Jenny Oliver - The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

‘Well, then …’ Rachel put the cup down on the table. ‘Then I’d kill you. But I don’t think you’d dare.’

Jackie’s lips drew up in a wry smile as the realisation of what her friend might have done dawned on Rachel. And as it did, suddenly all the PTA parents popped up from their various positions in the hall where they’d been painting scenery and bitching about the nativity casting, and shouted, ‘Surprise!’

‘What’s going on?’ Rachel looked around as the PTA head honcho Mrs Pritchard, alpha-mother of a girl in Jackie’s class, handed her an envelope with Eurostar stamped on the front and everyone clapped.

‘I kinda dared.’ Jackie looked a little sheepish. ‘You’re going to Paris.’

Rachel took a step back. ‘I’m not going to Paris.’

All the parents were nudging one another, nodding excitedly.

‘Yeah, you are.’ Jackie went on, ‘To bake with Henri Salernes.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s true.’ Mrs Pritchard nodded, patting Rachel affectionately on the arm. ‘It’s an apprentice competition. The infamous Henri wants an apprentice—well, actually we’re not convinced he wants, it’s possible that it’s more just to make money, but the opportunity is still there. It was a competition on In The Morning , on ITV. For amateurs to compete to work for him for a month. It coincides with a new book or something, I think. Was it a new book?’ She glanced around at the other parents, some of whom nodded, others looked unsure. ‘Anyway, it sounds fabulous. And we all just thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for you. Maybe get you back in the swing of it.’

One of the parents came over with a tray of tea and more biscuits and they all raised their chipped mugs in a toast to Rachel’s impromptu Christmas trip to France, enthusiasm plastered on their faces.

Her colleague, gym teacher Henry Evans, was the only one looking less than impressed. ‘Don’t know what we’ll do without you, though. Who’ll make the cakes for the Christmas Sports Day? And the Village Lights evening?’

‘Shut up, Henry.’ Mrs Pritchard elbowed him in the ribs while sipping her tea and then telling some of the other parents how she’d been the one to spot the competition on the telly.

Rachel wasn’t really listening; she was glaring at Jackie, who was finding the remains of her tea fascinating. ‘How could I have got into that competition? How can I be baking for Henri Salernes when he hasn’t tasted what I cook? I can’t go to Paris, Jackie, this is insane.’

‘We pulled some strings.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘Well, actually, Mr Swanson pulled some strings—he works for the network. It’s all very underhand and not above board at all, but we thought the good outweighed the wrongness.’ Jackie turned to point at where Mr Swanson was still standing by the manger, drilling the roof and looking a little sheepish. He waved a hand as if she shouldn’t have mentioned it and the quieter they kept it all, the better.

‘It’s not a problem. I cleared it with the team. Not a problem at all,’ he said, although he did look a bit shifty and his neck was flushing a similar colour to his Christmas jumper. ‘Wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, mind.’

‘Look, thanks, everyone, it’s really sweet of you, but I can’t go to Paris. And I certainly can’t bake for Henri Salernes. I’m nowhere near good enough. And, Jackie, no one’s going to be living in my flat.’ Rachel thought of all her things just the way she liked them being picked up and broken by a couple of Australian strangers. She thought of her usual Christmas Day hiding out in her bedroom with the six-hour BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD. She thought of the endurance test that went with avoiding the carol concerts, the presents, the festive cheer. Of locking out thoughts and memories of family Christmases that were just too achingly bittersweet to remember. ‘I just—there’s no way I’m going. I have loads to do here. I can’t. Absolutely no way …’

She trailed off when she looked up and saw all the happy little faces of the kids on stage. They’d stopped singing and run off to the wings without her noticing. Now they were holding up a banner saying, ‘Good Luck in Paris, Miss Smithson!’, smiling expectantly. All watching.

But now their faces were starting to droop, like flowers wilting. Little Tommy had pulled off his angel halo, his bottom lip quivering. It was as if she’d stood in front of them and picked all the decorations off the big Christmas tree at the back and smashed them one by one underfoot.

Jackie raised her eyebrows; Rachel narrowed her eyes back at her. She felt the PTA parents start to murmur and others look away, embarrassed, as if it certainly wasn’t meant to go this way. She watched the uncertain faces of her class, who couldn’t understand why their favourite teacher wasn’t laughing with delight. They’d clearly been prepped to expect some sort of party atmosphere. So as the silence fell around her Rachel did the only thing that she could so as not to disappoint: going against her every instinct, she swallowed, took a shaky breath and forced her best teacher smile.

‘Thanks,’ she said, waving the envelope of tickets so the kids could see. ‘Thanks so much. It’s really kind of you all. I can’t wait.’ Then she pointed at the stage. ‘What a fantastic banner.’

Mrs Pritchard took this as an obvious signal to start clapping and as she took the lead the other PTA parents joined in, unsure at first but gathering steam. Mr Swanson put down his drill and punched the air, triumphant. When the kids heard the cheers they tugged the banner as tight as they could so it pulled up high and just their smiling eyes poked out over the top. Then, when Jackie clicked her fingers, they all ran off the stage and swamped Rachel in a hug, so she was trapped in an island of five-year-olds unable to do anything but fake smile so hard her cheeks started to ache.

No way was she going to Paris. Back at her flat Rachel was stirring coq au vin on the stove with one hand while trying to pull baked potatoes out of the oven with the other. No way. Turning the dial on the oven down, she noted how clean and shiny it was, how she knew which hob worked and which didn’t light, how the cupboard to her left sometimes needed an extra shove to get the door to click shut—strangers staying in her flat wouldn’t know those things. Would she have to write them a list?

‘Do you want wine?’ her grandmother shouted from where she was sitting at the table, her big colourful scarf wrapped multiple times round her neck and the bracelets on her arm clacking together as she raised her hand.

‘I’m only just here, Gran, no need to shout.’ Rachel winced.

‘Sorry, was I shouting? I must be such an embarrassment to you.’ Her grandmother cocked her head and pulled a tight smile. ‘Do you know, Gran is such a terrible term. I’d really rather you called me Julie. What do you think, David?’ She turned to Rachel’s father, who was sitting quietly opposite her. ‘Don’t you just hate the term Dad?’

‘Sorry, what? I was miles away.’ Rachel’s dad had been staring into space and blinked himself back into the present.

‘Dad!’ Julie sighed. ‘Don’t you think it’s a dreadful word? A label. Wouldn’t you far rather Rachel called you David?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he said with a shrug.

Julie huffed a great sigh. ‘Well, think about it now! For pity’s sake, man, it’s just an opinion. He’s always been like this, darling, used to drive your mother up the wall.’

Rachel swung round too quickly at the mention of her mother, tried too late to shush her gran, and saw her dad visibly shrink back into his cardigan. She’d made it a point never to mention her mother in front of her dad; he always just clammed up immediately. When she caught her grandmother’s eye and gave her a ‘What did you have to say that for?’ look, Julie just shrugged as if she couldn’t see what the problem was.