Jenny Oliver - The Parisian Christmas Bake Off

‘I’m only talking about names, darling. I would just prefer to be known by my own name, not some generic term that half my bloody generation are known as.’

Rachel sighed, pausing with her hand on her hip to look back at her. ‘We’ve been through this. I can’t do it. It just won’t happen. When I try to it feels too weird. You’re my grandmother—that’s just the way it is.’ Julie made a face as Rachel turned away and slid the steaming potatoes from the baking tray into a terracotta bowl and carried them to the table.

Julie took the bowl from her. ‘Well, I don’t think things should always be the way they are. Who says that’s the way it should be? Do you have a mat to put these on? The bowl is very hot.’

Rachel slid a magazine over so her gran could put the bowl of potatoes down without marking the already pretty shabby table and went back to the stove; they had this conversation at least once every six weeks. ‘You know I don’t know the answer. I just can’t call you Julie. It’s weird. And …’ she paused, ran her tongue over her lips as it finally dawned on her why she clung to the name ‘… it reminds me that we’re related.’ She paused.

‘Maybe if your mother was still alive you wouldn’t mind so much,’ Julie said matter-of-factly. Rachel’s dad flinched again.

Rachel smacked the wooden spoon down on the counter. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’

Her gran narrowed her eyes and watched her for a moment, wondering perhaps whether to push this tiny crack in Rachel’s armour so it might widen and they’d all start talking. Rachel had already turned back to the coq au vin. ‘So I hear you’re off to Paris.’

‘Not that. Something other than that.’ Oven gloves on, she picked up the Le Creuset bubbling with stew and set it down in the centre of the table. ‘And by the way, I’m not going to Paris. It’s a ridiculous idea.’

‘Just so you know, I’ve volunteered to keep an eye on the lovely Australian couple.’

‘I’m not going.’

‘Why are you going to Paris?’ her father asked with vague interest.

‘I’m not,’ Rachel said quickly.

‘Oh, you must.’ Julie reached forward and grabbed a potato from the dish. ‘Gosh, this is hot,’ she said, slicing it open, forking up the fluffy insides and slathering it with butter. ‘David, she’s going to bake. Rachel, you must go,’ she said again, her mouth full of boiling potato. ‘This tastes divine. Divine as always. Mine are always so hard and the skin all soft and wrinkly—bloody microwave.’ She scooped up another forkful before carrying on about the impending trip to Paris. ‘Yes, you have to go.’ Then she waited a second before adding, ‘Your mum would have been so proud.’

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.