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 notgood 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.’
‘A taste of what?’
‘Of brilliance.’
Rachel could see the tears in Abby’s eyes. She turned her head away.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll tell Chef.’
‘No, don’t tell Chef.’ Rachel shook her head, still looking at the wall. ‘Forget about it. We’ll just forget about it,’ she said, glancing back.
‘I’ve thrown away a friendship.’ Abby wiped her eye.
Rachel sighed. ‘No, you haven’t. You’ve just bruised it a bit. I’m sure it’ll get better.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Rachel nodded. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ she said and walked away.
Then, hearing Abby stride off in the other direction, Rachel ducked back into the alley and, pulling off her hat, leant her head against the cool bricks. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her thoughts were whizzing round like crazy. What was this? How could this be happening? It was all just meant to be a bit of fun.
She knew her family had a soufflé curse.
‘That was very generous of you.’ Philippe appeared in the entrance to the alley. His collar turned up high, hands in his pockets, scarf up to his chin.
‘God, you made me jump.’ Rachel put her hand over her mouth.
‘I heard, from the doorway.’
‘Well.’ She shrugged. ‘Baking does funny things to us all.’
‘It was still generously handled. Can I buy you a drink? I don’t have long but enough time for one.’
Rachel considered it for a moment, thought over her disastrous day. ‘Why not?’
He cocked his head. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yep, that’s a yes.’
They didn’t go to the bar she went to with the bakers. Instead he led her down a side street to a little place that sat on a crossroads. Tables were splayed out on both pavements around the curve of the building, which stood tall like the Flatiron. In the snowy darkness the windows cast an orangey glow, inviting them inside.
Philippe put his hand on the base of her back as he pulled open the door, guiding her in. She felt the bareness there when he took it away.
In the corner there was a fire blazing and crackling bright, sparks flying up the chimney in a dance. On the bar top sat rows of plump olives, cornichons andsalamis and behind that racks and racks of wine piled high to the ceiling. The little wooden tables flickered with candlelight, the cut glasses glinted, a Chihuahua and a Great Dane lay curled by the fire. People were talking loudly, gesticulating wildly while others read books alone in the corner with a
vin chaud
or played cards.
Rachel glanced round, instantly in love with the place. Philippe beckoned her to a table by the fire and then came back from the bar with a small carafe of red wine.
‘Have you smelt it?’ she asked as he set it down on the table.
‘But of course.’
‘OK, I’m going to,’ she said, picking the carafe up and holding it up to her nose. ‘Wow. It’s like erm—’
‘The berries.’
‘Yeah, blackberries and wood, like a bonfire, you know? That’s amazing.’
‘I think you will like it,’ he said as he took it from her and poured.
‘What shall we toast?’
‘Soufflés?’
‘Urgh,
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 notgood 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.’
‘A taste of what?’
‘Of brilliance.’
Rachel could see the tears in Abby’s eyes. She turned her head away.
‘I’m sorry, Rachel. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll tell Chef.’
‘No, don’t tell Chef.’ Rachel shook her head, still looking at the wall. ‘Forget about it. We’ll just forget about it,’ she said, glancing back.
‘I’ve thrown away a friendship.’ Abby wiped her eye.
Rachel sighed. ‘No, you haven’t. You’ve just bruised it a bit. I’m sure it’ll get better.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Rachel nodded. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ she said and walked away.
Then, hearing Abby stride off in the other direction, Rachel ducked back into the alley and, pulling off her hat, leant her head against the cool bricks. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her thoughts were whizzing round like crazy. What was this? How could this be happening? It was all just meant to be a bit of fun.
She knew her family had a soufflé curse.
‘That was very generous of you.’ Philippe appeared in the entrance to the alley. His collar turned up high, hands in his pockets, scarf up to his chin.
‘God, you made me jump.’ Rachel put her hand over her mouth.
‘I heard, from the doorway.’
‘Well.’ She shrugged. ‘Baking does funny things to us all.’
‘It was still generously handled. Can I buy you a drink? I don’t have long but enough time for one.’
Rachel considered it for a moment, thought over her disastrous day. ‘Why not?’
He cocked his head. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yep, that’s a yes.’
They didn’t go to the bar she went to with the bakers. Instead he led her down a side street to a little place that sat on a crossroads. Tables were splayed out on both pavements around the curve of the building, which stood tall like the Flatiron. In the snowy darkness the windows cast an orangey glow, inviting them inside.
Philippe put his hand on the base of her back as he pulled open the door, guiding her in. She felt the bareness there when he took it away.
In the corner there was a fire blazing and crackling bright, sparks flying up the chimney in a dance. On the bar top sat rows of plump olives, cornichons andsalamis and behind that racks and racks of wine piled high to the ceiling. The little wooden tables flickered with candlelight, the cut glasses glinted, a Chihuahua and a Great Dane lay curled by the fire. People were talking loudly, gesticulating wildly while others read books alone in the corner with a
vin chaud
or played cards.
Rachel glanced round, instantly in love with the place. Philippe beckoned her to a table by the fire and then came back from the bar with a small carafe of red wine.
‘Have you smelt it?’ she asked as he set it down on the table.
‘But of course.’
‘OK, I’m going to,’ she said, picking the carafe up and holding it up to her nose. ‘Wow. It’s like erm—’
‘The berries.’
‘Yeah, blackberries and wood, like a bonfire, you know? That’s amazing.’
‘I think you will like it,’ he said as he took it from her and poured.
‘What shall we toast?’
‘Soufflés?’
‘Urgh,
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