The days following my resignation in Australia had passed in the sort of panic that involved a detailed visa application, a lot of cardboard boxes, packing tape, and stress. I really hadn’t had time to think about what type of job I would be able to get in France and how much money I’d need. My mind had been too busy constantly swinging from terror to excitement: I’d doubted my plan when putting all my stuff into storage; then I’d felt positive about it as soon as I’d stepped out of Paul’s apartment for the final time. I’d felt anxious about the finality of leaving Melbourne when I’d texted Paul to tell him where I’d left the keys, then I’d felt vindicated when he hadn’t even bothered to reply. It was an emotional time.
My working-holiday visa had arrived the day before I was due to fly out and I’d had to stop myself from hugging the postman when I saw him with a large registered post bag in his hand. Instead, I’d hugged my passport close to my chest, thanking the universe for delivering my getaway pass just in time.
But now, here in Paris, I missed the comfort and familiarity of my job at the publishing house in Melbourne. I’d known that by coming to France on a working-holiday visa—and without being fluent in French—getting a similar job here would be pretty much impossible, but the dreamer inside me had hoped I’d eventually find something interesting to do.
I thought back to how great my old boss had been when I’d told her I was leaving. I’d walked decisively into the office the Monday after breaking up with Paul, smiling, knowing that quitting my job was the first step of my new adventure. My head was held high and my heels were on. It was only my eyes—red, puffy, and still bloodshot—that gave me away. You can’t win them all, I had told myself, as I’d tried to cover the mess up with mascara to no great effect.
After flinging my handbag on my desk, I’d walked directly into my boss’s office and asked her if she had a minute to chat.
“Are you sure about this?” she’d asked. “I mean, I can pop this resignation letter into the shredder and pretend I never saw it; perhaps you’d like to take the rest of the week off.”
After I’d told her about Paul though, she understood. She was surprisingly supportive of my decision to move to France. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but I was almost hoping she’d beg me to stay, perhaps offer me a promotion and a pay rise that would be too good to turn down. Instead, she’d told me I didn’t have to worry too much about serving my full notice period, I was free to finish whenever I felt ready.
Quitting my job had been an irreversible action point from my Paris to-do list, and with that ticked off, changing my mind about the move hadn’t really been an option anymore. And now I had to make sure that running out of money in France didn’t give me an easy excuse to move back to Australia. I needed that café job.
Nerves were already creeping in as I got out of the shower; by the time I arrived at Flat White with a copy of my résumé tucked into my handbag, I was shocked at how jittery I felt, especially considering I’d had a decent full-time job up until a week before.
“Bonjour,” I said to the barista, who was wearing a flannel shirt and ripped jeans.
“Hey,” he replied immediately in English, obviously clocking my hideous French accent. “You fancy a coffee?” His Australian accent was unmistakeable. What were the odds?
I was initially taken aback by his surfer look, with his sandy-blond hair, bright-blue eyes, and ridiculously tanned arms. I wondered how he even managed to get a tan in Paris.
“I’ll have a long macchiato,” I said determinedly. Normally I was the type to go for a flat white, but I thought changing up my order might help me stand out, like I knew a thing or two about coffee.
“Here or to go?” he asked.
“To have here, thanks.”
“Grab a seat,” he said, and I laughed because I felt like I could be back in Melbourne.
I was very momentarily hit with a surge of guilt for cheating on the traditional French cafés, but I’d been craving a decent coffee since I’d left Australia, and if an Australian barista was to make that happen, I could come to terms with any niggling sense of remorse.
I sat drinking my long mac—sort of wishing it were a flat white—and checked out the clientele. I got a feel for how the coffee counter and the kitchen worked, and the food coming out looked good: avocado on toast, fancy and unusual granola flavors, a variety of biscuits and cakes—all dishes I’d gladly eat on a lunch break, I thought to myself. And the coffee was perfect. I saw myself fitting happily into the fold at Flat White and started planning how to casually ask the barista about the job vacancy.
All thoughts of charming my way through the application, however, were thwarted by the arrival of the most handsome man I’d ever seen. If love at first sight existed, I’d just become a casualty.
He was the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome, with well-manicured stubble contrasting a crisp white shirt and a dashing blue cotton scarf. He looked around the café with his dark-brown eyes and a slight, upturned smile and I genuinely thought I might be sick. He swept towards the coffee machine, leaving a wave of weak knees (perhaps just mine) in his wake, shook the barista’s hand and said with a deep, sexy voice, “Salut, Chris. Un espresso, s’il te plaît.”
“Coming up, mate,” the barista replied, emptying the portafilter and grinding some fresh beans.
If I hadn’t made up my mind about applying for the job based on the quality of the coffee alone, picturing myself behind the counter shaking mystery Frenchman’s hand sealed the deal.
I watched the two men interacting and got lost in thinking about how we’re often most attracted to those who are different to what we know. Although I could acknowledge that the barista was a conventionally handsome Australian, completely embodying the relaxed-surfer look, he did very little for me. Perhaps because I’d grown up surrounded by “dudes,” so to me they lacked any international charm. The Frenchman, however, had an air of mystery that lit something inside me. My first impression was that he had a bit of a wild side that would keep things interesting.
After quickly drinking his espresso, he waltzed out of the café, and after a few minutes—giving myself just enough time to collect my jaw from the floor—I finally mustered up the courage to ask the barista about the job.
“Great coffee,” I said to him.
“Right!” he replied. Obviously modesty wasn’t his key strength.
“So, I saw the advert for a barista in the window,” I said. “Can I drop off an application?” I fished about in my bag for my résumé.
“Sure. You got any coffee-making experience?”
“Well, up until recently I was in publishing, but I worked in hospitality during my time at university. So yes, I’ve made coffee before.”
“Coffee isn’t a part-time job. It’s a lifestyle.”
I stifled a laugh. Typical Australian barista, thinking coffee is life.
“Oh, totally,” I said, adding unconvincingly, “and it’s a lifestyle I want.”
He looked at me as he was steaming a jug of milk and, over the sound of the machine, he said, “All right then, why don’t you come in for a trial and we’ll see what you can do. You from Melbourne or Sydney?”
“Melbourne.”
“Good,” he replied with the slightest raise of his eyebrows.
Thankfully, I’d had the good sense to be born in Australia’s coffee capital. It seemed to have scored me some points.
“So when shall I come in?” I asked.
“How about tomorrow morning? Eleven a.m., after the morning rush.”
“Sure. I’ll see you then.”
“See you tomorrow. And don’t worry about dressing up,” he said, eyeing my green leaf-print summer dress. “We’re pretty casual here.”
Who could have predicted that I’d be overdressed applying for a job? Or maybe I’m just not hip enough in his Melbourne-hipster eyes?
“I’m Ella, by the way. It’s nice to meet a fellow Australian.�
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“Right,” he said again, this time uninterestedly. “I’m Chris.”
I left the café unsure of whether I liked or hated Chris. He seemed easy to get along with, but was a bit of a douche when it came to coffee. Regardless, it’d been a relief to drink a good cup of joe and speak freely in English.
And the memory of that Frenchman was enough to make me glad I’d gone in and applied for the job. I hoped I’d see him again when I returned tomorrow.
Chapter
10
I WAS FEELING PRETTY POSITIVE about getting the coffee job and the good vibes continued as I checked my emails. It was a relief to see that one of the better-looking share houses I’d emailed that morning had responded, asking if I could come check out the room. I replied that I could, and Mike, my potential new housemate, sent me the address.
I headed towards the Latin Quarter, where the potential room for rent was waiting, and grabbed a sandwich to eat in the nearby Luxembourg Gardens. The perfect location, I thought as I strolled through the epic gardens with their flawlessly-maintained flowerbeds and imposing lines of identical trees. I sat on one of the iconic green Paris park chairs by the central fountain where children were playing with toy boats and squealing with joy. It was fun watching them dip their hands into the water and wait patiently, and sometimes not so patiently, for their boats to float ashore.
I met American Mike off Rue Mouffetard. Between the café and my potential new home, I pondered whether I’d be able to create a life in Paris in which I wasn’t required to speak French at all. Mike was tall, well-built, blond, and handsome. He carried himself with an unmistakably American-prep-school sense of self-assuredness.
As we walked up to the apartment, he was all business, telling me about the setup. “So there are four bedrooms. The new tenant will take the vacant room and will share all the communal spaces with me, a good friend of mine, and our app’s other co-founder. We’re all pretty entrepreneurial and sometimes we’ll be working from home; I hope you don’t mind watching people create magic.”
I looked at Mike to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. “So what’s the app you’re working on?” I asked.
“It’s a coworking congregation app. You know. For people like us who are breaking down the barriers of traditional work environments in Paris.”
“It sounds like it’ll be a great resource for expats here,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “But it’ll be more than that.”
I didn’t know how to reply so I nodded awkwardly.
We climbed the five flights of stairs—no elevator—in silence and entered to find the other two housemates waiting on the couch. Mike gave me a tour of the apartment, saving my “room” until last. I say room, but it was really no bigger than a cupboard.
“This is it?” I said, surprised. “For eight hundred euros a month?”
“Yep. This is Paris. Doesn’t get much cheaper. Oh, but bills are included in that.”
Again, I checked his face to see if he was joking. Again, he wasn’t.
I walked around, wondering if the room could even fit a single bed. I tried to remain positive. Perhaps I could ditch the frame and squeeze in a mattress. Maybe I could even get a minimalist roll-out bed, Japanese style.
“Well, let’s get to the interview then,” Mike said. “I’ve got another candidate coming in half an hour.”
“The interview?” I asked.
“Come through to the lounge room.”
I sat on an upright dining chair as the three housemates eyed me from the couch. I got the feeling I was about to be interrogated.
Mike said, “This is Ella, another Australian,” without bothering to introduce his two housemates to me.
The girl started things off. “So what do you think you can bring to this share house?” she asked.
“What can I bring?” I repeated. “Well, to be honest, I just moved here so I don’t have much in the way of furniture or household items.”
The trio gave me completely blank stares.
“I do know a great cheese shop in the Marais. I could bring some cheese. And toilet paper is always handy,” I said.
“Ha, you’re funny!” she said, not looking at all amused. “But seriously now. We’re creators, we make things. This is a collaborative, creative space. What energy will you bring to the apartment? What ideas?”
“Huh?” I asked.
The guy next to Mike looked at me and half rolled his eyes. “You know, what projects are you currently working on? What’s your next big thing?” he said, as if that would clear things up.
“Well, my plan was to move to France without a plan. I’m starting fresh, so to speak. I’ve got a job trial at a café tomorrow. So I guess I might be making coffee soon.”
“Oh cool. Yeah, that could work,” the girl said.
The guy sniggered before launching into a five-minute monologue on the importance of living in creative spaces and making the most of your downtime to be your up time.
I tuned out, weighing up the pros and cons of living here. Yes, I needed a room, but they were all completely insufferable. Without a Plan B, though, I decided to give it one last shot.
“So how about you guys? Are you all working on the app?” I asked when he finally paused for a breath. My enthusiasm, however, was short-lived.
“We can’t actually talk much about it right now. We’ve just finished this huge funding application and we should find out next week if we’ve got it. So until then, it’s super top secret. You understand, right?” the girl said.
“Totally,” I replied, not really understanding, or giving a damn, what she was talking about. At this stage I think we’d all made up our minds about whether or not I’d be a good fit for the apartment.
“Great, well, I think we have everything we need,” Mike said. “Let me show you out.”
“That’s OK,” I replied, relieved to be getting away from him. “I remember the way.”
Shutting the front door, I heard their hushed voices discussing the lack of expat entrepreneurs in Paris. I couldn’t help a huge eye roll myself thinking about how ridiculous that’d all been. As I clumped down the stairs, I wondered if all share houses in Paris were going to be like this one.
Checking my phone, I saw that it was already after five and remembered that I’d said I’d visit Mr. Cheeseman’s shop that afternoon. Although I was excited to discover all the other Parisian fromageries I could frequent, there was something about Mr. Cheeseman’s demeanor that I liked and I wanted try to build a good relationship with him. Maybe this visit I might even find out his name!
Arriving in the Marais, I began to feel more at home as I recognized the street names and was able to orient myself directly to the fromagerie. I stood outside momentarily to admire all the different types of cheese again and check the open hours before walking casually through the door.
Mr. Cheeseman wasn’t behind the counter, so I pretended to be engrossed in the cabinets while another lady, who I didn’t recognize, finished serving a group of people. When all the other customers had left the store and I had nobody left to hide behind, she looked at me impatiently and said, “Je peux vous aider?” Or, in my off-the-cuff translation, “Can I help you?”
“Ah, je . . . I’m just looking,” I managed to finally get out. Given the shop’s location, I was sure they were used to tourists sticking their heads in to have a look.
After an excruciating silence, with Mr. Cheeseman’s colleague huffing about the store, I asked, “I’m sorry, I was hoping to talk to the man who works here. Is he in today?” I felt desperate asking after someone I hardly knew, but then again, I was really keen to pursue his cheese mentorship.
“Qui? Serge? Ah, bien, non. Desolée. He had to go out on some very important business. Did you have a cheese order to pick up?” she said, her patience growing thin as more customers entered the store.
So he’s called Serge! I thought, excited at finally be
ing able to attach a name to his face.
“No, I don’t have an order. But I’d like to buy something delicious.” I smiled, trying to get her to warm up a bit.
“But what cheese?” she snapped.
“Maybe you can recommend something,” I blurted out, remembering too late that the French often found personal taste too subjective to make recommendations.
“OK, no problem,” she said, shuffling about behind the counter and wrapping up a small wheel of cheese. A few seconds later she handed it to me without another word, no notes on the flavors or where the cheese came from; just the bare white packet. My forte clearly didn’t lie in charming French sales staff.
“Can you please write the name of the cheese and where it came from on a piece of paper for me?” I asked. “I’m interested in learning more about French cheese.”
She looked up at me with contempt, her irritation becoming evident as her forehead wrinkled above her beady, dark eyes.
“D’accord,” she said, scribbling illegibly on a piece of card and handing it over to me. I think it read “Camembert.” “That’ll be ten euros.”
“Ah . . .” I hesitated.
“Is there a problem with the price, madame?”
“Oh, non,” I fumbled, handing over the money. I didn’t want to cross this woman. Prior to this conversation, I’d assumed that anyone who worked in a cheese shop would be happy. I mean, who wouldn’t enjoy a job where they were surrounded by so much delectability? Maybe the smell was getting to her.
Once outside again, I wondered why Serge had agreed to me stopping by when he wasn’t going to be there. And who was the lady who served me in the store? Was it Mr. Cheeseman’s wife, or maybe his girlfriend? Maybe she was nasty because she thought that I was trying to muscle in on her relationship with Serge? More importantly, why do I care what she thought? At any rate, I didn’t think we were destined to be friends.
Fromage a Trois Page 6