Chapter 19
19
Sébastien stares straight at me. Then he throws down the rolling pin with an almighty bang. It bounces off the workbench and rolls onto the floor with a clatter. He stalks towards the door, barging past me.
‘Sébastien? Sébastien!’ I shout after him. ‘What have you done?’
I don’t think he’ll stop, but he does and glares at me with utter revulsion.
‘Me?’ He sneers. ‘Why would they think it was me? Why would I destroy my own piece of art? You’re the one here late at night, with no explanation, the underdog who wants to prove herself because she’s achieved nothing else so far in her life! You think you can just walk into this world as a complete beginner and make it alongside those who have been born into it? It’s your word against mine!’ There is a slight smile on his lips. ‘And I know who they’ll believe, don’t you?’ And with that, he starts to leave.
‘But why? Sébastien? Why? You’re from one of the oldest chocolate families around. Why do that?’
He turns back to me again. ‘Why?’ He licks his lips. ‘Because everyone expects me to be brilliant!’
‘And you are!’
‘What if I don’t want to be?’ he hisses.
There is a silence.
‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t fit in!’ he snarls.
Shocked by his words, and the shattered sculpture on the floor, I have no idea what to say, just that I need to do something. ‘Look, Sébastien, this isn’t the way. I’ll help you put it right.’
‘You? Phffff! ’
‘Yes. I’ll help you. We’ll remake it. Together.’
He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I want to make chocolate. It’s brought something to life in me. Some kind of purpose I didn’t know I had. We’ll work together.’
He looks me up and down, then flounces out.
‘Wait! No! Come back!’ I shout after him, as he swoops away, zipping up his long Puffa jacket, pulling on his hat and hurrying out of the building. I run to the classroom door and call to him: ‘Sébastien!’
He doesn’t respond. He keeps his head down and is walking fast.
‘Clara? What happened? Just checking my likes.’ Michel holds up his phone. ‘Hang on, let me get this on film. What happened in there with you and Sébastien?’
My face sets firm. ‘Put the phone down, Michel.’
‘Why?’ He frowns.
I let out a long slow breath. ‘Because … no one can know about this.’
He stares at me.
This time I’m firmer. ‘I mean it, Michel, no phones!’
He holds my eyes, like a stand-off.
‘Clara?’ It’s Gabriel. He’s walking this way, his leather-soled boots hitting the tiled floor as he gazes over the huge banister, now dressed with red and gold baubles, into the stairwell, a massive Christmas tree filling the space. ‘Are you okay? I heard shouting.’ His curly hair falls over his face as he leans further over the banister.
‘Yes, it’s all fine!’ I wave. ‘Just … missed my footing on the last step. Michel is here. I’m fine!’
He laughs gently. I like the sound as it echoes down the stairwell, as familiar and friendly now as the peal of the church bells in the square. Sounds I will miss when I leave this place.
‘I told you! Be careful!’
‘We’re going back to the chalet together,’ I call, wishing I wasn’t massaging the truth … Okay, lying. I’m lying. Because I don’t know what to do about this.
‘Try to stay upright! See you both tomorrow.’
‘ Bonne nuit! ’ we call back. I glance up at Gabriel, his mass of brown hair as he disappears back to his workshop. I return my stare to Michel.
‘Phone!’ I demand, holding out my hand and feeling like a headmistress. No wonder I could never have fitted in here.
Reluctantly, he hands it over. I step back and let him into the low-light classroom where Sébastien’s sculpture is lying in a number of large pieces on his workstation.
His jaw drops. ‘What the …?’ He circles the fallen chocolate sculpture.
‘What happened?’ He looks up at me. ‘Who did this?’
‘Sébastien,’ I say.
‘Sébastien? Don’t be ridiculous! Why would he …?’
‘You heard it! You saw him leave!’ I wave at the door.
He looks back over his shoulder, then at the shattered sculpture, frowning. ‘But why? Or was it an accident?’
‘It was no accident. I tried to stop him, but he just looked at me and hit it anyway,’ I say, in disbelief. ‘Then he ran out past me. He said they’d think it was me.’
‘Whoa!’ he says, slowly walking towards the disaster. ‘That’s nuts.’
I nod, looking at the mess. ‘Now what are we going to do?’
‘We?’
‘Yes, we. You were here too, doing whatever you were doing. He must have seen you. And Gabriel knows you were here.’
Michel glances around. ‘Has anyone else’s work been damaged?’
We run to the walk-in fridge where most of our work is kept. We open the door and peer inside. ‘Looks like it was just Sébastien’s that Sébastien trashed,’ I say.
‘What are we going to do? If he says it was us, we’ll be out! And I don’t know about you, but leaving here before the end of the course is not an option for me. I have a whole load of followers on this journey with me. I can’t let them down! That will be the end of me as a TikToker.’
I nod. ‘No. I get it.’
‘What about you? You happy to be accused of something you didn’t do?’
I look at him. ‘No, I’m not. I’m here for the end of the journey too. I want to tell my story. I want to show everyone I wasn’t totally mad to come here, to take a blooming great leap of faith, and sign up for a course that I was way out of my depth to do.’
‘So?’
I take a deep breath. ‘We fix it.’
‘Fix it?’
‘Yup. Look, Michel, why were you really here?’
He swallows. He says nothing.
‘Michel,’ I repeat, ‘what exactly were you doing here?’
He shrugs.
‘Look, right now, it’s just you and me and a broken sculpture so you might as well tell me.’
‘Okay, I was just trying to get a look at his work before the big reveal tomorrow. Just to see if I could, y’know, borrow any of his ideas. I wanted to see what Sébastien was making. Trying to get a heads-up. Make sure mine was looking better.’
‘Right. If you wanted to copy him—’
‘I didn’t say copy!’
‘If you wanted to up your game to be the same as his, you can fix his work. I’ll help.’
‘You want us to remake his sculpture.’
‘Unless you have any better ideas? Because, right now, it looks like you could be a prime suspect too!’
He is suddenly almost pale, despite his tan.
He glares at me, then nods, and as one we move towards the walk-in pantry, speaking only when we need to.
‘I don’t really know how it was finished. He kept it hidden.’
‘But Patrice would. He copies everything Sébastien does. And Fleur would be able to identify the flavours. She has an amazing palate, even from just smelling.’
‘Okay, let’s get Fleur and Patrice up here. Fleur can create whatever flavours we need, and you can do the body of it, the artwork.’
I text Fleur and try to answer her questions. Eventually she agrees to come, not say a word, and bring Patrice with her.
‘But won’t they be locking up any time soon?’
I can tell Michel is worried. ‘I know where they keep the key.’ I tell him to throw a couple of tea towels over Sébastien’s smashed sculpture.
‘Hi, Alain, we’re just working on a bit,’ I say, standing in front of Sébastien’s workstation when he comes in to check before closing up for the night. ‘Big day tomorrow.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you then,’ he says. ‘ Bonne nuit. ’
We watch as Alain leaves for the night and then I hear Gabriel’s shoes on the stairs. More than anything, I want to run out and tell Gabriel what’s happened, and persuade him to help us. But I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair on him. He has enough problems to sort out, keeping his secret safe, trying to fly under the radar. I can’t involve him in this, so instead I say, ‘Quick, hide!’
‘Great,’ Michel whispers. ‘Now Alain knows we were here, and we look as guilty as hell!’
We stay very still, crouched beside the workbenches until everything is silent. And when it is, we stay a little longer to be sure, then slowly stand up, feeling as if we’re about to be found here at any minute at the scene of the crime.
My heart is racing as I walk across the reception area of the empty building, let in Fleur and Patrice, and hurry them to the classroom. Fleur is wrapped up in a thick scarf and woollen hat pulled down over her ears. Flakes of snow sit like jewels on her long dark plaited hair, and she’s still bemused as to what’s happened.
‘What’s this about?’ she asks, as I open the door to the classroom where Michel is assessing the damage. I try to explain.
‘Whoa!’ she says, looking at the shattered piece. ‘That’s a lot of work!’
‘And Sébastien did this?’ Patrice says.
I nod.
‘But, Patrice, you remember what it looked like? Do you have a sketch?’
Almost guiltily, Patrice produces his notebook and shows us the picture of Sébastien’s work.
‘It’s just so amazing,’ says Patrice. ‘I can’t believe he’d do this!’
‘I know. And right now, we need to put that right,’ I say. ‘Let’s get to it. I’ll temper the chocolate.’ I head to the pantry for supplies. ‘Michel, you can pour the moulds – they’ll be in his locker. Fleur, can you pick up the flavours from what’s left?’
‘I’ll give it a good go!’ She’s suddenly relishing the challenge.
‘Well, you certainly know how to get things done,’ Michel says.
‘Years of sitting behind a desk, helping other people to make the right decisions for themselves. Now it’s time to get stuck in myself.’
As we start to work, in the warmth of the classroom, Michel puts out his hand to me for his phone.
‘Okay, but no photos!’ I say.
He winks, hits a button and Christmas music is playing: the deep, rich tones of Michael Bublé.
‘It helps.’ He smiles, and I agree. It does. We start trying to recreate Sébastien’s sculpture. It may not be an exact replica, but it’ll be something.
Hours later, my back is aching, my eyes are scratchy with tiredness, and I have melted and tempered I don’t know how much chocolate.
‘I think that’s it,’ says Michel, quietly, patting Patrice on the back as they put the final touches in place. I wash up moulds and utensils, my hands sore from hot, soapy water. Fleur and I look at Michel and Patrice, then straighten, stand back and admire the amazing glitter-and-bling unicorn.
‘Good job!’ I say, to Michel and Patrice.
Fleur pats them on the back, as do I.
‘Well done, all of us!’ Michel says.
With that Fleur heads into the pantry. She returns with the cooking brandy and four glasses, pulls out the cork and pours, then hands us all a drink. We toast the sculpture and each other. And as much as the brandy burns, it feels good, really good.
‘I can’t believe I’m helping this guy win!’ Michel shakes his head.
‘If you ever worried that you weren’t as good as him, you are,’ I say. ‘And these flavours, Fleur, are insane! So intense! And, Patrice, you’re a brilliant back-up team! Who else would know exactly what everyone else was doing?’
‘Couldn’t have done it without you as project manager!’ Fleur says, and we clink glasses again.
‘If only this were a team entry,’ I say.
After a final clear-up, we pull the door shut on the classroom, I put the key behind the chocolate fountain and we go out of the building into the cold night air. We walk silently, exhausted, towards our beds, just the crunch of the snow underfoot making any sound. The footprints are the only sign, hopefully, that we were ever there. We’re lost in our own thoughts, but all of us, I suspect, are wondering how tomorrow will pan out when our deception is discovered.