Fromage a Trois

by Brownlee, Victoria

  “No, a proper job. Writing the social media content for a new food app here,” I said.

  “Well, I guess it’s a step up from the café.”

  “Don’t simplify things, Mum,” I said.

  “Why? Because you can never do anything simply?”

  She really had a knack for rubbing me the wrong way. I hated fighting during one of our infrequent phone calls so I took a calming breath and said in a bright voice, “So what’s this plan you have for Christmas, then?”

  “Well, I was going to surprise you with some good news, but seeing as you can’t seem to wait for anything these days . . .” She paused. “I’m coming to visit you!”

  “Oh, good,” I said, not really taking in the weight of what she was saying.

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “Of course I’m excited,” I said, still trying to shake my frustration from the Paul/Gaston/job conversation. My mum was coming to Paris to see me. This was wonderful news. “I can’t wait to show you my life. And take you around Paris. There are so many great things we can do—” I was about to start listing all the attractions but Mum cut me off.

  “Well, if you’re planning on booking anything make sure you get three tickets because I’m coming with Ray.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and I had to take a moment to decipher what she was telling me.

  “Who’s Ray?” I asked cautiously.

  “You know Ray, from down the street.”

  “No, I don’t know Ray from down the street.”

  “You met him once when he was doing the whipper-snipper thingy in my garden.”

  “Oh, Ray Ray!” I exclaimed, the memory of our dorky neighbor springing to mind. His head full of shaggy, graying hair popping up over our fence before his lumbering limbs came into view. Oddly, no matter the weather, I’d only ever seen him wearing flannel shirts.

  This was a very weird development indeed.

  “Why would you be coming to Paris with Ray? Some kind of charity project?”

  “Ella, don’t be a brat! I’m coming to Paris with Ray because I want you to meet him,” she said plainly.

  “I have met him, and I certainly didn’t take him for much of a traveler. Anyway, wouldn’t you prefer some mother-daughter time, just the two of us?”

  “Ella, there’s something I should tell you.”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Ray and I are engaged.”

  I dropped my phone.

  “What was that noise, Ella? Are you OK?”

  “Sorry, my phone slipped. You’re engaged?”

  “That’s what I said. Maybe if you try listening—”

  “Oh no, Mum. I heard. Now who’s moving too fast?” I asked, more viciously than I intended.

  “We’ve been seeing each other for nearly a year, darling. You’ve just been too busy changing boyfriends and moving overseas to notice. You never ask about my life anymore. Anyway, it’s important to me that you get to know Ray before the wedding.”

  “The wedding . . . ?” I asked, half yelping.

  I was trying to process what was going on. I was in shock. Mum is getting married!

  “Well, congratulations,” I said, trying not to come off as a narcissistic only child.

  “He’s very funny when you get to know him,” she said lightly.

  “I’m sure.”

  “And he’s been very supportive since you left me all alone.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “He’s very good for me, Ella.”

  I’d already started to feel sorry for myself—it’d no longer be just Mum and me. Now it would be us, plus whipper-snipper Ray from down the street. I felt teary.

  “I’ve got to go, Mum,” I said. “I’ll call you next week.”

  Whenever I’d traveled overseas before, I’d been amazed at how much life back home hadn’t changed while I’d been away. My friends would mostly remain the same and our relationships would fall back into place as soon as we were back together. Any news they had was almost always predictable: someone got engaged, there was a baby on the way, etc., etc. Most of these developments could be spotted a mile off, which was comforting. What wasn’t comforting, and what I hadn’t been prepared for, was a change so big that it reminded me that I was far away in a foreign country. I didn’t even know Mum was seeing anyone, let alone planning a wedding. I wasn’t ready for this bombshell, or for the guilt that accompanied it. Am I a terrible daughter? I wondered.

  I desperately wanted to tell someone the news and ask if what I was feeling was normal, but I had to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Tim. I didn’t have time for any indulgent emotional introspection. I put all thoughts of getting a new stepfather aside for the time being. Clotilde was getting back late the following evening, so discussions about my family, and her family—namely about my recent sex-capade with her cousin—would have to wait until then.

  The next morning, I was still finding it hard to believe that I was going for my second job interview in Paris. Me, with potentially two jobs in a city where I hardly speak the language! Granted, it really hadn’t been that difficult to get the first job—terrible coffee-making trial aside—and the second, which sounded a lot more stimulating than washing dishes, seemed to have fallen into my lap.

  Tim and I met outside the office and we walked to a café a few doors down. He was tall with red hair, wearing dark pants and a somewhat creased shirt. For once, I felt like I was appropriately dressed for an interview in my new—heavily-discounted—black pencil skirt and green blouse, which I had picked up on sale at Zara the previous day.

  Once we sat with espressos in hand, Tim asked about my publishing experience and arts degree. He was from Glasgow and spoke frantically, fast and loud. I worked hard to keep up with him. He seemed to me like a good-time guy who had recently decided to get serious about work. Either that or he’d had a great idea for an app that had suddenly taken off and had forced him to become a responsible adult. He explained the Food To Go Go concept—a carefully-curated food delivery app—and told me about the current team, and lastly, about the pay, which was terrible. Currently, they could only afford to hire me for two days a week, but he hoped funding would come through so they could move the role full-time. He explained that the job was straightforward: managing the social media accounts and writing content for new listings, weekly promotions, and newsletters.

  “It’s not rocket science,” he said. “I just need someone who’ll fit in well with the team. And who can start immediately . . .”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  And with that, the “formal” part of the interview was apparently over and Tim asked me the dreaded, “So why did you move to Paris?”

  This time, thanks to Chris, I came prepared—although I’d tweaked it slightly to brush over the advice-giving slice of Comté. “Well, I felt bogged down by life back home. I enjoyed my job, but felt like it wasn’t moving fast enough,” I launched into my rehearsed spiel. “Life in Australia seems to move much slower, you know? I wanted to come to Europe and be inspired. I wanted to try new things, which is how I ended up in the café.”

  I was surprised how easily all of this rolled off the tongue. “And now I’m aiming to try every type of cheese in France, with the help of a cheese man in the Marais,” I ad-libbed. Why of all times should I start talking about Serge now? I wondered.

  “Ah, so that’s the story behind the Instagram account. It has quite the cult following in our office, you know?” Tim said.

  I blushed, knowing that Clotilde had most likely strong-armed all her colleagues into following it.

  “In any case, it sounds like quite the undertaking. You know France has more cheese than there are days in the year?” he continued.

  How was this common knowledge to everyone except me? I lamented.

  “I do now,” I replied. “But lucky for me, this brilliant cheese seller is guiding me through the list.”

  “Well,
you must have some serious stamina,” he said.

  “I guess I do . . . And what brought you to Paris?” I asked, eager to turn the focus off me.

  “My girlfriend is Parisian. We’re expecting a baby this winter,” he said with a smile, and I wondered if the rush for funding had anything to do with supporting his new family.

  “Sounds like you have stamina too, then,” I said, and he laughed. I was pleased to be making a good first impression.

  “So you can start first thing next week?” he asked suddenly, getting out his wallet to pay for our espressos.

  “Of course. Whatever you need. I’m at the café Saturday and Sunday, and other than cheese eating, I’m totally free.”

  “Done. See you Monday.”

  I skipped down the road beaming. Here I was, in Paris, with two jobs, a cheese guy, a great apartment, and a dreamy French love interest. I crossed my fingers and hoped that my run of fabulous luck would continue.

  Chapter

  24

  I DIDN’T HEAR CLOTILDE ARRIVE home late that evening but the following morning, I spotted a note from her on the counter.

  Ella, I hope you’ve had a nice week. I didn’t want to wake you, but we need to talk. I’ll meet you at Le Progrès at 6. C xx

  I wasn’t sure if she’d spoken to Gaston since our date. Merde! Does she know? Is she pissed off?

  I spent the day at Flat White feeling nervous. Where I’d been euphoric about my prospects a few hours earlier, Clotilde’s note had sparked an overwhelming sense of uneasiness in me that sent my anxiety spiraling. I threw myself into scrubbing dishes like it was the most important thing in the world and I soon lost count of how many times I’d replayed my sleepover at Gaston’s in my head.

  I was exhausted at the end of my shift and I bided my time waiting for Clotilde with a glass of white wine, staring at the people passing by and worrying what she might say.

  Half an hour later, she arrived, shimmying into a seat, her arms laden with shopping bags. She looked bronzed and relaxed from her sojourn in Ibiza; the beachside lifestyle suited her well.

  “What did you buy?” I exclaimed. “Or what didn’t you buy?”

  “Oh, just a few little things.” She looked at the bags and laughed. I laughed too, more out of relief that she didn’t seem angry with me. “Perhaps I got more than I should have. But I just got paid for a shoot and had some spare cash I felt like burning.”

  “Cool, who was the shoot for?” I asked. She was always shy about her modeling, brushing off my questions or saying it was “dull” whenever I asked, leaving me to wonder what was boring about being a model in Paris. This time, she countered my question with one of her own: “So, what happened while I was away? Tell me everything.”

  “Well, you somehow managed to get me a job at Food To Go Go,” I said.

  “Tim gave you the job?” she shrieked excitedly. “We’re going to be colleagues!”

  “Yes, it was quite out of the blue,” I replied.

  Clotilde looked sheepish. “I’m so sorry I forgot to mention it.”

  “No worries. I’m guessing you must have put in quite a good word for me. He wasn’t even going to bother with an interview.”

  “Yeah, he’s a little manic, our Tim, but he’s a great boss. You’ll love working with us . . .” She paused. “And now, any other dates you want to mention?”

  I tried to stifle the grin that was spreading across my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to date at the moment, but when Gaston called to ask if you were coming to Ibiza, I had a feeling he was planning something.”

  Oh dear, I wonder what else she knows!

  “And you had fun?” she asked.

  “Have you spoken with him?” I cut in.

  “No, only before I went away. Why?”

  Since my date with Gaston, I’d been desperate to dissect the night in detail like I would have done with my friends back home, and knowing that Clotilde hadn’t already heard his version of events encouraged me.

  I’d spoken to Chris about the date earlier in the day, telling him about how Gaston had been a little hot and cold with me over the two dinners; I’d blushed when he had me reenact the foot-up-the-dress moment and had agonized over Gaston brushing my hand away on the second night. And all I’d gotten in return was, “Welcome to Paris, newbie. Love ain’t all shared bank accounts and brunches here,” before he tried to convince me that I’d learn to love these feelings of uncertainty and excitement that came with dating the French. “Why do you think I persist?” he’d asked. I figured that it must be easier for guys to play the dating game here, especially laid-back ones like Chris.

  Clotilde, on the other hand, was begging for details . . . I launched into a description of the restaurant and the food on the first date, but she cut me off.

  “Yes, yes, yes. I’ve been there. The food was good but it’s a bit pretentious, non? Can you just skip to what happened après dinner? Gaston will not tell me anything, but knowing my cousin like I do, I’m sure that something must have happened. Spill the beans, ma belle.”

  “What do you mean, ‘knowing my cousin’?” I asked, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

  “Oh, you know what I mean, Ella. Boys will be boys. So?”

  “Well, he took me back to his place.”

  “Ooh,” Clotilde said. “And?”

  “And I don’t kiss and tell,” I told her with a grin, despite an internal worry that perhaps the encounter hadn’t been as special in Gaston’s eyes.

  Before I had the chance to ask Clotilde more about her cousin’s playboy reputation, she said, “Let’s go get some cheese. After a week of eating seafood and fruit, I’m craving something gooey.”

  I didn’t need much convincing. A short time later we were walking into Serge’s.

  “Bonsoir, mesdames,” he sang out as we walked through the door. “Ella, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  It’d only been a week since I’d last been in. And I had been eating cheese, just not from his shop. I’d actually been a little too busy, what with my jumping into bed with a hot Frenchman and all, but I wasn’t about to divulge that detail.

  “I thought perhaps you didn’t want any more cheese. But maybe you’re just finally ready for our dinner?” he added.

  “Oh, I’ve been out of town. In Ibiza with Clotilde,” I lied, motioning to Clotilde, who raised an eyebrow.

  Why did I just lie?

  “Clotilde and I live together,” I said by way of introduction. “Clotilde, Serge is the owner of Paris’s best cheese shop.”

  “Enchanté,” they both said in unison. If it weren’t for the smell of the cheese to remind me I was in France, their politeness certainly would have done it.

  Clotilde made quick work of ordering a log of Sainte-Maure, the lightly barnyard-smelling goat cheese from the Loire that I’d also come to love, especially coupled with fresh figs or honey. The girl knew what she wanted.

  “What else should we get?” she asked me, scanning the cabinet.

  “Ella, there is something you must try,” Serge interrupted. “I know how much you love blue cheese.” I nodded in agreement but immediately felt apprehensive. Serge’s blue recommendations were always quite intense.

  “Well, you’re in for a treat,” he said. “This Bleu de Corse recently arrived. It’s from La Corse, you know the island off the south of France? I’ll wrap some up for you—on the house. You can tell me how much you enjoyed it next time you come in.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that Serge’s accent seemed to have gotten stronger—and slightly more adorable—over the past week. But I was getting distracted. I made a concerted effort to listen more closely to what he was saying.

  “It tastes a lot like sheep’s wool might, if you ate it. It’s very delicious!”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, unconvinced.

  “Mais oui, especially with
a glass of rosé.”

  He turned to Clotilde, asking her in French if she’d sampled it before.

  “Oui, oui, je l’adore,” she almost sang in reply, playing up her Frenchness. She went on to say that it was super strong, shaking her fist and scrunching up her eyes in effort, looking more like a hiker reaching a mountain’s summit than someone buying cheese.

  “Your friend has good taste,” Serge said. “Nearly as good as yours, Ella. At least when you’re not posting pictures of cheese on the Internet.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, did I tell you I got a new job, Serge?” I interrupted. “I’m going to be writing the social media content for a start-up.”

  He looked at me, confused. “Tell me this doesn’t mean more pictures of cheese,” he said, sighing.

  “It’s a food delivery app, so not just pictures of cheese, but all food,” I explained.

  “And someone will pay you for this?” he asked quizzically.

  “They sure will,” I replied, still surprised myself at how lucky I was.

  He looked at me sideways, probably trying to figure out how he could get me out of his shop, but instead he said, “Well, I hope you’ll still find time to visit your old friend Serge.”

  “Don’t worry, the new office isn’t far away,” I assured him.

  “He likes you,” Clotilde said as soon as we’d walked out.

  “Who? Gaston?” I asked, picking up our conversation from before we’d entered the cheese shop. “Did he tell you that?” I heard desperation in my voice and it wasn’t becoming.

  “No . . . the cheese guy.”

  Serge? What would make her think that?

  “He’s just a friend. He recommends good cheese for me to buy. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “He flirts with you,” she said.

  “He probably just wants to keep me coming back,” I told her. “I must be one of his most profitable customers. And anyway, he’s sort of giving me an education in fromage.”

  “Ah, so it’s just about the cheese. My bad.” She held up her hands in mock surrender.

  “Seriously, there’s nothing going on between us. Serge isn’t really my type.”