Brioche in the Oven

by Victoria Brownlee

  It was a low blow. I realized that I’d pushed Serge to the breaking point and the result was difficult to stomach. My head was pounding.

  “I feel like maybe we don’t want the same things anymore,” I said to him.

  “I agree,” he said, and then went to stand up.

  Is he about to leave this discussion? I thought furiously. I don’t need to put up with this. I shouldn’t put up with this—especially not while pregnant. I’m the one who should be leaving!

  I grabbed the keys to the Citroën and told Serge I was going for a drive to clear my head. I needed some air. I needed some time to think things over.

  I kissed him briefly on the cheek and threw on a scarf. I hopped in the car once again without any real idea of where I was heading, until suddenly I knew.

  An hour later, I was sitting on the train to Paris. Serge was calling me but I didn’t have the headspace to answer. And I knew what he was going to say. That I should come back. That I had to come back and figure things out. But I needed this. I needed some time.

  “Is everything OK, Ella?” Chuck said, next to me on the train. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  I turned to him and nodded.

  Chapter

  27

  WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE station, Chuck and I went our separate ways: me to meet Clotilde, and Chuck to catch the Eurostar to London.

  During the train ride into Paris, I’d poured my heart out to him even more than I had earlier that afternoon, and he’d listened patiently, only looking at me like I was deranged once or twice. He’d even suggested that I join him in London for a couple of weeks while I figured things out, but I wasn’t ready to give up on France, at least not yet. Besides, I had pretty much weekly hospital appointments from now until my fast-approaching due date. It was probably wise not to be gallivanting off to other countries.

  And there was also no way I wanted to give Chuck the wrong idea, as charming as he was. A little harmless flirting had been fun while we’d been getting to know each other, but at the end of the day, as Mum kept reminding me, he wasn’t my baby’s father, and the last thing I needed was to enter into another love triangle like the one I’d found myself in with Gaston and Serge.

  Not that I even needed to worry about Chuck’s intentions. After I’d been babbling on about my problems for the majority of the train ride, he told me about his ex.

  “She was the antithesis of every girl I’d dated growing up,” he said.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Natalia was Italian. Very Italian. She loved wildly and openly. Being with her was an emotional roller coaster. It sounds clichéd, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that we fought all the time.”

  “Is that why you broke up?” I asked.

  “Well, no. I got used to the arguments. And the make-up sex that followed. And as we lay in bed after fighting for hours or sometimes days, she’d apologize or I would. But as we grew older, the debates became more complicated, more interlaced with innuendos and sarcasm. And as Natalia fought to express her intense feelings in English, her words would become increasingly cruel,” he said.

  “And so what happened?”

  “Well, despite the many disagreements, we were still in love, but at the same time I felt like she hated me. On our way to London one weekend, taking this very train, we got into a major disagreement about the French. I mean, it was stupid because neither of us grew up in France, although I guess I had stronger ties because of Grandmama.”

  “So, what did you fight about?”

  “Why the French were so intent on keeping their train rides silent,” he said.

  I nodded. I often wondered the same thing myself. “Which side did you stand on?”

  “The quiet side, of course. I loved the peaceful train journey, but Natalia wanted to sing and dance her way to Paris.”

  “That sounds pretty harmless,” I suggested.

  “Stupid even!” he added. “But that’s the thing. It was until it wasn’t. At that moment, it was as though all our previous fights had led to this one, and she meant war.”

  Something about Chuck’s story sounded familiar. He continued, “Until that train journey, there seemed to be nothing that could destabilize us to the point where we were no longer worthwhile. But as she got out and raced off into Paris without me, not answering her phone or calling me back, I wondered if we were done.”

  “And she came back?”

  “No, actually. I continued on to London without her. I had a lovely time with my friends, going out and chatting in English. It all felt so easy. And I got chatting to this gorgeous girl from London, who was sweet and mild. Drunkenly thinking about Natalia, I convinced myself that I needed to get away from the drama of our relationship. Like you, I was sick of the misunderstandings that arose from speaking different languages, sick of struggling to communicate properly.”

  I empathized. “So, you started seeing this new girl?” I asked.

  “Sort of. But it never felt right and eventually she kind of drifted away. I mean, Natalia and I had never really broken up. And as lovely as this girl was, I missed that Italian fire.”

  “And what happened to Natalia?”

  “I haven’t seen her since that train ride. She sent me a letter, telling me she needed a break, that she was going travelling. She said she’d be in touch when she got back and would come find me. She asked me to wait.”

  “And?” I probed, on the edge of my seat.

  “And that was a year ago. I’m still waiting.”

  “Why?” I asked incredulously. “Why wait?”

  “Well, I haven’t remained celibate for that time, but I’ve stopped myself from falling in love. My heart is hers.”

  Parts of Chuck’s story reminded me of my own when Paul had told me he was going travelling to “find himself.” Right before I’d broken up with him, he’d suggested I wait. I couldn’t imagine what my life would have been like if I’d stayed in Australia.

  I wondered if Chuck needed a similar push to let go. It seemed like he had romanticized the thought of Natalia. To me, she sounded mental.

  As I thought about her slipping off into the night in Paris, I suddenly realized that I was running away, too, from Serge. I was Natalia! Oh God, I was Paul!

  I messaged Serge.

  My love, I’m sorry we fought. I’m sorry I rushed out. I’m desperate for some time to clear my head before the baby arrives. I know you will understand. I’ll be with Clotilde tonight if you need me. We can talk properly when I’m home. I love you, Ella x

  I felt immediately better after sending the message. Shortly after, he replied.

  I understand, Bella. I am also sorry. Please rest and be careful. Serge

  I read his message with relief. My heart rate slowed, and I finally felt able to breathe normally again, although baby was still doing her best to inhibit it. I put aside my immediate thoughts of Serge to see if I could help Chuck figure out his feelings.

  “Chuck, have you thought that maybe Natalia has moved on? Or that she’s changed since she left, or maybe that you’ve changed?” I suggested.

  “Of course, I’ve considered it. I’m not daft. But until I find somebody who compares to her, who fights for my affection like she did, I don’t see the harm in waiting.”

  I understood exactly what Chuck was saying. He’d had his heart broken, and he was still licking his wounds. He wasn’t actively looking to replace Natalia, but perhaps now he was at the point where he wasn’t totally against the idea. The niggling idea I’d had that he was interested in me was all imagined. The way he spoke to me about love was similar to the way I’d speak to Billie or Clotilde about it. I laughed at how ridiculous I’d been to let Mum’s concerns get into my head, even if it had just been for a fleeting moment. As I’d promised Serge since the beginning, Chuck was just a friend.

  Clotilde bundled me into her arms after I waddled my way to her on the platform. I waved Chuck off
and Clotilde shot me a raised eyebrow. When I’d messaged to ask her if I could stay, I hadn’t mentioned that Chuck would be on the same train. She looked surprised to see him but didn’t let that interfere with the important information she had to relay.

  “I’ve spoken to Serge,” she said immediately. “I’m on strict instructions to show you a fun and stress-free time.”

  “He didn’t mention our fight?” I asked.

  “No,” she said slowly. “He said you had a misunderstanding, that I didn’t need to worry. But him telling me that only made me worry. I thought I’d wait to get the unabridged version from you.”

  I attempted a smile but I was still processing everything that had happened that day. I needed a break from even thinking about it.

  “I’ll explain everything tomorrow over brunch,” I said. “For now, let’s go get a drink. I’ve been starved for nightlife too long!”

  “D’accord,” she said, and ordered an Uber.

  Stepping out of Gare Montparnasse, we were swept up into the evening commute, and it felt like I’d returned home. For all the less shiny aspects of Paris—the homelessness, the begging, the dogs using the streets as toilets—something about the city made me feel alive. There was an undercurrent of resistance that Parisians carried around, which I found thrilling. They expected you to fight back. You needed to hold your own in Paris and I’d learned that being meek didn’t get you anywhere.

  I told Clotilde I’d need to do some shopping the next day for basics—having turned up without any luggage for this unexpected Parisian jaunt—and she just nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world to arrive somewhere without fresh underwear. For that I loved her. The lack of judgment in matters of love and passion was one of my favorite character traits of the French.

  Once in the car, I took my scarf off. Clotilde looked at me wide-eyed.

  “Holy crap,” she said. I would have laughed but I was freaked out by her reaction.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “You’re so pregnant.”

  I looked down, wondering if she was seeing something I wasn’t. I guess I’d gotten big in the past few weeks, but I didn’t think I was that big. I rubbed my stomach.

  “I mean, you look like you’re on your way to hospital,” she continued with a laugh.

  “Don’t worry, I have at least three or four more weeks of lugging this belly around,” I reassured her.

  By the time we got to the bar through the rush-hour traffic, les terraces were full and finding a seat was hard. I think I’d just forgotten how busy Paris got when the weather was nice. After being jostled about at the bar, getting looks as if to say, “Why is this whale of a girl out on the town?” we finally got a seat outside.

  It was a gorgeous evening, and I took a deep breath. Paris, Paris, Paris! I sang to myself. But my appreciation was short-lived as a cloud of secondhand smoke gradually enveloped us.

  I watched the lady next to us puffing away. Her bright red lipstick-stained cigarette butts sat like a disgusting still life between us. The smell was overpowering, and I wondered if my disgust was pregnancy-related or had something to do with how quickly I’d gotten used to the air in the country. I convinced Clotilde that we should move on.

  “A friend is throwing a little party if you’d like to check it out,” she suggested.

  “Sure,” I said quickly.

  “I’m not sure what the crowd will be like. And there’s a chance Gaston might be there,” she admitted.

  “Then he’ll get to see how gorgeous I look this pregnant. Let’s go!”

  We hopped on a couple of share bikes, despite Clotilde trying to convince me it wasn’t safe in my “state.” We rode slowly, and I felt wonderfully liberated. I could almost forget everything that had happened in the past eight months and pretend I was the same carefree—although heartbroken—girl who’d arrived in Paris all those months ago. The air flowed through my luscious pregnancy hair like I was in a shampoo commercial. I asked Clotilde if she had any hair modeling leads and for some reason we laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. Perhaps cobblestones on a bike while pregnant wasn’t the smartest idea, I decided.

  When we arrived at the party, Clotilde forced me to sit down. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, it was a relief to get off my feet.

  “So, tell me everything that has been going on here,” I demanded.

  “Let me see . . .” She spun a long strand of hair around her finger and looked pensive. “Not much really.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. “There must be something going on. Have you been into Flat White recently? How’s Chris?”

  “Well, for starters, he asked me out.”

  “He did?” I asked, surprised that he’d once again changed his stance on dating Clotilde so suddenly.

  “He seemed to sort of do it as a last resort, not really caring whether I agreed to go or not. It was as though he was doing it for old times’ sake.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “We went for a drink and it was wonderfully weird, and I think we both decided we were better off as friends.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling sorry for Chris. After all that build-up, all it took was one drink to shatter his dreams.

  “But I think I made it up to him,” Clotilde said, to my relief. “I set him up with Julie. You remember, my friend from Bordeaux. Anyway, by all accounts, Julie is smitten. Chris is smitten. It turns out I’m quite the matchmaker.”

  I smiled. Trust Clotilde to patch things up. “This is all wonderful news,” I said. “Now, am I allowed to get up and go to the bathroom?”

  As I walked off, I overheard a familiar voice quietly asking someone, “Who brought the cow?” I turned to see who was insulting me and saw Camille, the girl who had been responsible for me splitting up with Gaston when I’d busted them having a ménage à trois without me. It wasn’t the first time she hadn’t recognized me, but I’d sure as hell make sure it would be the last. I walked over to her.

  “Oh, Ella, it’s just you. Mon Dieu, you are huge!” she said, adding insult to injury.

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” I said with a big smile. “My boyfriend, Serge, and I are thrilled.”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “And when are you due?” I asked her, despite the fact she was rail-thin and smoking.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You’re pregnant, no?” I asked as innocently as I could.

  “Mais non!” she said, a look of horror on her face.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just assumed because, well, you know . . .,” I said, and then walked off.

  I smiled to myself. I’d never been great at insulting people on the fly, but I hoped this would do the job.

  The queue for the toilet was long; however, upon seeing my belly, people gave me concerned looks and let me pass. When I eventually caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, I saw that my cheeks were a bright shade of red. I’d never felt so out of place.

  Despite my best efforts to enjoy myself at the party, I just couldn’t get into the swing of things. Eventually, after failing to find something nonalcoholic to drink, I couldn’t resist sitting on a seat that looked more decorative than functional. When it groaned under my weight, I got up again and leaned against a wall.

  Looking around at the crowd, I realized how much I missed Serge and our cosy little farmhouse. Perhaps the grass wasn’t actually greener in Paris.

  I made one last effort to join a group of people chatting about travel, but as a joint got passed around I realized I was done.

  Although it was always wonderful spending time with Clotilde, it felt wrong being away from Serge. I asked if she’d mind if I went back to the apartment, thinking I could catch an early train home in the morning.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said. “What a dud party.”

  I looked at her, relieved. I hadn’t wanted to seem ungrateful, but I was glad she agreed. I’d s
pent the past few months dreaming of the Paris scene and feeling like I was missing out. Perhaps one last average party was all I needed to realize that I had grown tired of that life. I was entering a different stage. What I wanted now was to snuggle up on the couch with my boyfriend, who was sadly still a long train ride away.

  Chapter

  28

  I WAS WOKEN LATER BY intense stomach cramps.

  “Merde!” I said in a low voice. “Shit, damn, shit! It can’t be.”

  I couldn’t be 100 percent sure that what I was experiencing was a contraction, but it hurt like hell until suddenly it didn’t, and then the feeling returned with a vengeance. I tried to remember the interval times that the midwife had given us in our birth preparation classes but my mind had gone completely blank. I pulled out my phone to google them.

  Clotilde must have heard me groaning; she came out to the living room to check if I was OK.

  “I think I might be in labor,” I said, panicked and disheartened. I should have been telling Serge.

  “Merde! What do I do?” she asked. She sat on the edge of her foldout couch where I lay sprawled. She rubbed my leg tentatively. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Neither have I,” I said, managing a rather pathetic laugh. “But it might not be the real deal. That’s why I’m timing.”

  “Timing what?” she asked.

  “Contractions,” I said, showing her my phone. “I’m just waiting to see if they intensify. They shouldn’t. It’s too early. I’m not due for weeks.”

  “Should I call Serge?” she asked.

  “Not yet, I don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”

  “Right. Then what should I do? Rub your back?” she asked.

  “I’m OK for now, but perhaps I should contact the hospital just in case.”

  “Which hospital?” she asked.

  The cramps started again, quite intensely, and stole my concentration.

  “Sorry,” I said, after what felt like many minutes but according to my app was only sixty seconds. “What was the question?”