“Good things take time, Serge,” I reminded him, but I, too, felt his disappointment.
“I’m just relieved we didn’t get a proper loan from the bank,” he said.
I still hadn’t told Serge about the money Chuck had contributed, and until now, I’d hoped he simply hadn’t noticed.
“Huh?” I asked.
“It’s much easier knowing we have some flexibility in our repayments.”
“Right . . .,” I said, nervously. Is this conversation about to get ugly?
“Well, it was very generous of your mum,” he said.
“Mum?” I said, before retreating back. “Of course, Mum. Yes, it was generous. But let’s not worry about all that now,” I went on, trying to buy myself some time to figure out what was going on. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
Over the sound of grinding beans, I furiously tried to figure out how Serge came to think that Mum had lent us money. Other than the conversation we’d had very early on about me securing extra funding, had I said anything that would lead him to believe she was behind the loan? Did Mum mention something? Regardless of how he came to the conclusion, now that he knew about the extra money I’d spent, it was probably time for me to come clean.
I went to talk to Mum, but before I could even broach the subject, we were hit by a surprise afternoon rush. People had obviously caught wind of the “English” girl opening up a “tea shop,” and they piled in for tea and scones. It wasn’t quite the market I was after, but by that point, I wasn’t going to turn anyone away. Perhaps the “outsider” angle was just what I needed.
I rushed Mum into the kitchen to make another batch of scones as I prepared yet another pot of English Breakfast tea. I stared longingly at the coffee machine and gave it a consolatory rub while Serge stood futilely behind his cheese counter.
“Ella, coffee order,” Chris called out some time later.
Finally, I thought, heading over to the machine. All is not lost.
“From someone French?” I asked.
“Not sure,” he replied. “He’s over there if you want to find out.”
I spotted the enormous bunch of flowers before I saw the man who was behind them.
“Chuck, hello,” I said, after I’d glimpsed his face over the foliage.
“Congratulations, Ella! What an achievement,” he said, hugging me. I stole a glance at Serge to see how he reacted to Chuck’s flowers, but he was busy rearranging the cheese cabinet for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon.
“Thanks, Chuck. Although it’s been a bit of a disaster,” I said honestly. “Only two customers for lunch, and now we seem to be running some kind of English tea shop. We’ve already sold out of scones.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have minded one.”
“How about some peach cobbler instead?” I suggested.
“Perfect.”
I made Chuck a flat white and then went to sit down with him. It felt good to rest my legs. I was determined not to let my belly slow me down but I had to acknowledge that it was tiring me out.
“So, what’s the news in the world outside of this place?” I asked.
“Same old,” he replied. “Except with the addition of a roof leak.”
“Oh, no. Perhaps you could use the bathtub to catch the water,” I suggested.
We both laughed, causing Serge to look over. I motioned for him to join us but he either didn’t notice the invitation or chose to ignore it. I turned back to Chuck.
“And what’s going on with your book?” I asked.
Chuck launched into his current plot dilemma, asking me for advice. It was a relief to jump into his fictional world and its problems so I could forget about my own for a few minutes.
Mum brought out a fresh tray of scones and spotted me sitting with Chuck. She came over to say hello to him, standing behind me and resting her hands on my shoulders. As she chatted away happily, I felt relieved that she now seemed to have accepted him as one of my friends.
“Well, I best get back to it,” she said. “You too, Ella, chop-chop.”
“Yep, I’ll be with you in a minute,” I said.
Before walking away, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You should be helping Serge. People will get the wrong idea.”
I got back to work.
We shut the café to customers around five o’clock. It had been a long day, and to thank everyone for coming and lending a hand, I’d bought a six-pack of local sparkling wine. I set down glasses and got everyone onto the couches.
Chuck, who had tried nearly everything on the menu by this point, made to leave but I insisted he stay. I ushered him into a spot next to Clotilde, hoping they might flirt a little and get Mum off my back.
I began blushing before I began talking.
“I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your help. I only came up with the idea of starting this place a few months ago,” I said, laughing because, while I could sound casual now, I knew how much work had gone into setting it up. “But since then, it’s been all I can think of, and without your help I certainly couldn’t have got everything ready in time.”
I could have gone on, but Serge got up to relieve me from my embarrassment. “So, we should all raise a glass to Ella—for her crazy dreams and her capacity to follow through on them. It’s one of your most admirable qualities, ma belle,” he said, turning to me.
I blushed harder, finally taking a moment to acknowledge how wonderful it felt to have survived day one of owning a business in France.
But then Serge added, “And thank you to Ella’s mum for her financial assistance. It wouldn’t have been possible without her help. So, cheers!”
Merde! I still hadn’t spoken to Mum.
I shot her a look that said “I’ll explain later,” and then glanced over at Chuck to see he’d gone a deep shade of red. I smiled, but Serge seemed to have noticed all of the looks darting around the group and suddenly seemed uneasy. What should have been a joyful moment had suddenly turned complicated.
While Serge was packing away his cheese, I pulled Mum into the kitchen and told her about the mix-up.
“So, he must have realized I got some additional funding and then assumed it was from you. I was going to tell him earlier today, but then we got so busy this afternoon.”
“Ella, you should have told him as soon as Charles had offered,” she said sternly.
“I know, but it’s complicated. And the money seriously helped at a time when I was rather desperate.”
“You could have come to me,” she said.
“But you’ve already done so much,” I replied. “Besides, Chuck offered so willingly, and he made accepting very easy.”
“And you’re sure his intentions are honorable?”
“Oh, Mum, stop! I just need you not to mention anything to Serge.”
“You’re entering dangerous territory, Ella,” she said. “But if this is what you want . . .”
“It is. Thanks, Mum. I’ll tell him everything soon enough.”
Thankfully, Serge didn’t bring up the loan again for the rest of the evening. I’d finally managed to convince myself I was just being paranoid about it until later, when we were alone in our room.
“Did I do the wrong thing by thanking your mum for helping fund the cheese room?” he asked. “She seemed upset when I mentioned it.”
I’d been trying to figure out the best way to tell Serge about Chuck’s financial assistance since his speech earlier that evening. I still wanted to come clean but I got the feeling Serge wouldn’t take the news well. And I certainly didn’t want him to feel like he couldn’t support his own farm and business, especially when things had gotten off to such a rough start.
“Of course, you didn’t do the wrong thing,” I said to Serge. “Mum was just embarrassed. I don’t even know if she’d spoken about it in concrete terms with Ray.”
“Oh,” Serge said, and then he apologized.
>
“It’s totally fine,” I said. “Already forgotten.”
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful. Not only had I lied to Serge, but now I’d also implicated Mum. I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I’d be able to pay off Chuck’s loan quickly enough; I just had to hope that Serge wouldn’t find out the truth before I did.
Chapter
24
A FEW WEEKS LATER, THE cheese room had unofficially and unwittingly turned into an English tearoom. The takings were good, so I didn’t dare complain, but if I’d known how much English Breakfast tea I would be serving, I wouldn’t have spent so much money on a coffee machine. Some kind of industrial scone machine, on the other hand, would have been a good investment.
Also frustrating was the fact that those early days hadn’t actually resulted in as many cheese sales as I’d hoped. Still at a loss as to why, I’d had Clotilde taste-test the cheese behind Serge’s back.
“I mean, it’s OK,” she’d said. “But it’s just not quite the same as Michel’s.”
“And?” I’d asked.
“Well, maybe people expect things to stay the same,” she’d hypothesized.
“But, does it taste bad?” I’d asked, still fearing the worst.
“Of course, it’s not bad. Serge wouldn’t sell bad cheese.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“It’s just different; Michel’s cheese tasted very traditional. Serge’s cheese is fresher. Younger.”
“Cooler?” I’d asked.
“Is cheese ever that cool?”
“For me, it can be,” I’d said.
“Maybe he needs to modernize his offerings a little. Differentiate himself completely from Michel. Make something new and exciting,” she’d suggested.
I’d been relieved to confirm that Serge’s cheese was at least edible, but I still couldn’t figure out why people were coming in for tea and scones and not his produce. More than once, Serge had made a comment about how much time he’d spent helping get the cheese room ready, and how that time would have been better spent with the goats.
I tried to not engage with his negativity because I felt like we just needed to give things time. The concept of tasting and then buying cheese direct from the farm was solid. People would come around to it eventually. And the novelty of an English tearoom would wear off at some point.
I’d also made a plan to incorporate even more cheese into the food menu—hello, cheese scones!—to further drive sales and get the word out about Serge’s fromage.
But now I’d be doing everything myself. With my Parisian friends back in the capital, and Mum and Ray back in Australia, I was about to go into my first week of managing the cheese room alone.
At least I won’t have time to get lonely, I consoled myself.
Mum and Ray had offered to extend their stay, but I’d figured that I’d have to rip off the Band-Aid eventually. This was my project, and I needed to either make it work on my own or find a permanent solution to keep things running. I also wanted to spend some quality time with Serge before the baby arrived. We didn’t have long until the two of us became three, and I hoped to make the most of it.
That said, for the first few days after our guests had gone, we’d pretty much spent any moment that we weren’t working collapsed on the couch watching TV. It’d been a busy time, and I tried not to worry about our lack of intimacy, figuring that we had our whole lives to spend together; but Serge did seem distant. When I asked him if everything was OK, he’d just say that he was tired.
We’ll get into the swing of things eventually, I kept telling myself.
Back in the cheese room, I was staring at a calendar while another batch of scones baked. The weeks since we’d opened had passed remarkably quickly, and now I feared that the remaining time before my due date would zip by in a similar fashion. There was still so much to do.
Marie had very willingly agreed to manage things while I was in hospital, and I needed to make sure everything was running perfectly before then. I was already starting to feel a little anxious. And I kept thinking about how we could drum up more business. Clotilde’s social media posts had created a little buzz, but I knew that would die out quickly. Perhaps I should just embrace the faux-English vibes and dress up like the Mad Hatter? Or perhaps I am just going a little mad myself.
“Morning, Ella,” said a familiar voice, breaking my reverie.
“Oh, hey, Chuck,” I said, grateful for some company to distract me from my current thoughts. “Coffee?” I didn’t even offer Chuck the option of tea as he was one of the very few people who ordered coffee, and I needed to keep the dream alive that my coffee machine would one day pay for itself.
He’d come in every day since I’d opened, in a show of support. At times he’d been the only customer, but his good humor had stopped me from stressing about the lulls.
“A flat white, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I wasn’t going to come in today because I didn’t sleep last night, but the lure of coffee was too great.”
“I understand completely,” I said.
“But I should apologize: I’m not pretty when I haven’t slept,” he said, smoothing back his hair.
“I’m not pretty when I’m pregnant but that doesn’t stop me,” I deflected.
“What are you talking about? You’re gorgeous,” he said.
I laughed off the compliment, but it made me stand a little taller.
“Fancy a scone?” I suggested. “They’re just about out of the oven.”
“Brilliant,” he said, pulling out a notebook and a pen.
Business started picking up, and Chuck and I didn’t get a chance to chat again before he had to leave a couple of hours later. On his way out, he ran into Serge, who was coming in to check on the stock in his cheese cabinet. They shook hands quickly, engaged in a brief chat, and went their separate ways.
“He’s a little odd,” suggested Serge, joining me.
“I guess, but aren’t we all?” I replied. “And on the plus side, he’s pretty much the only person who comes in here to order coffee,” I added.
“I’ll have a coffee,” Serge said quickly.
“Latte? Flat white?” I asked, cheering up.
“Espresso, please,” he said, leaving me to wonder why the French always drank their coffee short and black.
“Coming up,” I said. “And guess who sold two of your flower-coated goat cheeses this morning?”
I’d eventually found a way to tactfully suggest to Serge that he could perhaps start modernizing his cheese offerings, and he’d begun making a beautiful little cheese dusted in flower petals. It was delicate, tasted great, and looked gorgeous both in a cheese cabinet and on a cheeseboard. I felt like it was destined to sell well.
“You sold two?” he repeated.
“I did,” I said with a smile. “Seems like word is getting out.”
“Two is good, but if we’re ever going to make a profit, we need to sell a lot more than that,” he said seriously.
“Well, it’s a good start,” I told him, thinking back to Christmas when he’d wanted to leave the farm and move back to Paris. “Give it a few more months and your cheese will be flying off the shelves.” I was feeling positive. It was amazing how quickly everything could change.
Later that afternoon, as I was cleaning the café kitchen, I heard the door open and wondered who could be coming in at that hour. I assumed it must have been Serge, perhaps wanting another coffee, so I sang out that I was in the kitchen.
“Beh, ’ello,” said an unfamiliar woman’s voice as she rounded the door. My head whipped around quickly. Who have I just invited into the kitchen?
A petite woman was looking directly at me, her perfect brown bob, completely motionless, surrounding her pretty face. She looked somehow familiar, and I wondered if she’d been into the café before.
“I’m sorry,” I said in French, “I thought you were someone else. We’re
actually closed for the day.”
“Où est Serge?” she asked. Her voice was soft but determined. I prayed that her enquiry had something to do with cheese, or goats, but my gut told me otherwise. The woman in front of me was too carefully put together to be here on farm business.
Merde, I thought, finally realizing where I’d seen her face before.
“I’ll just call him for you,” I said.
She nodded and went to take a seat.
As I called Serge, I inspected her carefully. She was short and thin, carefully dressed in black jeans and what looked like a silk blouse. Her handbag was black leather, and her shoes the same deep purple as her top. Compared to my ripped maternity jeans and flour-stained apron, she looked like perfection.
My heart was beating hard in my chest.
“Serge, there’s a woman here asking to see you,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“I think it’s your ex-wife,” I said and hung up.
Serge walked through the cheese-room door shortly after. I noticed that his face was white as he stood motionless, looking between Françoise and me. He didn’t seem to know what to do. I gave him a little smile to try to let him know it was OK that he go to greet her.
After he had, he introduced us. The shock when Serge announced that I was his girlfriend was written all over Françoise’s face. While I’d eventually recognized her from her wedding photo, she obviously had no idea about me. Her eyes darted to my round belly, and she inhaled sharply. I looked at the ground uncomfortably, and Serge muttered something unnecessary about the pregnancy. The tension was all a little much for me, and rather than risk saying anything stupid to fill the silence, I took myself into the kitchen and busied myself washing dishes that were already clean.
Serge and Françoise sat down and began a quiet and rather intimate-looking conversation. I tried to give them space, but I couldn’t stop myself from keeping an eye on things.
What the hell is she doing here?
From my vantage point, I couldn’t hear what they were discussing and the minutes seemed to last hours. Maybe her surprise visit has something to do with the letters? Maybe she’s begging him to take her back?
Brioche in the Oven Page 17