Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

Out of the oven Rachel’s bread was beautiful. Exactly like the fake Mighty White her mum used to make.

‘This is delicious,’ sighed George with his mouth full.

‘Very tasty,’ Lacey managed through a tight grimace.

By lunchtime everyone had had quite enough of bread and they were all going to the bar, but Rachel cried off with the excuse that she had some stuff to buy. Instead she sat in the park on her own.

She found an empty bench and brushed off the snow with her glove, then sat on an old Pret a Manger napkin she found in her bag. The air was sparkling like a shower of glitter as the snow fell through the pine trees that loomed above her, big and dark and exotic. Huge pine cones jutted from the branches, white tipped with snow like porcupines, and birds dotted from branch to branch shaking the dusty sleet from their feathers.

All Rachel could think about was bread. To begin with the memories had been beautiful. But now that it was baked and eaten and over, she just felt sad. Drained. Drained by the memories and the emotion. Deflated and vulnerable, stripped of every barrier she had in place. She had felt her mum next to her as she had worked the dough, and, while at the time it had felt precious and perfect, now she felt as if she were back to those horrendous few months after she had died. It was as if she could see the hole in her heart and it was bigger than she’d ever let herself believe.

Christmas lights were twinkling in every tree, glowing stars dangled amongst the branches, and, all along the street, angels were looped across the road by their wings. She watched the people hurrying past on their lunch breaks, the pavement packed, everyone carrying bags of Christmas shopping. She heard carols echo from the nearby church choir practice and thought of her and Jackie singing in stupid voices as teenagers at the school Christmas choir service. Rachel pulled her hat down over her ears.

‘Is this seat taken?’

She looked up, surprised, and saw Philippe, his grey woollen overcoat hanging open over his suit, his scarf draped over his shoulders. Rachel shook her head and moved her bag along to make room. ‘No, please sit.’

He made a poor effort of brushing off the snow and folded himself down, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his head to look at her.

‘My brother is better today?’

‘No,’ she said with a laugh.

He nodded silently, then stared out ahead of him. ‘I wanted to apologise. For earlier. I was rude to you.’

‘Oh, no, you weren’t at all.’ Rachel shook her head, pulling off her woolly hat and trying to straighten her fringe. ‘I shouldn’t have gone on about you having a book.’ She laughed. ‘Who’d want a book anyway?’

She saw his lips tilt up ever so slightly at the corners. ‘A lot of people I think would like a book.’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘Just not me, I am afraid.’

Rachel nodded, unconsciously pleating the fabric of her hat in her lap.

‘But it is no reason for me to be rude to you,’ Philippe went on. ‘Why you are here has nothing to do with me, and I should not have made a point of it. Once again, I am not like a gentleman.’

As far as Rachel was concerned no man had ever been quite so gentlemanly with her before. Certainly not Ben and his four a.m. visits and no sleeping over. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. We were both at fault,’ she said.

Rachel watched as he ran a hand over his bottom lip, once more staring straight ahead. She took the moment to study his profile, his wide broad shoulders that seemed to pull on the fabric of his coat, the neat line of his hair at the back of his neck and the smattering of stubble on his jaw. She liked sitting next to him. Liked the feeling of being in the park in the snow with this man on the bench next to her.

‘I have a problem,’ he said after a second.

‘Really?’ she asked, intrigued. ‘What kind of problem?’

He laughed. ‘Nothing serious. I must buy a gift.’

‘Ah, I see. What kind of gift?’

‘I’m not sure yet. That’s my problem. I feel I will only know when I see it.’

‘A tricky gift.’ She laughed.

‘Mais oui.’ He sat back, stretching one leg across the other, raking a hand through his neatly cropped hair. ‘I am on my way to look now. I see you and I think maybe you would like to come? Your taste so far has been … impeccable.’ He smiled.

‘Oh, no, I can’t.’

He nodded and looked forward again, unmoving. ‘That is a great shame.’

‘I have to go back to class soon. I don’t have time.’

‘How long do you have?’ He checked his watch.

She looked guilty. ‘Forty-five minutes.’

He smiled again. ‘I understand.’

‘No, no, you don’t, it’s just I feel I need some time. Something happened in class. I just—’

‘Come anyway.’ He cut her off. ‘Come anyway, just because. Maybe just because I really do need some help.’

Rachel fiddled with her gloves, picking a hole in the wool. The snow had started to get heavier, dusting the pavements like icing sugar.

‘OK,’ she said after a pause. ‘OK, why not?’

‘Bon.’ Philippe stood up and held out his hand to help her up; she took it for a second but let it drop as soon as she was standing. As soon as she did she wished that she hadn’t.

He put his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat and they walked together to the row of little shops in the Marais.

‘Wait a second—what is this?’ Philippe stopped her halfway down the road and then peeled something off the back of her coat. ‘It is a new look, yes?’

She blushed as she looked at the tatty, wet napkin he was holding that she’d used to sit on. ‘It was to protect my coat,’ she said, grabbing it from his hand and scrunching it up in the bin. ‘How embarrassing. I walked the whole way from the park with it hanging off me.’

He blew out a breath. ‘No one will care. They will think it is fashion.’

She raised a brow as if that would never be the case and he laughed as if he completely agreed.

They walked on in the direction of the Marais, their feet leaving a trail of footprints in the light coating of snow as Philippe pointed out landmarks and places she might want to visit some time.

Approaching the network of narrow streets, she saw all the gift shops were bustling, looking warm and inviting, playing classical carols and serving glasses of vin chaud.

‘So what does your friend like?’ Rachel asked.

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Great start. Male or female?’

‘Female.’

She felt a bolt of jealousy that took her by surprise. Who would be buying her presents this year? Not Ben. She always insisted he shouldn’t bother and he never did. Jackie always gave her a bottle of champagne that they drank on Boxing Day. Her dad usually posted her a paperback. And her gran would declare that she was sending a donation to the RSPB or something similar in Rachel’s name— Birds, darling, I much prefer birds to humans. Then there was little Tommy from her class; he always gave her something. It was a tradition. She tried not to have favourites but he was so sweet and ever since she’d found him standing alone in the playground complaining of a tummy ache, which after floods of tears he’d said was caused by no one wanting to play with him, she had made it her mission to make sure he wasn’t left out again.

She’d put a cushion in the corner of her classroom with a stack of books next to it and a secret packet of chocolate digestives and said if he ever felt lonely he could go and sit there at lunch break. She’d kept an eye on him, encouraging him to pluck up the courage to ask if he could join in with the games the other kids played and finally knew he was OK when she caught them all tucking into the digestives, Tommy beaming that he’d been the one to show them the stash. Since then he’d always made her presents—for her birthday, for end of term and for Christmas. Last year it was a Santa made out of a loo roll, painted red with a cotton-wool beard. She’d left it up all year round.