Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

“Back to Paris?” I asked.

  “We will consider all options,” he said.

  I thought this over for a few minutes. Venturing into the unknown was scary, but I only had to look back at my experience since arriving in Paris to realize that so much good could come from taking a big leap. What is the worst that could happen? I’ll hate farming, and we’ll move back to Paris? I thought.

  “OK,” I said, just like that, finally giving in to the man who’d already made me happier than I ever realized I could be.

  “OK?” he confirmed. “You’re serious?” His face lit up with joy.

  “But I have some terms,” I said.

  “Whatever you want,” he assured me. The relief in his voice was palpable.

  “Good,” I said, and I got a paper and pen.

  He intercepted me and gave me a hug that almost left me breathless.

  “Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,” he whispered into my ear, while I prayed that I’d done the right thing by agreeing to go along with this mad plan.

  So, I’d agreed to move to the country on the condition that Serge agreed to three simple terms.

  My first was that we’d treat the move as a trial, a sort of sabbatical, to see how things went, and if at any stage I were desperate to leave, Serge would stand by me.

  The second was that Serge would arrange to have the house renovated as soon as possible, to make it both baby-friendly and less of an eyesore.

  And my final term was that Serge couldn’t sell his Paris apartment to finance the farm, just in case we needed to come back. This last condition started another fight—officially our second ever—because it meant that Serge would have to take out a loan, and that he’d then be relying on cheese sales from day one to repay it. We eventually agreed to a compromise: Yes, he’d get the loan, but we’d also rent out his apartment to relieve some of the financial pressure.

  Lying in bed that night, with Serge’s arms wrapped around me, I felt relief for what seemed like the first time since he’d gotten down on one knee at the farm. I’d agreed to a trial period in the country, which actually made the whole move feel like a fun experiment. An extended holiday of sorts, I told myself, except with a lot more at stake.

  The following morning, Serge confirmed with farmer Michel that the move would happen in early December, and then the prospect of actually moving began to feel very real.

  Suddenly, I only had six weeks left in Paris. My home away from home. My Paris! Anything that had ever bothered me about the city was quickly forgotten, and I was fully in love.

  I was determined to make the most of my remaining time; after all, most people went on much shorter holidays. I was going to do everything I could in this magical city before we had to move. It was almost like I’d been given a few weeks to live, although somewhat less extreme.

  I’d fill my heart with food and culture to keep me going over the winter in the country. I’d picnic, I’d walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, and I’d wander the museums. I’d gaze at people clinking wine glasses in bars and ogle the rows of unpasteurized cheese in all the magnificent fromageries. To warm up, I’d drink tea and eat the rainbow of macarons at Ladurée, sip rich hot chocolates at Café Pouchkine, and devour a very sweet Mont-Blanc at Angelina (I felt like the French expression belle laide was created specifically for this dessert, which was both beautiful and ugly).

  Six weeks is better than no weeks, became my mantra. It was time to live large, French style—well, at least pregnancy-friendly French style.

  Chapter

  8

  BUT SIX WEEKS IN PARIS—packing, trying to figure out what I was going to do about work, and arranging to leave—flew by quicker than either Serge or I had been prepared for. And as each passing day brought us ominously closer to our move date, I’d been living all my “last” moments with immense nostalgia.

  We’d said our goodbyes to friends and colleagues, and also to the city. I’d walked the streets, lost in thought about how Paris had swept me into her arms when I’d arrived heartbroken from Australia, and about the life I’d managed to carve out for myself since then. When I’d gone to meet Serge in his fromagerie for the very last time, I’d even shed a few tears. Fanny, as usual, had looked at me like I was mad, and that she was mad at me.

  Before I knew it, the moving van was arriving and a duo of already dusty men had started stomping their heavy steel-capped boots through our little Parisian oasis. I watched with regret as our apartment was slowly emptied of furnishings and looked less and less like our home.

  Feeling useless, I tried to help lift boxes, but Serge was swiftly on top of me, telling me that I shouldn’t be doing anything in my “state.” I protested, to no avail, and was instead instructed to go get espressos and croissants for the movers.

  As I walked to the bakery, I thought back over the past few days, and mulled over a discussion I’d had with Serge that had made me realize that his desire to farm might have a deeper meaning than I’d initially understood, or at the least that perhaps it wasn’t born solely from the news of my pregnancy. While packing, I’d been looking through a box of Serge’s old photos when I’d found a particularly cute picture of him mostly naked on a bike. I’d put in on the fridge, hoping it would make him chuckle.

  “Did you see what I found?” I’d asked later, pointing out my discovery. “You were quite the cute kid. And who’s the looker next to you?”

  “My father,” Serge had said quietly.

  I’d only seen photos of Serge’s dad as an old man, and I’d been surprised by how healthy and fit he looked in the picture.

  “He was very handsome,” I’d said, sensing Serge’s sadness.

  “He was so physical, always fixing things, making things better.”

  “Sounds like you.”

  “If only I could be half the man he was,” he’d said.

  I’d wondered what Serge was referring to. Yes, his father sounded like a very capable farmer, but from what I understood he hadn’t always been the most supportive dad in the world, especially when Serge had wanted to follow his own path. And Serge was so great at so many things—being my favorite cheese-seller, in particular—I hated seeing him doubt himself. I’d hugged him and had reassured him that he was the best man I knew.

  “I just wish I could have spent more time with him, especially now,” he’d said.

  “He’d definitely be proud of you buying a farm,” I’d said, trying to cheer him up.

  “It’s far too late for that,” he’d replied.

  The conversation had hung over my head since then, and I’d decided that Serge must have regretted not taking over his father’s farm when he’d had the chance. Perhaps now he was in part buying a farm out of a sense of obligation. I’d tried to bring it up again, but he’d been completely unwilling to open up any further. Father–son relationships were complicated, and I felt completely out of my depth when it came to dissecting them, so eventually, I left it alone.

  The truck was fully loaded in no time, and the only thing left to do was sweep up the debris before closing the door on what had been one of the happiest periods of my life. My heart broke a little.

  We got into Serge’s little blue Citroën and Clotilde waved us off, promising to come visit us at the farmhouse soon. In a happy turn of events, she’d decided to move back to Paris full-time and had jumped at the opportunity to rent Serge’s apartment.

  Knowing she’d be there, keeping the place warm for us, it was even easier for me to pretend that we were just going on an extended country jaunt. I clung to this idea dearly; it was pretty much the only thing stopping me from bursting into tears as we drove through the streets that I’d known and loved so well. But as we got farther out, past neighborhoods I hadn’t even had a chance to properly discover, the full reality of the situation settled in.

  I was still feeling a little shell-shocked from the hustle of the morning and couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t come off as
being extremely pessimistic. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from our last few hours in Paris, but the words romantic, dreamy, and slow came to mind now. Instead, it’d been dusty, manic, and loud—perhaps a sign of things to come on the farm, I told myself. At least I’d managed a croissant.

  Serge finally broke the silence. “I won’t miss the traffic in Paris,” he said, rubbing my leg.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, feeling glum that all we had to talk about was the traffic. Perhaps I should mention the gloomy weather just to round things out.

  “Is everything OK, Ella? You seem quiet.”

  “I’m just exhausted,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” This was mostly true. I hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep, in part due to my anxiety about leaving behind life in Paris, and in part because I’d been trying to decipher another discussion I’d had with Serge while we’d been packing.

  When I’d been looking through his old photos, I’d also found a (very nineties looking) wedding photo of him and Françoise, buried even deeper in the box. Seeing as he’d always been unwilling to open up about her, I’d taken this as the perfect opportunity to ask a few questions.

  “Cute tie,” I’d told him, showing him the picture.

  “Oh, Ella, put that away,” he’d said.

  “No, it’s sweet,” I’d encouraged. “Besides, why do you never talk about her?”

  “There’s not much to talk about,” he’d said.

  “So why did everyone in the Loire keep asking about her?”

  “Well, we were married for years. I guess old habits die hard,” he’d replied.

  “And what was Michel asking about her father? Or did I misunderstand him?”

  “Oh,” he’d said. He’d seemed to mull things over for a few seconds, as if trying to decide what to elaborate on. “Her father lives in Chinon. Many people there know her and her family.”

  “Oh, great,” I’d replied, trying to maintain my composure while wondering how often I’d soon be running into Serge’s ex.

  “But Françoise lives down south near the beach, now,” he’d rushed to add. “I don’t think she spends much time in the region.”

  “How much time?” I’d asked.

  “Ella,” he’d said softly. “You have nothing to worry about. She used to spend her time avoiding her father in Chinon, if that is any consolation.”

  “And were you close with him?”

  “He is a very nice man but I have not seen him since the divorce. I think he was not happy about the outcome of my relationship with his daughter.”

  “Oh,” I’d said, wondering if there was anything else about the divorce that Serge hadn’t told me.

  I’d lain awake for hours trying to figure out how Serge could have decided to move us back to where he’d met his ex-wife, a place, no doubt, full of memories of them falling in love. But asking him the question felt futile now. The paperwork had already been signed and our bags were already packed. All I could do was hope that Françoise would stick to her part of France and leave the Loire Valley to me.

  After almost half an hour of driving in silence, Serge suggested I shut my eyes.

  I sat back and did just that, and by the time we got on the motorway to the Loire, I had fallen into a deep sleep.

  I woke up, and we were still driving. I looked over at Serge, so handsome behind the wheel of such an adorable car.

  “Where are we?” I asked, groggily.

  “We’re nearly there,” he told me joyfully. “You have been sleeping for most of the drive.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t better company,” I said.

  “You didn’t miss anything,” he said, trying to reassure me.

  A fog had descended over the Loire Valley, giving it an ethereal and spooky feel. While this isolation—the picturesque void—might be desirable on weekends away from the city, the prospect of it becoming my day-to-day still terrified me. I cranked the heater in the car and rubbed my hands against the fan to try to keep warm. Winter in the Loire wasn’t shaping up to be a cosy experience. How am I meant to stay warm without nipping into wine bars, shops, or the Métro when I get cold?

  We arrived through the mist and haze at our new home. I hadn’t been back to the farmhouse since our first visit and, as we approached it, everything looked starkly different. The trees had all lost their leaves, and there was an unnerving silence that seemed to accompany us as we got out of the car. And then I heard them: the goat bells, the noise that would become the soundtrack to my new life in the country.

  I hurried toward the house, keen to get out of the cold, but also keen to see what state it was in. I crossed my fingers, hoping that it was better than the grim image I’d painted in my head.

  It was worse than I remembered. Emptied of its former furniture, the cold shell of the walls, ceiling, and floors gave off no life. The wallpaper was faded in sections where it’d been blocked by furniture, leaving what looked like the chalk outlines at a murder scene on the walls. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that the house had been empty for a century. It was dusty and smelled of mold. The cold had crept past the wooden shutters and into the bones of the house, and as I moved between the rooms, it began to creep into mine, too. I couldn’t even have a glass of wine—or a decadent cheese plate—to remind me of how much I loved France.

  Thankfully, Serge decided in that moment to hug me. As I nestled into his chest I fought back tears. Why did I agree to move here? What on earth have I done?

  Chapter

  9

  SERGE LOCATED AND FLICKED THE main power switch and the lights came on, which also meant that we had heating. If getting the mains turned on in time for our arrival had been left to me, we would have been without power for days, possibly weeks, but thankfully Serge knew how to deal with EDF, France’s behemoth gas and electricity provider.

  But, as I was about to learn, having the lights switched on turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. It meant that we could actually see what we were doing once the weak winter sun had set, early in the afternoon, but it also meant that I was better able to see the state of shabbiness of our new digs. Cracks and stains that had been hidden in the gloom now became apparent. We certainly had our work cut out for us. I opened the shutters and windows to let some of the freezing country air circulate.

  The moving guys arrived shortly after us and started unloading things haphazardly in the living room. Although Serge’s furniture had seemed perfectly normal-sized in his cosy one-bedroom Parisian apartment, piled up now it almost looked like doll’s-house furniture. Whole rooms were left empty, and I worried about how we were going to afford to furnish all this extra space.

  We unpacked the essentials, with Serge stopping every now and then to spin me around the living room. I wondered if my anxiety was as intense as his excitement. I had my doubts.

  At five o’clock that evening, the two moving men shook our hands, wished us good luck, and left us alone. After they’d gone, driving their truck into the fog, the silence and the darkness surrounding us was overwhelming.

  I hunted desperately through our boxes, looking for our portable speaker to add a little life to the house. I pumped some Édith Piaf to remind me I was still in France. I love this country, I kept telling myself, but it did little to cheer me.

  I dug out the kettle, made a cup of tea, and then wandered the halls and rooms trying to get a feel for how we’d set things up.

  The hours slipped by as we cleaned and arranged as best we could. Gradually, as our belongings started to fill the cupboards and bench-tops, I started to relax a little and as soon as I did, the hunger of a hundred men descended over me. I asked Serge if we had anything to eat.

  “I have a saucisson in the car,” he said. Of course, he had dried sausage in the car.

  “Serge, I’m not meant to eat that during pregnancy,” I said.

  “Ah, oui. I forgot. I’ll go get something,” he said, kissing my head. “Have you
found the towels? Why don’t you go have a relaxing shower?”

  “You’re leaving me here alone?” I asked, suddenly realizing that, for the first time in a long time, I’d have no neighbors nearby, just fields, goats, and empty space. The prospect of being so isolated made me uneasy.

  “Just for thirty minutes while I go get some food,” he said.

  “Can’t we just get some delivery?” I asked, and he laughed, grabbing his car keys.

  “I wasn’t joking,” I called after him, but he’d already slammed the door.

  With Serge gone, the house felt even emptier. And despite me turning up the heating, it was still cold. I hunted around for the bathroom boxes and was met with a nasty surprise: Body wash had leaked all over the towels. I sat on the floor and burst into tears. Between the state of the house and my general state of distress and anxiety, heightened by pregnancy hormones, I felt like I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by agreeing to move to the country. The idea of calling my mum and moving home to Australia flew to my mind. But it was around three o’clock in the morning her time, and I didn’t think she’d appreciate such an early-morning call from her pregnant daughter.

  I bit my lip, rubbed my eyes, and went to the bathroom. I’d found a hand towel and a foot towel that had survived the great soap spill and made do with them. Inside the brown-tiled shower, I let more tears flow as I attempted to wash the dust and odor from the house off my skin.

  After a good twenty minutes, with only a slight concern of running out of hot water, I finally felt warm. I got out and was immediately freezing again. I put on clean clothes, layering on nearly everything I owned. Perhaps the beanie, gloves, and thermal underwear were overkill, but I couldn’t seem to get my body to accept the change in temperature.

  Serge met me at the bathroom door as I was emerging. He laughed, looking me up and down.

  “You going skiing tonight?” he asked.

  “It’s not funny, Serge. The country is freezing.”

  “Ma Bella, it’s really no colder than Paris during the day.”