Free The Parisian Christmas Bake Off by Jenny Oliver

then took her hand and touched it to her glove where it sat tiny and perfect like a gift.
    She felt him looking down at her, watching.
    After a pause she blew it away, embarrassed by the whole gesture. ‘I can never believe that each one is meant to be different.’
    ‘Well,
we
are all different.’ He shrugged.
    ‘That’s true.’
    ‘Every one of us unique.’
    ‘I know, we could be anyone. I mean, if you think about it, I don’t really know you at all nor you me.’
    She looked from his white-flecked coat back up to him and he seemed as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he just smiled and she noticed he had snowflakes on his eyelashes.
    They had an hour and a half to make a Christmas-inspired bread.
    Marcel was making an apricot, date and nutmeg Panettone. George was muttering about some sort of cherry-brandy yule-log buns. Lacey said nothing, just got to work. Abby looked perplexed—Rachel could see the competition was starting to get to her. She’d cried in the bar last night, weeping that she missed her kids. She’d Skyped them in the morning before class and had come in with red-rimmed, puffy eyes.
    As Rachel watched Abby, Cheryl leant across her and picked some coffee grains off the shelf. ‘Sorry, hun, didn’t mean to push,’ she apologised, her cheeks flushing red.
    ‘No, it’s fine, I was miles away.’ Rachel stared at the ingredients. She thought about Philippe telling her she worried too much about what people thought—she felt it in herself, sticking too much with conventions and not going with her instincts. But her brain was blank. The only thing coming to mind was Easter. Warm hot cross buns that ripped apart like candy floss. She was reminded of the smells in the street today. Of the different spices and the sharp tang as they hit her senses. Of roasting chestnuts, mulled wine packed with star anise, cinnamon and nutmeg, and the brown bags of dried cranberries and candied orange that were stuffed in her jacket pocket.
    That was it… Hot Cross Christmas buns. Warm and sticky and sweet. She’d pack them with candied orange zest and slivers of cranberry, raisins, sultanas and glacé cherries. Then glaze them with cinnamon syrup and white icing and when they were opened up she’d have a chocolate and chestnut purée that sank, melting into the warm, fluffy dough.
    They worked in silence, heads down, kneading, flouring, rolling, shaping. As Rachel’s dough was rising she tore the skins from her roasted chestnuts, burning her fingers, popping one into her mouth when no one was looking.
    Chef was called down to the pâtisserie as she was melting her chocolate and when he left it was as if everyone had been holding their breath and could collectively exhale.
    ‘Oh, my God.’ It was Abby who punctured the contented silence.
    ‘What?’ Rachel turned.
    ‘I’ve used salt instead of sugar.’
    ‘No, you can’t have done.’
    Everyone paused except Lacey, who just carried on silently. Marcel strode over and picked up the container. ‘She has. She has used the salt.’
    ‘Shit.’ Abby slumped onto her forearms. ‘How can this have happened? I don’t have time to do more. Oh, God, I’m out. How can I tell my kids that I’m out because of some stupid sodding mistake from being tired? You idiot.’ She smacked herself on the forehead. ‘I’m just so tired.’
    Rachel watched as her friend started to cry. Hot, fat tears falling into her failed dough.
    ‘Don’t cry,’ she said,. walking over to helplessly pat her on the back.
    ‘It’s useless. I’m useless. I’m a failure. A failure. A fucking failure with a stupid husband sailing the fucking Caribbean or wherever the hell Mauritius is.’
    ‘It is in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa,’ said Marcel.
    ‘Thank you.’ Abby wiped her nose on the tissue Rachel gave her.
    ‘Look, just have half of my dough,’ Rachel said.
    ‘I can’t take your dough.’
    ‘Yes, you can. Just pick the bits out