Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  “Seriously?” I asked, shivering.

  “Mais oui. In the city, the buildings absorb heat and that makes it feel warmer,” he said. “Also, the pollution contributes to rising temperatures.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Paris isn’t even that polluted.”

  “But it’s more polluted than Chinon, n’est-ce pas . . .?”

  I looked at him dubiously.

  “But enough about the air, come with me,” he said, leading me into the living room.

  He’d spread a picnic rug out in the living room and had covered it with baguettes, pre-made salads, cheese, and fruit. He’d also found candles and a little red rose, which he’d dumped in a plastic water bottle. The saucisson did make an appearance, but I could get over that.

  I hugged him hard through my many layers of clothing.

  “Serge, where did you find all this?”

  “Carrefour,” he said.

  “The supermarket?” I asked, surprised. He nodded. In Paris, we were spoiled by food stores and delis that stocked ready-made meals, which made throwing together dinner ridiculously easy. I wasn’t used to shopping for this kind of fare at the supermarket, though, and I wondered if the quality would be as good. I was hoping to be pleasantly surprised.

  We sat and feasted, and I avoided telling Serge about the knot of dread I was harboring in my stomach. I hoped my eyes weren’t still red from my tears in the shower, because I didn’t want him to know how I was feeling. I’d been hit with a weird mix of emotions and I knew that, if prompted, I wouldn’t be able to articulate them well. I’d promised Serge to give country living a fair trial, and I didn’t want to break down on our very first night at the farmhouse. Besides, he’d gone to such an effort to make everything as nice as possible. It wasn’t his fault that I was madly in love with our former life. Nor was it his fault that the farmhouse would probably never live up to its Parisian predecessor.

  Serge pulled out a bottle of sparkling apple juice and two plastic champagne flutes and toasted our “successful” move.

  Chapter

  10

  THE NEXT MORNING, I FELT motivated to make a start on the renovations, but seeing Serge lying next to me made getting out of bed a mission. I blamed his strength, with his toned arms wrapping sneakily around me. And I blamed his face. Really, I was just destined to fail.

  I was surprised to find that I’d slept really well, despite our bed sitting awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom. I’d relished the quiet when it came to falling asleep, and I’d savored the feeling of waking up without the background hum of motorbikes and ambulance sirens that seemed synonymous with Paris.

  “Ten more minutes,” Serge whispered into my ear, having felt me wriggling about restlessly.

  “OK,” I said, as if the idea of unpacking more boxes could ever trump staying in bed with my Frenchman.

  When we eventually managed to get up and shower—and I sadly confirmed that the brown tiles in the bathroom looked no better in the light of day—I made a cup of tea and squeezed every possible ounce of caffeine out of the bag. I was going to need a lot of energy to get this farmhouse looking somewhat decent.

  I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and called out to Serge.

  “Let’s do this,” I yelled. “I think we should definitely start with the bathroom. And maybe the kitchen,” I added, looking around at what else needed to be renovated.

  Serge appeared, fully dressed and holding a pair of work boots.

  “Oh,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Michel is coming to show me how the milking machinery works and to explain the production room. Did you forget? Why don’t you join us?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, not too excited about the idea of going out into the cold.

  “Don’t you want to see how the cheese gets made?”

  “I’d rather eat the cheese.”

  “It’d be good if you knew how things work,” he said.

  “I think it’s best if you look after the goats,” I replied, wondering if Serge had completely forgotten about his promise to renovate.

  Before I had the chance to bring this up and potentially start our third official fight, he had the good sense to butt in: “But don’t worry, Bella, I will be back in no time and we can call some local tradesmen and ask them to come and look at what work we might need.”

  Good save, I thought, looking at him. I didn’t like having to rely on him to coordinate the renovations, but at the same time I was relieved that he’d be doing it. If I had my way, I’d probably just knock everything down and move into a hotel.

  “Have fun, Farmer Brown,” I said, as Serge opened the door to leave.

  “Who is Farmer Brown?” he asked earnestly.

  “I’m actually not sure. Just a cute nickname, I guess,” I said.

  I got to work cleaning out more cupboards and managed to unpack a few more boxes, figuring I could at least liven things up in the house while we were waiting for the renovations to start. I found some rugs and cushions and scattered them around and by the time I was done, and if I squinted slightly, the overall effect wasn’t nearly as grim as it had been when we’d arrived.

  As I was looking for vases, I stumbled on a box that I hadn’t helped pack. That’s weird, I thought. It appeared to be a bunch of old yearly planners and notebooks. I figured that they might be private, and hesitated. Perhaps I’d just unpack them onto the bookshelf and Serge could decide what to do with them later. As I transferred the books out of the box, an envelope slipped out. It was addressed to Serge.

  I flipped it over to see the sender and felt the blood drain from my face. It was from Françoise. How have I gone from hearing virtually nothing about this woman to her popping up left, right, and center?

  I checked the envelope for a date stamp, but couldn’t find one. I wondered when she’d sent it.

  Logically, I knew I shouldn’t worry—Serge had told me before that his divorce was the result of mutual unhappiness. But emotionally, there was no way I could be that reasonable.

  The letter began to feel like it was starting to take up more and more space in the room until there was only one way around its cumbersome presence. I pulled it out of the envelope.

  Mon Serge Cheri . . .

  My heart skipped a beat as I started reading. The handwriting was very pretty, big and voluptuous. I paused, feeling guilty for invading Serge’s privacy, but couldn’t draw my eyes away. I translated on the fly, as if by only skimming the letter I wouldn’t feel as guilty.

  It’s been a long time since we have spoken. I miss you. I know our last call ended badly, which is why I wanted to write. I think we should talk about what happened. Let’s not ruin so many happy years together. I’ll be in Paris next week. Can we meet?

  With love, Françoise

  I finished reading and felt as though I might pass out. I suddenly wished I could go back in time to when Françoise was still an unknown entity.

  I took a deep breath and tried to reason with myself. I’d found the letter in a box of old planners, so I figured it couldn’t have been too recent. Still, I wondered if Serge had met up with her in Paris. And if so, what they’d discussed. And why did their phone call end badly? I had so many questions.

  I spent the next hour or so simultaneously debating whether to even mention the letter to Serge and trying to figure out how I could nonchalantly bring it up. I didn’t want him to think I’d been snooping through his things or that I didn’t trust him.

  Finally, I decided that the letter had to pre-date me. If it were recent, Serge would have mentioned it. And anyway, it really wasn’t any of my business who Serge had met up with before we’d gotten together. I thought back on the feisty email exchange I’d had with Paul when he’d tried to suggest us getting back together. And although I’d knocked him back with a hearty dose of sass, it wasn’t a conversation I’d chosen to share with Serge.

  I buried the letter back in the plan
ner and figured I’d just wait for a more appropriate opportunity to question him. If the past couple of months were anything to go by, Françoise would pop up in conversation again soon enough.

  As I waited—and waited—for Serge to come back from the farm, I continued unpacking. Although I didn’t find anything else incriminating, I couldn’t help wondering what else he hadn’t told me about his former life. And the more I thought about it, the more I found it strange that Françoise had referred to their years together as being “happy.” From what I’d understood, things between them had started deteriorating pretty much from the get-go and, according to him, they’d been civil in the end, but certainly not joyful. Maybe I was just going slightly mad with all this country silence.

  I considered going to look for Serge, but it was cold outside. I was sure he’d be back soon. We’d had an agreement, after all, to plan out our renovations. When he did finally return, I leaped into his arms. It was a relief to just see another human after a long few hours at home by myself, and I couldn’t be mad at the one and only person I knew out here.

  Chapter

  11

  IT WAS STILL ONLY EARLY days on the farm, but I already felt relieved to have arranged to continue working remotely for Food To Go Go. I’d pitched the idea to Tim after agreeing to the move and spending a few days subsequently wondering what the hell I was going to do for work in the country.

  And as I’d been hoping, Tim had been so desperate to avoid any further upheaval in his life that he’d agreed to a remote-working trial within seconds of me raising the idea. And I’d get to keep my working visa. Marriage proposal not required, I’d thought, feeling mostly relieved at this outcome.

  When I’d told Serge that I’d be keeping my job, he’d said, “Don’t you think we will be too busy with the kids?”

  Kids? Plural? Did the doctor forget to mention we were having twins or something?

  “What do you mean?” I’d demanded.

  “Kids are baby goats in English, non?” he’d said, and I’d breathed a rather dramatic sigh of relief.

  “Yes, they are,” I’d reassured him and myself.

  “If it will make you happy keeping your job in Paris, then it is a bonne idée,” he’d said.

  And it was a good idea. I still had my security, independence, and, perhaps most important, a job if we ended up back in Paris. Even if it wasn’t a long-term solution, it would buy me some time while I figured out what to do next.

  I set up my laptop and phone on our dining table, ready to bury myself in work. Serge had told me he’d come across some issues down on the farm and would need the rest of the day to sort them out. To me, it seemed like he’d spent most of his time so far just wandering around with the goats, moving them from paddock to paddock. That, or he’d spent hours in the production room turning his cheese. Who knew cheese needed so much turning? I’d even seen him staring at the cheese for long stretches. I wondered if he wasn’t feeling a little lost in his new job. I figured I’d give him a few weeks’ grace period while he found his farming feet.

  A frustrating few hours later, Serge and I were both in the car driving toward Chinon. He was annoyed because he didn’t have the right tools to fix a broken fence, and I was pissed off because I couldn’t even get a photo to upload for work because of the weak wireless mobile connection. There were a few things in France that moved quickly—like the line at the boulangerie—and others—like the line at the butcher’s or getting a web connection at home—that would take an eternity, or at least, in our case, another couple of weeks.

  I just hoped that one of the cafés in town would be connected.

  “So, Serge, how do I go about getting my driver’s license here?” I asked, thinking that I couldn’t keep relying on Serge every time I needed a ride somewhere.

  “Oh, it’s a very big project. And very expensive,” he said.

  I should have guessed.

  “What? Why?” I asked. “You know I have my Australian license already, right?”

  “Yes, but you know in France we do things differently,” he said.

  I bit my tongue, thinking, That’s a lesson I’ve already learned a dozen times over since arriving.

  “What’s the process then?” I asked.

  “Well, you’ll need to do a certain number of lessons. I don’t know how many exactly. And then you’ll pass a test. But you’re not guaranteed to pass. Actually, you’ll probably have to try the test a few times,” he said seriously.

  “But I already know how to drive,” I reinforced. “I’ve been doing it for years. I started when I was sixteen!”

  “Ah, yes, but do you know how to drive like the French?” he asked.

  I thought about the French drivers I’d come across: going the wrong way up one-way streets, reversing long distances to avoid going around the block, and attempting to squeeze into too-small car parks by “nudging” the bumpers of the cars on either side until they pushed their way in.

  “Hmm,” I said. “I’ll look into it.” The thought of wading through more French bureaucracy made me want to hurl, but being stuck on the farm with no way out seemed like an even more dire option.

  Serge dropped me in Chinon, and I started my hunt for a café that had Wi-Fi. Walking the streets, the first thing I noticed was the lack of people. I thought back to the many hours I’d spent by the Canal Saint-Martin in Paris where, no matter how warm or cool the evening was, crowds of people would gather, drinking wine or an aperitif. The diversity of the groups was representative of that which I’d come to appreciate in the city, the pursuit of a convivial and relaxed time being the greatest priority. I’d spent hours people-watching along the canal in the many cafés that lined the waterfront—Chez Prune, La Marine, Hôtel du Nord—using any hint of sunshine as my compass.

  It had been easy to mix into the crowd in Paris, to read a book or to just wander the streets feeling like a flâneur rather than an outsider. In Chinon, I felt like the few people whom I did pass looked at me warily, like a foreigner. Perhaps it had something to do with how I was dressed, or maybe I just had a “Parisian air.” I convinced myself it must be the latter, feeling rather chuffed at the prospect.

  Considering I was in quite a touristy part of France, surprisingly few cafés had that little Wi-Fi sticker in their window. I headed toward where I’d seen the man working on his laptop on our visit to Chinon back when we were still Parisians and life felt a lot easier.

  The waiter confirmed that they had Wi-Fi. Finally somewhere that’s connected to the outside world! I thought, slipping into a booth seat by the window.

  “Oui?” another waiter, middle-aged, grunted at me. I could only assume by the way he was hanging by my table that he was after my order. Not at Flat White anymore, I thought.

  “Un thé, s´il vous plaît,” I said with a smile, thinking it was wise to try to befriend all the café staff in town just in case one of these places were to become my local. “Et le code Wi-Fi?” I asked, to his already-turned back.

  A Lipton tea bag arrived, next to a chipped cup, a silver pot of lukewarm water, and two bags of sugar. I figured not even a dash of milk would have been able to resurrect the sad state of affairs as I poured the water into my cup. What’s so hard about making a good cup of tea?

  I kept telling myself that I was there for the free internet; that it was only temporary; that in seven or so more months, I’d be able to get back on the afternoon wines . . .

  I was relieved to find the connection was at least much stronger than at home. It was still far from quick—and I’d likely waste a lot of time—but I could get my work done here. While I watched the spinning dial, I began to feel very isolated. Normally, if I were waiting for something to load, I’d just chat with a colleague.

  I thought back to my last day at work in the office. Even though I’d still technically be working with them, Tim had forced our team out for a boozy lunch (although sadly sans booze for me) at one of the English pubs nea
r work to say a farewell to me. I think he’d just needed an excuse to let loose during office hours.

  Chris, who’d clocked I was pregnant after my second hot chocolate order, had come along for a drink, too, and had slipped me a takeaway cup. I’d taken a sip. It was a rich and creamy coffee, and as I’d swallowed, I’d been hit with happy memories of working at Flat White and overdosing on lattes.

  “Thanks, Chris, but you know I’m off coffee for the moment,” I’d said, handing him back the cup to finish.

  “You can’t ever tell anyone about this,” he’d said.

  “Tell anyone about what?” I’d asked, concerned.

  “I snuck in some decaf beans just to make you a coffee, El. It’s totally against our policy but I thought you should have one last decent brew before you go out bush,” he’d said.

  I’d hugged him, and he’d slipped the rest of the beans into my bag. “Just to get you started,” he’d told me. “Let me know if the bean situation in Chinon gets too dire, and I can send you some more. I found a decaf guy and he seems OK.”

  Chris’s dedication to my coffee cause was admirable.

  “I honestly don’t know how to thank you,” I’d said, tears threatening to explode out of me.

  “Just find me a gorgeous country girl who speaks perfect English with a French accent,” he’d said, and I laughed. He certainly knew how to break emotional tension with his candor.

  I looked, once again, at my miserable cup of tea in my quiet café in Chinon. How did I end up here? I thought. When I’d first arrived in Paris, I wasn’t sure I’d last one year, and now here I was, living on a goat farm in country France.

  Then my thoughts turned to Serge. My rock. At least he seemed happy with our new life. Thank God he was fully embracing this change of pace.

  A kerfuffle at the door interrupted my daydreaming about Serge. I watched as a man lugging multiple bags flung himself onto a seat. He was wrapped up against the weather and as he slowly began to peel off layers, I realized he was the very same man I’d seen working at the café when we’d first visited Chinon. He was hard to mistake, with his clean-shaven face, rural-swank outfit, and swept back, wavy hair. He pulled off a burgundy knit jumper and pushed up his dark-rimmed glasses.