Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  I tried to convince myself that these worries were all in my head, but Françoise’s dependency on Serge and his willingness to be there for her still made me nervous.

  Chapter

  26

  THE NEXT WEEK, SERGE AND I met Franck just outside of Chinon to do a walk-through of Mum’s new house.

  “So, this is Mum and Ray’s holiday home,” I said, as we parked out front.

  It was adorable, almost like a doll’s house. Two storeys, plus attics in the roof and a little garage off to one side. Cute burgundy-colored shutters framed the windows, and perfectly symmetrical topiary trees sat on either side of the front door. How was everyone I knew living in these fabulous country properties and I was living in a beat-up farmhouse?

  The interiors were old-fashioned but in good condition. As I walked around, I figured that the heavy, dark furniture could be replaced with lighter, smaller pieces to give the sensation of more space and make the rooms feel more modern. But in terms of renovation work, not a lot, if anything, would be necessary. Lucky them!

  “Not like your place,” Franck chuckled, as if reading my thoughts.

  “Mmm,” I said, biting my tongue, thinking about how any work on our house would now probably only happen after the baby arrived.

  “And there’s the perfect nursery room upstairs,” he added.

  “Huh?” I asked, looking to Serge for clarification, but he just shrugged.

  “For the baby,” Franck said, winking at Serge.

  “We have our own nursery,” I told him.

  “But you’ll need time for, how do you say, le couple.”

  I blushed.

  “That is what grandparents are for,” he added. “How else do second babies get made?”

  What the hell? I thought, but figured it was probably easier to just smile and nod. I wondered how dramatically Serge’s and my love life was about to change. Things in the bedroom had settled down slightly since I found out I was pregnant, but if what Franck was saying was true, they were about to get a lot worse.

  Serge pinched my butt as we walked into the “nursery.” With this simple gesture, I decided it was probably best not to start taking love advice from some boozy, old-fashioned French dude.

  Overall, the tour was heartening for Mum and Ray—they’d arranged all this from Australia, and I was happy we’d be able to tell them that they’d made a good purchase—and disheartening for me because I found myself wishing Serge and I had bought their cute little house instead of our own.

  “It’s pretty nice,” I said to Serge, once we were back in our car.

  “It is a smart investment,” he said.

  “Do you think they’ll like living in Chinon?” I asked.

  “I do not know the answer to that,” he said seriously. “I think they will like the house. And I hope they will enjoy the French hospitality. But I understand it is not for everybody. Perhaps they will meet some English people and create a little social life.”

  “Do you think?” I asked.

  “Why not? There are plenty of English people in the region,” he assured me.

  “So how come I’ve only met Chuck?” I asked.

  “Then perhaps they will make some French friends,” he suggested.

  “Easier said than done,” I said.

  “People are very welcoming out here. Perhaps you need to make more of an effort to integrate,” he said.

  I was momentarily speechless. He obviously hadn’t heard what some of the locals had said about his cheese.

  “Seriously?” I asked, once I’d found my voice. “What about opening a café? Is that not considered ‘making an effort to integrate’?”

  “It’s a good step.”

  “And what would you suggest next, then?” I asked.

  “Well, so far your only regular customer is English,” he replied.

  There we go! I thought, finally understanding what Serge was getting at.

  “So, do you have a problem with my best customer being English? Or is it because that Englishman is Chuck?” I asked, starting to get worked up.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

  “But I think it is.”

  Serge paused for a minute. It was enough time for me to realize my temples were pounding, and I was furious.

  “It’s not that I don’t like Charles,” he said.

  “Great,” I said sharply.

  “But have you noticed how he acts around you?”

  “No,” I said quickly, although my voice wobbled.

  “I just don’t get a good feeling about him.”

  “Why? Is it because he owns a château? Because he’s rich? Because he’s got an interesting life? Because he enjoys my company?”

  “Ella—” he started to say.

  “Or perhaps you’ve just been too busy helping Françoise to actually know what’s going on with your own girlfriend.”

  Of course, I knew I’d been harboring some resentment from Serge’s recent knight-in-shining-armor moments with Françoise, but I hadn’t expected it to come out in a discussion about my efforts to integrate into French country life.

  In the tense minutes that followed, I wondered if I’d overstepped the mark.

  “So, that’s it, now you’re not talking to me?” I asked.

  “Is there anything left to say?”

  “I guess not,” I replied, suddenly deciding that if he was unwilling to meet me halfway in this discussion, I shouldn’t bother either. “Perhaps we just both prefer spending time with other people these days.”

  “Perhaps we do,” he said.

  It had been a huge week in the café, and I was already feeling emotionally drained from the news of Ray buying Mum a house in France. How could they have done something so permanent when I didn’t even know if I was going to stay on the farm? I didn’t even know if Serge and I would still be together by the time they moved in.

  My feet were aching, and I’d had an upset stomach for most of the day from eating too many damn croissants. Typical France!

  =

  Hours later, I was still angry. I also felt guilty: I’d been quick to react, and I’d been defensive, perhaps because I worried that there was actually some truth to what Serge was saying. I wished we could go back and have a more measured discussion. How much could I blame on pregnancy hormones this time?

  Assuming Serge was still on the farm—he’d stormed off as soon as we’d arrived home—I sat down on the couch to brood until he got back.

  And then I spotted his phone by the door.

  That’s odd, I thought. He must have forgotten it.

  I looked at it for some time and then found myself cautiously approaching its general vicinity.

  I’ll just make sure he hasn’t had any cheese orders come through that I might need to deal with, I justified to myself before entering his code, the usual 1111.

  I looked at his messages and felt a pang of guilt. Nothing new. All good.

  I placed the phone down but then snatched it up again. I couldn’t help myself.

  I quickly navigated to his recent calls.

  “WHAT!?” I shouted as Françoise’s name jumped out at me.

  I double-checked the time of the call and realized it was from earlier that day. And then I remembered Serge rushing outside while we were looking around Mum and Ray’s new house, saying he had some “urgent business” to deal with.

  I glanced outside to see if his car was still around. There it was, sitting innocently by the garage. What’s going on? I wondered.

  I contemplated calling the dreaded ex-wife to see if Serge was with her, but as I played out the potential conversation in my head, I decided it wasn’t worth the ensuing awkwardness.

  Instead I donned my wellingtons and went down to the farm to check whether he was there, hoping I was just overreacting and that I’d find him hanging out with his goats. You’ve got one last chance, Serge, I thought as I braced myself
against the wind.

  Each step I took reinforced the fact that Serge wasn’t anywhere to be found. It felt like he was punishing me for our fight. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to see me. I’d been unkind, but did that really warrant this? I’m pregnant, for God’s sake!

  I had a sudden vision of myself walking through a sea of animals with a screaming baby in my arms, looking for Serge. I can’t do this alone, I thought, starting to panic. A goat eyed me as I walked past, judgment almost visible on its face. I quickened my step.

  “What the hell am I even doing here?” I asked myself aloud. All of this was Serge’s grand plan for our family and now he’d just upped and disappeared on me. It felt like a terrible sign of things to come.

  I grabbed Serge’s car keys, not knowing where I was going, but knowing I needed to get away.

  I found myself pulling into the driveway of Chuck’s château, silently resenting the fact that Serge was right: I only had one friend out here in the country.

  “Ella. What a surprise,” Chuck said, opening the door in a dressing gown.

  “Fancy making a pregnant girl a cup of tea?” I asked.

  Chuck laughed and invited me in. He sat me at a rickety stool in the kitchen while he boiled a saucepan of water on the stove.

  “No kettle?” I asked.

  “No kettle, no problems,” he replied.

  “I’m not sure that’s a thing,” I told him.

  I guess Chuck is a little eccentric, I said to myself, thinking back to my earlier conversation with Serge.

  He shrugged and laughed. “Is it not? Oh, well. So, what brings you here this afternoon, Ella?” he asked.

  I felt like I’d just walked into a therapy session.

  Come to think of it, I could probably do with a therapy session right now.

  “Serge and I had a fight. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to come say hi, to see how your book was going. Have someone else make me a cup of tea for once.” I attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding a little forced.

  “Tell me more about this fight then. It’s upset you?” he asked.

  The truth sort of erupted out of me. “It’s just that sometimes I feel like there’s such a huge divide between Serge and me. He doesn’t seem to understand how hard it’s been for me to adapt out here, and the things I have managed to achieve since arriving don’t seem to matter to him. And then I don’t know what’s going on between him and his ex-wife.”

  “Do you worry about his ex-wife?” he asked.

  “Deep down, no, but then again, sometimes I worry that Serge regrets getting involved with a foreigner. I don’t know. Does that sound stupid?” I asked.

  “Cross-cultural relationships are hard. Exhausting even. There’s always a risk that things are being misinterpreted or confused. But that doesn’t mean that love across cultures can’t exist. It’s just that sometimes you have to work harder for it.”

  Chuck’s eloquence threw me. He certainly seemed to be speaking from the heart. I wondered whether this subject touched on a sore spot.

  “But is it worth the extra work?” I asked.

  “Only you can answer that. And Serge. If you feel like something is worth fighting to save, then fight. And be honest with Serge. Don’t be afraid of conflict. Sometimes it can be healthy.”

  “We’ve got plenty of conflict at the moment, but at what point do you decide it’s not healthy?” I asked.

  Chuck shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m the most qualified person to answer that.”

  “Really? I find that hard to believe,” I said.

  “My story is water under the bridge. And the bridge collapsed into the Loire River some time ago,” he said definitively.

  I sensed the need to back off. “I should probably get going,” I said, gathering my things. “Thanks for the tea. And sorry for unloading on you.”

  “Any time. Well, except for the next couple of weeks. I’m heading back to London tonight. Some family business I need to deal with. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he said.

  I was grateful for his advice. There were some things that were best explained, and understood, in your mother tongue.

  Perhaps that was Serge’s and my biggest problem. Things had been fine in the early days, when our relationship was all picnics, bottles of wine, and cheese plates; but now that we had problems and deadlines and responsibilities, we were having more and more communication breakdowns. There had to be a reason it was easier spending more time with someone who spoke my native language. There was a comfort in conversing freely, which Serge and I seemed to have lost.

  How much was I prepared to fight?

  I got back from Chuck’s to find Serge sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “I was looking for you. You disappeared.”

  “So did you,” he said. His voice told me he was also still angry.

  “I went over to Chuck’s,” I said.

  “Of course you did.”

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Well, just as I expected,” he said.

  “And did you expect I would look everywhere for you only to realize you were off with Françoise?” I asked.

  The look on his face confirmed my supposition that they’d been together.

  “At least I’m honest about who I’m spending time with,” I said.

  “Ella, she came by to see if I could help her move some of her father’s belongings. I wasn’t going to let her suffer alone. Besides, she’s my ex-wife. It’s finished between us. You, on the other hand, go and spend hours with another man when you think I’m not around to notice.”

  “So, you do have a problem with me spending time with Chuck?” I accused.

  “After we have had a fight, yes,” he said.

  “And what about you going to help Françoise after we’ve had a fight? Do you know how that looks?” I realized I was sounding desperate, but if he was going to interrogate me about Chuck, I wanted to clear the air about his ex-wife.

  He shook his head. “How does it look?” he asked.

  “Well, it looks like you’re willing to help everyone but me.”

  “Ella, it’s just that I’m worried about you,” he said.

  “Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Chuck is a friend. And God knows I need friends at the moment, with everything that’s been going on with the farm and the cheese room.”

  “But is he the same kind of ‘friend’ I was to you while you were dating Gaston?” he asked. “Don’t forget we kissed while the two of you were together.”

  “That’s different,” I said defensively to this surprise attack.

  “Is it?” he asked. “How?”

  “Because Gaston was cheating on me,” I said.

  “And that makes things OK?” Serge asked.

  “It’s just different. If you can’t understand the fact that I enjoy spending time with an English-speaking friend out here in the middle of nowhere, then we have other issues.”

  “Ella, I know about the money,” he said.

  “Oh,” I replied.

  How had he found out about Chuck’s loan for the cheese room?

  “I saw his name on your bank statement,” he added.

  I was momentarily taken aback, trying to figure out if he would have hunted out this information or if he just stumbled upon it. Either way, I knew, I was still in the wrong.

  “Serge, I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you but I knew it would complicate things.”

  “You’re right. It has complicated things.”

  “But I promise you, it was nothing more than a loan. I’ve actually nearly finished paying it off.”

  “And were you ever planning on telling me about it? Or did you just want me to continue to look the fool in front of your friends and family? Your idiot French boyfriend who just goes along with everything you do.”

  “Serge, it wasn’t like tha
t.”

  “Am I not enough anymore now that you have a friend with a big bank balance and a château?” he asked.

  Oh, my God. When did Serge turn into the melodramatic one?

  “Please don’t put words into my mouth,” I told him.

  “I’m just explaining what I see, Ella,” he said stubbornly.

  “So why don’t I ‘explain what I see’? I see a man who’s taken on more than he can handle and has forgotten the whole reason that he moved to the country was to create a better life for his baby. You spend hours on the farm all day and barely even check in on how I’m doing or help out in the cheese room. I only started the damn cheese room to help you sell your damn cheese!”

  “And as I expected, it hasn’t really helped sell more cheese, and it’s just made you busy and stressed.”

  “But it’s given me purpose,” I shouted. “What the hell would I be doing out here without it? It’s not like I get to spend any time with you.”

  “Maybe you could spend less time with Chuck,” he suggested.

  “Or maybe you could spend less time being somebody’s errand boy,” I said. I barely recognized this jealous version of myself, but this fight wasn’t just about Françoise—it was about everything that had happened since I’d found out about the pregnancy. It was about all the doubts I was having about whether we’d be good parents, whether I should follow in my mother’s footsteps and raise this baby alone, and whether I even wanted to stay in France. I loved Serge but as things stood, there were too many uncertainties.

  “Oh, Ella. I’m helping Françoise through a tough time. Wouldn’t you do the same?” he asked.

  I thought about this. I’d like to think I would, but then knowing my ex-boyfriends it was hard to imagine. But perhaps that was the difference between Serge and me.

  “Is she still in love with you?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he said. “She just doesn’t have anyone else to ask.”

  “That seems convenient,” I said.

  The usual kindness on his face was replaced by sadness, and just as quickly turned to anger.

  “I’m not the one you need to worry about,” he said, finally. “I’ve always been loyal to you. You, on the other hand . . .”