A Recipe for Christmas

Chapter 5

5

‘I will hand you over to your tutor now. Use your time with us at the chocolate school wisely. Make the most of it. It could be life-changing, at least for one of you.’

And with that she turns on her high heels and clips out of the classroom. Gabriel Hartmann follows her, with a nod of acknowledgement to us all. Jacques Grandjean, our tutor, watches them go.

The room seems to heave a sigh of relief, but there is no friendly banter. Instead, everyone looks down at their work sheets, then up at the tutor.

‘So, as it was explained to you, this is a very packed schedule. There will be demonstrations, workshops and time for you to work on your own creations. As well as mastering and perfecting the basics in chocolate-making, you will be set tasks to come up with the best-executed and most inventive chocolates you can produce. We will be making chocolates with flavours of spice and botanicals, and chocolate flowers. You will make a signature hot chocolate, a celebration cake and a sculpture for your final piece to present to the judges. Alongside these tasks, as Madame Pichon mentioned, you will make a signature box of chocolates to be delivered on our last day, December the twenty-third. Twelve of the best bonbons you can produce that tell us all about you! They can be chocolates you’ve created here in the class or that you make from inspiration you’ve gathered outside. Think outside the box, if you like!’

He’s attempted a joke but nobody laughs. The air is full of concentration, ambition and competition. Not a combination I’m used to. ‘You must impress our principal, Madame Pichon, and the master chocolatier, whose opinion she holds in high esteem.’ He looks towards the door where Madame is talking to Gabriel Hartmann. I see her throw back her head and laugh. Then she leans forward and kisses him slowly on each cheek before they go their separate ways. He heads up the staircase, his long dark coat sweeping the steps as he goes. Madame’s style is compelling, too, and they make a stylish couple, him wild-haired and handsome, her smart and elegant, if a few years older. But why should that matter? They look well suited, if they’re a couple. And her body language suggests they are.

‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ says Jacques. ‘The bean.’

For the next few hours, to the boredom of some students, Jacques goes over basic chocolate-making skills: choosing the bean, fermenting, drying, roasting and grinding, then adding cocoa butter and sugar. He talks about conching, and the method developed by Rodolphe Lindt to give a smoother chocolate: he left his mixer on overnight. Finally Jacques discusses the importance of tempering.

‘Tempering means heating and cooling the chocolate, for those who are new to this.’ He looks at me. Sébastien is studying his nails and Michel seems to be hiding his phone under his workstation, checking his followers, no doubt. But I am fascinated by the process and find myself jotting notes, writing as fast as I can. I didn’t know how chocolate was actually made so I’m enthralled, lost in the revelations. I almost forget that I’m not going to be staying to find out how it all works in practice.

‘Excellent tempering makes for a glossy finish and stops the chocolate melting between your fingers. If it’s not tempered properly, the cocoa butter will not be spread evenly through the chocolate. The crystallization will be chaotic.’ And he swirls his hands around. ‘It will result in dull chocolate, rough and chewy.’ He pulls down the corners of his mouth. Most of the class are paying no attention, clearly knowing all of this already. ‘If you don’t control the crystallization your chocolate will bloom,’ he tells us sternly. ‘It will be dull, unappealing, and definitely won’t snap. When we are making chocolates with moulds and fillings, you will want to use chocolate with a higher cocoa-butter content.’

A young man in similar chef’s clothing appears from a back room, carrying a tray with ingredients on it.

‘Many of you know how to do this,’ Jacques says, watching as the young man unloads the tray and pours melted chocolate onto the work surface, ‘but remember! You came here to learn from the best!’ He begins to spread the melted chocolate across the surface. I worry that it will dribble off the table onto the floor but it doesn’t. He controls it expertly. ‘These skills are the building blocks of your chocolate-making, your career, your signature chocolates.’ He looks around the room. Everyone seems at last to be paying attention to his practical demonstration. ‘Unless you have them perfected, anything else you try to build on them will fail.’

The room is silent as we watch him work the chocolate on the marble surface, wielding a metal scraper in sweeping, almost hypnotic moves.

He addresses the classroom: ‘You may have done this hundreds or thousands of times, but be sure to get it perfect.’

As he finishes tempering the chocolate, I have written down practically everything he’s said, as have Patrice and Fleur. Sébastien, Michel and Frédéric have not: they clearly feel they know it all.

Jacques moves away from the work surface, indicating to the other chef with a flick of his hand that he can clear up. ‘And now,’ he says, with a flourish, ‘it is your turn to show me your skills.’

There’s a ripple of activity and excitement.

‘We will start the morning with a simple exercise.’ I concentrate on Jacques. ‘This is to discover what you can do and what you’re made of. Most of you will see this as a simple exercise. But we will start at the beginning and build up. Some of you will have bad habits. Some will need to remember the basics. Everything you need you will find in the pantry, and Alain, our kitchen assistant, is here to help.’ He holds out a hand to the young man, who grins. ‘Alain is here to help, not to clean up after you or make any components for you. Keep your own workstations clean. Now, I want you to make twelve identical truffles.’ I hear sighs from some of the students, clearly keen to get onto bigger projects. ‘I don’t need to tell you they must be of the same size, neat and perfectly formed. You will have until the end of the day, including a lunch break, to come up with a simple but delicious truffle,’ he says. ‘You will all be aware of Gabriel’s signature chocolates, which made him the master chocolatier he is today.’ As he says this, it’s as if he’s biting into a bitter chocolate, hoping it would be sweeter. ‘His use of flavours and texture are what make him stand out,’ he goes on, as if he’s reading from a script. Then, a little more relaxed, he adds, ‘Show us exactly who you are by making a magnificent truffle. Be as adventurous as you like.’ He claps his hands. ‘Okay, let’s begin.’

I glance around the classroom as the students get to work. Actually, I’m excited: this feels like fun. Maybe I’ll stick out the day. I’ll make the truffles. At least I’ll have something to tell Daniel when I get home and something to show for my day at chocolate school. This may not have been what I was expecting, and it’s a lot more serious than I was anticipating, but making truffles is surely going to be jolly. I’ll spend the rest of the day with melted chocolate. I pick up an apron from my workstation, put it on and wonder where to start.

Everyone else is moving quickly and quietly around the classroom. No one is talking or smiling. Concentration hangs in the air. Some are making notes, like Fleur, while others are heading towards the door from which Alain appeared.

I grab my phone and take a deep breath. How hard can it be? I google truffles. Then I head towards the pantry where Alain is waiting. He smiles at me. The first smile directed at me that I’ve seen all morning.

‘ Puis-je vous aider? ’ he asks, raising his eyebrows. His round face seems to light up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh, um, yes, please. Thank you. Merci . I need everything. Dark chocolate,’ I check my phone, ‘unsalted butter and double cream.’

He leans towards me and speaks quietly: ‘A word of advice. I wouldn’t let Madame Pichon see you using your phone. They are not allowed in the classroom. I think you may have missed that bit before you arrived.’

‘Ah.’ I shove it into my pocket. ‘Thank you. I don’t think I need to stand out any more than I already do.’

‘Have you no chef’s whites with you?’

I shake my head.

‘Madame Pichon is very particular that people wear whites.’

‘Oh, erm …’

The young woman Fleur is there, her long dark hair tied back, heading towards what looks to be a huge store cupboard, lined with rows of ingredients. She turns back to me. ‘I’ve got something you can borrow,’ she says quietly, going to her bag and pulling out a neatly ironed chef’s jacket. She hands it to me without a smile but I appreciate her kindness.

‘I would offer,’ says Frédéric, ‘but it would be like a dress on you.’ He’s smiling, but he must be smarting still from Madame Pichon’s words.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Fleur and Frédéric.

‘No worries. Hang on to it until you get your own,’ she says matter-of-factly. She turns back to the rows of ingredients on the shelves against the walls.

‘You can help yourself to anything you need here,’ Alain says. I stare as if I’ve walked through the gates of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. I’m rooted to the spot.

‘Do you have any ideas for flavouring?’ Alain asks kindly.

‘Flavourings?’ I repeat, overawed by the huge range in front of me. I clear my throat. ‘Oh, I think I’ll keep it simple … chocolate-flavoured.’

Fleur turns from where she’s examining the shelves, picking up flavourings and reading the labels.

‘I’ll go to town on the decoration,’ I tell Alain quickly, for her to hear. ‘Big on decoration,’ I repeat, for my own benefit.

By lunchtime, everyone has their truffle mix made. Their workbenches are neat but busy with liqueurs, dried fruit, silicone moulds and piped chocolate decorations, like lacework. All except Frédéric’s, which looks as if a bomb has gone off on it. I clear my bench as well as I can. I don’t want to get called out for being messy. I’m exhausted.

‘Lunchtime,’ calls Jacques, and in the background I can hear church bells, letting the town know it’s time to break. Everyone puts down their tools and heads out of the classroom. I pick up my bag and follow them, to what looks like a student area where there is a coffee machine, a fridge and coat racks. Everyone goes to the fridge and pulls out plastic boxes of cold meat and salad, sliced cheese wrapped in paper, and long baguettes from bags hanging on pegs. Sébastien unwraps a packet and holds it to his nose, breathing in deeply. My stomach rumbles. Cheese. It smells amazing. Nutty, earthy and strong. All of a sudden I’m very hungry.

‘Erm …’ The others are pulling out chairs at the table and finding cutlery in the drawer. ‘Does anyone know where I can buy lunch?’

They all look up at me.

‘Clearly a wealthy tourist if you can afford to buy lunch around here every day!’ quips Sébastien.

I wince. ‘Er, no. I just didn’t know there wasn’t a canteen.’

There’s a snigger from Frédéric. ‘It’s always best to be prepared,’ he says, pulling out a whole baguette, slicing it straight down the middle and filling it with hot dogs from a jar.

‘I’m not a tourist. I’m living here. With my partner. We’ve got an apartment in the city,’ I say firmly.

Sébastien gives what I can only describe as a snort. ‘Don’t tell me, he’s a financier,’ he says, sitting down to his sliced cheese, guarding it as if it were treasure and pulling out his phone. Fleur brings out a notepad from her rucksack and starts to draw with a pencil.

‘Yes, he is. We’ve moved here from the UK,’ I repeat, sounding as if I’m trying to convince myself. To add insult to injury, my stomach roars.

‘There’s nowhere close enough to buy lunch. You’d have to go down into the town,’ says Michel. ‘There are cafés, bars and restaurants there. The boulangerie will be shut. But there’s a delicatessen.’

‘This place could do with a coffee-house nearby!’ I say, but no one is really listening. ‘Somewhere for good coffee, sandwiches … cakes.’

‘Share mine,’ says Fleur, cutting me off mid-thought. ‘I made plenty.’ She pushes her plastic lunchbox towards me.

‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

Frédéric has even more than plenty and I wonder if I could offer to buy a sandwich from him, but flashing a bit of cash won’t go down well either with him or Sébastien, who clearly thinks I’m here for a jolly.

Fleur looks up from her sketching. ‘Well,’ she shrugs, ‘it’s that or miss lunch. I doubt you’ll find somewhere to eat and be back by the end of break.’

She’s right. I pull out a chair. ‘ Merci .’

She hands me a baguette and tells me to help myself from the chicken salad in the plastic box.

I find a knife and fork on the side and fill the baguette with some of the contents of her plastic box. Then I take a big bite of the crunchy bread, soft and salty inside, with spiced chicken and maybe dried apricots. I feel revived. ‘This is amazing,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you. You must let me bring lunch tomorrow.’ I realize I said ‘tomorrow’. I wasn’t planning to come back tomorrow. But part of the reason for my being here was to make friends, I remind myself.

‘Your grandmother sounds amazing,’ I say, trying to strike up conversation.

‘She is.’ She glances up from her work. ‘Sorry, I have to get this done for this afternoon, my design plan,’ she says, pointing at the pad. ‘I’m here to learn rather than make friends.’

‘Sorry.’ I put up a hand and everyone falls silent. Apart from Michel, who is busy filming his lunch, himself and his truffle designs on an iPad, arrows to each part as he describes them.

I get up to make myself a cup of coffee.

‘How is it going?’ Alain asks, coming in.

‘Not well,’ I say, shaking my head. I’m suddenly wishing I was back in the staff room at Duncan and Daughters, holding my Mr Tickle mug. ‘Everyone seems to know what they’re doing. I’m way out of my depth. Even the truffles terrify me. I think this will be my first and last day.’ And then I remember the eye-watering sum I’ll have to repay to my ex-employers when I tell them I’ve dropped out of the course. I’ll have to find a new job – fast.

‘This is why everyone comes here, to create their signature box of chocolates.’ He smiles.

‘Well, I’d have no idea where to start. I should have been better prepared. When my colleague in HR asked what kind of course I wanted to go on, I told her I was moving to Switzerland and I fancied doing something about chocolate. She booked it and was so excited to get the final place. And then, what with the move happening so quickly and getting to know the area, I just hadn’t grasped what I’d been signed up for. There’s no way I could come up with twelve chocolates that describe me! I’m really not that interesting.’ I laugh, or it might be a hiccup.

‘Start with the first. One chocolate at a time.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think I can.’

‘Of course you can. If you were a chocolate, what would you be?’

I consider it for a moment. ‘Milk chocolate, I think.’

‘And?’ He takes my cup from me, fills it from the coffee pot and hands it back.

‘Well, I always like Crunchie bars.’

‘Golden and bubbly, a party on the tongue! You see? You are fun, hopeful, sunny. That’s a good choice. You can do this! You’ve already put yourself into a chocolate!’

I stare at him. ‘You think so?’

‘Of course! You are a Crunchie bar. Not a dark chocolate, with a mysterious filling, or an unusual flavour, hard to read and keeping your secrets close to your chest.’

‘What would you be?’ I’m warming to the theme.

‘Hmm. I am the chocolate that no one spots at first, in the corner of the box. Not the star of the show, like others.’ He indicates Michel and Sébastien. ‘I am not the first to be picked. But when I am I have caramel oozing out of me. Sweet, happy and wanting to share what I have learned.’

‘That’s wonderful. And is there someone you would like to share it with?’

‘Oh, yes, but I’m still the chocolate yet to be picked. One day, when the others have been tried and discarded, I’ll be picked and can show others what I have in here.’ He puts his hand to his chest.

‘I hope so, Alain,’ I tell him. ‘It’s what we all want, isn’t it? To show others who we are … the chocolate we are!’ And we laugh.

‘Now, come on, lunch is over. You have your first chocolate to think about.’

I look around at the emptying anteroom, the others finishing their lunch and filing back into the classroom.

I’m about to say I’m not planning to come back to do the signature box. But maybe he’s right. It’s just one chocolate I have to think about at a time.

‘ Merci, Alain,’ I say, putting down my cup, grabbing my notebook and following the others back into the classroom.

As the clock edges around to the end of the afternoon, my feet ache and I feel I could sleep for ever.

‘First we welcome back Gabriel Hartmann to the classroom,’ says Madame Pichon, who has joined us again, her white cuffs clean as a whistle. Unlike mine. I am covered with chocolate. And not in an enjoyable way. It’s everywhere. All over my workstation, up my sleeves, in my hair and even smudged across my reading glasses. Truffles are not as easy as you might think. ‘As you know, Gabriel is a master chocolatier. You will know of his signature box, which launched him, his love of Switzerland, and the amazing ranges he has brought out every year that have us all on the edge of our seats. We are waiting anxiously for the flavours to be revealed next year, Gabriel Hartmann’s new signature box, which he is creating here at the chocolate school!’ Madame Pichon clasps her hands together in excitement.

Gabriel, however, does not look excited. In fact he looks thoroughly unhappy to be here. He is checking his phone, no doubt wondering if his oranges have been ordered and London put on hold.

‘So, Gabriel will be judging your truffles with Jacques and me.’ She gives Gabriel a nudge and he stuffs his phone into his pocket. Jacques rolls his eyes and folds his arms.

‘Yes, indeed,’ says Gabriel.

Madame Pichon smiles tightly.

‘Now, let’s see the truffles you have made and what kind of exciting chocolates we can expect from you over the next six weeks. Please bring your truffles up to the table one by one. Let’s start with you, Sébastien.’

My heart sinks and I wish I could hide under my workstation. What was I thinking when I decided I could stay on?

I’m shaking by the time my turn comes. I’ve watched each and every one of the other students take up their work, proper professional truffles. I want to slide mine into the bin, leave and forget I ever thought this was a good idea.

‘And you?’ Madame Pichon says, as I’m looking for my nearest exit, which may be behind me, through the students’ kitchen, the cloakroom and the communal area. But I’m too late. She’s called me. I pick up my tray of truffles and walk towards the three of them at the main counter, feeling their eyes on me and trying to avoid catching anyone else’s. I put the tray on the counter, take a deep breath and look up. I am met by three pairs of disbelieving eyes. For a moment no one says anything. There is silence. Disappointment hangs in the air. And then, when there is no other sound, there is laughter.

I look at Gabriel, his head of dark brown curls shaking, his arms folded and one hand over his mouth. He points to the messy blobs of over-sprinkled chocolate balls. Perhaps I took them outside for a right good kicking before I presented them to the tutors. He points at the tray. ‘This is a joke, yes?’

I hear more chuckling as the class joins in. But when I don’t, his laughter peters out, and he coughs to clear his throat.

‘It’s not a joke,’ I say, my eyes burning with humiliation and fury.

Back at the apartment, after my train journey home, all I could hear was his laughter on repeat in my head as the light seeped out of the day and darkness crept over the mountains. The train was warm and I was almost lulled to sleep – I was so exhausted, fighting to keep my eyes open – until the laughter rolled around my head once more, jerking me awake and humiliating me all over again. But getting off the train at the right station and the cold walk home wakes me right up, putting a welcome distance between me and the chocolate school up in the hills. The doorman, Davide, greets me.

‘ Bonsoir, Mademoiselle ,’ he says, with a smile. ‘Did you have a good day?’

I find it hard to reply, partly due to exhaustion and frozen lips. I don’t know how to tell him it was dreadful and I need a large glass of wine. I can barely say anything, because I might just cry and not stop.

He seems to sense my exhaustion. ‘There is snow in the air tonight,’ he says, and presses the button to summon the lift for me.

I step in gratefully, the doors closing, as I drag my deflated morale behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror, chocolate smears still under one eye, as if I’ve been punched. Which is much as I feel.

It was a disaster. I should never have gone. How could there be so many different ways to make a truffle, for goodness’ sake? How did they make those amazing creations in the amount of time I’d had? I should have gone to the tourist place up the road.

Grappling for my keys and opening the door to the apartment, I head straight to the kitchen and pour a large glass of Genevan rosé, crisp, dry, cool and very, very welcome. I walk slowly into the big warm living room, barefoot on the floor, and make for the long window that looks out over the busy street. I pass the box of Lindors on the coffee-table and can’t face so much as one. I’m sick of the sight of chocolate. I may never touch it again. Every time I think about it, I’m haunted by the humiliation of the day.

I pull back the net curtains covering the French windows and gaze out to where the streetlights glow. Something catches my eye. Davide was right. It’s a small snowflake, followed by another, then more floating gracefully onto the tramline and the men working on a cherry-picker to put up the Christmas lights. People finishing work for the day skirt around the machinery, many in groups, perhaps making for bars with colleagues. Others are parents, holding small tired children on their way home. I wonder if my classmates have gone for drinks together. I didn’t wait to be asked after the humiliation of the truffles. But I can’t help thinking of them sitting in a bar, still laughing at my efforts, as they order another round. And I’m guessing Daniel’s gone to a bar, too, as he’s not at home. I wish he’d been here. Wish I could tell him about my day.

I watch the snow, mesmerized. The first snowfall I’ve seen in years and a smile starts to pull at my lips. This is what we came for: the changing seasons, the snow, the adventure, the completely new life together. I check my phone, hoping to hear from Daniel, sip the cold wine and try to get rid of the awful memory of presenting my simple chocolate truffles to Madame Pichon, Jacques and world-renowned master chocolatier Gabriel. I remind myself with misery of his reaction to my handiwork.

I sip again at the cold wine, watching the snow fall. It’s barely there but I can just see it. How pretty it will look when the snow has settled here and up at the chocolate school, nestled in the high mountains. Tonight, I couldn’t get away fast enough. As lovely as it might have looked when I arrived this morning, by the time I left the picture postcard had turned into a cold, dark nightmare.

I hear the front door open and turn from the French windows with relief: he’s here.

‘Hey, how was it? You a master chocolatier now?’

Daniel is standing there, his arms open, his tie loose at his collar, smiling a slightly tipsy smile.

‘Oh, don’t joke.’ I put the glass on the coffee-table and go to hug him, hard. Then, I pull back.

‘Well, that’s a nice welcome. If it’s going to be like that every evening I’m looking forward to you spending more time at that chocolate school.’

He carries on smiling but his face drops when he realizes I’m not up for joking and a fat tear rolls down my cheek.

‘What happened?’ He frowns, at a loss as to what to do.

‘It was dreadful, really dreadful! Humiliating!’ Another tear rolls down my cheek.

‘Hey!’ He gives a little laugh, picks up my drink, has a sip, then hands it to me. ‘This is a chocolate-making course we’re talking about. Not an audition for The X Factor !’ He walks into the kitchen, comes back with the bottle of wine and a glass for himself. He tops me up. ‘How bad can it be?’ He frowns, confused, then falls back onto the sofa, kicking off his expensive leather shoes without untying the laces. He pulls off his tie and tosses it onto the coffee-table to join the one from the other day. I’ve decided not to move it. I’m not here to pick up his clothing, I told myself. I came here to make chocolate. But clearly that’s not going to plan.

I explain about the truffles. I’d made them like I had in school for the Christmas fayre, rolled in my hands and covered with hundreds and thousands. ‘They couldn’t have looked more amateurish if I’d tried!’ I cringe. ‘But I expected us all to be starting out and having room to improve.’ I hadn’t expected to see piped works of art, or even balls from those who’d used a melon baller, or moulds of different shapes. ‘Then there were the flavourings, Grand Marnier, rum, orange peel, coconut …’ I relive every embarrassing moment. ‘And the decoration on them, you should have seen it! This is supposed to be apprentice stuff! Apprentices? It was incredible – gold leaf, some hand-painted to look like Christmas baubles! Angels with wings! Planets from the universe! All styled on the platters we presented to Madame Pichon and Gabriel bloody Hartmann, whom we’re all supposed to know and admire.’ I stop for breath and take a sip of wine.

‘So, what did you do? What was wrong with them?’

‘Rolled them in my palms and, no, I didn’t know you were supposed to oil your hands! Until Alain the assistant told me quietly when Madame Pichon wasn’t looking. He obviously feels sorry for me. Or maybe it’s just that I’m the first person who’s said please and thank you to him in a while.’ I take another slug of wine. Daniel has picked up his phone and is scrolling. ‘I covered them in hundreds and thousands and gave them a sprinkling of icing sugar and glitter.’

He looks up from his phone and smiles, proving he can do two things at once, listen and scroll. ‘I bet they looked great! Now, what are we doing for dinner as I’m home early?’

I can’t even think about dinner. I’m still feeling queasy from all the chocolate I licked off my fingers because I hadn’t oiled them. ‘They didn’t – they were awful! You should have seen them, Daniel.’

He stands up and slides his arms around my waist. ‘Well, I bet they tasted amazing.’ He smiles, and I feel my insides stirring. I want to be tucked up in the comfort of our bed together, wrapped in his arms.

‘They didn’t.’ I shake my head. ‘The two judges said they tasted like sandpaper.’

‘Sandpaper? How hard can it be to make a few truffles?’

‘Really hard, and the others are all way better than me, taking it really seriously.’

‘Well,’ his arms are still around me, ‘you know what you have to do, then?’

‘What?’

‘It’s like anything you want in life. You have to work harder, dig deeper.’

I nod slowly as he kisses my neck.

‘Come on, it was only day one. Mozart didn’t sit down and write a masterpiece at his first piano lesson! Now, what about that restaurant you were telling me about? Let’s go and eat.’

‘I can’t go back to the school. I was a laughing stock!’

He looks at me. ‘Why not give it until the end of the first week and then decide? Two weeks, even. That’s a lot of money you’ll have to pay back if you don’t do the course. I don’t want to make this about money, but with you not working right now …’

I know he’s right, but I don’t care about the money. I’ll find it. I’ll get another job, anything.

‘Come on, everyone can have a bad day at the office. And you seemed really fired up and keen to learn.’

‘I was … am! I just didn’t know how rubbish I’d be at it! Or, rather, how much better they’d all be.’

‘It’s not like this is going to be your career. It’s just about settling in and making some friends.’

‘Believe me, they do not want to be my friend. Besides, I’m practically twice their age.’

‘Just give it a chance. Tomorrow might be better. You don’t want to be sitting here waiting for me to come home,’ he says.

Just for a moment I wonder if he’s worrying that I could become too reliant on him. Well, I can fill my time. Apply for jobs. It’s not like I’m going to chuck it all in and go home. I couldn’t bear everyone to say they’d told me so. Besides, this is about me and Daniel, making it work for us.

‘At least you’ll have stories to tell me if you keep going. Eh?’ He’s coaxed a smile out of me. ‘Look, we’re in this beautiful place, gorgeous apartment. Don’t give in yet. Tell me about the others on the course.’

‘You’re right.’ I rub my cheek with my free hand. ‘“I’m not a quitter,” as they’d say in the movies. We’re here to make this work, all of it.’

‘Exactly!’ He kisses me softly on the lips. ‘So, no more talk of quitting until you’ve given it a fair go.’ He lets go of me and heads for the door. ‘Now, let’s go and eat. I’m starving!’

‘Okay,’ I say, finishing my wine and following him.

At the restaurant, the candles are lit, and the pain of my day eases a little. But I’m still replaying the awfulness of the judges’ reaction to my ‘rustic’ truffles.

I repeat the day’s events to Daniel and tell him about the others on the course, about Madame Pichon, Jacques the tutor, Gabriel, the famous chocolatier, who looks like he’d rather eat chopped liver than another truffle, and lovely Alain, until he’s eaten most of the fondue and is scrolling through his phone again.

With the bill paid, we walk back through the streets of the city, the shop windows decorated for Christmas, and it couldn’t feel more romantic. Then, as I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling, I think about what Daniel said, about needing to work at the things you want. He’s fast asleep so I slide out of bed, go into the kitchen, open the cupboard doors and get out all of the ingredients I need. I push up the sleeves of my dressing gown, oil my hands and get ready to make truffles, piles and piles of them, with all the different flavours I find in the kitchen and the drinks cupboard, including Baileys and fifty-year-old Scotch whisky.

I start with a batch of twelve. They look just as bad as the ones I made in the classroom. I throw the palette knife into the sink with a clatter. Then, hoping I haven’t woken Daniel, I pick it up and start again. It’s just a chocolate-making course, I remind myself, not an audition for The X Factor . I make lots more little round balls until I have piles of truffles. I’m not going to let a chocolate truffle ruin everything for me. No way!