Part of me was also desperate to know whether he’d be supportive of the news. It almost felt like a relationship test—one that I wasn’t yet ready to administer, but that I was still keen to know the results of.
When Serge sang out that dinner was ready, I grabbed my untouched glass of wine, shut my laptop, and took a few deep breaths. It’s now or never, Ella! You’ve got this!
I began to eat immediately. I was ravenous. Is it because of the pregnancy? Perhaps it was just nerves. While I was inhaling dinner, Serge started telling me how an American lady had visited his store earlier that day looking to buy a tower of different cheeses for her wedding.
“And she kept insisting that she wanted all the cheeses to be piled on top of each other, from big at the bottom to little at the top. And I kept telling her that each type of cheese should be kept separate so she didn’t ruin the flavors, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“You can’t buy taste,” I joked, but Serge was already all worked up.
“She told me that she didn’t need advice; she just wanted to order the cheese. But I didn’t want her to be disappointed at her wedding—after all, it’s such an important day—so I also informed her that the formation of the cheese, all piled into a ‘cake’ format, would make it impossible to cut. But then she showed me a picture of one—I knew logistically it wouldn’t work but, yes, maybe it looked quite appealing . . . It was incredibly frustrating.”
I laughed. Serge was very particular about how cheese should be served, and the American bride sounded like she couldn’t care less. I wished I’d been there to witness the exchange.
“So, did she end up ordering something or did you scare her off?” I asked.
“Of course, she placed a large order, but I will write strict instructions for cheese serving and include them in the delivery. Then it is her loss if she chooses aesthetics over flavor. At least that way I don’t have to lose sleep.”
“Speaking of sleep,” I said, figuring this was as good an entry point as I was going to get, “I have some news.”
“As do I,” he countered.
“Oh,” I mumbled in surprise. What on earth could Serge have to tell me? “You first, then.”
“I think I’ve found the location for our new fromagerie in the sixth arrondissement. It looks perfect. Apparently, the old store-holder—a shoemaker, of all things—had been there for thirty years. But he died,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” I said, about to express my condolences.
“So, it’s now available,” Serge continued. “I need to let the agent know as soon as possible. Even tonight. What do you think?”
He pulled out the real-estate listing with photos of the location. I still wasn’t sure how, if at all, the pregnancy would affect Serge’s ability to take on another store. I wondered if maybe I should wait to tell him.
“Are you sure you want the responsibility of a second store?” I asked.
“Mais oui,” he said. “It is already decided, non?”
“Yes,” I said, stalling. “But do you have time? You’ve been so busy recently.”
“Fanny has already agreed to take on more at the original location while it gets off the ground,” he said.
“Oh, good,” I said flatly.
“You don’t think it is a good idea?” he asked.
“It’s not exactly that . . .,” I said.
“What’s the problem, then?” he asked.
“No problem, it sounds great,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Bon,” he said, as though that was that.
“Bon,” I said.
“And what did you want to tell me?” he asked, slicing off a huge chunk of pork and putting it into his mouth. I waited a few seconds and let him chew, worried he might choke.
No point beating around the bush any further, I figured.
“I’m pregnant.”
He coughed awkwardly. “You’re what?” he asked.
“Je suis enceinte,” I repeated. I’d learned the French word for “pregnant” while taking the test that morning—a pretty handy addition to my vocab list, all things considered.
“Bébé,” I said pointing at my stomach for extra effect.
Serge looked at me, mouth agape, and took a large gulp of wine.
“Oh là là,” was all he could say, shaking his head.
Chapter
2
RIGHT WHEN I WAS GETTING worried that Serge had suffered a silent heart attack, I asked him if he understood what I was saying.
“It’s hard not to understand, Ella, but are you sure?” he asked. My heart sank, as his expression remained blank.
“I’m pretty sure, yes. But it’s still early so anything could happen. I think it must have been from our weekend in Provence,” I said.
He let out a chuckle and gave me a knowing nod with raised eyebrows. I waited for the gravity of what I’d told him to sink in. I kept wishing that he’d get up and hug me, tell me that everything would be perfect.
Instead he said, “Right,” and stood up, clearing our plates and whisking away my still-full wine glass.
“Is that all you have to say?” I called after him, getting progressively worried. He started doing the dishes loudly, and I left him to process while I waited nervously at the table. I’d had all day to try to come to terms with what that tiny cross on the pregnancy test meant (and still, I wasn’t sure how my life, or our lives, would change because of it). Maybe he just needed a few minutes.
Serge came back to the table with the Comté, another (very) full glass of wine for himself, and a glass of water for me.
“Ma Bella,” he started, drawing out these two simple words, making me feel like minutes elapsed before he continued, “Are you OK?”
“Sure. I mean, it’s a bit of a shock, but I don’t have any symptoms or anything. Not yet anyway,” I bumbled, not really understanding what he was asking.
“No, not physically. With the news. Is this what you want?” I could tell he was judging my reactions, feeling me out in the same way that I was trying to feel him out.
So, I rambled. “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it before, to be honest. I’m so happy with you, and we’re in such a good place relationship-wise, and I’m not sure I’ve actually considered the repercussions of having a child here.”
Serge looked a little lost, so I slowed down. I often forgot that English wasn’t his first language, despite his dreamy accent when he spoke it. I took a breath. “I think it could be good,” I said, feeling immediately like I was out on the edge of a bridge begging for a reason not to step forward.
“Me, too,” he said after a short pause. I leaped back to safety. Relief surged through me, and I got up and hugged him. He pulled me onto his lap and kissed me.
“It’s what you want?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me again.
“As long as you want it, too,” I said, enjoying feeling cocooned and safe for the first time since peeing on the stick that morning.
“Ah, oui. A very happy accident,” he said.
The moment of bliss was, however, short-lived. Serge sat me back down on my own chair, grabbed both my shoulders, and said to me seriously, “Things will have to change, Ella.”
“Huh? Why?” I asked.
“Well, I think it would be silly to take on a new lease and open a second branch of the fromagerie now.”
“Oh, no,” I said. I’d worried that this might be the case.
“Mais oui, I think we’ll have enough to worry about with the pregnancy and the baby’s arrival.”
“But what about the perfect location you found? You’ve been planning the second store for ages,” I said.
“These things can wait, Ella,” he said, pragmatically.
“But are you sure they have to?” I asked, feeling guilty that he could so easily put a dream on hold.
“Of course, and we’ll have to move,” he said, which seemed even more out of the bl
ue.
“To where? Not back to Australia?” I asked, shocked.
Despite it seeming like a logical conclusion in retrospect, it hadn’t yet occurred to me that I might move home. My life was here in Paris.
“Non, non, non,” he said. “Unless you want to?”
“Non,” I said, offended. “J’adore la France!”
Serge looked relieved. “But still, we can’t have a baby here,” he said.
“Huh?” I asked, looking around at Serge’s gorgeous apartment and wondering why we’d need to relocate. “Babies don’t take up much room.”
“A baby cannot grow up in such a cramped home. It’s not good for their creativity and development. Nor for our relationship.”
I sat mute, surprised at Serge’s sudden sure-headedness on the topic. I wondered if he’d already thought this through.
“Yes, we’ll need to move somewhere with more space,” he added. “We could get a house with a garden. Maybe even get some animals.”
“That sounds idyllic, but can we afford that in Paris?” I asked.
He laughed. “Ella, you do know there is a France outside of central Paris, don’t you?”
My jaw dropped.
“Not for me, there’s not,” I said. Admittedly, a garden sounded nice, but the thought of leaving our neighborhood and setting up somewhere new terrified me. Besides, I was an inner-city person. And it had taken me long enough to learn how to live here like a local. I didn’t want to go through that again.
“Do you remember when you came to meet me in the Loire Valley?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” I said.
“Well, that is the real France. The France where people still say ‘Bonjour’ when they pass each other in the street, where they return home from work to eat lunch as a family, where you can walk down the road without smelling somebody else’s piss.”
“And?” I asked.
“And maybe it’s time you experienced what life can be like outside of the capital.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Serge. Maybe we should just wait and see how things play out with the pregnancy.”
“Let me take care of things, Bella. You go rest.”
“I’m hardly even pregnant. I don’t need to rest,” I protested.
He shushed me, handed me the plate of Comté, and told me to go to the couch. Wide-eyed, I obeyed—I mean, eating Comté on the couch was one of my favorite things, and I figured that Serge probably just needed more time to acclimatize to the news.
Lying down and feeding myself slivers of cheese like a Roman goddess might feed herself grapes, I tried to imagine leaving Paris. I didn’t get far. I loved our quartier, Le Marais, and I loved living near my work and Serge’s fromagerie.
I couldn’t imagine leaving our cosy apartment simply because a tiny little human was about to enter our lives. I was sure all Serge’s talk of changing his work plans and moving was just an immediate reaction to the shock. I’d let him freak out for a while and then I would talk some sense into him.
It’d been an anxiety-inducing day, and the mix of the hard, salty cheese and the blanket Serge had insisted on putting over my legs was too comfortable. After a few unintentional head-nods, I gave up trying to fight my eyelids and promptly fell asleep.
I woke up at midnight and saw Serge sitting behind his computer. It was a strange sight. Normally he avoided technology. He leaped up when he saw I was awake and ushered me to bed.
“What were you doing?” I asked, so sleepy I could hardly form words.
“Never mind, Bella, just getting a few things organized.”
I was too tired to protest and allowed him to tuck me in under the blankets.
“Are you coming?” I asked.
“Two more minutes,” he promised, although I was hardly in any state to adjudicate because, within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I was out cold.
When I awoke the next morning, Serge was missing from our bed. I couldn’t be sure if he’d joined me at all the previous night, and the sheets didn’t give away any clues. I stumbled out into the kitchen, where I found him, still on his computer and looking slightly deranged in an old gray sweatshirt and faded blue boxer shorts.
“Have you been up all night?” I asked, hugging him from behind and trying to get a look over his shoulder at what he was doing.
“I had a few hours of sleep,” he said, folding his screen shut.
“Serge, are you sure everything is OK?” I asked.
“Of course, this baby really is the most wonderful surprise!”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“So, what’s with the research then? You do realize that we have nearly nine months to figure all this out, don’t you?” I asked him.
“I am just getting my head around things. But I think I have found a solution.”
“Oh?” I asked. I hoped I wasn’t about to regret sleeping last night.
“But let me get a few things in order before I explain my idea,” he said, evasively. “Coffee?” he offered.
“I’ll have tea,” I said.
“Right, no coffee because of the baby,” he said, sympathetically.
“Apparently so.”
He leaned down and kissed my belly, saying hello to the tiny ball of cells currently residing somewhere deep within. At the idea of our little family, I felt love coursing through my body.
I sipped my tea and replayed our conversation, looking for clues. Finally, I said gently, “Serge, I’m worried that you think having a baby has to completely change your life.”
“Oh, Ella, now is not the time to worry,” he replied.
I wondered what there was to not worry about.
“Why don’t we get out of the city sometime soon? Go see more of the France that I was telling you about,” he suggested. “The fresh air will do us good.”
The idea of long walks in the countryside did sound nice. Serge and I could ponder and discuss the future, and I could convince him that our current living arrangement would be totally fine with a new addition.
“Yes! A weekend away, just the two of us,” I said.
“Or we could go visit Jacques and Marie.”
Jacques was Serge’s friend. He ran a bed and breakfast with his wife, Marie, near Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine. Jacques was very French and very friendly. He’d actually been witness to my declaration of love to Serge when I’d hunted him down in the Loire Valley in a manic state at the end of the previous winter. His property was beautiful, and it was as far from Paris as you could get in terms of nightlife or any life other than goats and the occasional spotting of a ruggedly handsome farmer.
“Sure, I guess that could work, too,” I said, not wanting to shut him down. Besides, it actually made sense that Serge would want to visit the Loire. He probably needed to go back to where he’d grown up with his own parents to come to terms with the news.
He nodded, and I felt like we were slowly getting on the same page.
“So, I guess I should make an appointment to see a doctor,” I said.
“Good point. I’ve taken care of that. I made you an appointment for this morning at 9:30 a.m. The doctor apparently speaks English but I’ll come with you for support.” Serge had clearly sprung into productivity mode.
I checked my watch. It was already half past eight. I’d desperately wanted to call my mum or Billie, my best friend back in Australia, to share the news, but it looked like that would have to wait.
Serge shuffled me into the bathroom and told me he was popping out to get me a croissant. I had a vision flash through my mind of him never coming back and of me telling our future child that Papa had gone out on a pastry run and didn’t return. Thankfully, I knew this wasn’t his style.
Serge’s reaction had mostly been reassuring. He didn’t fight me, he didn’t seem disappointed, and he didn’t run for the door. If anything, he just seemed to become even more protective. And I did love him. Although we�
��d only been together for a short time (especially compared to Paul, whom I’d been with for close to a decade), I thought he’d make a great papa to our little one.
I inspected my stomach in the bathroom mirror, but it looked the same as ever. Not particularly taut, but also not giving any indication that it was harboring a human. I gave it a rub before getting ready for the doctor’s appointment.
Chapter
3
“SO, YOU THINK YOU ARE pregnant?” Doctor Caron, a petite and quite pretty woman who must have only been in her late twenties, asked in French.
I nodded, wondering when she would switch to English.
“Well, before we get to any of that, I have a few general questions about . . .” She spoke quickly, and I lost track of what she was saying about halfway through her sentence. My heart was beating loudly in my ears, which didn’t help matters. I looked desperately at Serge. He nodded and told the doctor that he’d help interpret for me. So, the questioning about my medical history began, all passed through a surprisingly un-squeamish-looking Serge.
“So, when was the first time you had sex?” Serge relayed.
“Oh, um . . .” I blushed hard. “I think I was sixteen,” I said, attempting an apology to Serge with my eyes.
“And your monthly periods, were they regular?”
I nodded, mortified. Serge and I hadn’t even peed in front of each other, let alone spoken in detail about our most personal bodily functions.
“Were they painful?”
I shook my head no.
“And when did you last get checked for . . .” Serge faltered, looking for the right word. “Sexy diseases?” he continued.
“Ah, yes, sexually transmitted diseases,” the doctor chimed in, by now obviously enjoying the free English lesson.
Oh, God! I thought, wanting to disappear. I shot Serge another apologetic look and told him that it had been a couple of years since I had been tested. She tapped away on her computer, and I wondered what she was noting down.
“And now the doctor would like to know if this was a planned pregnancy,” Serge asked, waiting to follow my lead.
Brioche in the Oven Page 2