Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

As they stepped out onto the main street she was checking the traffic to cross the road when her eyes fell on his coat. ‘Look,’ she said and pointed to where a thousand snowflakes had caught in the wool.

He paused, then picked one off and held it on the tip of his gloved finger. ‘It is perfect,’ he said, then took her hand and touched it to her glove where it sat tiny and perfect like a gift.

She felt him looking down at her, watching.

After a pause she blew it away, embarrassed by the whole gesture. ‘I can never believe that each one is meant to be different.’

‘Well, we are all different.’ He shrugged.

‘That’s true.’

‘Every one of us unique.’

‘I know, we could be anyone. I mean, if you think about it, I don’t really know you at all, or you me.’

She looked from his white-flecked coat back up to him and he seemed as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he just smiled and she noticed he had snowflakes on his eyelashes.

They had an hour and a half to make a Christmas-inspired bread.

Marcel was making an apricot, date and nutmeg Panettone. George was muttering about some sort of cherry-brandy yule-log buns. Lacey said nothing, just got to work. Abby looked perplexed—Rachel could see the competition was starting to get to her. She’d cried in the bar last night, weeping that she missed her kids. She’d Skyped them in the morning before class and had come in with red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

As Rachel watched Abby, Cheryl leant across her and picked some coffee grains off the shelf. ‘Sorry, hun, didn’t mean to push,’ she apologised, her cheeks flushing red.

‘No, it’s fine, I was miles away.’ Rachel stared at the ingredients. She thought about Philippe telling her she worried too much about what people thought—she felt it in herself, sticking too much with conventions and not going with her instincts. But her brain was blank. The only thing coming to mind was Easter. Warm hot cross buns that ripped apart like candy floss. She was reminded of the smells in the street today. Of the different spices and the sharp tang as they hit her senses. Of roasting chestnuts, mulled wine packed with star anise, cinnamon and nutmeg, and the brown bags of dried cranberries and candied orange that were stuffed in her jacket pocket.

That was it … Hot Cross Christmas buns. Warm and sticky and sweet. She’d pack them with candied orange zest and slivers of cranberry, raisins, sultanas and glacé cherries. Then glaze them with cinnamon syrup and white icing and when they were opened up she’d have a chocolate and chestnut purée that sank, melting, into the warm, fluffy dough.

They worked in silence, heads down, kneading, flouring, rolling, shaping. As Rachel’s dough was rising she tore the skins from her roasted chestnuts, burning her fingers, popping one into her mouth when no one was looking.

Chef was called down to the pâtisserie as she was melting her chocolate and when he left it was as if everyone had been holding their breath and could collectively exhale.

‘Oh, my God.’ It was Abby who punctured the contented silence.

‘What?’ Rachel turned.

‘I’ve used salt instead of sugar.’

‘No, you can’t have done.’

Everyone paused except Lacey, who just carried on silently. Marcel strode over and picked up the container. ‘She has. She has used the salt.’

‘Shit.’ Abby slumped onto her forearms. ‘How can this have happened? I don’t have time to do more. Oh, God, I’m out. How can I tell my kids that I’m out because of some stupid sodding mistake from being tired? You idiot.’ She smacked herself on the forehead. ‘I’m just so tired.’

Rachel watched as her friend started to cry. Hot, fat tears falling into her failed dough.

‘Don’t cry,’ she said, walking over to helplessly pat her on the back.

‘It’s useless. I’m useless. I’m a failure. A failure. A fucking failure with a stupid husband sailing the fucking Caribbean or wherever the hell Mauritius is.’

‘It is in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa,’ said Marcel.

‘Thank you.’ Abby wiped her nose on the tissue Rachel gave her.

‘Look, just have half of my dough,’ Rachel said.

‘I can’t take your dough.’

‘Yes, you can. Just pick the bits out and he’ll be none the wiser. You’re adding chocolate and vanilla anyway, aren’t you?’

‘But there won’t be enough.’

‘There’ll be plenty.’

‘It’s cheating.’ Lacey stopped kneading and turned round.

‘Who cares? We’re all adults. It’s not school, Lacey.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘And you know he’ll kick her out and she doesn’t deserve to go over a mistake.’

Lacey pursed her lips, tapping the wooden spoon in her hand against her palm.

‘I wouldn’t do it if I thought she made crap dough. It was a mistake.’

Lacey was silent.

Then Abby said, ‘Would you tell, Lacey?’

There was a pause. Rachel watched George and Ali exchange glances, Marcel raised a brow, intrigued at how this would pan out, and Abby looked on with pleading eyes.

‘It’s none of my business,’ Lacey muttered in the end and turned her back to them.

Rachel winked at Abby and went and pulled her dough out of the drawer, tore it in half and the two of them went about picking out all the cranberries and raisins she’d so lovingly folded in half an hour ago.

Chef strode in just as Rachel was running back to her bench, slamming her bowl of dough down hard by mistake. He paused, seemed to smell the air like a lion sensing a change in the atmosphere. Then he walked over to Rachel’s bench, reeking of fags, his expression suspicious. ‘What’s going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Something happened. And it is usually you.’

‘No, Chef. I’m just mixing my chocolate into the puréed chestnuts,’ she said without looking up.

He waited, and she could feel him staring at her, as if he knew exactly what was going on. Her heart was starting to quicken as she tried to act as nonchalant as possible.

‘Hmm.’ He stuck his finger in the mixture and licked it. ‘You try to be very calm. You are never calm,’ he said, then walked away, not before lifting the tea towel off her dough and scowling at it.

When they came to laying out their breads Rachel had brought in a special box—one that Chantal had given her that Madame Charles had discarded. It was wooden, meant for a small hamper from one of the expensive food shops on the Champs Élysées. The name was embossed on the side in grand, swirling writing. Rachel had lined it with a strip of red wool and piled her soft, squishy but depleted buns inside. Each one had a white star of icing piped on the top. The chestnut and chocolate purée was in a little glass jar nestled in the corner.

Chef peered at it. ‘Presentation—better. Could improve.’

Rachel nodded, holding in a smile that she’d at least moved it up a notch.

He spread the thick chocolate on the ripped-open bun that was still warm and steamed in the cool air. He closed his eyes as he ate, savouring the sweet softness. ‘Very nice. Clever. I didn’t expect … Very nice,’ he said again, as if caught off guard, then he nodded and walked on. Rachel nearly punched the air. Abby gave her a thumbs up.

Chef prowled the other benches, tasting, criticising, praising faintly. Marcel’s Panettone hadn’t risen very much but looked amazing. He muttered that Ali’s pumpkin, cider and marzipan buns were too sweet but better than he’d expected. Poor Cheryl’s coffee and pistachio tea-loaf had burnt on the top and risen unevenly. The dough inside was undercooked and Chef refused to put it in his mouth.

‘This will be the last day for you, Cheryl. You will go home. You understand?’ he said, prodding the soft dough with his finger.