Chapter 12
12
Sitting on my bunk bed in the chalet, the painkillers doing their job, I can still taste the chocolate and I’m trying to work out exactly what the flavours were that made me feel so … excited. That’s the only word I can come up with.
There’s a knock and a face pops around my bedroom door. ‘Hey, where did you get to? Thought you might have decided to leave after all.’ Fleur steps into my room.
‘I had a little accident. Tripped and fell.’ I rub my shoulder.
‘Ooh, not good!’ She screws up her face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I fell awkwardly and I’m a bit bruised but I’ll be fine.’
She smiles when she sees the box of chocolates. ‘Well, you have the right idea for cheering yourself up! He’s an amazing chocolatier. I couldn’t believe he was one of our mentors when I signed up for the course.’
‘His chocolates are amazing.’
‘Have you tried the— Oh, no, I won’t spoil it for you! Enjoy them. They’re sensational. Anyway, we’re going to the bar – are you coming to join us?’ Fleur is putting on the coat and hat she’s carrying. ‘We’re just going for a few drinks to celebrate making it to the end of another week.’
‘Really?’ I hear Sébastien say, sounding horrified, as he passes my door. ‘It’d be like taking your granny clubbing!’
‘Shut up, Sébastien,’ Fleur snaps, over her shoulder.
I shake my head.
‘Come on,’ she says, trying to persuade me. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s just a fool!’
‘No, you go ahead,’ I say. ‘I have some things I need to work on.’
‘Still mastering the art of truffles!’ Sébastien snips.
Fleur and I ignore him and Fleur rolls her eyes. She tilts her head to one side. ‘Sure you won’t come to the bar?’
‘I have some studying to do.’ I lay my hand on my iPad.
‘Okay. I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, and disappears. I smile. It was kind of her to offer. I would never have gone with them, but the invitation was well intended and I’m grateful.
Then I hear the rustle of a coat and the door opening again. Sébastien is in the doorway on his way back downstairs with his hat and coat on. ‘Just so long as you know that however many books you read, or however late you stay, you will never be one of us.’
I feel like I’ve been slapped.
He hurries down the stairs. There is the usual hubbub as everyone leaves and the door slams. Everything is quiet.
‘You don’t have to be so mean, Sébastien!’ I hear Fleur on the road outside.
‘Why are you being so friendly all of sudden, little Miss I-didn’t-come-here-to-make-friends?’
‘I just don’t think you have to be so bitchy.’
‘She’s trying hard,’ I hear Patrice say.
‘But why is she here? This isn’t a place for tourists! Next thing, the place will be overrun with anyone who thinks they can make it in the chocolate world. It’s not a hobby. God, I’d love a hobby and not to be doing chocolate.’
‘It’s more than a hobby, Sébastien. Coming somewhere like this isn’t for the faint-hearted.’
‘True, it’s a place to hide!’
‘What? I’m not hiding!’
‘You are. Keeping yourself to yourself, not wanting to make friends or share your ideas, worried you won’t be accepted, so you’re hiding, playing your cards close to your chest, until you have to share your ideas with the world. Frédéric is hiding his love of eating chocolate behind a career in making it. Michel hides behind his camera. He has great skills, but feels good enough only if his fans agree. Patrice is hiding behind the tutors, copying others, too scared to be himself.’
‘And you, Sébastien, what are you hiding from?’
Their voices fade away as they walk up the street.
Is he right? Am I just hiding here? Hiding from life because everyone thought I was mad to come and do this? I probably am. Too embarrassed to go home. But I have to get this right. I have to show them I deserve to be here. I did the right thing by staying. And, more than that, I want to make a chocolate that will impress the tutors – frustratingly, one tutor in particular. I want to impress him.
With the others gone, I go downstairs, sit at the big dining table and choose another chocolate from the box. I pull it out, smell it, study its shine and bite. It’s amazing. And the next and the next.
Tell me what you feel when you eat the chocolates . His words play in my head as I scribble in my notebook. Something fires up in me again. I can’t just sit here.
I grab my bag, coat, hat and scarf, pull on my coat with difficulty over my sore shoulder and head out of the chalet to the classroom.
‘Clara! How are things going? How did your spice chocolate go?’ asks Alain.
I shake my head. ‘Not well. I’m here to see if I can come up with some other ideas.’
‘I was just about to lock up. But …’ he looks around ‘… if you put it behind the chocolate fountain again, I’ll leave it.’
‘Thank you, Alain. Merci! ’
That night, I stay until well after the bars are shut and everyone else in the chalet is fast asleep, trying to prove I have something to show, that I should be here. In the soft light of the classroom, I eat chocolate after chocolate from the box and write down tasting notes, explaining how they make me feel. Then I come up with idea after idea, racking my brains for something that says ‘me’. I go back over my life. Who is Clara Mackenzie? She worked in HR for the past ten years. No great career to show for her life. No successful relationship. No real home or family of her own.
I think about flavours that say ‘me’: something British, like afternoon tea. Tea and toast. No, ridiculous. Strawberries and cream? Drinks … Champagne … No, gin and cucumber! Or Christmas pudding! Treacle sponge! I may just be on to something here. Or a favourite cocktail: mojito! Eventually I decide on strawberries and champagne in a light cream filling, hoping to give the idea of champagne and strawberries on a sunny afternoon on the lawn, like Downton Abbey . I check and double-check the whipped cream and add a dash more of the flavouring just to be on the safe side, then decorate with a tiny white-chocolate-painted strawberry on the top. But as lovely as it looks and tastes, it just doesn’t scream ‘me’. Maybe I am hiding here, but by the sound of it, so is everyone else. Why shouldn’t I be in the running for the residency as much as them? I want it as much as they do. I just need to practise and discover what I’m hiding from.
I think of my phone and Daniel’s text messages, which I’ve ignored. Is that what I’m hiding from? Is that why I’m single at nearly forty? Because I run away when relationships get tough? It’s hardly a story for a sensational box of chocolates. But I’m determined to stay late every night until something strikes me.