Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The final. The trial meant being at the pâtisserie at four a.m. They would have half the display counter each and they would make the treats for the hungry shoppers who crowded in on the day before Christmas, eyes wide, for the perfect delicacies to box up and take home.
The others—George, Abby, Cheryl, Ali, Tony and Marcel—would stock the shop with bread: baguettes, fruit loaves, soda bread, crisp white rolls etc. The winner was the contestant with the largest queue, the first to sell out and the one to wow Chef Henri and his customers.
Rachel walked out late, having stood absorbing the look of the counter and her new workspace for what seemed like hours. It hadn’t stopped snowing. The streets were coated deep and white like icing. Children in mittens were jumping in snowdrifts, their excitement contagious, and snowmen dotted the pavement as far as she could see. Some huge with carrot noses and wonky stone buttons, others tiny with little sticks as arms and feet and satsuma slices as mouths. As she shut the door of the shop she heard someone call her name and looked up to see Philippe unlocking his car over the other side of the road, his mobile to his ear.
She didn’t stop. Just smiled and walked away leaving his wave in the air. She didn’t need any distractions. This, now, was about her.
At home she boiled the kettle and got out her notebook and started planning. Dreaming. Letting her mind drift to locked places. Of peppermint fondants and miniature yule logs. Of chocolate Christmas cake, because her mum hated fruit cake, shaped like a house and roofed with chocolate buttons, the doorknob a silver ball and the windows piped white icing. Of glossy dark chocolate poured into antique silver moulds, with lumps of dried orange and cherry and hazelnuts, then pressed into coloured foil and hung from the tree. Of warm arms wrapped round her as she sneaked a button off the roof of the house or pressed the plastic robin into the Cadbury Flake chimney pot.
At the sound of a quiet knock on the door, she pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, redid her ponytail and went to answer it. Chantal stood on the doorstep, bags of shopping all up her arms, her winter boots on and coat buttoned up tight.
‘I can not stop but I bring you this.’ She turned around and bent to pick up a pot, all her bags sliding forward in a heap. ‘Oh, merde.’ She swore and, dumping the bags, picked up the pot properly and held it out to Rachel.
In it was a branch. Not silver but brown—the colour of its bark. It was pushed into Oasis in a terracotta flower pot and every twig was tied with silver bows.
‘For Christmas Eve,’ she said.
Rachel stared at it and as she did a lump the size of one of her mini macaroons formed in her throat. This woman had been so nice to her just because she couldn’t bear to think of someone living in such a dingy space at Christmas; she had made her flat look like a car-boot sale—but a lovely, colourful one—and given her a bike and been her friend and praised her cooking. And yet this she couldn’t take.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Rachel reached out and stroked one of the ribbons. ‘But I can’t accept it. I’m sorry.’
She could see the look of disappointment on Chantal’s face.
‘It really is very lovely. I just can’t have a Christmas tree.’
Chantal paused. Looked right and left and to her shopping on the floor. ‘You don’t like Christmas?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Something bad happen at Christmas?’
She nodded.
Chantal looked at the branch. ‘Well.’ She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. ‘This is not a Christmas tree,’ she said, glancing back up at Rachel. ‘It is a French brindille. How do you say in English?’
‘A twig?’
‘Oui. A French twig. For you.’ She held it aloft. ‘A good luck French twig. For you. Nothing to do with Christmas. Why you think it is Christmas? Does it look like a Christmas tree? Non. You see, I bring it for good luck.’
Chantal then put the pot down on the bench outside Rachel’s front door and gathered up all her shopping bags. ‘It can sit here. Bringing luck,’ she said, pushing her bulging bags back up her arm. ‘I have to go prepare dinner for all my family. They are all coming. Tomorrow.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Thank you, Chantal.’ Rachel looked from the tree back to the housekeeper.
Chantal nodded, lips pursed, and started to walk away.
‘Oh, wait, hang on.’ Rachel nipped back inside and came back with a box of the rainbow macaroons she’d made that afternoon. ‘Here, for your family.’
Chantal took them, opened the box and whistled. ‘They will like these very much.’
‘Good.’
‘Au revoir.’ She waved, stuffing the box into one of her bags and disappearing down the stairs.
Rachel looked at the tree and then shut the door and went back inside to carry on with her planning. Then she ate dinner, read her book and got into bed.
At one a.m., when she hadn’t slept at all, she got out of bed and went outside into the corridor and picked up the good luck tree. She put it on the table, where she could see it from her bed, and watched the bows winking in the moonlight.
She stared at it till she fell asleep, her heart beating in her ears, and then, what felt like half an hour later, her alarm went off.
She arrived at the pâtisserie just before four. It was still dark, the moon hanging like a bauble in the navy sky. Chef and Françoise were turning on the lights. Lacey was inside, her apron on, her pale hair clipped in a low chignon.
Rachel took a breath. Christmas Eve. She’d come via the church. A tiny one, red rusted brick with a wooden door studded with black nails. It had been open, the choir were practising, and she’d sat at the back for a minute listening. Then when the priest raised his hand to acknowledge her she’d smiled back but crept away to the side and dropped her Euro into the wooden box to pay for a candle. Hers had been the second to flicker on the plinth. Someone else remembering someone they loved, before her.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum,’ she’d whispered, placing the candle down and saying a little prayer of hope that all these years later she was still being looked after whatever happened in the afterlife. That she was still looking down and checking on Rachel and would keep watching for ever.
Christmas Eve, Marjorie from the hospice had said. At least you know there’ll be a big welcoming committee in heaven. They’ll all be out, won’t they? Celebrating.
Rachel had laughed suddenly at the memory. The noise louder than she’d expected in the dark little church. The priest had looked up and she’d shaken her head, waving a hand in apology.
‘Que Dieu te bénisse,’ he had said.
She had replied, ‘And you also. Merci.’
Now she was here at the pâtisserie, standing opposite Lacey. They were both behind big wooden tables, Chef in the middle as if he were counting down a duel.
Abby, Marcel and George had their noses pressed up against the glass from the side room at the back.
Rachel had her apron on. The flowers she’d cut off, restitched.
‘Ready?’ Chef asked.
Lacey nodded. ‘Oui,’ said Rachel.
And he clicked his stopwatch. ‘You have four hours. Start to bake. And make it good.’
Rachel began with her praline macaroons, whisking the egg white at the same time for her peppermint swirled meringues. Lacey was chopping something that sounded intriguing. Rachel glanced up to see it was amaretti biscuits. That was her first mistake.
She looked down at her bowl to see that the meringue was over-whipped. Tipping it in the bin, she started again but her carefully noted timings were out. She heard a shout from the back room and looked to see that George had burnt himself, dough was all over the floor, and Abby was running a tea towel under the tap. Was he OK?
Her caramel over-boiled. The smell of burnt sugar filled the air like smoke. Lacey coughed. Rachel felt her palms start to sweat. She fumbled her bowl and it smashed to the floor.
‘Clear it up,’ said Chef as she was about to leave it and just work around the shards. In the back room she found a brush but no dustpan. The clock was ticking. Finally she found it round the back of a bin and with the bowl pieces swept she started on her tarts. Slices of apple, pear and raisins and a layer of frangipani beneath the apple-blossom-infused crème pâtisserie. But her pastry was cracking.
‘Fuck,’ she said out loud and saw Lacey smirk.
‘One hour gone,’ Chef shouted, delighted with his stopwatch.
What did she have to show for one hour’s work? Macaroon halves and crumbling shortcrust.
‘Calm down,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Come on, Rachel, just calm down.’ She tried to conjure up her mum sitting by her side but it didn’t work. There was no Estée Lauder this time.
Lacey was racing ahead.
‘Please get a grip. Please,’ she told herself but her hands were shaking too much. The sweat on her palms was adding too much moisture to the new pastry.
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’ She stopped, gripped the bench and shut her eyes. What was it she said to little Tommy when his anger took over, when he couldn’t calm down? Go outside and count to ten.
So she swept her arm across the table, pushing her pastry, her crap caramel, her greasy croissant mix and the remains of her over-whipped meringue into the bin and walked out. She saw Abby tap George on the shoulder and point her way in the reflection of the mirrored door.
Outside the snow was stopping, the sun wasn’t anywhere near rising but the sky was lighter. The streetlights caught the remaining flakes and icicles like smatterings of gems. She put her hands over her face and started to count.
‘Rachel?’
She peered through her fingers to see Philippe standing there.
‘What are you doing here? It’s five a.m.’
He shrugged.
‘Did your wife like the bauble?’ was the only thing she could say.
He shook his head. ‘It wasn’t for my wife.’
She gave him a look as if to say, so you’ve got a number of different fancy women? Who said fancy women? Her gran. She made a noise, half snort half laugh. He tipped his head in question.
‘I have to go back in,’ she said and started to turn towards the door.
‘No. I disturbed you, I’ll go in. You wait here,’ he said, but before moving away he paused. ‘I just wanted to get here early enough to see you. To wish you good luck. My brother, he says you have talent. He doesn’t say that often and I know he wouldn’t tell you himself, but sometimes it helps to know that people believe in you.’
He reached forward and touched her arm. ‘I believe in you.’
‘This is really inappropriate,’ she said, turning away. And he nodded, heading inside and taking the stairs two at a time.
Rachel tipped her head back and looked up to the clouds, then counted to ten, as slowly and calmly as she could. She shut her eyes and tried to think of nothing, but instead images of standing on a box at the bakery counter, jewelled foil chocolate decorations and red-nosed reindeer biscuits danced before her closed lids.
When she opened her eyes, her face upturned to the sky, she watched as a single snowflake fell and landed right on the tip of her nose.
One more chance. For me.