Chapter 10
10
The next morning, the kitchen is a hive of activity. And, yes, the view from the window over the pine trees on the edge of the town is beautiful, but there’s no time to stand and stare. With the newly cleaned kitchen, everyone seems to be clearing away their breakfast and preparing their lunch. Except Sébastien. Frédéric attempts to leave his mess as well, but I glare at him so he wipes down the work surface and puts away the butter as he crams a chocolate bar into his mouth.
‘I’ll leave that for the chalet girl … or should I say granny?’ Sébastien laughs as he leaves the kitchen and heads towards the door. I fume silently at that, and at a stream of messages from Daniel telling me I’d gone back on what we’d agreed and we needed to put in more effort. I’m scratchy, tired from the rest of the night on the top bunk and fired up to prove why I should be here, particularly to Sébastien and Daniel. It is not just a hobby! It’s not Willy Wonka! I’m here because I want to be, and I deserve to be. I’m getting better. I’m learning. I’m determined to be as good as the others by the time we leave. There and then I make the decision: however difficult the sleeping arrangements may be, I’m staying, right until the very end, until the 23rd of December.
We leave the chalet one by one, pulling on rucksacks, tugging down hats and pushing fingers into gloves, to walk towards the classroom. The snow is falling steadily. Sébastien and Michel grab skis and slide along the street on them. It’s snowing heavier than I’ve seen it before. Everyone has snow grips on their shoes – even I have them, bought before we came here. As we walk down from the chalet along the main street, I see everyone slowing.
Sébastien and Michel are ahead of us, taking off their skis: they make a detour from the main street into a side street, where a sign hangs over a doorway. I can smell a bakery before I see it and it has its own shop: they all file in, for lunch ingredients, Patrice says. Inside, there are baskets of freshly baked baguettes behind the counter, warm croissants in neat rows on shelves behind glass. Opposite, there are slabs of pungent cheeses and slices of dark red air-dried beef. I can smell woodsmoke in the air, and the beautiful aroma of the aged cheese and hanging joints of dried beef. There are jars of pickles, like brightly coloured Christmas baubles, on the shelves, and I see cakes, tarts and flans in the window.
With everyone buying their lunch, I grab some supplies too, trying not to take too long browsing over the delights on the shelves.
Baguettes poking from rucksacks, like ski poles, we head out into the snow and back along the main street, past the big wooden-fronted hotel in the middle of the town where the staff are stringing Christmas lights around the door, putting up paper snowflakes in the windows, as are the other shops in the town. Come next week, I’ll have just four weeks left until Christmas to show what I can do. And twelve chocolates to produce to show who I am. Fleur was right: I have to be bold. I just have no idea what to do. But I’m not going to be Clara Mackenzie from HR any more: this is me being bold. That evening, I come home with a takeaway pizza in its box, lie on my bed and pick up where I left off on my iPad. I read as much as I can about all things chocolate-making, its history, methods and great creators.
The next morning, when I come downstairs, the kitchen is like a bomb’s hit it as people grab their bags and head for the door.
‘That tartiflette in the fridge was good!’ I hear Frédéric say, and notice most of it has gone, probably eaten when they got back from the bar last night.
‘Who made it?’
‘The English granny, I think,’ says Sébastien, snidely.
And Frédéric laughs.
I’m riled all over again.
That night, when everyone goes out to the bar, I head to the kitchen, clear it up, make myself pasta, read my notes and google more about the day’s lesson in spice and botanicals. Then I try an idea, and practise until I think I’ve got it right. Eventually I take myself, shattered, to bed, happier than I’ve been for some time, and fall into a deep sleep on my top bunk.
‘ Bonjour! ’ I say gaily, as I hurry in quickly through Reception, having taken my regular deep breaths at the viewpoint outside the chocolate school. Bang on time , I think, as the church bells finish their chime.
‘ Bonjour ,’ says the surprised receptionist.
We all hurry to remove our outdoor clothing in the anteroom and gather, in our whites, behind our workstations in the classroom, ready for a day’s chocolate-making. I’m ready for it! Determined to show Daniel I’m not some date for rent, angry yet determined. Determined to show Sébastien I deserve my place here, and the others in the group, especially Gabriel, who, after paying me that one compliment, hasn’t acknowledged my work. I’ll show them. This is spice week and I have an idea to blow them away.
Instead of going back to the chalet and the untidy kitchen, I spend the evening staying late at the classroom, working on my idea, until Alain lets me know it’s time to lock up.
‘Ah, okay,’ I say.
He looks at me, my work laid out. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks.
‘I’m doing what you said, one chocolate at a time.’ I smile.
‘ Bon .’
‘How about you?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine, happy to be here and help,’ he says. Then, after a moment’s thought, he adds, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll leave the key in the door, if you promise to hide it behind the chocolate fountain when you leave.’
‘Yes, of course. Merci, Alain.’
‘I know what it’s like to want something for yourself and you’re trying to find out how to get there. I’m sure you will. Just be yourself. It’s all we can be,’ he says, and turns to leave in the low orange glow of the hall lights, past the windows of the classroom.
I’m alone, with my thoughts, wondering exactly who ‘myself’ is and feeling I’m not that far away from meeting her. I feel as if I’m about to step onto a train to take a journey that will lead me there.
The next morning, I’m up early and head out of the chalet before the others, noticing the kitchen is far less messy than usual, and a rota system is in place. A string above the sink has names attached to it with pegs: presumably it indicates whose turn it is to do the washing-up. Impressive.
I leave the house in the dark, putting on my snow grips and rucksack, stopping at the bakery on the way, looking into the shop windows as I pass. Christmas lights bring a smile, just like chocolate does. I pass over the bridge, where the water is tumbling down through the rocks, like a crazy unstoppable ski ride, down the mountainside from the waterfall above. The branches are heavy with snow and the cold tickles the inside of my nose as I breathe in deeply. I stride out, feeling far more confident than I have in a long time. I don’t know what the other chocolates will be yet, how I can produce twelve Christmas chocolates, but I have a feeling this one will hit the nail on the head. It will represent exactly how I’m feeling. Fiery! As if something has been lit inside me. The more I read about chocolate-making, the more I work on my chocolate ideas, the more I want to get it right. I have my first chocolate for my signature box. Spice! And I can’t wait to show it to the judges.
I arrive at the chocolate school, stand in my usual spot and take deep breaths looking out over the valley and the mist between the mountains. Then, fired up for the day, I head up the drive to the big doors and pull one open, with effort. It’s heavy. I step into the foyer and then in through the glass doors.
It’s different here this morning: there is no one yet on Reception. It’s all quiet. Only Alain is there, unlocking the classroom.
‘ Bonjour, Alain,’ I say, as I head to the anteroom, a hot chocolate in each hand.
‘You’re early!’ he says, then quieter, ‘Thank you for leaving the key.’
‘No, thank you ! I wanted to get a head start this morning. We present our chocolates today. And I have an idea.’ I grin. ‘Here, I brought you a hot chocolate from the stall at the lookout point at the top of the main road. Apparently it’s the best! It’s to say thank you for letting me stay late last night. And for giving me an idea.’
‘Me?’ His face lights up.
‘Yes, something you said yesterday. Made me think …’
He beams. ‘Well, that’s lovely. I adore chocolate. It’s why I stay here.’
‘Have you never wanted to leave and be a chocolatier in your own right?’
‘I love it here. I love the smell of it. It makes me feel … happy. Thank you for this. And good luck today. I’m glad you decided to come back.’ He sips the hot chocolate. ‘ Magnifique! ’ he says, raising his voice, which echoes around the high ceilings as he walks towards the large pantry.
I sip my hot chocolate too. He’s right, it is magnifique . And it makes me happy!
I head into the warmth of the classroom to my workstation. Outside, through the high windows I can see the snow is heavier still, and is collecting in the corners. If I stand on tiptoe, I can just see out. Everything is white across the valley and the chalets dotted down it. There are curls of woodsmoke. There is a stillness that comes with this sort of snow, no cars, no traffic, just a living-in-the-moment kind of stillness. Inside, in the quiet of the classroom, it smells of chocolate. I feel safe and happy. I’m in the now. I can’t change the past and the mistakes I’ve made. I have no idea where I will go from here. All I know is I’m happy. I set to work, creating my Thai-green-curry-ganache-filled chocolates.
The day flies past. I don’t even stop for lunch. The clock clicks round terrifyingly fast as we prepare to meet the afternoon deadline. By four o’clock, our workstations are clean – all but Frédéric’s. His is still a work in progress and he’ll be marked down for it. I scoot round to his workstation.
‘Need help?’ I ask. He looks suddenly terrified and nods.
I grab a cloth and start to wipe as he gathers up his tools and dumps them into the sink behind him.
I’m still wiping the surface as he grabs bags of ingredients to put them away, but it’s too late. The classroom door opens and Madame Pichon arrives with Jacques and Gabriel, with whom she has clearly enjoyed a good lunch.
Jacques’s face is dark, his arms folded.
Gabriel has red cheeks and is brushing the snow from his curls. I hurry back to my workstation, with an apologetic look at Frédéric, who is even more terrified now that Madame Pichon has arrived and is scanning the room, but mouths, ‘ Merci ,’ to me. I nod and smile.
‘Good afternoon, students. We come to the end of our second week. I’m delighted, and,’ she raises an eyebrow, ‘a little surprised to see you all still here.’
The fire that has been lit inside me burns higher and hotter.
‘Now each of you will come up to the counter and show us the chocolate you have been working on this week and on which you would like to be judged, remembering that, at stake, there is a residency at the chocolate school in just four weeks’ time. We are looking for progress, creativity, invention.’
She puts out a hand to invite Sébastien up to the counter.
‘Sébastien! Sensational!’ says Madame Pichon, and Gabriel agrees.
‘Winter warmer, with cinnamon and rum,’ Jacques says, nodding his approval too.
Sébastien returns to his workstation with a lazy roll of his eyes.
Then it is Frédéric. He approaches the bench, where he receives a disapproving look, followed by a dressing-down from Madame Pichon about his messy presentation, his untidy workstation – even though we’d cleared up some of it – and to clean up his act if he wants to stay on at the school. She puts him on a warning. A warning! He’s upset as he leaves the counter.
Patrice is next, then Fleur, whose flavours they find intriguing. Then it’s me. I’m shaking as I walk to the counter, hoping I don’t drop my chocolates on the way. Everyone is staring at me.
‘And what have we here?’ asks Madame Pichon, looking down her nose.
‘They’re neat,’ says Gabriel, with a nod. ‘You’ve worked hard on your presentation. Well done.’
Madame Pichon reaches for one. Holds it to her nose. Inspects it again. Jacques picks one up, bites, and starts to speak, but Madame Pichon interrupts and turns to Gabriel.
‘What do you think, Gabriel, of our learner chocolatier’s efforts?’
Jacques coughs and reaches for a glass of water, going red in the face, clearly unhappy at Madame’s snub. He puts down the chocolate, clearly feeling his input isn’t wanted.
I watch as Gabriel looks at the chocolate. He inspects it, like a jeweller assessing a gem. He looks at Madame Pichon, then back at the chocolate, cuts it in half with a small knife, then puts it to his nose and finally bites it. I watch as he lets it sit on his tongue, just as I have done with Lindors in the past, then swallows. This is my take on a spicy Lindor! I wait, holding my breath, to hear what he thinks. Waiting to hear that my take on Thai green curry and chocolate has hit the spot.
He looks at me with dark brown eyes and dusts his hands, then pulls his mouth down at the corners. ‘Bland,’ he says. ‘I’m not getting anything. What’s it supposed to be?’
How can it be bland? I was worried I’d over-seasoned it.
‘Thai green curry ganache, with chilli chocolate mouldings on the top and gold leaf,’ I say, not quite believing his reaction. Is he joking?
Jacques frowns deeply. Madame Pichon puts her chocolate back on the plate without trying it.
Gabriel shakes his head. ‘It’s not working for me. I don’t get it.’
‘You said you wanted spice! I’ve done the spices of a Thai green curry, in green-coloured ganache and red-painted chillies!’ I say, incredulous.
He raises an eyebrow and asks, ‘Do you like Thai green curry?’
I think of the Thai green curry I’d had with Daniel on one of our few weekends together before we came here. The one when he asked me to join him in Switzerland.
‘Well, it’s not my favourite …’ I swallow.
He nods.
‘Then it won’t be mine,’ he says, staring at me.
All the fury that’s been bubbling up in me is about to boil over. I stare back at him, fire in my belly, my cheeks burning, heat creeping around my neck, up the back of my head and into my eyeballs.
‘ Merci, Gabriel,’ says Madame Pichon. ‘You are very busy, I know, preparing for the launch of your new signature range, so thank you for taking the time to come in today.’
‘No problem,’ he says, and gets ready to leave. Jacques seems to be fuming as Gabriel nods to him. As if a favourite toy has arrived in the playroom on Christmas Day, shoving Jacques’s nose out of joint. I haven’t moved.
‘Bland?’ I repeat.
The rest of the class stare at me – I can feel their eyes on me. But I don’t care. They’ve been watching me ever since I arrived here. No matter how hard I’ve tried, cleaned, studied at night, practised early in the mornings, they still don’t think I’m good enough. I’m seeing red. Is there nothing I can do to please this man? Or any of them? I was up all night creating that chocolate combination! It is not bland!
‘There is no way that chocolate was bland! It might not be to your taste, but there is no way you can call my Thai green curry ganache bland.’
‘That’s enough!’ Madame Pichon is practically puce with rage. ‘My apologies,’ she says to Gabriel.
He stares at me, as if he’s about to say something, but then is ushered out of the classroom by Madame with a flurry of tutting. The classroom door closes and the warm room falls silent.
Fleur is the first to speak. ‘Woah, you didn’t hold back.’
‘Oh, yes, I did,’ I snap. ‘There was a whole lot more I wanted to say.’
I storm towards the door and out of the classroom, my cheeks red with rage, and head to the toilets. I wash my face and go into Reception where I see Gabriel pulling up his coat collar and heading for the main doors.
I should let him go. I should let it go. Just carry on. But something in me can’t, and I have an overwhelming urge to fight back, to tell him how much I put into that chocolate, why it matters so much to me to prove myself here at the school. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
‘Monsieur Gabriel!’ I call after him.
He doesn’t respond and continues walking quickly through Reception and out into the snowy afternoon, where the light is fading.
I don’t know what possesses me, call it madness or passion, but I follow him at speed. I run after him and hear the receptionist call after me, ‘Walk!’
But I can hear only my indignation in my head. I don’t even notice the cold as I catapult out of the doors and down the drive, slipping without my snow grips, but I’m not going to let him walk away from me.
‘ Monsieur! ’ I shout, and then, at the top of my voice, ‘Gabriel!’
He stops and turns. My blood is boiling although, with a blast of cold wind, the rest of me is freezing. He sees me and I nearly catch up with him, but he turns away, his hands thrust into his pockets, his chin into his scarf.
‘I’m sorry, I have a Zoom meeting I need to be on,’ he calls over his shoulder.
‘Wait!’ I put out a hand to try to stop him.
And although I have no idea what I’m going to say, I just need to know why this man found my chocolate bland, when I’ve tried so hard. First the truffles, which I worked and worked on. Then the figurines, a chocolate mess, and now this! And he knows I worked hard on the truffles and the chocolate bars. He said so himself. He can see I’m trying. Okay, my chocolate rose was a disaster, but this was punchy! Different! Not bland! Can’t he just give me a break and let me know I’m going in the right direction?
‘Wait!’ I throw myself forward as fast as I can to catch him up, my Crocs slipping and sliding on the cobbles. My balance tips and suddenly my legs seem to be above my head, definitely not where they should be. And in slow motion, as heads turn towards me, I land.
But I don’t stop as I land. I roll over and over. My world has been turned upside down and I have no idea where I am. Which is exactly how I feel about life! What on earth am I doing here? I wonder, as I sit in the snow below the viewpoint I’ve enjoyed every morning. I’ve taken a short cut to the start of the main street, missing out the sharp bend and the bridge. I’m nearly at the shops.
‘Hey!’ I hear him, then see him, running down the road towards me. ‘Are you okay?’
I’m dazed, trying to get my bearings and work out which bit hurts most: my shoulder or perhaps my pride.
‘I don’t think I am,’ I say, and it catches in my throat. I drop my head and hold onto the top of my arm near my shoulder as fat tears drop onto my lap. I don’t know if it’s shock, pain or just self-pity over the ridiculous mess I’ve got myself into. I wonder again what on earth I’m doing here. I should go home. This was all a dreadful mistake. There isn’t a place for me in this town, either in Daniel’s life or the world of chocolate-makers. This isn’t my world. Mine was back in that office with a Mr Tickle mug. Why did I ever imagine it could be any different? What on earth made me think I had a box of signature chocolates in me to tell the world who I am?
Suddenly, a large coat is being wrapped around me. ‘Are you okay to stand?’
I’m being helped to my feet by Gabriel Hartmann.
‘Ouch!’
I can feel the pain in my shoulder, and I can smell chocolate. Deep, dark, rich, slightly spicy chocolate.
‘Thanks. I should probably get back in,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to … I was just frustrated.’
I try to give him his coat, my shoulder aching as I slide it off.
‘You need to get into some dry clothes and warm up. You took quite a fall there.’
I nod. My head is aching.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘In the student chalet.’
‘Oh. Not much chance of a hot bath or a warm room, then.’
‘I’ll just go there. I don’t really feel I can go back into class right now.’ I blush. ‘Not sure I’ll go back at all.’
He sighs. ‘Come on, I am close by. My apartment is just down there.’ He points at the main street. ‘Come and have a shower. Let me help you. This is my fault.’
‘No, really …’ I put up a hand and wince.
He sighs again. ‘At least let me do this,’ he says.
‘What about your Zoom?’
‘I’ll do it later. Believe me, I do know how frustration feels. Let me help you get dry and warm. I’m just offering a hot shower, I mean … by yourself.’
Seeing him tongue-tied and a little embarrassed makes me smile. He’s not quite the smooth, everything-together chocolatier he comes across as. I’ve seen a chink in his attractive professional fa?ade.
Still dazed, I give a little nod and let him lead me to his apartment. All I can smell is that deep, dark chocolate, the same colour as his eyes and hair. I wonder if I may be concussed.