Fromage a Trois

by Brownlee, Victoria

  Chapter

  26

  MUM AND RAY FLEW IN on the 23rd of December but I was struggling to get into the festive spirit. In Australia, I would have been enjoying the lead up to Christmas at the beach, but instead I was shopping for a small, overpriced tree in my scarf, coat, and gloves. The weather I’d found to be chilly in autumn was now beginning to look mild in comparison. It was safe to say I was still figuring out how to navigate the low temperatures of a European winter.

  Paris had become increasingly lonely the week before Christmas, as people left the city heading to their family homes or on holidays to somewhere warmer. Clotilde had wisely gone to Thailand with her dad for a couple of weeks, and Gaston had gone to his friend’s house in Nice. Work colleagues were dropping off the radar and I was left counting down the hours until Mum and Ray arrived.

  On their first day, we walked all over Paris. We started locally, where I showed them my fruit-and-vegetable market and took them to Flat White for a coffee. Then we strolled past the Louvre, through Tuileries Garden, and down to the Champs-Élysées, which had been transformed into a village of little wooden chalets selling gingerbread, hot wine, and Christmas trinkets. As the hours whipped by, I watched Ray carefully, trying to get a better sense of the man my mum would soon marry.

  When I’d met them at the airport, they’d walked out of the arrivals gate, hand-in-hand. For some incomprehensible reason, Ray was wearing a beret in addition to his standard flannel shirt. Oh dear! He’d stood awkwardly off to the side while Mum threw down her luggage to pull me into a massive hug. But after she had reintroduced us, he’d said, “Come here, lovie,” and bundled me up in his arms. His strong Australian accent rang in my ears as I wriggled out of his embrace and shuffled them outside to the cab rank.

  Ray bumbled about Paris like a child, full of wonder and amazement, looking at everyone and everything with fresh eyes. He marveled at the efficient metro system, stopped for Nutella crepes what felt like once an hour, and made Mum and me pose in front of every monument while he snapped pictures with a disposable camera. This man is almost too much, I thought to myself, wondering where he could have even purchased such a relic.

  “So how are things going? You both seem happy,” I told Mum later while Ray had gallantly set off to order us another round of mulled wine—a drink he’d started referring to as “bloody genius” since discovering it that afternoon.

  “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” she said.

  “I really don’t know him that well,” I told her.

  “But you will. He’s so kind and generous. I’m so happy you’ll get to spend some quality time with him.”

  “Me too,” I told her, although I still couldn’t help wishing I could have had Mum to myself this Christmas.

  After a day of walking and sight-seeing, Mum and Ray were hit by a wave of jet lag. I started steering them towards home, conveniently planning a route that would take us via Serge’s shop. I suggested we pick up some cheese for dinner.

  “What a cracker of an idea,” Ray said, as if we were the first tourists to ever think of it.

  “This is my local cheese shop,” I said, probably with more excitement than I had when introducing the Louvre.

  It was funny watching Mum and Ray stand at Serge’s window ogling the cheese on display, just as I had months earlier. I pushed them through the door and out of the cold.

  “Mum, Ray, this is Serge. Owner of my favorite fromagerie in Paris.”

  “Enchanté!” Serge said, shaking both their hands over the counter.

  I pointed out to Mum what I had planned to get for our Christmas dinner. Like many French families, we were going to feast on the 24th. I’d already ordered my traditional yule log for dessert and had paid through the teeth for some foie gras. I was also planning on roasting a turkey, but had a freezer full of Picard meals just in case.

  The men made their way to the front of the store so Serge could show Ray the selection of truffle cheeses he’d gotten in for the festive season. I felt mortified as I overheard Ray asking whether it was safe to eat moldy cheese, but Serge, used to foreigners, took his time explaining the intricacies of French fromage in unrelenting detail. Surprisingly, their rapport was immediate; two old souls agreeing like bread and cheese.

  Mum too seemed completely charmed by Serge’s shop and kept adding to our already-large order.

  “Mum, I think that’s probably enough for the next couple of days. Don’t forget there’s only three of us.”

  “Darling, we’re only in Paris for Christmas this once. Why not indulge?” she said, which felt out of character. She was getting swept up in the excitement of cheese shopping and I couldn’t help but grin and wrap my arm around her.

  But then Ray opened his mouth and suddenly things started moving in slow motion. “Serge, mate, why don’t you come ’round for Chrissy dinner?” he asked hopefully. “You can give us a hand getting through all this cheese.”

  I froze.

  “Oh, what a lovely idea,” Mum chipped in.

  “I’m sure Serge has plans already,” I said hastily.

  “Actually, I’m not heading to my friends’ place in the Loire until Christmas morning, and I’ll be working late on Christmas Eve,” he said, looking at me quizzically, as if trying to read my reaction to the invitation. I gave him a guarded smile.

  “I’d love an Australian-style dinner,” he added, “as long as that’s OK with you, Ella.”

  His response hung in the air for a few seconds before I was forced to say that he was more than welcome to join us.

  “Parfait!” he said with a smile.

  “Bloody parfay,” Ray mimicked, and the two men shook hands jovially.

  I wasn’t sure how comfortable I felt about Serge joining us for such an intimate celebration, but I tried to go with the flow. I gave him my address and convinced him not to bring any more cheese.

  “And how did you meet Serge?” Mum asked as we left the store.

  “In the fromagerie.”

  “You didn’t know him before? Outside of the cheese shop?”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t know anyone in Paris when I arrived.”

  “How much cheese are you actually eating these days, Ella?” She sounded concerned, but I wasn’t having any of it.

  “Actually, it’s a funny story,” I told her. “One I’ll tell you tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.”

  Similar to how I’d felt with Billie, I was reluctant to tell Mum about the cheese challenge, worrying she’d think it was futile, or that I was wasting my time in France on a gluttonous mission. Perhaps it would be easier to explain the stakes of the bet after dinner with Serge. The way both Mum and Ray spoke of him made it seem like he was the best thing they’d seen in Paris all day. Thankfully, after a quick bite, their exhaustion took over and they were in bed early, leaving me to continue planning our Christmas dinner. With Serge coming over, I felt an increased pressure to cook a wonderful meal. The turkey would have to triumph!

  I spent Christmas Eve rushing between the supermarket and the apartment, doing dishes and frantically consulting recipes online. Mum kept offering to help, but every time she came into the kitchen, Ray would follow her and I’d end up shooing both of them out. I sent them on a long walk down to the river so I could concentrate.

  Serge arrived right on time.

  Out of his work apron, he looked dapper, dressed in a well-ironed white shirt and a sweet, floppy, green-and-red bow tie. And was that a haircut I noticed? He was bearing a bouquet of Christmas lilies, two bottles of champagne, and what I could only assume was a large wheel of cheese.

  “Serge,” I said when he handed it to me, “you were meant to help us eat the cheese, not bring more!” I ushered him in and busied myself putting the flowers in a vase, feeling a little embarrassed at his gifts. Luckily, Mum broke the tension and got straight to opening the champagne and handing out glasses. Ray joined us for a cheers, took one sip, and then cra
cked open a beer.

  I took a few quick sips myself to help ease any awkwardness that could arise from putting Mum, my stepfather-to-be, and my cheesemonger together for Christmas dinner and went to check on the state of the turkey. Surprisingly, dinner was turning out to be the least of my concerns.

  “So, tell us what you think of our Ella?” I overheard Ray ask Serge.

  Merde, I thought. Ray can’t be left alone out there.

  I took a large gulp of champagne and sung out for Ray to come and help me in the kitchen.

  Thankfully, dinner was mostly a success. Despite the turkey having dried out a little, it was masked by the plentiful gravy and I somehow managed to whip up the most delicious mashed potato accompaniment with the help of an unhealthy dose of French butter.

  I assembled the cheese board in the kitchen, making sure Serge didn’t see me snapping tens of photos of the decadent collection. It was by far the most cheese I’d had in a single sitting and it looked damn fine.

  “So Ella, you were going to tell me why you eat so much cheese?” Mum asked as I returned with the board.

  “Ah . . .” I stalled. I’d forgotten she didn’t know about the cheese bet and now I was going to have to divulge the details in front of the man himself.

  “Well, I’m trying to eat a different French cheese for every day of the year,” I said quickly, avoiding going into too much detail.

  Serge nodded along supportively.

  “Why?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “Why not? It’s cheese after all.” I blushed and looked at Serge.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re having fun in France, but . . .”

  Shit, here comes the but . . .

  “But, has it all been worth giving up your stable life in Melbourne for?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation.

  “Well, your gap year is half over, Ella. It’s time to start thinking about what comes next. You’re not going to stay in France forever.”

  “No, perhaps not, but I’m here now so I may as well enjoy myself,” I said heartily, trying to break the tension and get back to enjoying the rest of dinner.

  But Mum hadn’t finished. She went on to say she was still surprised I would give up my life in Melbourne to come to Paris and wash dishes in a café. She was also upset that I’d burned through my savings. She didn’t even seem impressed by my cheese eating.

  “Well, I hope you won’t mind me saying ‘I told you so’ when you’re back in Australia without a job, any money, or a boyfriend.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I said. I knew she meant well, but she’d been dismissive of my life in Paris ever since I’d moved here and I was tired of having to defend it.

  Unexpectedly, Ray interrupted Mum’s rant and told me that what I had achieved since arriving in France was admirable. “What an adventure,” he said, squeezing Mum’s hand.

  “Thanks, Ray,” I said. “I’m glad one of you gets it.”

  “You’ve got the rest of your life for hard yakka, Ella. May as well go on adventures while you’re young,” Ray added. “I’d never even left Australia until now. And look at everything I’ve missed out on.”

  Before I had a chance to feel sorry for him, Mum interrupted saying, “She’s not that young anymore,” motioning at me with her head.

  “Hey! I’m sitting right here,” I said, again trying to lighten the mood.

  “At her age, I already had a two-year-old,” Mum said.

  “Yeah, but I reckon it’s different for kids now. They’re taking their time figuring life out,” Ray said.

  “Maybe. But Ella can’t just up and run away from her life in Australia. Leave us all behind,” Mum replied. Exhaustion and too much Christmas cheer had clearly caught up with her.

  I shot an embarrassed look at Serge who was closely examining his hands.

  We fell into an uncomfortable silence, looking at the cheese board in front of us.

  But then Serge cleared his throat. “I agree with Ray. What Ella is doing in Paris is wonderful. It’s not easy to find a job here with all the unemployment, and she has two jobs. And she is becoming nearly an expert in cheese. This is très important in France.”

  Mum looked surprised as Serge continued to justify my life here. “If you can understand France’s love for cheese, you can actually understand a lot about the French psyche.”

  What I’d been unable to put into words, he was able to express succinctly, even in a foreign language. I gave him a relieved smile that I hoped conveyed how grateful I was. He is full of surprises, this man!

  Mum huffed off to the bathroom and thankfully, when she came back, she’d calmed down a little. We finally dove into the cheese after Serge enthusiastically explained the different varieties. All seemed well again.

  Miraculously, the rest of dinner passed without another scene, and Mum headed off to bed early, saying she was unable to keep her eyes open any longer.

  I went to make Serge a coffee and Ray caught up with me in the kitchen.

  “Don’t you worry about your mum, love,” he said, as he reached into the basin to wash the wine glasses and champagne flutes with his big, gardening-calloused hands.

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” I said defensively. “I just don’t get why she’s so judgmental of my life here.”

  Ray was silent for a moment, as if trying to figure out how to respond.

  “I think sometimes she worries that you’ll pull up stumps like your old man did. You know, leaving behind those you love when the opportunity for something more exciting comes along.”

  And then the penny dropped. It had never crossed my mind that Mum worried about me leaving her like my dad had. I was surprised Ray knew so much about it, knowing that Mum didn’t open up about him easily.

  “Oh. Of course,” I said in reply.

  “She thinks you’re a good egg, you know,” he said after a few moments.

  “I know,” I said.

  “I do too,” he added.

  “Thanks, Ray,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two young’uns to it,” he said, making his way to say good-night to Serge and thank him for all the cheese.

  I took the coffee pot, two cups, and a bottle of brandy back to the living room. Thankfully, our festive consumption of wine during dinner made it feel completely normal to be having a nightcap with my cheesemonger in my apartment.

  “Is everything OK, Ella?” he asked as I sat down next to him on the sofa.

  “Oh sure, Christmas is a time for arguing with family, right?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to, but I remember it well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” I said.

  “No, it’s OK. I’m an only child and my parents have both died. That’s the problem with small families. But I’m lucky: I have good friends—although at the moment they’re all having babies and leaving Paris for the countryside.”

  “Friends are the family we get to choose,” I offered.

  “What a wonderful thought,” Serge said, as though I was the first person to ever put this idea into words.

  “It sounds like your mother has really missed you in Australia,” he added.

  “And I miss her, but I’m only here for one year and I want to make the most of it. I don’t need to be judged for the decisions I make.”

  “You’re only here for one year?” Serge sounded surprised, sitting up straight.

  “Yep, I’m on a one-year visa.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Paris suits you,” he said, and then leaned back into the sofa.

  I took a large sip of brandy, basking in the thought of becoming a Parisienne.

  “Perhaps you’ll find a reason to stay a little longer,” he added with a cheeky grin.

  “Well, fingers crossed,” I said, thinking briefly of Gaston before wondering what Serge thought that reason
might be.

  By the time Serge left, it was after midnight and I was beginning to feel jet-lagged myself. He wished me a happy Christmas and kissed me good-bye on both cheeks while gently holding my shoulders. His woolen coat was soft with wear, and under the glow of the Christmas lights in my apartment, I could have snuggled into it for hours. When we separated, he hovered a moment, as though he was about to say something.

  Worrying what that might be, I quickly thanked him for coming and wished him an equally happy Christmas, telling him that I’d see him at the fromagerie soon.

  Despite feeling exhausted, I couldn’t sleep. I was spiraling into confusion over what Ray had said. I was shocked that Mum could even equate me leaving Australia to my dad abandoning us when he moved back to America. My intentions were nothing like my father’s. I hadn’t been trying to escape responsibility; rather I had an idiot of a boyfriend who left me to go and “find himself.” If anything, I was the opposite of my dad. I’d tried to settle down and make a life with Paul, and he’d left me.

  Although Ray had been careful when mentioning Dad, I wondered if Mum had told him everything. Knowing how private she was on the subject, I figured that Ray had probably had to piece together a lot of what had happened before he whipper-snippered his way onto the scene. Perhaps he wasn’t the simpleton I’d initially taken him for.

  The next morning, things were a little awkward between Mum and me.

  “You know I’ll be home next year,” I said, pouring everyone large bowls of coffee.

  “Ella, I know you’re enjoying yourself here and I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you to think that running off overseas in the pursuit of pleasure is the responsible thing to do at your age. I mean, just look at your cheese thing. It all seems a little ridiculous,” she said, not quite letting her disappointment in me go.

  “Relax, Mum, my visa is only for a year. I’ll be back in Melbourne and settled down before you know it. Unless, of course, I find a gorgeous Frenchman to marry . . .” I said, somewhat jokingly. An image of Gaston and me walking through a flurry of confetti flashed into my mind but I pushed it away; it was definitely too soon to start hoping for a proposal.