Page 36 of A Winter Kiss on Rochester Mews
‘Change. The. Subject,’ Mattie demanded.
‘Fine, we’ll talk about Christmas instead,’ Sandrine said, a firm tone creeping into her voice. ‘Now, I’ve spoken to Ian and Guy and we’re all in complete agreement that there can’t be a repeat of last year.’
The mention of Christmas made Mattie’s shoulders slump, and the thought of last year’s Christmas made the rest of her droop: it was a wonder that she didn’t fall to the floor.
‘It’s not like I was any bother last Christmas,’ she reminded her mother in a small voice as she began to put the bowls of pastry in the fridge.
‘You took to your bed on Christmas Eve and you didn’t emerge until late on Boxing Day,’ Sandrine recalled sadly. ‘You wouldn’t even accept any presents, though I’d got you a lovely gift set from Jo Malone.’
‘And I loved that gift set, I even wrote a thank you note,’ Mattie said as she rested her hot head against a cool bottle of mayonnaise.
‘Yes, when you finally let me give it to you for your birthday in March.’ Sandrine sounded concerned now, even troubled. ‘Darling, it’s been two years. Time to put it all behind you and let your heart find another song.’
Had it really been two years? It felt like only yesterday and at the same time, it seemed as if it had happened to someone else several lifetimes ago. ‘Honestly, Mum, both me and my heart are fine,’ Mattie said, as she always did when Sandrine steeled herself to bring up this unwelcome topic of conversation. ‘And as for Christmas, I’ll probably stay here. I mean, we’re open every day from now until Christmas, longer opening hours and more customers means more bakes, so I’ll probably be exhausted and—’
‘Mon Dieu!You still hate Christmas and you’re planning to take to your bed again!’ Sandrine exclaimed, and though Mattie hadn’t planned any such thing, it did sound tempting. Pulling the covers over her head and not coming out until the last cracker had been well and truly pulled, all the cold turkey had been eaten and all the festive specials had disappeared from the TV schedule.
Until Mattie was safe from anything Christmas-related.
‘Let’s talk about this some other time,’ she decided.
‘But Christmas is less than three weeks away,ma petite!’
‘We’ll talk about it at a later date. That means not now.’
‘But I need to know how many we’ll be for Christmas dinner,’ Sandrine protested. She did like to menu plan well in advance.
‘I said not now,’ Mattie insisted. She could just about cope with Christmas in a work environment, though she was fed up with getting poked in the face by pink and silver stars every time she walked through to the shop. But the thought of actual Christmas, the memories of a past Christmas, the enquiries about how she’d be spending Christmas Day, sent panic leapfrogging through her. And after she’d inhaled and exhaled for a count of three, as all of Pippa’s books on mindfulness advised, Mattie was calm again. ‘Give it a rest, Mum. Christmas isagesaway.’
But it wasn’tagesaway. It was less than twenty days away and as it crept nearer, Mattie could feel that grey cloud settle over her like a fine mist of foul-smelling perfume.
The grey cloud was still hovering above her head the next day as she rolled out pastry for her mince tarts.
It was a dull, relentlessly rainy morning that had put off even the most determined Christmas shoppers or regulars from nipping out for coffee. Both shop and tearooms were uncharacteristically quiet and, apart from the faint accompaniment of the Phil Spector Christmas album that Cuthbert was playing, Mattie was alone with her thoughts.
These thoughts were not happy ones. Her tiny kitchen smelt of all things festive; of clementines and brandy and cinnamon, as she expertly cut out her clementine-infused pastry and placed each disc in a greased tart tray, all ready to have her own special blend of mincemeat spooned in. Oh, just the scent of Christmas was enough to roll back the years …
There had been a time, not that long ago, two years to be precise, when Mattie had loved Christmas. As soon as Halloween was over and the last November 5th firework had spluttered and died, she’d have the champagne fizz-tingle of anticipation in her veins that soon, but not soon enough, it would be Christmas!
She’d count the days off on her calendar, willing 25th December to arrive just that little bit quicker. Mattie would throw herself into buying the perfect presents for everyone in her life, haunting Pinterest for new things to do with wrapping paper and ribbon, then arranging the gifts around the tree that went up no later than the first week in December.
And then she’d moved to Paris. Paris at Christmas time was a magical place. There were theManèges de Noël, the Christmas carousels that would pop up in every neighbourhood, and walking the length of the Champs Élysées felt a lot like walking through a magical forest of twinkling lights. The Eiffel Tower all dressed up for the occasion would shimmer in the distance.
Then there was the shopping. Stopping at Strohers, the oldest patisserie in Paris, for abûche de Noël, or Yule log. Picking out baubles for the tree at La Colomberie in Saint Germain and choosing gifts from the little Christmas market in Montmartre …
Mattie stared, unseeing, out of the tiny window of her tiny kitchen, with its unpicturesque view of the grubby backyard and the outdoor privy. In her mind, she was standing in another tiny kitchen, maybe even tinier than the one she currently stood in, with a tiny window that looked out onto a view that never failed to stir her soul.
The higgledy-piggledy rooftops and chimney-pots and crooked skyline of Paris.
If Mattie clambered up onto her postage-stamp-sized draining board and stuck her head out of the circular window, she could just make out the Eiffel Tower.
Sometimes Mattie thought that the last time she’d been truly happy was in that kitchen in her tiny Paris flat, which consisted of one small room to live and sleep in, an alcove to cook in and a bathroom that had toilet and shower but no room for a washbasin, on the sixth floor of an apartment building.
She’d spent her days at her classes at L’Institut de Patisserie, her evenings waitressing at a bistro in Les Marais and her nights creating cakes of the lightest sponge, the richest buttercream, the stiffest, perfectly peaked meringues, ganache as smooth and as glossy as a frozen lake. Road-testing recipes again and again until they were perfect, scribbling ingredients and instructions and notes in her recipe book. Perfect enough to even meet with the approval of Madame Belmont, who ruled Mattie’s class at L’Institut de Patisserie with a snowy-white toque and a whisk of steel.
And then there were the other nights, when the only thing that Mattie was making was sweet, sweet love with Steven, the man she’d met on her first day at L’Institut, when they’d been assigned adjoining work benches in a crowded test kitchen.
The last time she’d seen Steven was two years ago, three days before Christmas, when she should have been thinking of nothing except the holidays and spending time with the people she loved. Instead Mattie’s world had been torn into pieces because in Steven’s hands washer ownrecipe book that he’d stolen from her.
