Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

George gasped.

Cheryl nodded silently, her hair falling forward so it was hard to see the reddening of her cheeks. When Chef walked away, Rachel watched her dab a tea towel to her eye and hold it there for a second as she took some deep breaths.

George’s, Chef thought, was marvellous; he couldn’t get enough of it. He even laughed at how he’d managed to make a bread look like a yule log.

‘This is very inventive. I like it.’

George was beaming.

Chef came to Abby last. Rachel felt her pulse start to speed up. When he put the chocolate twist in his mouth and paused, she thought she could actually feel the minutes tick by. By the time he swallowed and said, ‘Très bon,’ Rachel thought her heart might have leapt out through her chest and run out of the room.

‘That is OK.’ He nodded. ‘A good dough. Some OK flavours. But a little small.’

‘Christ,’ said Abby as they stumbled out, laughing. ‘I thought I was going to die.’

‘Me too.’ Rachel was clutching her chest.

‘Thank God it’s over.’

A door slammed above them and then she heard her name being called from behind her. ‘Rachel! Stop there.’

They paused and turned to see Chef standing at the top of the stairs. ‘A word.’

Abby made a worried face and squeezed her hand before sloping out while Rachel backtracked up a floor.

Chef was waiting, thumbs slung in the string of his apron. Rachel paused on the top step but he beckoned her to come further forward, to stand right in front of him.

She waited, glancing from his weathered face to the slogan of the pâtisserie on his apron, to his polished black shoes.

‘You think after twenty years I cannot taste?’ he asked.

She looked at the floor. Staring at the patterns in the carpet.

‘Let me tell you something,’ he sneered. ‘All good bakers have a signature. Did you know that?’

Rachel shook her head.

‘A cake, a loaf, a tart … it is signed by their own hand. You—’ He pointed at her. ‘You leave a signature. And I can read it.’

Rachel glanced up.

‘Yes, that’s right. A big, bold signature.’ He almost spat it out.

She was suddenly terrified that he was going to boot her out.

Over the last few days this competition had gone from being a burden to the most important thing in her life. She’d started to find the challenge addictive. While she loved her job in Nettleton, she hadn’t realised how much she had missed this—the skill, the craftsmanship, the smells, the textures, the familiarity. The thrill of knowing that she had a talent, however rusty. She would do anything for it not to end now.

‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was just trying to help. I didn’t know. I did know. I know it was wrong. Oh, God—’

‘I should throw you out the door. You hear me? You waste my time. You make a fool of me.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘You throw this away. That is what you have done. This chance that you ‘ave to be good and you have thrown it away.’ He paused, taking a deep breath.

She glanced up tentatively. Saw a look of confusion and annoyance pass over his face. It felt suddenly as if he wasn’t talking to her but that instead the words were ringing truer to himself. She thought of the stories she’d Googled. All that success that he had let slip through his fingers, the crown that he had allowed to topple, the reputation that had ended up in tabloid ridicule. In the moment’s pause he seemed to deflate before her eyes, his cheeks less puffed out, his colour less red. She bit her lip and tried to show the depth of her apology in plaintive eyes.

‘ Merde , and I know what it is like. You are stupid.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his face.

Rachel nodded, sensing something odd was happening between them. That she was teetering on the edge of being on the next train home but something, some emotion flickering over Chef’s face, might just be about to save her, throw her a rope and pull her back. ‘I’m sorry.’

He exhaled like a bull about to charge and ran his fingers over his stubbled chin. ‘I give you one more chance because you have a shred of promise. A shred. I am stupid to do it. But fuck me over again … you have no more chances. Comprende? ’

She nodded, flooded with relief as if she might collapse into a puddle on the floor, and pleaded with herself not to cry.

‘Comprende?’ he said again.

‘Yes, Chef.’

That night Rachel got so drunk out of relief that she was still in the competition, terror at having been yelled at, and shock at the haunted look in Chef’s eyes. Her stupor meant that she didn’t pull her foot away from Marcel’s when he pushed his against hers under the table. Nor did she look away when he smirked at her across the table, his flirtatious eyes glinting beautifully. He had that familiar predatory nature of Ben that was surprisingly comforting.

When she’d walked into the bar Marcel had singled her out, got up to give her his seat, poured her a glass of wine, complimented her on her bake. He had made it more than clear that he was interested and the attention was intoxicating.

‘I think you are the best cook here. Without doubt. Chef, I think he is jealous,’ he’d whispered. ‘And—’ he’d paused ‘—you’re the most beautiful.’

She’d glanced away, blushing, but the words had hit their mark. He was pumping up her deflated ego, as if he knew exactly where her weaknesses lay, and she was lapping it up. Anything to take the attention away from her run-in with Chef.

Women were looking at Marcel from the bar, glancing round to see if he might be interested in them but he wasn’t; he was looking at Rachel.

‘So what did Chef say, Rachel?’ Abby leant forward, her eyes darting to Marcel as if trying to attract his attention, swirling her wine round in her glass.

‘Nothing. Just a reminder to work on my presentation.’

‘Ooh, special treatment for Rachel.’ She whistled, supposedly joking, but Rachel caught a weird look in her eye. ‘You and George had it nailed today,’ she said, taking a great gulp of red wine and pouring some more.

The air between them all was definitely changing. It was as if this really was a competition and for the first time in Rachel’s life she was near the top—not just hovering over average but up there in sight of the prize—and that clearly made enemies.

‘Don’t be daft.’ She laughed, brushing the comment away and reaching for a glass and the carafe to pour herself some wine. ‘He just loathes my mess.’

Abby raised a brow, disbelieving, clearly still smarting from her failure, and seemingly pissed off that Marcel wasn’t paying her the attention he was Rachel, and downed her drink before holding her glass out for Rachel to top her up.

‘A dark horse in the race, Flower Girl,’ drawled Marcel and, under the table, she felt his hand scrape her thigh. He had perfect hands, neat blunt nails and a dirty tan as if he’d spent the summer on a yacht in St Tropez and skied all winter. She decided that, in his black cashmere jumper, he actually looked fresh from the slopes of Val d’Isère. Close up she could even make out the remains of sunburn on the tips of his cheekbones.

‘Is there something on my face?’ he asked and she realised she’d been staring.

‘No, no. I was just wondering if you skied. You know, why you had a tan in December …’ She cringed at the embarrassment of being caught.

‘ Mais oui , I spend every weekend in the Alps. It is my passion.’ He examined his hand to check out his own tan. ‘Do you ski?’

Rachel thought about the time when the hill on the edge of Nettleton had been caked in snow and Jackie had strapped her into her snowboard. You’ll be fine, just point it downhill and sit down if it goes too fast.