Jenny Oliver - The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

It was Rachel’s turn to flinch; as she stirred the coq au vin she felt an unwanted lump rising in her throat. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes then redid her ponytail for something to do instead of answering.

She felt her grandmother watching her. ‘She would, you know.’

‘I didn’t think you baked any more,’ her father said, as if he’d missed something along the way, something that didn’t entirely please him.

‘I don’t,’ said Rachel, emphatically.

‘No. That should probably rest with your mother.’ Her father crossed his arms over his chest, and she stared at the holes on the cuffs of his shirt, the ones she remembered her mum darning.

‘Oh, don’t talk such tripe,’ Julie scoffed. ‘The last thing your mother would have wanted is you sitting around refusing to whisk a bit of flour and butter because she was good at it. For Christ’s sake, Rachel, I know you’re a very good teacher, but you were an excellent baker. You need to give it a chance. And, David, I’m sorry, but I can only say that your opinion on the matter is absolute bollocks. Rachel, you go to Paris, and, David, you go back to your bloody dream world and stay there. That’s the best option as far as I can see.’

‘I was only giving an opinion. I was asked for an opinion, Julie.’

Rachel watched her dad as he took his glasses out of his pocket, put them on and picked up the cycling magazine that he’d brought with him—watched him retreat back into his hobby so he wouldn’t have to face any more from her grandmother.

As Julie was about to reply Rachel cut in, saying, ‘I’ve forgotten the water glasses. Gran, can you get them for me?’

Julie flumped up the scarf around her neck with a huff, then pushed her chair back and stood up to rummage in the cupboard. As she clattered about Rachel tried not to think about what her mum would have thought about a trip to Paris to bake with a professional, tried to ignore the fact that her relationship with her father was becoming more and more distant and how his comment just then had affected her. She’d known he might not advocate a baking trip to Paris, but she hadn’t expected such obvious disapproval.

‘These are very lovely.’ Rachel looked up to see her gran holding up three little mottled glasses with maple leaves painted on the sides that she’d picked up from the local antique shop. ‘I’d put them somewhere, if I were you, just in case the Australians are clumsy.’

‘I don’t want people in my flat, and—’

‘Nonsense.’ Her grandmother plonked the glasses down on the table and then sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her silver bracelets clicking, her lips pursed. ‘Anyway, it’d do you good to get away from that idiot guitar player. Brad? God knows what you see in him. You should go for that reason alone.’

‘Who’s that you’re talking about?’ Her dad glanced up from the pages of the magazine. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Rachel?’

‘Of course she has a boyfriend. Really, David, sometimes I wonder where you’ve been. You’ve met him—that plonker from the band that played in the pub the other night. Wore all black. Remember? You thought it was all terribly loud. Brad.’

Her father shook his head.

‘Ben. His name is Ben and you know that.’ Rachel tried to take her annoyance out on her potato, sawing into it with her knife but having to pull back as she burnt her fingers on the crispy skin. ‘And he plays the drums, not the guitar.’

Julie made a face as if it made no difference.

‘And he’s fine. It’s fine between us.’ Rachel could feel the frustration boiling up inside her as her grandmother raised a brow sardonically, clearly questioning that statement. ‘And I’m not going to Paris.’ Rachel huffed as she shoved some potato into her mouth, burning her tongue but trying to pretend that she hadn’t.

There was another pause as Julie shook out her napkin, then held up her hands as if she’d say no more about it. ‘Well, come on, then.’ She nodded at the casserole dish. ‘Are you going to serve this thing or not?’

As Rachel ladled out the rich, thick stew Julie took a mouthful and sighed. ‘I’m going to miss my dinners here while you’re in France.’

At four a.m. the doorbell went, followed by the usual tap on the door. Rachel, had been lying in bed staring at the ceiling while her mind whirred with images of Paris, Christmas, her mother in the hospital bed—a limp garland of tinsel wrapped around the bedstead—Henri Salernes’ face on the flyleaf of the well-thumbed cook book she had on her shelf. She pulled on her dressing gown and tried to do something vaguely decent with her hair as the tapping got louder and louder. She checked her reflection in the mirror by the door, refusing to think about the fact she’d purposely slept in her make-up on the off chance this visit would happen.

‘Rach, honey, darling, beautiful …’ Ben bounded in off the step like a Labrador high on the adoration of his fans. Shaggy black hair, crack-addict cheekbones and eyes that crinkled as if they always knew a secret—her on-again off-again boyfriend was gorgeous and he knew it. He would also baulk at the term boyfriend but if she admitted the transience of their relationship in comparison to the time she’d dedicated to it, it would be too depressing.

‘Hi,’ she said coyly as he twisted her hair round his hand and pulled her head back for a kiss that tasted of cigarettes and beer and the toothpaste she’d just swallowed while running down the stairs.

‘Let’s get rid of this horrible thing, shall we?’ He smirked, pushing her old towelling dressing gown off and sliding his hands round her waist to her arse, then, leaning forward, whispered, ‘Go on, make me something nice to eat. I’m starving.’

As she stood open mouthed at his audacity he patted her on the bum with a wink and a heartbreaking smile and steered her in the direction of the kitchen.

Five minutes later Rachel was standing in her nightie, her banned robe still on the floor in the hallway, whipping up the perfect, smooth, yellow hollandaise and checking the timer for the poached eggs while she watched Ben as he sat back, feet up on the table, flicking through her Grazia magazine.

‘Do you want to sleep here tonight?’ She didn’t know why she said it; she hadn’t said it for months but she suddenly felt the overwhelming need to push the point. He peered over the pages he was holding and watched her for a second before his mouth quirked into its infamous grin.

‘Honey, you know I can’t sleep here. I need my—’

‘Own bed.’ She finished before he could and turned her back to him, scooping out the poached eggs. In the last year she’d woken up next to him once, and that was because he’d accidentally taken a sleeping tablet rather than a paracetamol for a headache when rooting through her bathroom cabinet. He claimed that he couldn’t sleep anywhere other than his bed and alone, and she’d always gone along with it, not wanting to rock the boat. After a moment or two of silence he came over and wrapped his hands around her, pressing himself close against her back. The sensation felt less fuzzy and cosy than normal, more as if he was locking her into place.

‘You smell awesome.’

She turned around in his arms and handed him the plate of Eggs Benedict, trying to ignore the sense of being released when he let her go and took the plate. Her grandmother’s quirk of a brow flashed into her mind. This wasn’t a healthy relationship, one side of her mind said, while the other just stared at his pretty face and argued that it most definitely was.

‘And this—’ Ben took the plate from her ‘—looks awesome.’

As he cut into it, the golden yolk oozing out into the toasted muffin she’d found at the bottom of the freezer and the silky hollandaise dripping from his fork, he paused before putting the first bite into his mouth, as if preparing himself for the bliss.