Gaston appeared behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I remained fixated on the cars zipping past below, tracing invisible lines over the city, my city.
“Ella,” he said in a husky morning voice, thick with his French accent. “Come back to bed. I don’t need to work today. There’s no point getting up early.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying to sound coquettish. “If you insist.” With that, he spun me around and kissed me wildly. After nearly a decade with the same guy, I was unaccustomed to the wild and unexpected sex that was born out of lust. I pulled away momentarily and took in the sight—Gaston standing naked in the late morning light, his bronzed shoulders tapering down to his muscular abs—before moving in for more.
Everything felt new and exciting, and after last night, a little tender and sore. Still, I rallied. I was lightheaded with pleasure and the beginning of a champagne hangover. Running back to bed with Gaston made me feel free. With Paul, I’d been aware of my faults and had been plagued by teenage hang-ups and insecurities from the beginning of our relationship. As the years went on, I began to accept and love my body for what it was—slightly thick legs, a too-long torso, and narrow shoulders—but it wasn’t until sleeping with Gaston that I finally felt sexy. I liked to think of it as the Paris effect.
The early-autumn day slipped away dreamily. After hours in bed, polishing off a bottle of rosé and finishing some leftover chocolates and mini éclairs, I thought about heading home. I was craving a shower and some decent sleep. Midnight romps were exhausting.
As I hunted for my clothes that were irresponsibly strewn about the apartment, Gaston’s phone buzzed. I found my knickers and my dress and had just started pulling them on when he said, “Join me for dinner tonight.” It was more of a command than a question, but it was sexy. I was exhilarated at the thought of going out again with the gorgeous Gaston and eating more glorious French food, but then I looked at my crumpled dress. There was no way I could respectably go out in yesterday’s clothes without hating myself.
“I should probably go home,” I said.
“But you need to come. It’s a tasting and I don’t want to go by myself,” he pleaded.
“Which restaurant?”
“Le Bistro. I’ll have you home before midnight.”
I desperately flattened my dress with my hands. “But Gaston, I have nothing to wear. Isn’t there someone else you can ask?”
“No, everyone is away,” he said. “Besides, I only want to go with you.”
I was flattered. A food critic had me lined up for two dinners in a row. Maybe my taste buds, as well as my company, had met Gaston’s standards last night. And anyway, a bistro dinner sounded fun.
After a few minutes mulling over what to do, torn between wanting to spend more time with Gaston, but also feeling exhausted and disheveled, I told him that I’d love to join him but had to go home and throw on jeans and a T-shirt first. He grumbled, saying he was hungry and that the booking was for eight.
It was 7:40.
“Oh là là,” I said, lightening the mood.
He smiled. “I have an idea. There’s a shop down on the corner of my street; let me buy you something to wear. I promise I have good taste.”
I considered the offer for at least one second before my excitement got the better of me. Two dinners, champagne, the Parisian apartment I’d always dreamed of, and now an offer to buy me clothes. Was it too early to declare my love?
“OK, pourquoi pas!” I said. “As long as you don’t mind.”
“For the dress, of course not; I’d rather you be naked, but maybe we can get something close to that. Oh, and we pronounce it pourquoi pas, you need to emphasize the pooourrr,” he said, rolling the “r” and pinching my cheeks.
Downstairs in the clothing boutique, I was eyeing a casual printed maxi dress when Gaston appeared beside me saying, “How about this one?” He pulled the dress—which could easily have been mistaken for a negligee—from a hanger and held it up to my shoulders. It was fire-engine red, extremely low cut, and also rather short. It wasn’t an article of clothing I would ever have picked out for a “casual bistro dinner,” but I figured, When in Paris, why not?
“It will look perfect on you,” Gaston whispered in my ear.
“OK,” I replied. “I’ll try it on.”
Gaston gently pushed me towards the changing room with a grin.
I stood in front of the mirror examining the girl I saw before me and was reminded of getting ready for that fateful dinner with Paul. I felt far away from that version of myself, and it was comforting; somehow the risqué dress seemed appropriate. Gaston beckoned me from behind the curtain before pulling it back and peeking in. I turned to him gingerly and asked, “It’s not too short, or low, or thin . . .?” I ran my hand self-consciously over my cheese belly.
Gaston wolf whistled in approval and walked over to the counter with his credit card. It was by far the quickest shopping trip I’d ever been on.
With my new dress on, we left the boutique and began walking quickly down the street. I noticed the air had suddenly turned fresh. Autumn was well underway and the leaves were changing color, gradually making the trees look naked. I sympathized, feeling a little exposed myself.
As if on cue, I noticed an old man sipping red wine outside a café staring at my chest. I looked down and gasped. The cold wind and my lack of a bra meant my nipples were burning into everyone’s field of vision like headlights on a dark night. I brought my arms up to cover my chest. Thankfully, Gaston was oblivious to my discomfort.
“You look incredible,” he said. “Do you see how everyone is turning to look at you?”
No wonder, I thought, I’m half-naked.
He slapped me lightly on the arse and asked me if I liked the dress.
“I love it,” I said, giving him a little kiss on the cheek.
I was already envisioning getting home and putting on sweatpants and a hoodie.
When I set eyes on the “bistro,” I was surprised. While I’d envisaged wooden tables, hearty food, and maybe a poet sandwiched in the corner writing in a Moleskine, I saw low lighting, a well-equipped open kitchen, and stools lining a fully-stocked cocktail bar.
Gaston’s choice of dress suddenly made more sense. Regardless of how naked I’d felt during the walk over, I was now grateful to be wearing the slinky nightgown; it was as though it’d come back into its natural habitat.
“This is a bistro?” I asked.
“Oh non, Ella . . . This place is called ‘Le Bistro.’ It’s very hot right now.”
As we were shown to our table, I looked around and saw that Le Bistro was home to some seriously well-dressed people, most of whom were sashaying about, chatting to one another while sipping champagne. What is this life? I asked myself.
Despite the relatively small space, the tables inside the restaurant were spread quite far apart, giving it a rather exclusive and unique feel. Normally in Paris, space was of the essence and guests were squeezed in together to make the most of every square centimeter. At Le Bistro, maximizing potential covers was obviously not a pressing concern.
A waitress recognized Gaston and came over immediately, giving him a delicate air kiss on each cheek.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” Gaston said.
“It’s a great place to be seen at the moment,” she replied, winking. “Heaps of agents and talent scouts are dining here.”
Gaston translated for me, and I looked around and noticed that the waiters were all exceptionally beautiful, most of them looking fresh out of high school. They flaunted their flawless baby skin with tight clothes and deep V necks.
Gaston introduced me to Camille, who, despite the fact that she was in Chanel ballet flats, towered over me with legs that seemed to stretch up to my neck. A pang of jealousy ripped through me.
“Hello, Camille,” I said in English, forcing my accent a little, trying to sound aloof, foreign, and cool, but com
ing off as faux-British and vocally challenged.
“Hello, so pleased to meet any friend of Gaston’s,” she replied with a perfect, posh English accent. “Let me get you some menus.” She swept away gracefully, leaving an air of mystique in her wake.
Before Gaston could tell me how he knew Camille, she came back carrying two glasses of champagne and the smallest menus I’d ever seen. I glanced at the list of dish names—all three words—delicately embossed on the paper and Camille asked us if we needed her to explain anything. I was about to tell her that my menu didn’t make any sense but Gaston replied in French and she nodded and walked away.
“I’ve ordered, OK?” he said. Again, I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.
“Of course. You’re the professional,” I said smiling.
Feeling frisky after my glass of champagne, I reached for Gaston’s leg under the table.
“Not here, Ella,” he said sharply. “Someone might see us.”
“Sorry,” I said, slinking back into my seat.
We fell into a slightly awkward silence.
Artfully presented dishes began to arrive as Gaston was wrapping up a story about the worst restaurant he’d ever reviewed. Despite my best intentions to concentrate, I couldn’t stop thinking about him naked.
Seconds later, Camille arrived by Gaston’s side, checking if we were “loving” dinner. With my mouth full, I told her that everything was delicious, and despite Gaston also reassuring her that he was happy with the food and service, she lingered, asking him how work had been lately. He replied very quickly, too quickly for me to understand. But then, I finally understood something.
“How is your modeling?” Gaston asked. I unintentionally rolled my eyes, thinking, Of course she’s a model. I should have guessed when I saw her legs.
She replied, “C’est magnifique,” and then said something I understood to mean that she’d signed with some kind of agency. Humph, I thought, readjusting the strap of my dress. Is she the reason Gaston didn’t want me touching his leg?
The food continued with a few additional dishes sent out from the kitchen, just for Gaston’s eating pleasure. Pumpkin velouté with hazelnut goat cheese foam, monkfish in a buttery and citric sauce, and duck breast in a red wine jus paired with wild asparagus. The delightfully balanced portions left me feeling satiated, but thankfully not so full as to stretch the seams of my dress.
Over a dessert of fresh raspberries, meringue, and bursts of pop rocks, I began to understand Gaston’s adoration of this style of French cooking. It was sensual and satisfying, and certainly more elevated than the croque-monsieurs I’d been eating since arriving in Paris.
I couldn’t help noticing, though, that aside from the goat cheese that had adorned the soup, there was no sign of cheese in the building, especially not in my preferred form of large hunks on a board . . . What was one meant to eat before dessert?
After dinner Gaston escorted me back to my apartment.
“Would you like to come up?” I asked. “Clotilde is still away.”
“Oh, non, non,” he said hastily. “I have to be up early tomorrow morning to get to Bordeaux for a wine tasting.”
“Ooh, how glamorous,” I said.
“Not really. It’s a pain to take the TGV early. Sometimes I wish I could just work full-time in an office.”
“No, your job is amazing,” I said.
“Sometimes.” He smiled. “It’s not always easy though.”
What’s so hard about going on a wine tasting trip? I thought to myself, but held my tongue.
“Well, thank you for the most amazing couple of days,” I said, gathering up my purse. “It’s been so—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Gaston kissed me intensely on the lips.
“Allez, ma belle,” he said, almost pushing me out of the cab. “I’ll give you a call and we can do it again some time.”
I climbed the stairs to the apartment feeling elated but also slightly confused at the same time. Was I just exhausted or had Gaston been doling out mixed signals all evening? On the one hand, he had bought me an incredibly sexy new dress, and on the other, he hadn’t wanted to come upstairs and take it off. He’d taken me to a new restaurant where he was sure to run into industry people, but then he’d brushed off my hand when I’d tried to touch his leg. Maybe it had been stupid to sleep with him on the first date . . .
For perhaps the first time in my life, I tried not to overthink things. Gaston was probably tetchy during dinner because he was on the job. Eating was his life, and if he was anything like me he must have been feeling pretty depleted from all the sex the night before. But then again, judging by the state of his abs, I’m guessing he had some kind of fitness regime sorted.
I fell asleep quickly that night despite the excitement of new romance bubbling inside me. When I set out for Paris, I never imagined that I would end up dating a food critic and dining in Paris’s hippest restaurants. I was well and truly swept up in the moment. Quel rêve!
Chapter
23
THE NEXT MORNING, FEELING REFRESHED from a good night’s sleep and full of endorphins from my recent romp, I got out of the house early for a walk around the Marais. I stopped for coffee and breakfast and as I sat, elbows deep in a flaky croissant, I heard my phone ringing in my bag.
Could it be Gaston again? So soon? I wondered, wiping my hands on my jeans and distributing crumbs over all my belongings. I didn’t recognize the number but still remained hopeful.
“Oui, bonjour,” I said.
“Hello, is this Ella?” a man asked in a heavy Scottish accent.
Did I know any Scotsmen?
“Yes, this is Ella.”
“Ah, perfect, this is Tim from Food To Go Go.” He sounded flustered. Car horns were blaring in the background. It took me a second to recognize the name of the app where Clotilde also worked.
“Hi . . .” I said, trying to piece together what was going on.
“You’re the writer, correct?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I can write, but I’ve been working in publishing,” I admitted, having a vague recollection of Clotilde telling me her boss was hoping to expand the team.
“But you’re the one with the cheese Instagram, yes?” he asked.
“I am,” I said, trying to hide my surprise that he knew about the account.
“Great, that’ll do. We need someone to write our social media content. We’re trying to flesh out the app to help with a new round of funding applications.”
Oh God, funding for an app. This sounds familiar, I thought, having a flashback to the awkward share house interview I’d gone to just after arriving in Paris. I wasn’t quite sure if I was cool enough for this, but still, it was a proper job. Not that I didn’t love washing dishes at Flat White.
“Can you start next week?” he asked, interrupting my train of thought.
“Shouldn’t we have an interview first?” I asked, before kicking myself.
“Ah, I guess. Why don’t you come by the office tomorrow?”
“OK, sure,” I said.
What the hell just happened? I thought, hanging up and feeling perplexed. Did I just get another job?
I assumed Clotilde must have suggested me for the role after our chat at the picnic on the Seine when Billie had been visiting; she’d just forgotten to mention it to me. She’d been away for the past few days on a midweek getaway in Ibiza, which was perhaps why it had slipped her mind.
I ordered another coffee to help me concentrate and formulate a plan. My empty day ahead had just gotten busy. I’d need to figure out what Clotilde had already told Tim about me—although given the posts I’d seen of her dancing at sunrise this morning, I could assume that getting ahold of her might prove troublesome. I also needed to shop. But what to wear to a meeting—or was it an interview?—at a start-up?
Feeling overwhelmed, I decided to call Mum. I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple months—we’
d mostly been emailing—and our last call had ended abruptly. I planned to tell her about my meeting with Tim tomorrow, but also, more selfishly, I was desperate to talk to someone about my gorgeous new Frenchman. I knew it was too early for declarations of love, but I could at least let Mum think I was getting serious about someone; she didn’t need to know that Gaston and I had only been on a couple of dates. I also thought that by telling her about my new romance, it’d help her—and maybe me on some subconscious level—believe that I was truly over Paul.
“Isn’t it too soon? Poor Paul . . .” was the first thing she said when I told her.
I instantly regretted calling.
“Mum, it’s been months. And once again, to reiterate the painful truth, Paul was the one who decided to leave me.”
“But he was so nice, so dependable.” There was an indulgent dash of melancholy in her voice. She still somehow thought we were perfect together.
“I know how you felt about him,” I snapped. “Perhaps you should call him for a chat. See how he’s getting along now that he’s found himself.”
She ignored my suggestion. “So who is this new man, then? Where did you two meet?” she asked.
I told her about the coffee shop run-in and then our most recent dates.
“Your housemate’s cousin? That seems like a bad idea, Ella. Even for you,” she scolded.
“God, Mum. What is that supposed to mean? Can’t you just be happy for me?”
“Of course I am happy for you, darling, but I don’t want you rushing into anything. I don’t want you doing something that you can’t take back.”
Too late for that, I thought.
“Anyway, Mum. Enough about men, I have a job interview tomorrow morning.”
“What is it this time? Babysitting?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes. Her disapproval of me leaving my job in Melbourne to come and wash dishes in Paris seeped through the phone line and I had to stop myself from hanging up.
Fromage a Trois Page 15