do Christmas?’ he asked with a quirk of a dark brow.

‘Non.’ She smiled, a touch shyly under his gaze. ‘I like Easter.’ She laughed.

Abby asked why she didn’t like Christmas but Rachel did a Lacey and pretended she hadn’t heard.

‘Interesting. Well …’ Marcel sat back and licked his bottom lip—the look in his eye reminiscent of Ben, and Rachel found herself wondering for a moment what he was up to back in Nettleton, whether he’d found an adoring groupie to visit in the early hours. She felt a shoe brush her foot and pulled away before realising it was Marcel’s. Brown hair falling in front of his eye, he pushed it away and went on with a drawl, ‘If you get lonely, you are welcome to spend the day with me.’

Rachel giggled and felt her cheeks start to pink. ‘ Merci , Marcel.’

Abby shifted in her seat, pushing her boobs a little closer together to enhance her already impressive cleavage and leant a touch closer to Marcel. But Marcel was looking only at Rachel when he replied with a shrug, ‘De rien,’ his lips turning up into the hint of a smile.

That night Rachel strolled back from the bus stop; the rain had stopped for now and the sky was completely clear. The shadows of the plane trees speckled the road like puppets in the moonlight and the puddles of water glistened like crystal. Looking up at the few stars above her, she felt a rush of excitement.

‘Not bad,’ she said out loud. ‘They tasted not bad.’ And allowed herself a surge of pride.

At her door she found Chantal sitting on the thin wooden bench on the landing, knitting what appeared to be an incredibly long scarf in purple and maroon wool. She was buttoned up in her camel coat and scarf and Rachel wondered how long she’d been there.

‘ Bonsoir, ma petite. What did you cook today?’

Rachel unlocked the door as Chantal packed up her needles and followed her in.

‘Cheese pies.’

Rachel stood back as Chantal squeezed past her while taking off her coat and hat, patting her hair into place and peering over the rim of her bifocals. ‘Ah, très bon. I put the kettle on?’

‘OK.’ Rachel watched her from the doorway, a little warily, as Chantal made herself at home—filling the kettle, laying out cups and a plate for the pies, then hoisting another huge bag onto the chair.

‘I bring more things.’

Rachel unwound her scarf and pulled off her gloves. ‘Chantal, you don’t have to.’

Chantal looked round as if it was obvious she did. Then began laying out her bounty. Another bedraggled plant. A bright blue frame, a horse ornament with only three legs, a throw for the sofa, a green glass vase with a crack down one side, and a lace doily that she placed in the centre of the table under the teapot. ‘Et voilà.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Thank you, Chantal,’ she said, thinking of all her minimalist white furniture and key pieces from Anthropologie and Heal’s back home.

The flat was coming to life. Splashes of colour and all the little extras beginning to make it more homely. It wasn’t her taste but it was certainly better than it had been.

Before she left, full of cheese pies and tea, Chantal threw an orange linen napkin over the sidelight so it cast a soft, warm yellowy glow on the room. She stood back and said with pride, ‘It is nearly perfect, yes?’