“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound calm despite feeling my heart flutter.
“Eggs and Co. Why don’t you come?”
“I can’t,” I said, cursing the bad timing. “Billie is flying in today. I’m heading to the airport to meet her.”
“Of course, I forgot. I’m sure he’ll be sad you can’t make it,” she said.
“Who will?” I squeaked.
“Papa, of course. He said he’d like to get to know you better.”
Phew! I thought, taking a deep breath.
“Yes, well, tell him I’d love to catch up soon.”
Clotilde nodded, adding, “Though, thinking about it, Gaston will probably be sad that you can’t make it too. He might have tried to drop a croissant down your top.”
“Next time I see him, I’ll wear a turtleneck,” I said.
She gave me a smug look that seemed to say, Bien sûr!
Billie came bouncing out of customs at Charles de Gaulle airport and gave me a huge hug. After weeks of kissing everybody hello, I’d missed hugs between good friends and held on for perhaps longer than would have been considered normal.
“Hey,” she said, pulling back. “Is everything OK?”
“Now that you’re here, yes,” I said, hugging her again.
“Good. Because I’m here for a good time, not a long time. Let’s go make the most of being in Paris.”
“Perfect,” I said, helping her with her baggage. “Small disclaimer: I’m feeling a little fragile today. We went out last night and I danced a lot. I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be sorry, El. I’ll look after you. I’m excited to hear you’ve found your dancing shoes again.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.
Billie was passing through Paris for two days on her way to a friend’s wedding in London, and sadly, because of work commitments back in Australia, she was on a tight schedule—not that that would stop her from loving every last minute of her visit.
As we jumped on the metro and chugged our way into the city, we discussed options for what to do. I ran through the list of tourist destinations that I thought she might be keen to check out—the Eiffel Tower, Pompidou, Le Louvre, Versailles—but she cut me off. “Ella, none of this tourist malarkey. I want to see your Paris this weekend.”
“OK, then. How about we drop off your bags, drink too much coffee en terrace, and then go for a picnic by the Seine? It’s supposed to be a beautiful sunny afternoon.”
“Perfect. Wine, cheese, a baguette, what could be better?”
“Sounds great! Clotilde might join us too,” I said.
“Good, I want to check out your new housemate. Make sure I approve.”
Billie’s first impression of my apartment was all I could have hoped for; she oohed and ahhed just like I would have if our roles had been reversed. Clotilde had managed to finish cleaning the kitchen before her brunch and it was sparkling; I felt a wave of gratitude. I offered Billie a coffee and a shower but she insisted she was ready to go exploring. We went to find a terrace in the sun, which in my neighborhood was as easy as gaining weight in France.
Over two espressos, with conversation topics flying left, right, and center, I finally started to feel like we were close to being properly caught up. Billie ran through everything that had been going on back home, with her business expanding into other states and, most excitingly, receiving a huge bump in orders after a cast member from our favorite Australian soap opera, Neighbours, wore one of her bracelets. When she casually mentioned this, I ordered two glasses of champagne to celebrate and reprimanded her for not telling me sooner.
I reciprocated by telling Billie how much I’d come to love life in Paris. I admitted that yes, things had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, with the search for a dream job not going exactly as planned and the hunt for accommodation being less than easy-sailing, but I was happy to report that I was finally starting to feel settled.
From the moment I’d arrived in France, I’d been so scared that I’d fail at everything and have to move back to Australia that I hadn’t really considered what my life would look like if I succeeded. Chatting to Billie made me realize that things were actually pretty peachy. It was exciting to consider how many adventures I’d had in such a short period of time, especially thinking back over the past eight years I’d spent with Paul and everything I’d missed out on while being “settled.”
“So what’s next in conquering Paris?” Billie asked.
“Ha! Well, I need to find another job to supplement my increasingly expensive lifestyle. Preferably something that doesn’t involve dirty dishes.”
“And what’s with the Instagram account? Have you fallen in love with cheese or something?”
I hadn’t told Billie about my dinner bet with Serge yet and she must have assumed I was tasting and Instagramming cheese for fun—not that it wasn’t. The idea of telling her about Serge and trying to explain the cheese bet made me a little nervous. I didn’t want her to dismiss something that had, at some point along the way, become quite important to me. But her support meant a lot so I came clean.
“I made a bet to try 365 types of cheese over the next year.”
“You did what? With whom? But why? You’re joking, right?”
“Well . . .” I started.
“Oh, God! You’re not joking. What made you think you could eat so much cheese?”
“I sort of have this cheese guy,” I said.
“You have a guy in your life and you didn’t think to mention it until now?”
“It’s not like that. He’s just the guy I buy my cheese from,” I said.
Billie seemed disappointed.
“Not long after I arrived in Paris, we made a bet that I couldn’t try all the varieties of French cheese in one year,” I explained.
“I think you’ve been had, my dear friend. It sounds like he’s sucking business from you.” She looked at me sympathetically.
“No, no. It’s not that,” I said. “I don’t buy all my cheese from him. Just most of it.”
“But why do you need to eat so much?” she asked.
I explained to Billie how when I’d first arrived, I’d felt a little aimless, and the cheese had provided comfort, which had led to me consuming a lot of it. “I think I was looking for something concrete to occupy my days and give my life here some purpose, which is when I sort of accidentally made the bet. To be honest, I didn’t quite realize how many varieties there were . . .”
Billie nodded.
“Anyway,” I continued, “the stakes were only dinner, so I figured it didn’t really matter if I lost, but for some reason I’ve become rather attached to winning. I’d love to succeed. The Instagram account has become a sort of cheese diary.”
Billie was quiet.
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” I asked.
“Well, it’s never going to be a bad experience trying all the cheeses of France, but it does seem a little excessive. Couldn’t you just try a hundred or something? Also, the stakes are dinner? What’s the real deal with you and this cheese guy? Are you sure you’re not into him?” Her tendency to persist was both admirable and irritating.
“No, seriously. It’s not about that,” I said, wishing that it could be as clear to Billie as it was to me. Serge was my first friend here and the bet was a big part of that. “He’s got me really interested in cheese and has been teaching me about the different varieties and their origins.”
“So this really has nothing to do with sex?” Billie raised her eyebrows at me skeptically.
I almost choked on my drink. “God, no. We’re just friends. Why don’t we go check out his store later and you can see how amazing it is. When you see all his cheese hopefully things will start to make a little more sense.”
Billie twirled her hair, something she often did when lost in thought.
“So what is it with you, Paris and cheese?” she finally asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s ironic that you were in Paris when Paul wooed you with Comté, and now you’re back after breaking up with him and you’ve made a bet with some guy to try a different type of cheese every day.”
I shrugged, not really knowing how to respond. I’d never linked my first night in Paris with Paul to the cheese challenge. Perhaps cheese has become my rebound guy!
“Have you heard from him?” Billie asked gently.
“Who? Paul?” I shook my head. “I’m glad, to be honest. With everything that’s been going on here, I haven’t even had time to think about him.”
“You haven’t seen any updates online either?”
“Nope, I deleted him wherever possible to avoid it.”
“So perhaps you don’t want me to tell you I ran into him in Melbourne a few weeks ago?” she said frowning.
I gulped.
“Or that he was with a girl.”
My mind immediately went to Jessyka. “Did she look like a CrossFit girl?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.
“I have no idea what that means, El. I guess she looked fit, but I’m not sure if that’s the same thing.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said, trying to convince myself that it didn’t, despite the golf ball that had magically lodged itself in my throat. Although I knew that breaking up with Paul had been for the best, I still didn’t want him to be happy with anyone else.
Seeing tears welling in my eyes, Billie asked me when I was going to start dating French men. I told her about my “sort-of date” with Gaston, and our run-in at Clotilde’s party the night before.
“I’m just not sure he’s into me,” I said.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me all about him.”
I told Billie what I knew about Gaston and went into detail about our awkward canapé moment. She stopped me early on.
“Ella, I’m all for you dating, but this guy sounds kind of pretentious.”
“No, he’s just very Parisian. He’s suave and sophisticated. He’s a journalist,” I said in his defense.
“What type of journalist?” she asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I admitted.
“All that glitters isn’t gold, Ella.”
“Billie, don’t be so dramatic,” I said with a laugh. “And don’t worry about me; nothing could be worse than dating Paul.”
“I’m certainly not advising you to get into another long-term relationship. Just date and see who’s out there. Perhaps try going out with someone you wouldn’t normally consider.”
“Seriously, there’s nothing to worry about,” I told her. “I hardly have a lineup of men offering to take me out. Sadly, the drought continues.”
Billie rubbed her stomach dramatically.
“Where’s this cheese shop then? I’m starving! Shall we go make a dint in your challenge?” she asked.
“Let’s do it,” I said, motioning for the bill.
“So can you eat multiple cheeses in one day?”
“Of course. I think it’s going to be a requirement to stockpile and then take a few days off,” I said seriously.
“Probably better for your health too.”
“Well, it’s hard to say if any configuration of mass cheese consumption is really that healthy,” I replied.
With hoarse voices and caffeine pumping through our bodies, we set off towards Serge’s.
No sooner had Billie and I walked into the fromagerie than Serge poked his head around the storeroom door, theatrically singing, “Hello, is it Brie you’re looking for?” to the tune of Lionel Richie’s “Hello.”
I wondered how often Serge used that line on foreigners and whether he was this friendly with all his other customers. I hoped not, thinking back to how serious he’d been on our first meeting.
“Gouda one, Serge.” He wasn’t the only one who knew a cheese pun or two.
He slapped his thigh, laughing and nodding in approval. Billie tittered and gave me a loaded look.
“Serge, this is Billie,” I said, before she could say anything that would embarrass me. “She’s just arrived from Australia and is going to help me eat cheese over the next couple of days.”
Serge offered his hand over the counter and said a rather charming “Bonjour.”
“Do you think she’s as crazy as I do for making this bet?” Billie asked immediately. I dug my fingers into her ribs.
“Oh, non, non, non. I think learning about French cheese is an enchanting thing for a foreigner to do. It shows commitment to this beautiful country. It’s very patriotic.”
“Would you say the same about a foreigner coming here to learn French history?” Billie probed.
“Ah, you see, the history of this great country is often best told through the story of its cheese—Napoleon, religion, and revolution—it’s all there,” Serge replied wistfully before looking at me, beaming. He was hardly helping me convince Billie that he was just my cheese guy.
“So what cheese shall we take to our picnic tonight?” I interrupted.
“Would you like to try something new? Or maybe you’d like your friend to taste one of your favorites. Comté, perhaps? Or Sainte-Maure? Valençay?” Serge continued to rattle off my favorite types of cheese and Billie turned to me.
“Yes, Ella. What shall we try? You certainly seem to have a lot of favorites.”
Thankfully, the nuances of Billie’s teasing, which would have been ridiculously obvious to a native English speaker, turned out to be subtle enough for Serge to miss completely.
“She does have a lot of favorites,” Serge chimed in. “Very good ones, I must add.”
I fake laughed, desperate to get out of the store before Billie could implicate me any further. “Serge, why don’t you wrap us up a selection of cheeses that are good for a picnic and would pair well with a bottle of rosé.”
“Parfait,” he said, pulling out a few cheeses enthusiastically.
With Serge’s back turned, Billie leaned over the counter and eyed him up and down. Turning to me, she raised her eyebrows as if to say, Not bad. I shook my head dismissively, but from where we were standing, I had to admit that Serge did look pretty good. I tried to see him through Billie’s eyes: Although I’d previously considered him a little too stocky, today he’d tied his apron tighter and I saw that he was taller, and better built, than I’d realized. His T-shirt was showing off some pretty enticing arm muscles and I wondered if he was the type of guy who worked out. I definitely didn’t take him for the CrossFit type, thank God.
Serge turned around and busted both of us staring at him, so I made a joke about Billie being in a jet-lagged daze and hastily paid for the cheese.
The minute we were out of the store, Billie turned to me and said, “Ella, he fancies you. It’s clear as day.”
“It’s not like that. It’s an innocent cheesemonger-customer relationship. I think he just really cares about cheese.”
“It definitely seems like more than that,” she said. “When he asked you to visit him again soon, the longing was palpable!”
“Not for me, though. You know I prefer my men clean-cut and suave, a little more modern.”
“Oh, Ella! Don’t be so square. He’s really good-looking, and he’s totally rocking that beard.
“I admit he has a certain je ne sais quoi, but he’s still not my type.”
“You’re right. He seems nothing like Paul,” she said, and we both fell quiet.
With more cheese than two people could consume in a week, I messaged Chris and Clotilde to ask if they wanted to join us for an apéro by the Seine. Chris had been asking so much about Clotilde that it felt like I’d be killing two birds with one stone.
We went down to the banks of the river with our cheese, picking up the requisite wine and baguette en route. The packs of dancers were back and we settled at a spot near the tango area.
Chris joined us as the sun was settin
g and I introduced him to Billie—my two Australian friends who lived on different sides of the globe coming together. They spoke about Melbourne and figured out that they had friends in common. They got along as if they’d known each other for years.
“So, how is Ella at washing dishes?” Billie joked.
“She’s the best I’ve ever seen,” he said, laughing. “She’s much better at washing up than making coffee. But just between us, I think her brain is being wasted in the café. It’s probably time she started looking for a real job . . .”
I blushed. Chris had never suggested this to me before and I wondered if I’d given off a vibe that I was unhappy at Flat White. Of course, I loved working at the café and it’d been great to have an immediate source of income so soon after arriving in Paris, but it was getting to the point where I could see myself doing something more challenging. Chris must have sensed it.
Starting to feel uncomfortable, I asked him to tell Billie why he moved to Paris. He unabashedly told her that he’d moved here because he was madly in love with French women. I’d thought perhaps he’d try and spin it differently in front of a complete stranger, but he was resolute, as always. He was halfway through a story about being chased naked out of a married woman’s apartment by her irate husband when Clotilde showed up to join us. She was wearing a short leather skirt and a white T-shirt and looked generally divine. She shimmied into a sitting position between Chris and Billie, and I was sure I could see stars in Chris’s eyes. Despite being the only French native at our picnic, Clotilde slotted into our group perfectly, and after a few glasses of wine, I was bursting with love being surrounded by old and new friends.
Well into our second bottle, the conversation turned to me and my life in Paris.
“So, do you both eat as much cheese as Ella?” Billie asked. I turned the color of my rosé.
Chris shook his head. “Impossible.”
Clotilde smiled. “Of course. It’s a very important food group for the French.”
“Personally, I can think of better things to spend my cash on,” Chris added. “El, how are you even paying for all this cheese? I can’t imagine your pay from Flat White would cover it.”
Fromage a Trois Page 13