Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

‘ Au revoir , Rachel. It was nice to see you again.’

‘No, wait. Hang on. You can’t leave just yet. I read about you. The other night.’

Philippe cocked his head, a smirk on his lips.

‘No, I mean—’ She huffed out a breath, half embarrassed, half exasperated. ‘I Googled Henri and I read about you. You were amazing. People said you were amazing. I really admire what you did and the boundaries you broke with your restaurant. Especially in a country with such a strong culinary tradition.’

Philippe shrugged. ‘I don’t cook any more. It is the past. Life, it has many cycles.’

‘But you should. People would love to see you cook again. You should do a book or something,’ Rachel carried on, moving down a step so she was a little closer to him, hardly able to believe that he could let such talent go to waste.

‘But I do not want to do a book.’ Philippe unwound his scarf and shrugged off his coat, shaking off the snow and deliberately avoiding eye contact with her. ‘You can learn everything you need to know from Henri. I am not interested, not any longer.’

‘It’s crazy. You have so much talent. You shouldn’t waste it. I would totally read a book by you.’ Rachel bit her bottom lip and stared down at him, her head shaking slightly.

She watched as he paused, folded the coat neatly over his arm and draped his scarf over the heavy woollen material, then, running a hand over his light smattering of stubble, he looked up, his eyes just a touch narrower than they had been. ‘And what about you? What are you hiding?’ he asked, taking a step forward, almost invading her space. ‘Not many people would come to Paris alone over Christmas, not even to bake.’

Rachel gave a little snort, retreating back into herself quick as a flash, and, stepping backwards up the stairs, muttered, ‘Point taken.’ Then she swept her fringe out of her eyes and said politely, ‘I have to go now. I’m going to be late. If I don’t get a move on.’

‘Of course.’ He stood where he was and watched her as she made to go.

About to hurry up the stairs, she paused with her hand on the banister, torn, wanting to run away but also not wanting to leave it like that between them. She didn’t know him well but she’d liked him instantly and was frustrated with herself for prying, for pushing him when, as he said, she had her own issues that held her back that she wouldn’t want to air to anyone who asked. ‘Did you—?’ She turned back to look at him. ‘Did you enjoy your Religieuse?’

‘Very much.’ Philippe smiled, straightening his tie.

‘Good.’ She nodded, waited to see if he was going to say anything else and when he didn’t she turned and flew up the stairs, two at a time, without looking back. Walking into the workshop, she found she was the last one to arrive. With poor Tony gone it was down to seven of them. Everyone was waiting, standing straight like toy soldiers behind their work stations.

‘Today is bread day,’ shouted Chef as he marched in the room.

Rachel had known it was coming. Lacey had told Marcel in confidence that bread was Chef’s pièce de résistance. It was all he cared about.

‘If I could—’ he stood at the front, hands on hips, nose in the air ‘—I would bake nothing. Nothing but bread. It is the essence of our existence. The food of generations. It is life. Bread. Le pain. Jesus—even Jesus—saw the promise of the loaf of bread.’

Rachel wanted to say that she thought the Feeding of the Five Thousand had another angle more important than the loaf but now certainly wasn’t the time. She glanced at Marcel, who rolled his eyes, which caught her off guard and made her burst out in a little laugh.

‘You find bread funny? Rachel, tell us what you find so 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.’

‘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.