Welcome to the most celebrated patisserie competition in Paris – ready, steady, bake!
Watching snowflakes settle on the Eiffel Tower, Rachel Smithson’s cosy English village feels very far way – as, thankfully, does her commitment-phobic ex, probably already kissing someone else under the mistletoe. But Rachel hasn’t come to Paris to mope she’s come to bake. Hard.
Because the search for Paris’s next patisserie apprentice is about to begin! And super-chef judge Henri Salernes is an infamously tough cookie. But Rachel isn’t about to let her confidence (or pastry) crumble. She’s got one week, mounds of melt-in-the-mouth macaroons and towers of perfect profiteroles to prove that she really is a star baker.
As well as clouds of flour, and wafts of chocolate and cinnamon, there’s definitely a touch of Christmas magic in the air… Rachel hasn’t come to Paris looking for a fairy-tale romance, but the city of love might gift-wrap her one anyway…
Not even a dusting of icing sugar could make
The Parisian Christmas Bake-Off a more perfect Christmas treat!
JENNY OLIVER wrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue, it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty.
Since then Jenny has gone on to get an English degree, a Masters, and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels). She wrote The Parisian Christmas Bake Off on the beach in a sea-soaked, sand-covered notebook. This time the inspiration was her addiction to macaroons, the belief she can cook them and an all-consuming love of Christmas. When the decorations go up in October, that’s fine with her! Follow her on Twitter @JenOliverBooks
‘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
