Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  I almost burst out laughing, but held it together.

  “Non, but we’re happy,” I told the doctor. Serge grabbed my hand under the desk and squeezed it.

  After more questions about our families’ respective medical histories, the doctor ordered me onto the scales (normally a pastime I tried to avoid) and mentioned something about me not eating too much bread. I looked at her in shock. Is she telling me to watch my weight? How does she even know how much bread I eat anyway? Thankfully, she didn’t mention anything about cheese. I might have short-circuited if I’d had to cut back my already-pared-back consumption.

  While I was still reeling from the idea of eating fewer baguettes, Serge asked the doctor something about whether it would be too stressful moving house during the first trimester. He’s still hung up on that? I thought. She gave a hurried response that included something about not lifting anything heavy, and then asked Serge to step outside so she could perform the dating scan. I was ripped back into the present moment.

  “What the hell is a dating scan?” I asked, grabbing Serge’s hand desperately.

  “To tell how old the baby is,” he replied, sounding surprised about my lack of knowledge. “It will be fine,” he said as he left the room.

  But it didn’t feel fine, it felt terrifying. Even if I made it through the nine months of pregnancy in a foreign country, how the hell was I going to deliver this child in French? It was one thing ordering a wheel of Brie, but delivering a baby in a different language? Oh, God!

  Doctor Caron was clearly oblivious to my distress and directed me to take off my pants and hop on the examination table. Normally at this point in Australia, you would have been offered a gown in a fairly feeble attempt to preserve your modesty, but in France, it was more of an open book, or open legs, policy. I still wasn’t sure why I even needed to take my pants off, because as far as I knew, she just needed to access my abdomen. It must be to avoid ruining my clothes, I told myself. I’d seen pregnancy ultrasounds a million times on movies and in TV shows and figured I’d just lie back, have goo squirted on my belly, and then get to see my tiny baby. But it turns out Hollywood glamorizes most aspects of pregnancy and giving birth, and I was about to learn that the hard way.

  She wheeled over a machine and grabbed a long, thin instrument that couldn’t have looked more like a dildo if it tried. Right, I thought. And what the hell is that? A wave of panic rushed over me as I wondered if this was just the “French way.”

  A little lube later and the “ultrasound wand” was doing its job. I’d barely had time to register the shock when a blurry image appeared on the screen. Doctor Caron started pointing out the “baby,” which resembled a jelly bean more than any humanlike figure. She fiddled around with the machine, moving the camera about as she went, and said with certainty, “Six semaines.” Six weeks pregnant.

  So, it was the weekend in Provence that did it, I thought.

  “Et voilà, le battement de cæur. The heartbeat,” she said.

  I’d had no idea that something so small could even have a heart, but as I listened to the quick thudding sound coming out of the machine, I realized just how attached I’d already become to the prospect of this child. Tears welled in my eyes.

  The doctor handed me a rough paper towel. That’s sweet, I thought, wiping my eyes. She looked at me like I was deranged, handed me a fresh paper towel, and then instructed me to wipe before getting dressed.

  I was more than grateful when the appointment was over. I wasn’t prudish, or had never considered myself to be so in the past, but the color of my face told me I still had a way to go before I was completely comfortable stripping in a doctor’s office.

  “Six weeks pregnant!” I said to Serge as I showed him the printout of our tiny babe, not knowing whether what I was feeling was joy, panic, or an odd combination of both.

  He hugged me and said, “You’ve made me so ’appy.” The way Serge said “happy” made me happy, too. And then I started to cry. It was unintentional but the tears flew out of me like drops being flung from a particularly violent waterfall. I carefully folded our first baby picture and put it in my jacket pocket.

  Things had definitely moved quickly since I’d peed on the stick the previous morning. Now I just had to come to terms with the fact that my glamorous Parisian existence, where I frequently indulged in eating cheese and drinking wine, would have to be put on hold.

  One step at a time, Ella, I repeated over and over under my breath.

  The next morning, I called Mum. I waited until Serge had gone out for a baguette (at my request—pregnancy cravings were already in full force, I’d told him, happily ignoring the doctor’s advice) so I could have some privacy.

  I wasn’t sure I should even tell Mum about the pregnancy before the twelve-week mark, but I still felt like I needed to talk to her. I needed a dose of support.

  “Ella, darling. How are you? How is Serge?” Mum asked. Since their last visit to Paris in August, she and my stepfather-to-be, Ray, had fallen even harder for Serge. He’d wooed them with cheese and charm, just like he’d wooed me. Every time I called Mum, she now asked about him in a concerned tone, as if she was worried I’d do something that would jeopardize the relationship.

  “He’s well. He just popped out for fresh bread,” I told her truthfully.

  “How wonderfully French,” she replied, always one to blindly love a cliché.

  “So, what’s been going on, Mum? How are things with you and Ray?” I asked. Despite my original perspective that no one would ever be good enough for Mum, I now quite liked the man who’d whipper-snippered his way into her garden, and then her life. So much so that I, too, feared she might do something that would jeopardize their relationship. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.

  “Well, actually, Ray and I finally chose a date for our wedding, this time next year. We’re thinking just a small ceremony, family and close friends, that kind of thing. You know the garden looks so lovely at the start of spring, and the timing should give you and Serge plenty of notice to book tickets. It’s not a peak time for travel either, so it shouldn’t be too expensive,” she rattled on.

  “Sure,” I said before realizing that, at this time next year, I’d have a tiny baby. It was an idea I was still trying to wrap my head around. “Actually, next year might be difficult,” I said.

  “Why? What could you possibly have planned for this time next year?”

  “Nothing in particular,” I lied. “Anyway, I’ll have to check with Serge. I think he was considering a holiday around then.”

  “Perfect. You can holiday in Australia. Serge said he’d love to see where you came from.”

  “Mum, it’s not always that easy to come all the way to Australia.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you can’t be bothered flying home for your own mother’s wedding? Ray will be devastated. You know how much he likes Serge. Do you not want to come either?” I could feel her starting to get angry.

  “Of course I want to come,” I tried to convince her.

  “Then tell me, Ella. What’s stopping you?” she asked.

  There was clearly no way I was going to get away with not telling her about this baby.

  “Well, I’ll most likely have a baby by then,” I said.

  The phone went silent.

  “Mum?” I asked.

  “You’ll most likely have a what? Is that your cute way of telling me you’re getting a kitten or something?”

  “No. A baby, baby. You know, when two people love each other very much, sometimes they have a special cuddle and—”

  “Ella,” she scolded.

  Now obviously wasn’t the time for jokes.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said in a more serious tone.

  “By Serge, I hope,” she said.

  “Of course by Serge.”

  “Is this something you were planning? How far along are you?”

  “I wouldn’t say we’d planned it, but we
’re happy about it. I’m only six weeks, so it’s still too early to really be telling people, but you were very persuasive.”

  “Right. Well, I won’t mention it to anyone,” she said coldly.

  “You can tell Ray if you want,” I said, trying to get her to warm up, or at least not just dismiss the conversation.

  “As you wish,” she said. “Anyway, I should go.”

  “Don’t you have anything else to say?” I asked, hoping for congratulations, or perhaps some words of encouragement.

  “What would you like me to say? That it’s great that you’ll miss my wedding? That it’s great that I’ll miss the birth of my grandchild?”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course my unborn baby is all about my mother.

  “It’s not like that, Mum,” I said.

  “And have you even considered moving?”

  “Serge did mention it,” I said.

  “Back to Australia?” she asked, her tone lightening.

  “Oh, no,” I said and she sighed. “Serge mentioned moving to a bigger place so we’d have more room for the baby. I’m trying to convince him we don’t need to go anywhere. I think he’s just in shock.”

  “You probably will need more room once the baby arrives,” she said. “You can’t stay in a one-bedroom apartment forever. And it’s certainly smarter to do it while it’s just the two of you.”

  In a way, I knew Mum was probably right, but what she was forgetting was how hard I’d fought to make this little part of Paris my home. Besides, I was the one who was pregnant, and I felt like everybody was suddenly telling me what to do.

  “But what about where I want to live?” I said.

  “Ella, it’s no longer only about you. You have a baby to consider. And you have Serge to consider. You’re all linked now. Did you not think about that before getting pregnant?”

  Her words hung in the air.

  The silence was broken by Serge’s key turning in the front door.

  “Mum, I’ve got to go,” I said. “And sorry about the wedding,” I added, but she’d already hung up.

  “I booked tickets for Friday,” Serge announced when he walked inside.

  “What tickets?” I asked, thinking perhaps he’d heard me talking to Mum about going back to Australia.

  “To see Jacques and Marie. I’ve arranged for Fanny to look after the store all weekend,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, still confused. “I didn’t realize you meant this weekend. I can’t go anyway. Clotilde is in town.”

  “She’s already agreed to join us. She’ll come with Jean,” he said. Clotilde and her father, Jean, had a very close relationship; however, it was a traditional one and there was a lot that Jean didn’t know about his little girl. Back when Clotilde and I were still flatmates and he’d found out that she’d been working as a foot fetish model, he’d threatened to cut her off completely. He was rather old-fashioned in his values, but he had eventually come to accept Clotilde’s modeling career.

  “You spoke to Clotilde?” I asked, surprised at how onto everything Serge suddenly was. Normally our social calendar was my domain.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  “No, that’s great. Seems like it’s all sorted.” I tried to sound positive but felt completely out of the loop.

  “You just relax and let me take care of you,” he said.

  I ripped into the baguette and slathered a hunk of it with butter and raspberry jam. It was hard relinquishing control, but I knew I needed to trust Serge in order for any of this to work out.

  Chapter

  4

  JACQUES MET US AT TOURS train station, and as we drove to his bed and breakfast, I had the most glorious flashback to when I’d fled Paris to come here and meet Serge, and of our perfect first date that had followed.

  Marie welcomed us warmly and ushered us into her garden, where she’d set an outdoor table under a large chestnut tree. Little posies of wildflowers set off the cream tablecloth, and colorful cushions lined the chairs. I felt my shoulders soften as the sun speckled and warmed my skin. Clotilde and Jean arrived shortly after in Jean’s convertible.

  The wine flowed over lunch, although not in my direction, as Marie dished up leeks in vinaigrette, followed by a plump roast chicken and a decadent tray of local cheese, which mostly taunted me.

  “It must be such a relief to get out of Paris,” Jacques said to our group. “I don’t know how you cope living like sardines.”

  “I was saying the same thing to Ella recently,” Serge agreed.

  “But Paris has everything we need,” I said, defending my city.

  “Except easy access to local wineries,” Jacques said.

  “Isn’t there a winery in Montmartre?” I asked.

  “Only one?” he said with a chuckle, and I had to restrain myself from listing off the other million things I loved about living in Paris.

  I’d just bitten into Marie’s fruit tart with pears fresh from her garden—and was thinking to myself that I now had the perfect excuse for accepting seconds, thanks to bébé—when Marie asked Serge, casually and out of the blue, “And how is Françoise?”

  I nearly choked on my rather large mouthful. Why is she bringing up Serge’s ex-wife in front of me? Perhaps she thinks I’m not listening, or that I might not understand her French. I tried not to take it personally, reasoning with myself that it was only natural that she’d come up in conversation every now and then, especially here, considering her family was also from the Loire.

  Still, even the prospect of Françoise made me nervous because I knew so little about her. Other than a few general discussions about their marriage, Serge preferred to, as he would say, “leave the past in the past.” And I didn’t push the topic because I understood the desire to not rehash old relationships. Just thinking about Paul or Gaston was enough to send me into a rage.

  I surreptitiously watched Serge’s face for a reaction as he finished chewing. He avoided looking at me and then said, somewhat sharply, to Marie, “I have not spoken to her recently.” I appreciated the sense of finality in his response, but it also managed to kill the vibe around the table.

  Clotilde gave me a look and, clearly trying to dissipate the tension, announced, “Ella, want to help me with these?” She got up and started to gather the plates.

  As soon as we were out of earshot of the rest of the group, she asked, “So, Ella, what’s going on?”

  Is it that obvious how uncomfortable the mere thought of Françoise makes me? I wondered.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said and attempted a smile.

  “Bullshit,” she said.

  “Seriously, it’s nothing. I’m just being stupid. I don’t even know why I’m getting so worked up.”

  “Well, it’s kind of a big deal,” she said.

  I panicked. Is Serge’s ex-wife that big of a deal? Should I be more worried?

  “You think?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah. When I saw you skip the unpasteurized cheese, I pieced together what was going on,” she said.

  “Huh?” I asked, suddenly confused. What does Françoise have to do with me not eating cheese?

  And then I twigged.

  “Oh, you’re talking about the pregnancy,” I said, almost relieved that my anxieties about Françoise weren’t totally transparent.

  “So, you are pregnant? Ella, this is huge!” Her voice was a mix of excitement and concern.

  “In a few more months, I’ll be huge . . .,” I said, attempting a joke.

  She gave me an obliging chuckle.

  “I haven’t quite gotten my head around it all yet,” I continued. “I shouldn’t even really be telling people.”

  “Gosh,” she said.

  “Is it a terrible thing?” I asked anxiously.

  “Do you think it’s terrible?” she countered.

  “Perhaps a little premature,” I admitted.

  “But are you unhappy about it?” she ask
ed.

  “I don’t think so,” I said honestly.

  “Well, then, it sounds like congratulations are in order,” she said, kissing both my cheeks.

  It was nice to have somebody close to me, other than Serge, celebrate the news. Especially after my own mother’s reaction had been so reserved.

  “Thank you,” I said, wholeheartedly. “Now I just need to initiate my plan to get you to move back to Paris so you can help me get through all this pregnancy stuff.”

  “You might not need to try too hard. I’ve been considering coming home. I’m sick of travelling back and forth,” she said seriously.

  “What? Why didn’t you say so sooner?” I asked. “I thought everything was going well.”

  “I miss life here. I miss you, I miss Papa. For now, I’m just mulling it over,” she said, looking out the window. “Anyway, we should probably get back to lunch.”

  I squeezed Clotilde’s hand as we returned to the table. Her levelheadedness and positivity were comforting. I could do with a dose of her French poise right about now, I thought, sitting back and trying to relax.

  I caught the tail end of an intense-looking conversation between Jacques and Serge: “. . . and with the low interest rates, it probably makes more sense to buy rather than rent,” Jacques said.

  “Are you planning on moving, Jacques?” I asked, trying to join the conversation.

  “Me?” he asked, looking at me blankly and making me wonder if I’d misunderstood what they’d been talking about.

  “Jacques was telling me about a goat farm that’s just gone on sale in the region,” Serge jumped in. “Apparently it’s on a beautiful piece of land, and it’s not too expensive, either.”

  “And?” I asked, confused.

  “Well, Jacques is planning to go visit tomorrow morning. Perhaps we could join him,” he said.

  I was about to suggest to Serge that we should probably spend some time talking about our future when Clotilde piped up cheerfully, “I’ll come. I love looking at properties,” which led to our whole group agreeing to the pre-lunch outing.

  As everyone discussed logistics, I worried about Serge. Could he seriously be considering a move to the country at some point in the future? I wondered. I knew he wanted us to live somewhere with more space, but here? Really?