The Parisian Christmas Bake Off by Jenny Oliver

came home with strawberry tarts overfilled with crème pâtisserie so the strawberries wobbled precariously on top and most had slid off into the box.
    ‘Not very pretty.’ Chantal had laughed. ‘But
très bon
,’ she said, licking her fingers and depositing a clock, a stripy rug that had begun to unravel and a red and white spotty biscuit tin.
    With the tea and cake over she clapped her hands together and beckoned to Rachel. ‘Now you come downstairs with me.’
    Rachel looked outside; it had started to snow, light flakes frosting up the window. Chantal was wrapping up in her layers.
    ‘Come,’ she said again, more forcefully.
    Rachel made a face behind her back, as if she really didn’t want to, but pulled on her coat and boots and tramped down the stairs after her thinking about how tired she was and how many steps she’d have to trudge back up again.
    Outside Chantal beckoned her into the alley alongside the front door.
    ‘Really?’ Rachel questioned, thinking this might be some crazy human-trafficking ploy. How well did she actually know Chantal?
    When Rachel peered round the corner, Chantal lifted a hand to point and said,
‘Et ici!’
    Rachel looked at where she was indicating and there, tied to a lamppost with a chain and padlock, was a rusted old fold-up bike. Chantal slipped her the key.
    ‘My niece, she didn’t want it. She was going to leave it in the road.’
    The bike was turquoise, scratched and rusted with
Mirabelle
written down the side in white bubble writing and a white wicker pannier on the front.
    ‘For your cakes.’ Chantal laughed, pointing at the basket, which she had strung with silver tinsel.
    ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Rachel ran her hand over the handlebars.
    ‘You say nothing.’
    ‘I’m so touched.’
    ‘Ah, you are sweet.
Joyeux Noël
.’ Chantal patted her on the arm and walked over to her 2CV. Heaving open the battered door, she got in and drove away while Rachel stood where she was, one hand still clutching the handlebars, and waved.
    The following day, Rachel cycled to the pâtisserie, the tiny specks of blizzarding snow hitting her cheeks, making her feel alive and excited as she pedalled as fast as she could. Who’d have thought she’d be cycling the streets of Paris like a local?
    Locking up her bike, she saw Philippe, her Religieuse man, drive past and she put her head down, unsure why, but the thought of talking to him made her fumble her lock and then drop it in the snow by mistake.
    As she walked round to the front of the shop she saw he was just coming down the street and it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him.
    ‘
Bonjour.’
He smiled, waving from a couple of metres away. Like hers, his scarf was up over his chin to avoid the pelting snow and when he got close he had to wipe the moisture from his face. ‘It is good weather,
non
?’
    ‘Hi. Yes.
Bonjour
.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Look, you know, I’m sorry about the other day. With Chef. It was very embarrassing’
    ‘It’s not a problem. I know what he’s like.’ Philippe shrugged. He was much taller than her, which she wasn’t used to, Ben being about five foot seven, and she had to glance up when he spoke. Brushing the snow off the front of his coat, he went on, ‘Henri’s my brother. We have worked in the same building for a very long time.’
    ‘Your brother? Wow.’
    Stepping forward, Philippe opened the door for her. ‘I’m not sure wow is quite right, but, yes, he’s my brother. He is less…let’s just say his bark is worse than his bite.’
    ‘I don’t know about that.’
    ‘You take my word for it. He er…’ He paused, changed tack. ‘He is consumed by it, by the baking. And I think it makes him—’ he blew out a breath ‘—frustrated when it doesn’t all go his way. As he would like. He doesn’t understand that not everyone is like him. Their brains are different.
Oui?
’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘Life has never worked out quite how it should for him. He’s