Free The Parisian Christmas Bake Off by Jenny Oliver Page B

felt her pulse start to speed up. When he put the chocolate twist in his mouth and paused, she thought she could actually feel the minutes tick by. By the time he swallowed and said,
‘Très bon,’
Rachel thought her heart might have leapt out through her chest and run out of the room.
    ‘That is OK.’ He nodded. ‘A good dough. Some OK flavours. But a little small.’
    ‘Christ,’ said Abby as they stumbled out laughing. ‘I thought I was going to die.’
    ‘Me too.’ Rachel was clutching her chest.
    ‘Thank God it’s over.’
    A door slammed above them and then she heard her name being called from behind her. ‘Rachel! Stop there.’
    They paused and turned to see Chef standing at the top of the stairs. ‘A word.’
    Abby made a worried face and squeezed her hand before sloping out while Rachel backtracked up a floor.
    Chef was waiting, thumbs slung in the string of his apron. Rachel paused on the top step but he beckoned her to come further forward, to stand right in front of him.
    She waited, glancing from his weathered face to the slogan of the pâtisserie on his apron, to his polished black shoes.
    ‘You think after twenty years I can not taste?’ he asked.
    She looked at the floor. Staring at the patterns in the carpet.
    ‘Let me tell you something,’ he sneered. ‘All good bakers have a signature. Did you know that?’
    Rachel shook her head.
    ‘A cake, a loaf, a tart…it is signed by their own hand. You—’ He pointed at her. ‘You leave a signature. And I can read it.’
    Rachel glanced up.
    ‘Yes, that’s right. A big, bold signature.’ He almost spat it out.
    She was suddenly terrified that he was going to boot her out.
    Over the last few days this competition had gone from being a burden to the most important thing in her life. She would do anything for it not to end now.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was just trying to help. I didn’t know. I did know. I know it was wrong. Oh, God—’
    ‘I should you throw you out the door. You hear me? You waste my time. You make a fool of me.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘You throw this away. That is what you have done. This chance that you ‘ave to be good and you have thrown it away.’ He paused, taking a deep breath.
    She glanced up tentatively. Saw a look of confusion and annoyance pass over his face.
    ‘
Merde
, and I know what that it is like. You are stupid.’
    Rachel nodded, sensing something odd was happening between them. That she was teetering on the edge of being on the next train home but something, some emotion flickering over Chef’s face, might just be about to save her, throw her a rope and pull her back. ‘I’m sorry.’
    He exhaled like a bull about to charge and ran his hand over his stubbled chin. ‘I give you one more chance because you have a shred of promise. A shred. I am stupid to do it. But fuck me over again…you have no more chances.
Comprende?
’
    She nodded, flooded with relief as if she might collapse into a puddle on the floor, and pleaded with herself not to cry.
    ‘
Comprende?’
he said again.
    ‘Yes, Chef.’

Chapter Nine
    That night Rachel got so drunk out of relief and terror and shock at the haunted look in Chef’s eyes that she didn’t pull her foot away from Marcel’s when he pushed his against hers under the table. He had that familiar predatory nature of Ben that was surprisingly comforting.
    When she’d walked into the bar Marcel had singled her out, got up to give her his seat, poured her a glass of wine, complimented her on her bake. The attention was intoxicating.
    ‘I think you are the best cook here. Without doubt. Chef, I think he is jealous,’ he’d whispered. ‘And—’ he’d paused ‘—you’re the most beautiful.’
    She’d glanced away, blushing, but the words had hit their mark. He was pumping up her deflated ego, as if he knew exactly where her weaknesses lay, and she was lapping it up. Anything to take the attention away from her run-in with