17
JUST BEFORE I ARRIVED AT Clotilde’s apartment, I heard my phone buzz. I still got excited whenever it made a noise, given what a rarity it was to have someone contact me here.
It was a message from Gaston. How’s his timing! I thought, as my palms started to sweat. I hadn’t heard from him since that evening drinking rosé and had come to terms with the possibility that he’d lost my number, or—more devastatingly—that he just wasn’t interested.
He wanted to know if I could meet him later that night for a cocktail. I was already nervous about spending the next couple of hours with Clotilde, who I wasn’t entirely sure I trusted, and I didn’t think accepting an invitation from her possible boyfriend was a good idea. But it was Gaston, and I was itching to see him again.
I hastily replied, saying I had dinner with a friend but should be done later that night. Suddenly, the evening had an extra agenda: I needed to find out if Clotilde and Gaston were dating.
Arriving at the top of Clotilde’s three flights of stairs, puffing loudly, I took a moment to compose myself, checked in my pocket mirror that I wasn’t too disheveled, and rang her doorbell. I heard her cry out “Coming, coming!” before she got to the door. She sounded stressed and I feared I was about to walk into a setup.
“Welcome to your new home,” Clotilde sang, flinging the door open and juggling two glasses of champagne and a tray of canapés. “But of course, only if you like it,” she added as she kissed me hello. She motioned with her head for me to come in and handed me a glass.
As I looked around the lounge room, I felt a surge of relief fly through me. First, that Gaston was nowhere to be seen. Second, that it seemed as though Clotilde was genuinely looking for a housemate.
The apartment wasn’t like any of the other non-renovated, damp rentals and sublets I’d already seen advertised. Marble fireplaces sat proudly in the corners of each room and the charming wooden floorboards creaked with the footsteps of inhabitants past. Double French doors led into the lounge, where large Moroccan floor cushions surrounded a low wooden coffee table, lending the room a sense of warmth and conviviality. Lining one wall were a dozen houseplants healthier than anything I’d ever managed to keep alive. Large, vibrant green leaves contrasted with the white walls, breathing life into the space. The overall effect was, like Clotilde, gorgeous and wonderfully Parisian.
My eyes darted around for any signs of weirdness, but all I could see were fashion magazines, DVDs, and a rather large collection of wine bottles. Big windows overlooked a small interior courtyard where flower boxes and more plants contributed to the overall ambiance. It was almost too easy to imagine myself living there; all that remained was to see if I could imagine myself living with Clotilde. And to make sure she’d be happy living with me.
My concern about her confronting me over Gaston was fading. Since our first encounter, she’d been nothing but kind. And in her own space, wearing some cozy-looking loungewear, she seemed almost like a different person than the one I’d met at Flat White. I don’t know if it was my love for the apartment—and desire to stop looking at dark and dank share houses—that was influencing my point of view, but she seemed warmer now, more approachable, less terrifying. Between checking on the oven, washing dishes, and hunting for a specific bottle of red wine, she showed me the spare bedroom, which was huge for Paris, and told me the rent, which was—also for here—surprisingly reasonable.
When Clotilde finally sat down and invited me to do the same, we worked our way through the canapés and another glass of champagne as we talked about what I was doing in Australia before arriving in France. I didn’t feel comfortable divulging too many details about my breakup with Paul so instead I told her about work and my friends, which led to talk about traveling and eating, which it turned out were two of Clotilde’s favorite hobbies.
“By the way, you’re a great cook,” I said as we moved onto the main course of roast lamb and couscous salad.
“Ha! That’s not a compliment I get every day.”
“But everything is delicious.”
“I can’t take any credit for these creations. I bought everything except the salad leaves at Picard.”
“What’s Picard?” I asked.
“Let’s just say, if you move in with me, you’ll get to know it well.”
By the time we got to our second bottle of red wine, I’d learned that Clotilde—an only child—had moved into the apartment with her parents when she was four, and that her father still owned it. When Clotilde had turned twenty-one, her parents had moved out, having bought a new apartment in Saint-Germain; the gesture was a sort of coming-of-age present for their baby girl.
“I pay Papa minimal rent and the only condition is a weekly invitation to lunch or dinner.”
“That’s so sweet. And your parents still come over?”
“Only my papa,” said Clotilde. There were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
“Maman passed away a few years ago. It was quite sudden. I’m not sure Papa has really recovered.”
I wanted to reach across and hug her but didn’t know if she was a touchy-feely person. She shook her head stoically and told me that her dad normally came over for lunch on the weekend. “I hope it won’t be a problem,” she said. “He’s pretty cool.”
“Of course it’s not a problem.” I couldn’t help leaning over and patting her arm. “My father hasn’t been around since I was a kid so it’ll be nice.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?” she asked.
I rarely talked about my dad to anyone. “He left a long time ago; it’s a complicated story. Not exciting enough to get into now, but I’ll tell you some other time.” I even surprised myself with the ease at which I accepted that we were about to be housemates. It must have been the red wine . . .
I checked my watch and was shocked to see it was already 11 p.m.
Shit! What about Gaston?!
But suddenly, securing a friendship with Clotilde felt more important than a potential tryst with a man, no matter how sexy he was. Besides, there was one thing I still had to suss out: Clotilde’s relationship status.
“So are you seeing anyone at the moment?” I blurted out awkwardly.
“Oh, nothing serious. I’m dating a little, but I’m pretty happy to keep my independence.”
Hmm, I thought, seems like a good sign. At least it’s not a full-blown relationship.
“And you?” Clotilde asked.
“I just got out of a fairly long-term relationship back in Melbourne so I’m not looking for anything serious either. There is this one guy who comes into Flat White who I sort of like but I don’t know if he’s even single . . .”
“Sounds very French!” she laughed.
Before I had the chance to delve further into the topic, Clotilde started to clear the plates and said, “So shall we try this cheese you brought?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, forgetting all about men and getting excited to taste the deliciousness Serge had set us up with.
“Wow, Ella, this Valençay looks wonderful. Do you know it’s my favorite goat cheese? This one looks perfectly ripe,” Clotilde yelled out from the kitchen.
I couldn’t help beaming, pleased to receive a cheese compliment from a French person. Clotilde returned with a large board and we started cutting chunks of the goat cheese and the Cantal. It was fun to be able to taste different varieties with somebody, and it was made all the sweeter eating it comfortably ensconced in an apartment, rather than in a café or at the park.
Where I’d previously thought that the Cantal would be boring—like a less-interesting version of my beloved Comté—this slice had an intense nutty flavor, made more prominent by months of raffinage, or ripening. It was almost like aged Cheddar and I fancied it would go well with a square of quince paste, although I wasn’t sure my new Parisian friend would approve of this serving suggestion. I was beginning to und
erstand that French cheese made in large factories had very little to do with the varieties you could find in good cheese shops throughout France. Apparently, Serge’s Cantal had been made at a high altitude, which gave it a richer flavor. He told me cow’s milk tastes better when it comes from cows that graze at altitude, which in turn makes for better cheese. Who knew?
Clotilde seemed to enjoy the Cantal, as well, and asked me where I’d gotten it. When I told her I bought it from a fromagerie around the corner, she nodded, as if she knew which one I was referring to. In France, most people have a specific cheese person who they know and trust, and the relationship is built over the years and then treasured for life. I felt that by taking quality cheese to Clotilde’s that evening, she somehow trusted me more.
As we finished off our wine, I stifled a yawn and decided it was best to head back to my Airbnb. I was feeling a little tipsy by this point and didn’t want to ruin my good impression by drinking one glass too many and falling asleep on the couch.
“So what do you think?” Clotilde asked as we stood by the front door. “Would you like to live here?”
I smiled warmly and told her I adored the apartment and would love to. Kissing me good-bye, she told me that the room was ready to go and I could move in this weekend.
What a relief! I thought, a lump forming unexpectedly in my throat. I was feeling emotional having made my first female friend in Paris, and I was beyond excited at the prospect of a more normal living arrangement sans mother and creepy son.
I was also looking forward to getting to know Clotilde better, and desperately hoped that she was being honest when she’d said she wasn’t serious about dating anyone. Which reminded me about my pending drinks invitation. I sent Gaston a quick text to apologize: “Salut, desolée, my dinner ran quite late. Perhaps another time soon?”
“Peut-être,” was his succinct reply.
Maybe? What the hell does that mean? I thought, getting upset.
I talked myself down: Perhaps given my new living arrangement, it is wise to just leave things with Gaston at that.
When I got back to the Airbnb, I found Jean-Pierre’s mother sitting in the dark staring at the wall. It was late and I wondered what she was doing still awake. I couldn’t help feeling like I was about to get in trouble.
“T’étais où?” she asked, which I understood meant, “Where were you?”
“With a friend,” I told her in French, heading to my bedroom. It was none of her business where I’d been and I didn’t like the atmosphere in the room. “Oh,” I added, before reaching the door. “Je vais partir ce weekend.” I thought it was only fair to let her know I’d be moving out early.
She grabbed a piece of paper from the table and pointed to it somewhat aggressively. It was the booking receipt showing my departure date, originally scheduled for the following Wednesday. I nodded and told her in broken French that I would still be leaving on Saturday and I didn’t want a refund.
She had tears in her eyes and looked at me imploringly. Suddenly, I was glad that my gut instinct had told me to find somewhere else. There was something off about this woman. She stood in front of me and took my hands in hers.
“You can’t leave,” she said in French. And then, probably after seeing the confusion on my face, switched to English, speaking with a slow and thick accent. “Jean-Pierre is in love with you.”
“He’s what?”
“He loves you,” she repeated, and moved to block the path to my bedroom. “You cannot leave.”
Chapter
18
THE START OF AUTUMN SIGNALED a change in fortunes for my life in Paris. I’d been living with Clotilde for a few weeks and couldn’t have been happier with how things were working out in our apartment.
While I still had very little going on outside of daily cheese consumption and my weekend work at the café, Clotilde’s schedule was fairly manic. On top of working at the food start-up where she’d met Chris, she modeled, juggled a nonstop social calendar, and was constantly at the gym—despite her innate French abhorrence of such an activity. We crossed paths mostly in the mornings over French-style bowls of coffee or occasionally in the evenings over large glasses of wine.
Our friendship had developed organically as she translated things and helped explain the French bureaucracy system when I was lost in piles of paperwork. I often asked if she minded helping her hapless housemate, but she always insisted that she didn’t, saying she understood how it felt to move to a new country, having been shipped off to English boarding school when she was sixteen.
When I considered Clotilde’s glamorous Parisian existence, I couldn’t figure out why she’d taken me under her long, slender wing and offered me a room. And, despite her kindness, I still didn’t know where she stood with Gaston. Or where I stood with him, for that matter—if, indeed, anywhere. I hadn’t seen him in the café, or heard from him since his last dismissive late-night text, and I hoped I hadn’t shot my chances of another rendezvous. I nearly mentioned him to Clotilde a couple of times but ended up chickening out, deciding that a few glasses of rosé with the guy were hardly worth potentially unsettling the status quo of our apartment.
Even though Clotilde and I had become quite friendly since I’d moved in, she was still a little reserved when it came to her love life. The only other time I’d asked her about it, she’d merely laughed and said she didn’t want a serious relationship: “Les mecs compliquent la vie.” And didn’t I know it. Guys do complicate life. After Jean-Pierre’s mother declared his love for me, leaving the Airbnb early had been the best thing I could have done.
As she’d blocked my path, I’d said anything and everything I could think of that might make her move out of my way. The look on her face was intense and I worried that I’d underestimated what kind of woman she was and what she was capable of. I’d been genuinely scared.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not, at all, in love with your son,” I’d told her definitively.
But she hadn’t seemed to want to believe me.
“Honestly, I’m really happy being single,” I’d insisted, this time perhaps a little harshly. Her face crumpled.
Seeing this well-poised woman tear up made me feel guilty for having been so blunt, so I’d ended up consoling her.
Through the hour-long conversation that had followed, the majority of which was conducted through the translation app on my phone, I found out that all the poor woman wanted was for Jean-Pierre to find a nice girl and move out of her apartment. She wanted to enjoy living alone for a while before she died.
“I can understand that,” I’d empathized, wishing I too were living alone rather than with her and her son.
She’d then explained how Jean-Pierre would often interrogate her friends, to the point of them feeling uncomfortable when they came over.
I’d nodded vigorously.
“He’s very protective of me,” she’d said.
I’d kept nodding.
“Particularly with any gentlemen who drop by late in the evening,” she’d continued with a loaded look.
It took a moment for me to register what was going on.
Jean-Pierre’s mother wanted to make room in the apartment for her nighttime companions. I would never have guessed that behind her elegant exterior was a woman in the prime of her sexual life!
I’d assured her that Jean-Pierre would find a nice woman eventually. I’d even suggested she try setting her son up with a Tinder account. After a long explanation of the swiping process from my end, she’d seemed surprisingly amenable to the idea.
I’d then gently mentioned that she should encourage Jean-Pierre not to follow his love interests around town.
She’d looked sheepish.
I’d pressed further and she’d admitted that she’d told him to pursue me. This had been the last straw. How had this woman manipulated me into feeling sorry for her? Before I knew what I was saying, I’d lied and told her that I was moving to Madrid.
>
As soon as the sun came up the next morning, I made a hasty exit in order to avoid any further blockades. I holed myself up in a café until a reasonable time so I could contact Clotilde without seeming too eager or desperate. At eight o’clock, with her OK that I could move in a few days early, I was on the metro to my new apartment, a bulging suitcase in hand and bloodshot eyes from a sleepless night.
Clotilde didn’t mince her words when she saw what state I was in. “What the hell happened to you between midnight and now?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, rubbing my temples.
“We’ve got time. It looks like you’ve had quite the night!”
I told her everything. She listened attentively, chipping in with exclamations of “You didn’t!” and “What a commotion!” every so often. When my tale came full circle, she said, “A little drama never killed us. Anyway, it’s a wonderful story. Now how about un café?”
And so began our routine of drinking coffee together in the apartment.
One morning, when I was settled on the sofa by the window and feeling particularly proud that I had understood a whole paragraph in French Vogue, Clotilde waltzed out of her bedroom and told me that she’d had an idea. She stood there with bare legs wearing an oversized T-shirt, looking like she’d jumped out of the magazine I was reading. She made me guess what it was. I joked—somewhat fretfully—that she was going to kick me out and move to Madrid herself.
“Ella, I’m throwing you a party. I want to mark your moving in with a celebration. I’m inviting my closest friends, and of course my papa, but hopefully he’ll bring plenty of champagne and then leave early. What do you think? Doesn’t it sound divine?”
Clotilde didn’t do things by halves.
“Please say yes!” she pleaded when I took a moment to respond. “Please say you’ll be the . . . how do you say . . . guest of honor.”
“Of course, that sounds wonderful. It’ll be like a housewarming,” I said.
“Exactly! It’s settled then. Is Saturday night OK with you?”
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