Czytaj książkę: «The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year: The Parisian Christmas Bake Off / Winter's Fairytale»

CHAPTER ONE

‘Why is Jesus a Buzz Lightyear?’

Rachel came into the school hall carrying two cups of PG Tips, and a packet of chocolate HobNobs that she’d stolen from the staffroom.

‘Purely for my own amusement,’ said Jackie, sitting back, feet up on a nursery-school chair as she took three biscuits out of the packet. ‘And because the arm fell off the normal one and Mrs Norris’s husband is fixing it.’ She nodded towards the stage. ‘The nativity’s good this year, isn’t it?’

Rachel turned to where fourteen five-year-olds had forgotten the words to ‘Away in a Manger’ as they rehearsed. ‘I’d say it bears a remarkable resemblance to last year’s.’

Jackie did a mock gasp of affront. ‘Except for the genius addition of the hip hop WyZe men and One Direction’s visit to the manger. I think I’ll make the school proud.’

‘The head’s going to kill you.’

‘It’s just a bit of fun.’ Jackie flicked open her ancient laptop as the kids on stage continued to sing a motley assortment of words while dressed in a variety of home-made costumes. ‘So fire me. Who else are they going to get to direct this? It’s not as if Nettleton has anyone pre-retirement age left—’

‘Look,’ shouted one of the kids on stage. ‘Miss Smithson’s here,’ he said, breaking off from the song as the others were belting out the second verse.

Rachel waved. ‘Hi, Tommy. Keep singing though—you don’t want to ruin the song.’ She could see the rest of her class starting to get distracted on stage.

‘But I don’t know the words,’ he said, looking as if he was about to cry.

Rachel jogged up to the front of the hall and climbed on the stage, whispering to Tommy as quietly as she could. ‘That’s OK, I never knew the words—when you don’t know them just open and shut your mouth like this.’ She did an impression of a goldfish.

Tommy giggled. ‘Can I go to the toilet?’

Rachel rolled her eyes. She didn’t envy Jackie the task of keeping this lot in order; just her own class were enough for her. ‘Yes, Tommy.’

‘Miss Smithson?’ said Jemima in the back row. ‘My wings keep falling off.’

Everyone had stopped singing now.

‘OK, I’ll have a look.’ Rachel tiptoed round in a crouch trying to be as unobtrusive as she could manage while Jackie tried to cajole them all back into singing.

‘Will you sing with us, Miss Smithson?’ Jemima asked as Rachel tightened her wonky angel wings.

Rachel swallowed, listening as the little voices had started up again on the fourth verse. ‘I erm …’ She found herself caught off guard with no ready answer, a whole heap of memories suddenly stuck in her throat.

‘Sing with us, please?’ Tommy was running back on stage, tucking his T-shirt into his cords.

‘No. I’m just going to watch.’ She shook her head, her voice annoyingly choked as she blocked out images of being on that stage herself with her parents clapping wildly from the front row. ‘I like listening to you,’ she said quickly, before jumping back off the stage.

Around the hall members of the PTA were building the nativity set, sewing costumes and making arrangements for lighting, seating, refreshments etc. Mostly they stood gossiping in groups, however, while one or two put together the bulk of the scenery—checking how well it had fared in the store cupboard since last year. Mr Swanson, Tommy’s father, was standing by the steps screwing together the roof of the manger. ‘Difficult time of year for you, isn’t it?’ he said as Rachel walked away from the stage.

‘Oh, it’s OK.’ Rachel waved a hand. ‘I’ll get through it. Great set this year, by the way.’

‘It’s the same every year.’ He laughed, then went on, ‘No need for a brave face, you know. We’re all here. All of us. Your mum was a great friend of ours and we miss her too.’

‘I know—thanks.’

He nodded and went back to changing the bit on his drill. ‘I was meaning to say, I thought you did a good job at the bake sale last week. Excellent scones. I’ve missed them, you know?’

She smiled. ‘Well, they’re not quite as good as Mum made.’

Mr Swanson thought about it and shrugged. ‘Nearly.’

In the background the children continued to sing out of tune as Jackie called instructions, and the parents chattered away, and Rachel found herself wishing, not for the first time this holiday season, that it could all just disappear. Poof. That she could click her fingers and it would be New Year and she wouldn’t have to shake her head and say everything was all right when people asked if she was OK, said that they always thought of her mum at this time of year and understood how hard it must be for her, and what was she going to do for Christmas. As Mr Swanson locked the bit in place on his drill, he put his hand on the wonky roof and said, ‘You’re a good girl.’

Rachel paused and allowed herself to nod as he watched her and smiled. Everyone was just being kind, she reminded herself. The village was like a family—they had all known her since she was tiny and they all wanted to make sure she was OK. Sometimes, though, she just wanted to be on her own. ‘Not so much of the girl any more though, Mr Swanson,’ she joked, trying to force a lightness into her voice.

‘Don’t say it.’ He shook his head. ‘You stay young, I stay young.’

‘OK, you’re on.’ Rachel laughed as she walked back over to where Jackie was stabbing at the keys of the decrepit laptop.

‘All right?’ Jackie glanced up.

‘Fine.’ Rachel nodded, looking back at the stage and taking a sip of her tea. She could feel her heart beating just a bit too fast.

Jackie was clearly about to say something more, to really check if Rachel was all right, but paused, the look on Rachel’s face making her decide against it, and said instead, ‘OK, look at this—’ Jackie pointed to the screen ‘—check this site out.’

Rachel peered forward to see the display. ‘What is it?’

‘Airbnb. It lets you turn your home into a hotel. Tonya from the hairdresser’s has let her flat out with them to a Swedish couple while she’s away over Christmas. Two thousand pounds she got for a week and a half. It’s amazing. Such a clever idea—your flat actually earns you money.’

‘Yeah.’ Rachel nodded, uncertain. ‘I think I remember one of my dad’s friends used it when he went to New York. Said the pictures weren’t anything like the place.’

Jackie shook her head. ‘Oh, he probably just likes a moan. I think it’s amazing. And especially good for someone like you who doesn’t care for Christmas. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not really.’ Rachel sipped her tea.

‘Oh, I think so. It’s a good way to make money,’ Jackie went on. ‘And the perfect opportunity for that person to do what they might always have wanted to do in life but was too scared to try.’

The kids on stage had changed song, coaxed into ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ by Miss Ven at the piano.

‘Jackie, whatever it is you’re driving at, I’m not interested.’

‘But let’s say—’ Jackie rested one hand on the lid of the laptop and waved the other from side to side as she mused ‘—for example, someone else thought you were interested in doing something different. Making a change. Thought maybe you were hiding away and wasting your life with a good-for-nothing waster, working at a tiny—but, let’s not forget, Ofsted highly commended—primary school, which they knew you liked but felt wasn’t quite right for you. Thought that you had other talents that you weren’t making the best use of. I mean, what then? What if they, for example, secretly took photos of your flat and maybe rented it over Christmas to a lovely retired couple from Australia who were arriving on Sunday. What then?’

‘Well, then …’ Rachel put the cup down on the table. ‘Then I’d kill you. But I don’t think you’d dare.’

Jackie’s lips drew up in a wry smile as the realisation of what her friend might have done dawned on Rachel. And as it did, suddenly all the PTA parents popped up from their various positions in the hall where they’d been painting scenery and bitching about the nativity casting, and shouted, ‘Surprise!’

‘What’s going on?’ Rachel looked around as the PTA head honcho Mrs Pritchard, alpha-mother of a girl in Jackie’s class, handed her an envelope with Eurostar stamped on the front and everyone clapped.

‘I kinda dared.’ Jackie looked a little sheepish. ‘You’re going to Paris.’

Rachel took a step back. ‘I’m not going to Paris.’

All the parents were nudging one another, nodding excitedly.

‘Yeah, you are.’ Jackie went on, ‘To bake with Henri Salernes.’

Rachel laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s true.’ Mrs Pritchard nodded, patting Rachel affectionately on the arm. ‘It’s an apprentice competition. The infamous Henri wants an apprentice—well, actually we’re not convinced he wants, it’s possible that it’s more just to make money, but the opportunity is still there. It was a competition on In The Morning, on ITV. For amateurs to compete to work for him for a month. It coincides with a new book or something, I think. Was it a new book?’ She glanced around at the other parents, some of whom nodded, others looked unsure. ‘Anyway, it sounds fabulous. And we all just thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for you. Maybe get you back in the swing of it.’

One of the parents came over with a tray of tea and more biscuits and they all raised their chipped mugs in a toast to Rachel’s impromptu Christmas trip to France, enthusiasm plastered on their faces.

Her colleague, gym teacher Henry Evans, was the only one looking less than impressed. ‘Don’t know what we’ll do without you, though. Who’ll make the cakes for the Christmas Sports Day? And the Village Lights evening?’

‘Shut up, Henry.’ Mrs Pritchard elbowed him in the ribs while sipping her tea and then telling some of the other parents how she’d been the one to spot the competition on the telly.

Rachel wasn’t really listening; she was glaring at Jackie, who was finding the remains of her tea fascinating. ‘How could I have got into that competition? How can I be baking for Henri Salernes when he hasn’t tasted what I cook? I can’t go to Paris, Jackie, this is insane.’

‘We pulled some strings.’ Jackie shrugged. ‘Well, actually, Mr Swanson pulled some strings—he works for the network. It’s all very underhand and not above board at all, but we thought the good outweighed the wrongness.’ Jackie turned to point at where Mr Swanson was still standing by the manger, drilling the roof and looking a little sheepish. He waved a hand as if she shouldn’t have mentioned it and the quieter they kept it all, the better.

‘It’s not a problem. I cleared it with the team. Not a problem at all,’ he said, although he did look a bit shifty and his neck was flushing a similar colour to his Christmas jumper. ‘Wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, mind.’

‘Look, thanks, everyone, it’s really sweet of you, but I can’t go to Paris. And I certainly can’t bake for Henri Salernes. I’m nowhere near good enough. And, Jackie, no one’s going to be living in my flat.’ Rachel thought of all her things just the way she liked them being picked up and broken by a couple of Australian strangers. She thought of her usual Christmas Day hiding out in her bedroom with the six-hour BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD. She thought of the endurance test that went with avoiding the carol concerts, the presents, the festive cheer. Of locking out thoughts and memories of family Christmases that were just too achingly bittersweet to remember. ‘I just—there’s no way I’m going. I have loads to do here. I can’t. Absolutely no way …’

She trailed off when she looked up and saw all the happy little faces of the kids on stage. They’d stopped singing and run off to the wings without her noticing. Now they were holding up a banner saying, ‘Good Luck in Paris, Miss Smithson!’, smiling expectantly. All watching.

But now their faces were starting to droop, like flowers wilting. Little Tommy had pulled off his angel halo, his bottom lip quivering. It was as if she’d stood in front of them and picked all the decorations off the big Christmas tree at the back and smashed them one by one underfoot.

Jackie raised her eyebrows; Rachel narrowed her eyes back at her. She felt the PTA parents start to murmur and others look away, embarrassed, as if it certainly wasn’t meant to go this way. She watched the uncertain faces of her class, who couldn’t understand why their favourite teacher wasn’t laughing with delight. They’d clearly been prepped to expect some sort of party atmosphere. So as the silence fell around her Rachel did the only thing that she could so as not to disappoint: going against her every instinct, she swallowed, took a shaky breath and forced her best teacher smile.

‘Thanks,’ she said, waving the envelope of tickets so the kids could see. ‘Thanks so much. It’s really kind of you all. I can’t wait.’ Then she pointed at the stage. ‘What a fantastic banner.’

Mrs Pritchard took this as an obvious signal to start clapping and as she took the lead the other PTA parents joined in, unsure at first but gathering steam. Mr Swanson put down his drill and punched the air, triumphant. When the kids heard the cheers they tugged the banner as tight as they could so it pulled up high and just their smiling eyes poked out over the top. Then, when Jackie clicked her fingers, they all ran off the stage and swamped Rachel in a hug, so she was trapped in an island of five-year-olds unable to do anything but fake smile so hard her cheeks started to ache.