Читать книгу The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year: The Parisian Christmas Bake Off / Winter's Fairytale - Jenny Oliver, Jenny Oliver - Страница 18

There were no drinks in the bar that night.

Marcel sloped off almost as soon as Chef left. Abby seemed to be absorbed in a task that prevented her from leaving. Rachel grabbed her bag, pulled on her hat and mittens and stalked out. In the corridor she passed Lacey, who was tapping into her mobile over her bifocals. Neither acknowledged the other. It was competition now. War.

Rachel took a couple of paces outside and then ducked into an alley and waited. The snow was like a sheet shaken from a balcony—a wall of white coating cars in foot-deep white. Kids were pulling sledges down the street while businessmen slipped in leather shoes.

She blew on her hands, white misty breath in the freezing air, and listened to the accordion music drifting out of the pâtisserie as it closed.

When she heard familiar footsteps Rachel stepped out onto the cobbled pavement and said, ‘Why did you do it?’

Abby hoisted her bag further up on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do. You sabotaged my soufflé. Why would you do that? After I saved you yesterday.’

‘Oh, yeah, great, you saved me. Aren’t you a star? I heard what he said, Rachel. When he called you back. I waited in the doorway. All good bakers have a signature.’

‘So?’ she said.

‘So he didn’t say he couldn’t see mine, did he? It was that he saw yours. He thought I had no signature. Well, I do. I do have a signature and I wanted him to taste it.’ She wiped her nose with her glove and then thrust her hand in her pocket.

‘So show him yours! Make something amazing like you did. That doesn’t mean you have to ruin mine.’ Rachel couldn’t believe it.

Abby scoffed. ‘You really think that? You really think he’d have noticed mine after tasting yours?’

‘Yes, Abby. Yes, I do. If it was that bloody good. You were meant to be my friend.’

Abby looked away. ‘It’s a competition.’

‘Fuck the competition. It’s an excuse.’

‘I bake every day, Rachel. Every day I make different pastries, breads, brioche—something. I bake something. I practise and I practise and I’m still not as good as you who doesn’t even try.’

‘I try,’ she said, affronted.

‘No, you don’t. Not really. It’s there in you. You don’t have to be here. You could just do it. You have it. I needed this. And yet I’m not good enough. I know I’m not good enough.’ Abby scuffed at the snow with her boot, then got out a tissue and blew her nose. ‘I know I shouldn’t have ruined your soufflé. I knew I shouldn’t at the time and I know it more now. I just wanted a taste of it, Rachel. A taste of what you have. Of what Lacey sort of has.’