“It’s perfect; I actually have this Sunday off. And speaking of work, should I invite Chris along?” I asked, testing the waters to gauge if she was keen to hang out with him outside of the café.
“Of course! And invite that guy you’re seeing too!” Clotilde said.
I panicked. “Oh, I don’t think it was ever even a thing. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Clotilde said. If only she knew we were talking about Gaston.
“Can I buy anything for the party?” I said, changing the topic.
“Non, non, non. Leave it all to me,” she squealed. “I’ll even cook.”
“Clotilde, I’m not sure shopping at Picard counts as cooking,” I replied.
“No, Ella. I’ll cook for real.”
I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Clotilde make anything that hadn’t come from Picard, the all-frozen supermarket chain that sold surprisingly elaborate ready-made meals. I was pretty sure I hadn’t.
“Are you sure?” I asked nervously. “Maybe I could just get some cheese to add to the spread.”
“Wonderful idea. You can never have too much cheese at a party!”
Saturday after work, I went in to see Serge and get a party wheel. I wanted a show-stopping cheese and was prepared to spend my weekend’s paycheck to get it. After the requisite “Bonsoir” to Serge and his lone customer—an older gentleman lacking any sense of urgency—I started scanning the cabinets.
“Serge, I’m in a bit of a rush. I need a large wheel of cheese.”
“No problem. Which one?”
“Something that will suit a party. Something fun.” My eyes landed on a wheel of Brie as big as my head. And although it was already ticked off my list, I figured an Instagram shot of a giant cheese wheel was bound to be a crowd pleaser. “That’ll do perfectly,” I said, pointing to it.
Serge pulled the wheel out of the cabinet carefully.
“Ella, this is more than your usual order. Have you finally found someone to have dinner with? Perhaps a man?” he added with a wink.
“Ha! Not quite,” I replied, glad that Serge felt comfortable enough to ask me such a personal question. “There was a potential candidate—this handsome French guy—but he seems to have completely vanished from the scene. It was getting a little complicated anyway, so I guess it’s a good outcome.”
“So you are now alone?”
Alone? How sad, I thought.
“You mean, am I single?” I asked.
“Yes, single. Sorry.” He laughed warmly and I joined him, quietly hoping my life wasn’t actually destined to be spent alone.
“I guess so, Serge. Anyway, this wheel is for a party my new housemate is throwing. She’s the one I bought the Valençay and Cantal for.”
“Ah, yes. And did she like them?”
“So much so that she asked where I shopped for cheese,” I told him.
“Then she has good taste. Both in cheese and housemates,” he said with a grin.
Holding my big wheel of cheese, I walked out of Serge’s feeling victorious. Where only months earlier I had eaten my tiny wheel of Camembert-for-one feeling desperately sorry for myself, now I was buying a wheel of Brie big enough for a room full of people. It was as though my increasingly grand cheese purchases mirrored my expanding life in Paris. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate way to show off my success.
It was only after leaving Serge’s that I wondered if I should have invited him along to the party. He’d been so kind to me since I’d arrived in Paris, and we were becoming increasingly friendly, moving beyond just cheese discussions and into conversations about our personal lives. I felt that perhaps I should have. But I was running late and didn’t have time to go back and ask. Next time, I thought to myself as I sped home to get ready.
Chapter
19
ARRIVING AT OUR APARTMENT, I was overflowing with excitement at the prospect of getting dressed up and meeting new people. I blow-dried my hair, carefully applied a coat of vibrant red lipstick à la Française and put on some ridiculously high heels.
I was flying solo because Chris bizarrely chose to keep a rendezvous with another French woman over spending time with Clotilde. “Good things come to those who wait,” Chris had said. “She has long-game potential. I’ll bide my time until the moment is right.”
While normally I would have been intimidated by such a crowd, Clotilde had told everyone that this was my party, and I was reveling in my role as co-host and guest of honor. I helped pour drinks and got to know Clotilde’s good-looking friends, the champagne helping to shake off any remaining anxiety.
While chatting to Clotilde’s university friend Julie—and discovering that growing up in Bordeaux apparently didn’t involve drinking a lot of Bordeaux—I noticed an immaculately dressed and well-coiffed older man walk in. Clotilde rushed over and embraced him. She dragged him over, introduced him as Papa Jean, and, despite him not speaking any English and me speaking moderate-to-bad French, we managed to have a short conversation. He apologized for the size of the apartment before laughing a very formal laugh. I joined him, thinking, If only he’d seen some of the other share houses I’d looked at, he probably wouldn’t even manage a chuckle. This place was a palace in comparison.
I was midway through trying to explain to him how I’d met Clotilde when I was stopped in my tracks.
Gaston had just walked in. Shit! What the hell is he doing here?
I watched closely as Clotilde rushed over to him; he tenderly kissed her on both cheeks. Did he linger longer than after drinks with me? Was he veering a little close to her mouth? I couldn’t help but notice that once again, he looked gloriously French, with slightly tousled hair and a green scarf wrapped around his tanned neck.
“Ah, c’est Gaston,” said Papa Jean.
My heart sank. If Papa Jean knew Gaston, maybe there was something more to his relationship with Clotilde after all. I watched, devastated, as Clotilde whisked him into the kitchen and I was left wondering how I could avoid him.
I turned back to Papa Jean and attempted to ask how he knew Gaston but was met with a puzzled look.
“Ah, Gaston? Il est mon neveu. Excusez-moi, Ella,” Papa Jean politely excused himself, heading into the kitchen.
I almost stopped him to ask what “mon neveu” meant but instead hunted out someone else who could fill me in.
Thankfully, Julie was still around to help. “I think in English you say ‘nephew.’”
“Nephew? As in, the son of your brother or sister?” I asked. I couldn’t really afford to get this wrong.
“Yes, is that the correct pronunciation?”
“It’s perfect,” I squealed.
So if Gaston is Jean’s nephew, I thought to myself, that means he’s Clotilde’s cousin! I smiled at the prospect and felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach.
It turned out I’d been worrying for nothing all this time. I excused myself and headed towards the buffet, whipping out my phone to text Chris: “Turns out there is a God! Clotilde and Gaston are cousins.”
Just as I was helping myself to an extra-large portion of mini quiches to celebrate, I heard a man’s voice that I immediately recognized. “These are no good. I wouldn’t eat so many if I were you.”
I turned to look at Gaston and grinned. “I think they look delightful,” I retorted playfully, piling a few extra onto my plate to annoy him.
“Yes, they do,” he said. “But wait until you try one.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, slipping a whole quiche into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Ah, delicious,” I lied.
As much as I loved Clotilde, unless she was shopping at Picard, her food really wasn’t particularly edible. Perhaps that’s how she remains so slim . . . I mused.
“So I hear you and Clotilde are cousins,” I said.
“Yes, and I hear you’re her new housemate,” he said. “What a coincidence.”
> I blushed.
“So . . .” I said, changing the subject. “You don’t like Clotilde’s cooking?”
“Non. I have tried to teach her a few simple dishes, but she’s too impatient in the kitchen. She always prefers eating out somewhere fun, letting someone else do the hard work.”
“Well, I don’t blame her. The food in Paris is so good; who doesn’t want to eat out every night in this city?”
“You like eating out?” he asked.
“Sure, as much as anyone else, I guess.”
He nodded, letting out a restrained laugh. “Me too.”
“I never had a chance to ask over drinks, what do you do?” I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“I’m a journalist,” he said.
“Oh, cool,” I said meekly, and kicked myself for not saying something better.
“And how is your coffee-making job?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I said, thinking that I should probably get around to telling him that I wasn’t actually a barista. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you at Flat White in a while.”
“It’s a busy time of year.”
“Even more reason for coffee,” I said, with a cheeky smile.
But before I had the chance to flirt a little more, Papa Jean hurried over and interrupted us, taking Gaston away to deal with a kitchen emergency.
Oh dear, what’s Clotilde done now? I wondered.
I checked my phone and Chris had replied: “Good luck with Monsieur! Keep Clotilde safe for me.”
Gaston reappeared later in the evening holding a large tray of perfectly-crafted canapés. After very little edible food, the crowd descended on them like a pack of hungry dogs. I was trying to nudge my way towards what looked like a little cheese tart when Gaston grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back.
Why doesn’t this man want me to eat? I thought.
“Ella, come with me. I have something for you,” he whispered in my ear.
I followed him, discreetly checking out his arse in his well-tailored trousers. “Not bad,” I said under my breath.
In the kitchen, my gaze swept across the rest of the food that Gaston had managed to create or salvage from the remaining ingredients that were strewn on the bench tops.
“I thought that you deserved this after eating so many of those terrible quiches.”
I picked up a little prune wrapped in prosciutto and placed it into my mouth. As the meat-wrapped parcel hit my taste buds and began to melt, the salty sweet flavors made my heart sing. I hadn’t realized I was so hungry and I chewed the delicious parcel greedily.
“Gaston, these are amazing,” I admitted. Next, I tried a little goat cheese tart, which was the perfect balance of creaminess from the cheese and crunchiness from the warm pastry casing. The combination worked magic on my tongue.
“What kind of goat cheese is this?” I asked, and he glanced at me sideways, perhaps surprised I might be able to distinguish between France’s many different varieties.
“It’s a little Crottin de Chavignol from La Loire. Do you like it?”
I described the flavors elaborately, having drunk the perfect amount of champagne to sound wonderfully elegant and intelligent. That, or Serge’s influence was rubbing off on me and I was finally thinking about cheese more critically.
“You need to try the foie gras next,” said Gaston, motioning to a brown glob on a slice of fruit bread, which was not nearly as visually appealing as what I’d just eaten.
“OK,” I replied, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“It’s liver,” he said slowly, reading my expression. “It’s not meant to be handsome.”
I laughed and shook my head, embarrassed that he’d sensed my apprehension. He lifted the foie gras toast to my mouth rather sensually. I could feel myself salivating, and I wasn’t sure it was even for the food.
That’s when Clotilde burst into the kitchen. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.
I spun around, mortified, knocking Gaston’s arm and causing him to drop the foie gras canapé down my top. The warm toast and slimy liver nestled cozily into my cleavage.
“Shit,” I yelped, standing there, arms out, helpless.
Gaston tried to grab the runaway canapé but only succeeded in pushing it farther between my boobs. My face went stoplight red and I wanted to launch myself directly off the balcony; it was the only way I could think of to redeem myself in the current situation. Luckily, before that could happen, Clotilde ran over and pushed Gaston out of the way.
“Don’t worry, my friend. We’ll get you fixed up in no time. Come with me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled me towards her room. Thankfully, Clotilde didn’t ask what I’d been doing in the kitchen with her cousin, and I didn’t mention that I’d already met Gaston before at Flat White. I couldn’t say why, but I wanted to make sure that what I had going on with him wasn’t just some innocent flirtation before I introduced this potential complication into my home life.
“How about this one?” Clotilde asked, pulling out a dress from her huge wardrobe.
“Clotilde, I have dresses in my own room,” I protested, though I couldn’t help being wooed by the gorgeous fabrics and textures that filled hers. The prospect of redeeming myself in front of Gaston with a sexy plunging neckline might have also crossed my mind.
“I know, but you need a party dress. This is your night,” she said. “Maybe this one?” she asked, handing me a bright-red one.
“I don’t think it’s going to fit, Clotilde.” I was on the brink of hating my body for all eternity, but comforted myself by thinking that most people standing next to Clotilde would probably feel the same way.
“Give it a try,” she said. “It’s meant to be a free size. Meaning there is no size limit.”
I tried the dress on, and to my surprise, it fit. It was much tighter than I would have expected from a “free size,” but it covered all the necessary parts. It was also much shorter than I’d normally wear; thankfully, I had on my high heels and my legs were wonderfully tanned from the Paris summer.
“Welcome back our guest of honor,” Clotilde announced, clapping as we reentered the living room. My face blushed once again, this time almost matching the color of my new dress. “She’s had a wardrobe change so we can go out and hit the clubs,” she sang in a gorgeous high-pitched voice. “OK, on y va, it’s time to go!”
She stopped the music, kissed Papa Jean good-night and grabbed her purse. Within seconds she had managed to persuade the fifteen remaining partygoers to join us, and we were out the door, down the multiple flights of stairs and into the Parisian night.
It was only when we were halfway down the street that I realized Gaston wasn’t with us.
“Where is Gaston? Is he not coming out?” I asked Clotilde.
“Oh no,” she giggled. “Gaston wouldn’t be seen dead in the clubs with us.”
I laughed at her use of the expression “Wouldn’t be seen dead.” I’d gotten used to her almost-flawless English, but her knack for pulling out the perfect phrase at an opportune moment still surprised me.
“He’s much too refined for the establishments we frequent. Why do you ask? Do you like him?”
“Oh, um, no. His loss, I guess.”
I was disappointed that Gaston hadn’t wanted to join us but figured it was probably for the best considering the embarrassing canapé incident I’d just inflicted on him. I also needed some time and headspace to come up with a game plan now that I was certain Clotilde was out of the picture romantically.
Chapter
20
THE NEXT MORNING AFTER A raucous night of drinking and dancing I was excited to see a message from Gaston on my phone saying he was looking forward to catching up again soon. I’d clearly received it while out, but thankfully I’d had the good sense not to attempt a long reply and in my inebriated state had simply sent a casual “Oui, oui” and a winky face.
&nbs
p; It’s back on! I thought, smiling widely. But now wasn’t the time to get caught up daydreaming about another date with Gaston.
Billie’s flight from Australia was due to arrive that morning, and while it was a shame that she hadn’t made it to Paris in time for Clotilde’s and my housewarming party, I was looking forward to seeing her immensely. Since I’d moved in with Clotilde, I’d hardly had a free moment to message her and I was excited to find out what had been going on in Melbourne and to show her my new Parisian life.
Ignoring my pounding head, I stumbled into the kitchen, turned on the coffee machine, and watched the restorative liquid drip slowly into the pot. Debris and glasses covered the bench tops from the party and I started to clean up quietly. I wanted Billie to see our apartment at its best. As I went, I avoided counting the empty bottles of wine and kept telling myself that things could have been worse. But when I saw and smelled the heaving ashtray, I was overcome by nausea. Turns out, it isn’t a stereotype—the French still love to smoke. A lot. Even more so when drinking.
Hearing a man’s muffled voice coming from Clotilde’s room, I grabbed my coffee and went to hide in the shower, hoping to scrub away my hangover, or at least some of my leftover eye makeup. I tried to remember if there’d been anyone else in our Uber on the way home, but the details—all except me begging the driver to turn up the tunes—were hazy.
Emerging hot and red from the steamy bathroom, I ran into Clotilde and the sexy French dude that belonged to the voice I’d heard. I exchanged les bises with her midnight mystery man—awkward in a towel—and offered them coffee. Clotilde refused on her new beau’s behalf and shuffled him out the door quickly. We listened carefully to his footsteps descend the stairs before we started giggling and discussing what had happened the night before. Hugo was a photographer from a shoot she’d been at a few weeks earlier who—unbeknownst to me—she’d had a massive crush on. She’d run into him last night and the rest was history.
“Then why did you chuck him out so fast?” I asked.
“He couldn’t stay a minute longer,” she said seriously. “Papa and Gaston are arriving soon to take me to brunch.”
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