Chapter 3
3
Six weeks to Christmas
I look up from Google Maps on my phone. It’s brought me from the railway station in this small town – a few stops from the city – up a hill, across a bridge over a tumbling stream from the mountain, around a sharp bend and up a winding road to the building in front of me. I stop to catch my breath, hands on knees. It’s cold, really cold. My nose tingles and my breath plumes white in front of me. I walk across to an obvious viewing point, with a wooden balustrade, and gaze across the river to the sugar-frosted mountains opposite. I’m still breathing hard, looking back at the short walk from the station as the train disappears into the distance through the pine trees.
I lean against the railing. The road drops away to the small town beyond the station, the cobbles shiny with frost. On the other side of the town, there’s an old stone gate, a lookout point and an ancient castle. There’s a high street, with timber-fronted shops, bars and restaurants. On the mountains, wooden chalets cling to the slopes that rise to high peaks. It’s just as I imagined Switzerland would be when Daniel first threw out the idea, after a wonderful meal in a small country hotel, followed by brandy beside the fire and the joy of lovemaking. It was when we were still in bed that he told me about the job in Switzerland. I was devastated. He sensed my disappointment and told me we’d make our relationship work somehow. We discussed ways and means, and our ideas gathered pace. We ordered more brandy and then he suggested I go with him. Why not try? Why not just take the chance? We celebrated by falling back into the pillows, our limbs tangling together again, among the sheets. I felt more excited about my life and future than I ever had. In fact, for the first time in my thirty-nine years, I felt I had a future.
My breathing is slowing and I’m taking deeper breaths. In and out.
There’s something about the air: it’s like the coldest, crispest glass of water I’ve ever tasted. It just feels, smells, tastes … clean. It’s revitalizing me with every breath. I want to drink it in. I turn to the school, down a long drive. The building is ornate, like a French palace, behind glistening gates and cream stone gateposts, which might have been sprinkled with glitter. Everywhere is frosty and sparkling, beautiful, if very cold. It’s as if everything’s been cleaned to bring out the colours: the blue sky, the white frosting over the green fields and pine trees. Our apartment has underfloor heating and you’d barely know it was cold until you went out.
The city is geared up for the weather. The pavements are cleared of snow and gritted, as are the roads. Apparently all the talk at Daniel’s work is of cars having their winter tyres put on. Up here, the paths and roads may be clear but a change of weather is on the way.
I look at the huge building in front of me, a stone fountain halfway along the drive, its white walls and light grey window shutters. It’s home to one of the area’s oldest chocolate companies, Auclair: chocolates are still developed, created and produced here, alongside the chocolate school it runs.
It’s a little more imposing than I was expecting. I walk through the big gates towards the huge building. As I proceed tentatively towards the large wooden doors, which are open, others skirt past and round me, rucksacks on, walking poles in hand, some with skis they leave in a covered area to the side of the building, pulling off hats and gloves as soon as they step over the threshold into the reception area. It’s modern and sharp, in complete contrast to the outside.
Suddenly I’m full of nerves, just as I was on my first day at Duncan and Daughters, starting as a Saturday girl. No idea what to expect, except that my earnings would let me buy new clothes and make-up and go out on a Saturday night.
A loud buzzer sounds, making me jump, and people rush in through the doors around me.
A man in a long dark coat, red scarf and grey beanie hat sweeps past me, nearly knocking my phone from my hand as I pull up details of my course confirmation. He pulls off his hat to reveal a mass of curly hair. ‘I’ll need oranges! As soon as possible. And put off that trip to London. Apologize. But say I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished here.’
People in the foyer step back, like the parting of the Red Sea, as he stalks through the foyer. Clearly he’s in a hurry. I pull off my gloves and check my phone again to bring up the details of where I’m supposed to be.
I look around. This is not what I had in mind. I know I’m coming to a school, but I was expecting something a little more rustic and cosy, a warm and welcoming smile from a friendly owner, a roaring fire and hot drinks. I just had an image of what being at a Swiss chocolate school would be: a cross between Heidi and the Werther’s Original advert. Like something out of a Hallmark movie. It’s not like the picture I looked up online. This looks … very much more intimidating. I wonder if I’m in the right place. I’m pretty sure this can’t be it.
A smart, sharply dressed, almost severe-looking young woman with cat’s-eye glasses focuses on me from behind a high white desk. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘Erm, yes. I’m looking for the course.’ I check my phone again for the address.
She raises a neatly shaped eyebrow above the rim of her glasses.
‘For the apprentices’ course?’ she says, staring at me.
‘Beginners, chocolate-making, yes.’
She eyes me suspiciously, then looks me up and down. ‘The apprentices’ course is all we have running. It’s hardly for beginners. This is the Auclair chocolate school. We are world renowned for our chocolate and our creators.’
I swallow. Definitely not what I was expecting. But, on the other hand, I’m not going to be shooed away. I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I know.’ I remind myself to sound professional, just as I had in my job back home.
I triple-check my phone and read aloud: ‘“For those looking for the very best chocolate-making tuition and to take their skills to the next level.”’ I stare at the receptionist, determined not to be dismissed, but I’m wondering whether I should just turn and leave.
‘As I say, we train the very best here,’ she says, giving a snooty little sniff as she shuffles some papers.
I lift my chin and roll back my shoulders, determined to find out where I’m supposed to be. It’s warm in there, and in my new winter-weather gear I’m feeling very hot. I clear my throat.
‘You don’t have basic chocolate-making? Very basic,’ I add hastily, and regret it.
‘ Non ,’ she says, without looking at me. ‘Just the apprentices. It is for serious chocolate-makers. Made-moiselle , we are very proud of our chocolate tradition in Switzerland, and here at the chocolate school where some of the master chocolatiers have made their names. We teach only the best.’ She’s looking right down her nose at me. ‘We have been a well-known name in chocolate for more than a hundred years. This place is for those who want to be more than just a tourist. For that,’ she flicks her head towards the door, ‘there is a chocolate museum up the road.’ And then, with another sniff, she turns to her computer screen and begins typing with the clackety-clack that only long, polished nails can make. When I don’t move, she reaches over the desk, pushes a leaflet towards me for the chocolate museum, and returns to her screen. That’s what I’ve done, isn’t it?! Looked up the pictures of the chocolate museum up the road ‘for the tourists’.
Is that what I am, just a tourist?
‘ Merci ,’ she says, and carries on typing.
My cheeks flare. She’s dismissed me! As a tourist! I feel a prickle up my spine and indignation swells in me. Well, I’m here to stay. I’m living here. And I’m booked on this course. It’s been paid for! After all my years at my desk, delivering unhappy news to loyal workers who didn’t want to be made redundant, I deserve this course.
I look back at the address and the title of my course.
‘ Excusez-moi ,’ I say pointedly.
She turns her gaze slowly.
‘ Oui, Mademoiselle? ’
‘The apprentice course.’
‘ Oui? ’
‘This is the chocolate school?’
‘ Oui, Mademoiselle .’ She sighs impatiently.
I lift my chin. ‘Then that’s what I booked to do.’
She looks at me, then at her screen and taps on the keyboard. ‘I will check, but I think you may be mistaken. Name?’
‘Clara Mackenzie. It’s been paid for.’
She runs down the list, stops and gives me a single nod. ‘You’re late. Madame Pichon will not be happy.’
‘Well, only a few …’ I glance around the now empty foyer. It seems that late is something they don’t do here.
‘Down the hall, to the right. The classroom. You will see it through the glass-panelled wall. But, I warn you, don’t be late again. It will not go in your favour.’
I start to hurry towards the classroom, pushing my phone back into my bag. If she hadn’t been so condescending I would have been signed in sooner.
‘Don’t run!’ she calls. ‘Walk, with purpose.’ And I’m suddenly back at school.
I walk on, then stop to stare at the workshop behind the glass-panelled wall. There’s a big island in the middle of the room, sinks and stoves at the edges. A man in a dark brown uniform of chef’s top and trousers and a large white hat is working his way around the group, putting a sheet of paper in front of each person. I’m hot, sweaty and I hate being late. I step forward and grab the big metal door handle. My nerves get the better of me.
I turn back towards the foyer, where the severe receptionist is looking at me, clearly expecting me to leave, a smug smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
We teach only the best here.
But if I leave now and go to the tourist place up the road, I’ll confirm to her and my friends back home that I wasn’t serious about this move. My resolve rises. I came here to start a new life with Daniel. To do something that would interest me and be fun while I work out what to do next in my career. But this doesn’t look like fun. I stare at the serious faces of the five other students standing around the central island. If I’m going to live here, I have to immerse myself in the history and culture of Switzerland and this seems like as good a place as any to start. Even if the welcome hasn’t been as warm as I would have liked. I glance at the woman on Reception, then turn back to the door. As I open it, the handle gives a little squeak. Everyone turns to look at me.
If I’d thought it was warm in the corridor, it’s even more so in the classroom, but there’s a chill in the air too. Three people are standing by a desk, all staring at me. One is like an older, scarier version of the receptionist. She’s wearing similar cat’s-eye glasses, a neat chignon and a fitted navy skirt suit, with a frilled white shirt and navy high heels. How on earth can she cook in that outfit and not end up spattered with chocolate? She looks me up and down, much like the receptionist did. The man in dark brown with the white chef’s toque is beside her, wearing an amused smile, and then, of course, it’s the wild-haired man in the overcoat who nearly knocked my phone from my hand, while speaking into his. And now I know I’ve done the wrong thing. I should have turned and left.
There’s only one thing I can do. I’ll try to bluff it out, at least until the lunch break, then make a run for it.