“The usual flat white?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He must have understood my game.
“Actually, I’ll get an espresso,” I said quietly.
I could feel the Frenchman’s presence behind me. It was like his eyes were burning a hole through my head. I was desperate to turn around and look at him but I wanted to maintain some sense of composure. Feeling flustered, I collected my coffee cup and, steadying my hands, took it to the bench outside. I sat and concentrated on inhaling and exhaling, feeling my heartbeat gradually slow back down.
I closed my eyes for a second.
“Je peux?” a deep, sexy voice asked.
My eyes flung open to see him towering over me, motioning at the empty spot next to me. “Ah. Oui,” I said, fumbling through the most basic of French words.
The handsome man sat, placed his espresso next to him on the bench, and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit one effortlessly, looking incredibly dashing in the process.
“Vous-en-voulez une?” he asked, probably wondering why I was staring at him.
“Oh. Non, merci.” After hunting for some more words in French and coming up trumps, I finally told him in English that I didn’t smoke.
“You’re English?” he asked.
“Australian. And you’re French, I take it?” I don’t know what hold this man had over me but it seemed I was incapable of saying anything intelligent in front of him.
“Yes. Why are you in Paris?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m taking a year working holiday,” I told him. Faced with such a well-dressed Parisian, I chickened out of practicing my Chris-inspired honesty.
“And you like working here as a barista?” he asked, motioning back to the café where I could feel Chris watching us like a hawk.
“Sure, it’s not bad. I’m looking for something more serious but this is fun for the time being.” I didn’t bother to correct him by admitting I was working in the kitchen. Who cares about semantics, I thought to myself.
Mystery man finished his coffee in two quick sips and checked his watch. I panicked that he was about to leave and felt disappointed that I hadn’t had time to leave a better impression.
“What are you doing this evening?” I blurted out, trying to postpone his departure.
“I’m meeting friends in an hour or so. Perhaps you would like to join me for a quick drink before I do?” he suggested. “I want to find out more about Australia.”
I was momentarily speechless, too busy blushing and squealing on the inside to respond immediately.
“Sure,” I finally managed to say. “I’m meeting friends later too, so it’s good timing.”
Of course I was lying about my evening’s social engagements, but the alluring Frenchman didn’t need to know that.
I rushed our coffee cups inside while my date—was it too early to call him that?—waited for me outside.
“Everything OK?” Chris asked, looking confused.
“Yep! We’re off for a drink,” I said, fully aware that I was smiling like a maniac.
“You and Gaston?” Chris asked, sounding surprised.
“Yep. Me and Gaston.”
Could he have a more French name? Just saying it aloud got me all hot and bothered.
Gaston popped his head around the door to see if I was ready.
“Find out if he’s single,” Chris whispered to me as I left the café.
Walking down the road, I was lost in thought trying to figure out what Chris had meant by this comment.
“I’m Ella, by the way,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Gaston.”
“I know,” I said, probably coming across like a stalker.
We sat at a tiny table outside a French-style café in the Marais. Our chairs were so close together that I could smell Gaston’s cologne and I had to rearrange my legs so they weren’t obviously touching his. I felt self-conscious sitting so close to him, although I was thoroughly enjoying the view. His chiseled cheekbones and dark, broody eyes were making my stomach feel like it had a life of its own.
Gaston ordered two glasses of rosé and some ice.
“We call this a piscine,” he said, slowing sliding two ice cubes into his glass.
“Like a swimming pool?” I asked.
“Oui,” he replied.
“But I thought it was sacrilegious to add ice to wine,” I said smugly.
“Ah, but it’s summer and in France, this is what we do.” He shrugged. “But you would never do it with good quality wine, you’re quite right.”
I felt like I’d been given a gold star.
The rosé was cold and refreshing, and after a long day at work, it was just screaming out to be drunk quickly. I took a deep sip to settle my nerves and give me time to think of something else to say. Babbling on about myself was the last thing I wanted to do when faced with such a good-looking man; there was so much room for error.
“And what do you do in Paris?” I asked.
“Oh, this and that,” he said—so aloof. “But tell me about you. Tell me about Australia. What’s the best way to cook a kangaroo?”
Was he joking? I wondered, thrown by his question. I laughed uncomfortably and told Gaston the basics of my life back home, glamorizing it as much as possible. I must have been doing quite a good job, too, because he seemed interested, asking a lot of questions and keeping me talking.
He was also completely relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, his shirt unbuttoned just low enough to give me a view of his tanned chest. He sipped his wine with gusto, like he’d been doing it his whole life.
I could see other women checking him out as they walked past; he was like a homing beacon for attention. I could almost feel the jealousy in their eyes when they realized he was sitting with me. But his gaze remained fixed on mine as he flirted with me. Hard. It’d been so long since I’d been the center of attention with a man that it went straight to my head. I felt giddy with what seemed like genuine adoration. I thanked God I’d hung around for that espresso after finishing work.
“So where are you living?” Gaston asked as we moved onto our second blissful glass of wine. Angling for a booty call? I wondered.
“I’m in this gorgeous little hotel down the road,” I told him, grateful I was staying somewhere so chic. “But I’m hardly ever there,” I continued, trying to give the impression that I had an exploding social calendar. “It’s the perfect season for picnics by the Seine and in the Luxembourg Gardens.”
I then detailed my obsession with the epic selection of gourmand ingredients from the French delis and supermarkets. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told him I could spend entire days inspecting products and stalking the aisles. The overwhelming selection of yogurt and potted desserts alone was enough to keep me entertained for hours.
“So you like food?” he asked.
“I love it,” I replied enthusiastically. “Especially French food. God, I found this cheese shop which has got me completely hooked . . .”
Despite my efforts to avoid it, I was now officially babbling on. I forced myself to stop talking about Serge’s shop before I came across as cheese-obsessed.
“But tell me more about you. Do you live alone?” I asked, getting right to the point.
When he told me that he’d been in his solo apartment for close to a decade, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
In terms of additional intel I managed to gather between swooning over Gaston’s good looks and charming personality, I learned that he was born in Paris and had never lived elsewhere. He went to school and university here, but like many wealthy Parisians, holidayed on the Côte d’Azur. He told me that for years he’d been longing to visit Australia. That he thought everyone there seemed laid-back and beautiful. Perhaps I could help him get his fix?
I’d forgotten that Gaston had plans that evening and I was devastated when he suddenly checked the time and told me he had to go. He laid down a twenty-
euro note, got up, and kissed both my cheeks. Did he just linger slightly longer than required? Or was I getting ahead of myself? Before he left, he asked for my phone number, which I gladly wrote down for him on a napkin, my hands shaking wildly.
As I watched his muscular arse walking off down the street, I remembered that Chris had wanted me to find out if Gaston was single. It certainly seemed like he was, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous; I’d need to wait for a second date to be sure.
I went through the evening play-by-play. Despite being exhausted after a long day of washing dishes, I felt like I’d gotten back on the dating horse quite elegantly. Fingers crossed I hadn’t blown it. The only thing I wasn’t sure about was whether I’d written down the correct mobile number.
Shit!
I pulled out my phone to double-check and saw I had a message from the Airbnb hosts in Saint-Germain. The dates I had requested were available. I breathed a sigh of relief—I’d found an apartment to move into. Living with a mother-son duo wasn’t the perfect solution, but at least it was a month of having somewhere to sleep sorted.
Feeling joyful but a little tipsy after the couple of glasses of wine Gaston and I had drunk in quick succession, I decided to take myself home. I strolled back to the hotel, picturing what life in Paris might be like if I ended up with Gaston—clearly the booze was talking—and felt jittery at the thought of walking the romantic streets arm-in-arm. It’d been a long time since I’d gotten any action and the thought of ripping off Gaston’s perfectly tailored suit was almost too much for me to handle.
Chapter
13
“SO WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED between you and Gaston?” Chris asked, walking into the kitchen at Flat White the next day. There was a mix of nervousness and desperation in his voice that intrigued me—why was he suddenly so invested in my dating life?
“Nothing,” I replied. “We just went for a couple glasses of wine. Why? What do you know about him?”
“Not too much, which is why I was surprised when you guys left together. He comes in a lot with this French girl who I’m sort of friendly with. Well, if I’m being honest—I want to ask this girl out, but I have no idea if the two of them are an item.”
“You mean Gaston has a girlfriend?” I was shocked. “He definitely gave off single vibes.”
“I don’t know, it’s complicated,” he said, rubbing his temples.
While Chris appeared to walk so self-assuredly through life, his dalliances with French women seemed to make him slightly hysterical.
“Why don’t you tell me what you do know?” I almost demanded. “Why do you think Gaston is dating somebody?”
Chris took a swig of water before launching into his—surprisingly detailed—knowledge of Gaston’s love life. “So way back at the end of last year, probably before you’d even decided to come to Paris, we had a launch party here for this start-up called Food To Go Go. This Scottish guy that I know called Tim started it. Anyway, it’s a food delivery app, pretty cool, actually. They’re working on . . .”
“Chris, back to Gaston,” I directed. He seemed to have a tendency to flesh out stories to the point where he forgot what he had initially been trying to say.
“Right. So anyway, at this launch party, I met this knockout French woman called Clotilde. I mean, there’s beautiful and then there’s Clotilde. She’s next-level stuff. Legs up to my ears but I wouldn’t let that stop me. God, even just thinking about her makes me hot.”
“Yep . . .” I said. “And?”
“So Clotilde is gorgeous, and I thought she’d be a bitch, but she’s actually really friendly, so I decided to ask her out the next time I saw her. Only catch is, the next time was when she came in here with Gaston for coffee. I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I got the impression they were dating—but I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. Perhaps they were just old friends. Regardless, they certainly looked very comfortable together. Anyway, after a few weeks of Clotilde coming in by herself, I was all prepped to finally ask her out, and then in she comes again with Gaston. So I’m just sort of biding my time. Every time she comes in solo, I try and get more information, but I’m at a loss.”
“Why haven’t I seen her before?” I asked.
“Well, it is only your second shift. But you might not, anyway—she mostly comes in on weekdays, and even then only about once a week. Her office is just down the road.”
“Why would Gaston invite me for drinks if he has a gorgeous girlfriend?” I voiced my concerns aloud, but Chris wasn’t much help.
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me . . .” he said. “But you remain useless and the mystery lives on.”
“Well, if she ever comes in while I’m here, come get me, yeah?” I said as Chris headed back out to the front of the café. “I want to see my potential competition.”
Before I knew it, my stay at Hôtel du Petit Moulin was over. Although I regretted having to leave the comforts of my Marais digs—and the luxury of having someone make my bed every morning—the move to the Airbnb went seamlessly. And my new apartment was even more spectacular in person than it was in the photos online: high ceilings and large windows gave the rooms a regal feel, which was complemented by dark-wood antique furniture and intricate woollen rugs over parquetry floors. It felt like the kind of old-money home you’d see in French movies, where large families live together across one floor of the building and hilarious comedy and/or drama ensues.
As far as housemates go, my new ones were quite eclectic: There was the mature and rather glamorous French mother with silver hair and an air of importance, and her wispy-bearded, forty-year-old son, Jean-Pierre. We communicated through translation apps, my high-school French, and Jean-Pierre’s high-school English. While always friendly to me, they spent a good portion of the day bickering with each other in French when they thought I wasn’t listening. Neither of them had a job, so they mostly sat in the formal living room drinking tea and listening to classical music.
So much for them never being home!
To get out of the apartment one afternoon in my second week living there, I decided to head back to the Marais to pursue my budding friendship with Serge. I wasn’t sure he actually wanted or needed a slightly unhinged Australian in his life, but he’d certainly warmed up since I’d first met him and I decided it was worth a shot. Even if our relationship never moved beyond the professional confines, I figured the worst that could happen if I became a daily visitor in his store would be getting offered more tasters and better cheese.
I’d hardly consider that a lost cause, I thought.
“Back so soon?” Serge said, eyebrows raised when I entered.
“It’s been nearly two weeks,” I protested. “And I can’t help myself. I’m falling in love with cheese.”
“You should be careful not to eat too much,” he said seriously, looking at me over the counter.
Oh shit, he’s already got me pegged as a cheese pig.
“Everything is better in moderation,” he said.
Typical French mentality, I thought. Leave me alone with a wheel of Brie and a whole baguette and then we’ll see what’s better.
“Having said that, I just received a delivery that you might be interested in.” Serge smiled.
Another recommendation? I was starting to feel cocky. Now I’d just need to work on my acting skills to pretend that my palate was French enough to handle it.
“Mmm,” I said nervously, wondering if today’s cheese would be more intense than the Roquefort I’d had last time.
“It’s a goat cheese, a Sainte-Maure de Touraine. When it’s young, it’s pale, white, and soft, and then when it ages, it goes darker and the flavor gets more intense. This one is old now, and it must be tasted.” He handed me a sliver.
“OK, let’s do this,” I said, slipping the slice into my mouth. Serge did the same in a tit-for-tat kind of motion. The cheese was, as built up by Serge, fruity but fresh, fluffy in the
middle, oozing to a gooey exterior. I shut my eyes and tried to savor the multi-textural sensation but ended up devouring it greedily.
“I’ll take some,” I said, desperate to eat the whole log myself.
“D’accord,” he said, busying himself wrapping up my cheese.
I racked my brain trying to think of a way to continue our conversation, to take it beyond the margins of the customer-seller relationship.
“You certainly have a lot of cheese here,” was the best I could come up with.
“It wouldn’t be a very good fromagerie without it,” Serge said with a smile.
“You know what? I think I’m going to try every type of French cheese while I’m living here,” I said offhandedly.
“You couldn’t!” he replied, almost yelling.
“What do you mean, I ‘couldn’t’?”
“There are very many different types.”
“Lucky, because I love cheese.”
“No, but seriously. This is the idea of a crazy person.” He looked concerned.
“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” I said, trying to impress him.
“Perhaps you don’t know how many types of cheese there are in France.”
“Nope. But I’d guess around one hundred. It should be easy to sample them all.”
Serge laughed. “I would like to see you try. And it would be good business for me.”
“OK then, why not? I’ve done harder things in life. It’ll be a fun challenge.” I was feeling assertive, and almost wanted to get a rise out of Serge. Getting a job and finding an apartment had given me the sense that I could do anything here, and Serge telling me otherwise seemed to just fuel that fire.
“It will be a big challenge,” Serge said. “I’m really not sure you can do it.”
“Do you bet I can’t?” I asked, jokingly.
“Yes. And I think it would be impossible for you to win this bet.”
“Where’s your faith in my stamina, Serge?”
“D’accord,” he said. “If you’re sure: I bet you that you can’t try all the types of French cheese in one year.”
Fromage a Trois Page 8