Read Online The Parisian Christmas Bake Off by Jenny Oliver - Free Book Online Page B

the baking, you know.’ He shrugged and started to walk on as Rachel had to do a little jog to catch up.
    ‘Is everything OK?’
    ‘
Mais oui.’
He turned to her and smiled. ‘It is all fine.’
    ‘OK.’ She nodded, shaking off any unease. ‘So say again what it is your friend likes.’
    ‘She likes beautiful things,’ Philippe said after a moment.
    ‘Don’t we all?’ Rachel laughed. ‘Expensive, beautiful things.’
    ‘Ah,
non
. Not expensive.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think expensive is what she’d want.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ Rachel stared into the shop window wondering who this perfect woman was. ‘How about a scarf?’ She nodded to the mannequin in front of them.
    ‘Too plain. She has one already. Too boring.’
    ‘Oh, OK.’
    ‘No, no, don’t take it that way. It was a good suggestion. I just think something maybe more like this—’ He pointed to a jewelled box in the next window.
    ‘Hideous,’ Rachel said before she could stop herself.
    He laughed. ‘See, this is why I need a second opinion.’
    They strolled on in silence. Rachel didn’t often do silence—usually chattering away to fill the spaces in her mind—but it felt as if silence was something Philippe was comfortable with. And somehow that started to make her comfortable too.
    When they paused at a stall selling roasted chestnuts and bought a bag to share, she was almost reluctant when she said, through a mouthful of burning chestnut, ‘You know, I should be getting back.’
    ‘
Mais oui
, of course. I forgot. We can go this way.’ He touched her elbow to steer her down a side road and she felt a tiny jolt at the touch.
    She thought about Ben saying she’d make someone a good wife one day and she’d known before she asked that it wouldn’t be him. She realised then, as she strolled with Philippe, that it hadn’t been Ben keeping her at arm’s length—well, of course, it had been—but it had been her, too. Who had a two-year relationship that lasted between the hours of four and six in the pre-dawn morning?
    Ben was like Tony’s jam tart—looked good but no substance. And she realised, as this French stranger steered her down the street, that she had chosen that.
    She had chosen tasteless. Bland.
    Tasteless was easier than complexity and flavour. Less work. She had had a boring flan when really she should have been holding out for a coffee profiterole or a violet and blackberry macaroon.
    ‘Ah, what about this?’
    Philippe had stopped midway down the cobbled street. Rachel turned and was caught by the beauty of the window display before she could summon up her usual disdain for anything Christmas.
    It was a Russian shop—the window a scene from a fairy tale. Black lacquered boxes, painted with princesses in chariots pulled by fiery red horses and a wakeof golden stars, were lined up like presents under huge frosted trees. A snow-capped forest towered high around a figurine of the Snow Queen, decked out in all her silver finery. And hanging from thick satin ribbons along the window were rows and rows of baubles, from big to tiny. There were diamond shapes and twirls or circles and hearts. Some white, some black, some shocking pink, with fairy-tale scenes intricately painted on each.
    ‘They’re beautiful,’ she whispered.
    He clapped his hands as if decided.
‘J’agree. Merci, Rachel.’
    ‘You found them.’
    ‘Yes, but I wouldn’t have done without you.’ He started to walk on.
    ‘Aren’t you going to get one?’
    ‘Later,’ he said. ‘You have to get back.’
    ‘Oh, thanks. Yes.’ She glanced at her watch, having, in that moment, completely forgotten about the time. ‘Yes, I do.’
    As they stepped out onto the main street she was checking the traffic to cross the road when her eyes fell on his coat. ‘Look,’ she said and pointed to where a thousand snowflakes had caught in the wool.
    He paused, then picked one off and held it on the tip of his gloved finger. ‘It is perfect,’ he said,