“I have some savings left too,” I admitted. “But you’re right, I should probably start looking for another job soon.”
Chris winked at me.
“I didn’t realize you needed more work,” Clotilde said. “What do you want to do?”
“She’s a good writer,” Billie chipped in.
“She’s certainly got a way with words,” Chris added. “You should hear her running commentary at the café some days.”
Clotilde nodded thoughtfully.
As the dancers and picnickers began packing up, Clotilde checked her watch and said she had to go. We all rose to say good-bye and Chris managed to successfully convince her that they just so happened to be heading in the same direction. This was the first time he’d seen her since finding out she was related to Gaston and he appeared to be a man on a mission. I raised my eyebrows at him and he shrugged his shoulders. I wasn’t sure she felt the same spark he did, and I hoped she’d be gentle with my lovestruck friend.
Billie and I stayed to finish the bottle of wine and devour the remnants of the cheese. It got late, and we got drunk and emotional, hugging each other under the stars. It felt good to have her with me in Paris. It felt normal. I wished she could stay.
As we walked home, she asked me what type of modeling Clotilde did, and I admitted that I had no idea.
“I think there’s something odd going on there,” she whispered. “When I asked her about it she said it was a little complicated and that she only did it to help out a friend.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” I said, remembering my early interactions with Clotilde. “She can be a bit aloof with new people.”
“I just felt like maybe she was hiding something. It’s hard to explain.”
“How many glasses of wine in were you?” I asked.
Billie laughed. “Quite a few,” she admitted.
“Besides, her modeling is only a side job. She mostly works for a food app.”
“You’re right, it was probably nothing,” Billie said, linking her arm through mine.
After another wonderful day of reconnecting, the time came to say good-bye to Billie at Gare du Nord where she was catching the Eurostar to London. As we parted ways, she handed me a gift.
I’d planned to wait until I got home to open it—make a real moment of it—but as soon as I got on the metro I couldn’t resist taking a peek. Beyond the layers of red wrapping paper was a leather-bound journal. I admired its weight and texture in my hands before flipping it open and reading the inscription:
Ma belle, Ella.
For all your cheese-tasting adventures, which should be recorded and shared. In particular, don’t skimp on the details of any potential cheese-shop interactions.
Love, Billie xx
The gesture was thoughtful and encouraging, although her reference to Serge was as see-through as the holes in a slice of Swiss cheese. Regardless, I couldn’t help smiling. In a few short days, Billie was already rooting more for Serge than she ever had for Paul.
Thinking about Mr. Cheeseman’s laugh and his goofy face when he was deep into a cheese origin story did make me consider how wonderful it would be to date the owner of a fromagerie. It would be perfect for my challenge too, I thought.
But, despite all the superficial benefits, I still couldn’t conjure up any romantic feelings for Serge.
Chapter
21
AFTER THE BILLIE WHIRLWIND BLEW out of Paris, I fell into quite a comfortable routine. The hangovers were abating, I stopped worrying about running into Jean-Pierre and I was getting used to working all weekend and being a French flâneur from Monday to Friday.
For the first time in weeks, I had a moment to slow down. The peace was temporary, however, because as soon as I caught my breath, I began to feel a little low, suffering what the French called a coup de blues.
It’d been so great having a close friend visit and I’d adored sharing my new life with somebody who knew me well. But Billie’s visit had also stirred up a lot of thoughts and feelings about Melbourne—mostly relating to my failed relationship with Paul—that I’d blissfully ignored since leaving.
To help brighten my mood, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my running shoes. Having dined and imbibed to excess since arriving in Paris, I figured it was probably time for some well-overdue exercise. I puffed my way over to the Canal Saint-Martin and tried to evoke some of Audrey Tautou’s stone-skimming elegance from the dreamy film Amélie in my running style. Instead, I broke into a fit of heavy breathing as I clomped along the cobblestones, my body adjusting to its first non-cheese-related strain in months.
After a good twenty-ish minutes, I stopped and stretched, which mostly involved putting my head between my legs and trying not to be ill. Mid-wheeze, my phone started ringing. The number was blocked, which was normally a free pass to ignore the call, but international numbers often didn’t show up and I hadn’t heard from Mum in a while, so I answered.
“Oui, hello.”
“Hello, is this Ella? C’est Gaston . . .”
Gasp!
“Salut, Gaston,” I replied between inhales. “Can you wait one minute, s’il te plaît?” I put my hand over the microphone. Oh, mon Dieu! I was breathing like a ninety-year-old man who’d just run for the bus.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes. Hi. Desolée, I was in the middle of something très important. Were you hoping to speak to Clotilde? She’s not in Paris this week,” I said, playing it cool.
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you,” he said. “Shall I take you out for dinner tonight?”
My heart stopped momentarily and it wasn’t because of my abominable fitness level. My interactions with Gaston to date had been hot and cold, and other than his text and the canapé moment (which quickly—and literally—went south), I’d wondered if our appreciation of each other wasn’t a little one-sided.
“Of course, let me check my schedule . . .” I said, and waited a few seconds to give the impression that I was indeed looking at a calendar. “Yes, I’m free. I just have a few appointments this morning.” Rushing to buy an outfit and shave my legs.
“OK, great. I’ll come and pick you up at Clotilde’s around eight, ça va?”
“Oui, d’accord,” I replied.
“Super, à tout à l’heure.”
I raced home as fast as I could after my “marathon” exercise attempt and leaped in the shower. Sweat washed away, I went out to hunt down a chic and cheap outfit. I was sick of the summer wardrobe that I’d arrived with, and besides, I felt like my first official date in Paris deserved something new. Gaston hadn’t mentioned where we’d be going, but his tastes, like Clotilde’s, seemed expensive. God, I hope it’s not too pricey, and if it is, I hope he’s paying.
A few hours later, after more than a few stressful moments trying to zip things up in various changing rooms across the city, I was home, ready and waiting for the door to buzz. I was wearing a black dress—slimming—and a pair of red heels to jazz things up a little. When I opened the door, Gaston looked me up and down. I felt a little self-conscious, sucking in my tummy and pulling back my shoulders.
“Oh là là,” he said after a few seconds of appraisal, and I stood at ease. The lust brewing in Gaston’s eyes felt a world away from anything I’d registered in Paul’s in the last few months of our relationship. It was invigorating.
As we walked to the restaurant, Gaston told me it was a new opening and that the chef had trained at some three-Michelin-starred place that I’d never heard of. He said it was a big deal and there was plenty of hype about the food. I was excited.
We skipped past the queue—where I heard someone murmur that it was an hour wait to even get on the list for a table—and Gaston waltzed up to the first server he saw and said something in a low voice. She nodded and motioned for us to follow. The dining room was dark and broody, with ornate red wallpaper standing out against the wooden flo
ors and dark velvet curtains. Lights hung low from the ceiling and nestled snugly above the tables. It was modern, almost too cool, and felt like the antithesis to a classic French dining room.
As we were led to our table, Gaston put his hand on the small of my back. His touch was warm and after so many years with Paul, followed by a few months of being single, it was enough to make me want to rip my dress off and get down to business. Thankfully for my modesty, and for the rest of the diners, my outfit stayed firmly in place and I managed to maintain a sense of Parisian-style composure.
“How did you skip the waiting list?” I asked when we were seated, craning my neck to look at the full dining room.
“I called ahead,” he replied, very matter-of-factly, his tone almost businesslike.
“But it’s so busy. I’m surprised you could get in,” I said.
“I arranged it through work; it was no problem.”
“That’s right, you’re a journalist, aren’t you? What exactly do you write?” I asked, now even more curious.
“I’m a food critic. I write restaurant reviews.”
Gaston being judgmental of Clotilde’s cooking suddenly made more sense. He was used to eating at Paris’s finest restaurants and obviously had oversensitive taste buds. I could forgive the man that.
“That’s my dream job,” I said.
“It’s OK, but maybe not as fun as it sounds. Paris has its share of terrible restaurants that also need reviewing, n’est pas?”
He then spent the next half hour telling me about the endless free restaurant tastings and the daily eating out that his job entailed. It sounded brilliant and I was enthralled. The perfect Parisian guy with the perfect job!
My lusting over all things Gaston was only interrupted by the stealthy appearance of a waiter next to our table.
“Bonsoir,” he said coolly, smoothing down his chic denim and leather apron.
“Bonsoir,” I replied, trying my best to sound as French as possible.
“Oh, good evening,” the waiter replied in English, not skipping a beat. “Would you like me to explain the menu?” He looked at us both as if we were wasting his time.
“En Français, s’il vous plaît,” Gaston said abruptly.
“D’accord,” said the waiter, launching into telling us about God knows what. I understood next to nothing. Gaston responded and the waiter left.
Gaston looked at me and smiled. I asked him why he’d told the waiter to describe the menu and specials in French rather than English.
“It’s important for the review,” he said quickly. “And also, I wanted him to leave us alone so we could get to know each other better. I’ve ordered us a bottle of wine; I hope that’s OK.” He looked deep into my eyes and I melted. I relaxed back into my chair.
“So I’m helping you review this place?” I asked.
“In a way,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind sharing food.”
I assured him that I didn’t.
“So, how do you like living with Clotilde?” Gaston asked.
“Oh my God, I love it,” I replied honestly.
“Isn’t she such a dork, though? When we were kids, she’d always get teased. I’d be so embarrassed. She never really fit into her own body.”
I felt immediately defensive and said, “Look at her now, though. She’s a model.”
“Of sorts,” Gaston said with a snigger.
What’s that supposed to mean? I wondered, but I didn’t feel like I should pursue it.
When the waiter came back to our table with the wine, Gaston ordered for us both. He told me there were three dishes we had to try: the pigeon, the pie, and the chocolate tart. I’d never eaten pigeon before, and I imagined Paris’s flying street rats being dished up in the kitchen. The thought cut my appetite, but this was Gaston’s domain and he seemed to know what he was doing.
The dining experience was very matter of fact: no amuse-bouche or palate cleanser that I’d normally associate with fancy French restaurants. This place was chic beyond measure and clearly wasn’t into offering any free thrills. When the food arrived, Gaston snapped pictures of everything, making sure to get the look from various angles, whilst I indulged in the breadbasket with a little more gusto than I’d hoped to display. I’ve been on a run, thank you very much! I thought when the waiter grumpily asked if we “needed” more bread.
“So, what do you think, ma belle?” Gaston asked as I took a bite of pigeon.
“It’s not bad,” I said, trying not to gag. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get past the image of the filthy birds.
Gaston spent a lot of the meal explaining Paris’s dining scene while I listened, captivated by his in-depth knowledge. He told me in great detail how it had evolved drastically over the past decade. Where kitchens had lacked any exciting innovation for a long time, since the days of Paul Bocuse and “sa nouvelle cuisine,” the city had once again become home to some of the most exciting restaurants in the world. Gaston disliked traditional French dining—the red-checked tablecloths and the older, portly waiters—in favor of the new, modern style. He rattled off the names of the young chefs who were leading the French food renaissance.
I wasn’t brave enough to say that I loved everything about the traditional brasseries and bistros of Paris, even the stereotypical tablecloths. I felt terribly unqualified to argue about food trends so I nodded along, occasionally getting blissfully distracted by Gaston’s chiseled cheekbones and defined jaw. I wondered whether he’d be a good kisser.
The waiter arrived to clear our mains and hand us a dessert menu. I asked Gaston whether we should have cheese, eagerly awaiting the right moment to show off my own food knowledge and tell him all about my challenge.
“But, Ella, anyone can buy good cheese in Paris. Let’s get that chocolate tart I mentioned and another dessert of your choosing and see what the kitchen is truly capable of.”
I shrunk back in my seat and didn’t dare mention my bet with Serge. Instead, I ordered the mystifyingly named “apple in apple” and Gaston the “Oops, ma tarte.” By the time dessert arrived, we were emptying the last few drops of our bottle. My tolerance to wine was still nowhere akin to that of the French and I was feeling delightfully uninhibited.
Gaston broke off a piece of what turned out to be a deconstructed chocolate tart and fed it to me. I licked it suggestively and he asked how I liked it. I told him it was divine, despite the fact that I’d barely registered the taste in my attempt to eat sexily. I was in another world, one where we had already finished dinner and were getting naked together. It was steamy there. I completely ignored my own plate of dehydrated apple spirals exploding out of what looked like a meringue volcano on a bed of apple puree.
I felt Gaston’s foot gently caressing the inside of my thigh. The date had been going well up until now, but this was still an unexpected advance. A shoe up my dress, I thought. Is this a normal seduction technique? I knew that the French were more sexually forward than many other cultures, but still, Oh là là! It’d been nearly a decade since my last “first date,” and perhaps too many years with Paul had stinted my understanding of the requisite etiquette.
I looked around self-consciously but realized that no one was paying any attention to us, not even the nonchalant waiters who were now too busy standing around looking hip to be effective. I went with the flow, sunk deeper into my chair, and let Gaston’s foot slide up higher.
“Do you have plans after dinner?” he asked, and I stifled a laugh, hiding the fact that I never really had plans these days.
“Nothing concrete,” I said nonchalantly. Then I threw caution to the wind and suggested we get another drink.
“Perfect idea. I have a bottle of champagne at my house if you’d like to come over?”
That’s some forward thinking right there, I thought, thanking the gods he’d made the first move.
“Champagne sounds great.”
The next thing I knew, Gaston whipped ou
t a black American Express card and settled l’addition. After signing the credit card receipt without even glancing at it—I hated to think how much it might have come to—he thanked the waiter and whisked me into an Uber I didn’t even realize he’d ordered.
We sped through the streets of Paris and arrived at Gaston’s building in Saint-Germain, on a street that I recognized from when I’d lived in the sixth arrondissement with Jean-Pierre and his mother. I quickly shook the image of them sipping tea in their formal living room out of my head.
After tottering up the carpet-clad wooden stairs to Gaston’s apartment, I did a double take when he turned on the lights, shocked at how beautiful everything was. He’d decorated the generous space with an elegant mix of modern and antique furniture that looked like it’d been taken straight from the pages of Vogue Living. I didn’t have long to admire the view, however, because seconds after shutting the door, Gaston pulled me closer and kissed me hard on the lips. He had my full attention.
The rest of the night was a blur of sex, champagne, and finally, some petits fours that Gaston just had “laying about” in his fridge. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to feel desired again, and it felt good to be back in somebody’s arms.
By the time we eventually fell asleep, my body was exhausted. The post-Paul drought was officially over.
Chapter
22
AS THE SUN SHONE THROUGH the windows of Gaston’s apartment the next morning, I slid out of bed, pulled on a fluffy, gray bathrobe, and walked over to check out the view. His apartment was on the fourth floor of a Haussmann-style building overlooking a quiet residential street. It had high ceilings, ornate cornices, and a thin, wrought-iron balcony that screamed Parisian. I wondered if it belonged to his family, like Clotilde’s did, but regardless, I couldn’t help thinking I’d snagged a winner.
My night with Gaston had felt like a real turning point between the tears I’d shed over Paul back in Melbourne and my reentrance into the dating game, with a gorgeous Frenchman, no less.
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