Fromage a Trois

by Brownlee, Victoria

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ella. You’re not going to marry a Frenchman,” Mum scolded.

  “Well, moving to Paris has been one of the best things I could have done,” I told her honestly.

  “Just don’t get too comfortable here. You can’t run away from your problems forever. It’s painful for those you leave behind.”

  I hugged her and reinforced, for what felt like the millionth time, that I’d be home before she knew it. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to disappear into some artist commune here,” I said hesitantly, worried to overstep my mark.

  “I know, Ella darling. I know.”

  Mum and Ray flew out a few days after New Year’s, arm-in-arm, content to be going home to sunshine and warmer weather. I waved them off at Charles de Gaulle airport, wishing them a safe journey and thinking to myself that I’d actually come to quite like Ray. He was reliable and sturdy and seemed to have found a place in my mother’s heart. I felt confident they’d be happy together and quietly hoped that by having Ray to focus on, Mum wouldn’t have time to hassle me about coming home.

  On the metro back into Paris, I scrolled through my phone looking at old messages from Gaston. I’d texted him a few times over the Christmas period but hadn’t heard much back, apart from him telling me he was looking forward to getting back to Paris and seeing me. I was so excited to see where things would go with him this coming year and I couldn’t wait until he was home. I wanted to message him again but I also didn’t want to appear desperate—although I couldn’t have been more so—so I opened Instagram to distract myself with other people’s happy holiday photos.

  I looked at my own feed, showing the amazing cheese plate we’d put together for our Christmas Eve dinner. I thought about Serge and wondered if he was enjoying his break with his friends in the Loire. It was strange imagining him outside of Paris. He’d been so sweet and sincere when we were chatting after Mum and Ray had gone to bed, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d stood up for me in front of my mother.

  I was really looking forward to spending more time with him in the fromagerie. Or maybe now that we’d transitioned to being friends who saw each other outside of the cheese shop, he’d be in my life even more. The thought cheered me greatly.

  Chapter

  27

  THE WEEKS FOLLOWING CHRISTMAS AND New Year’s Eve were a blizzard of activity. Thankfully, I had been mostly too caught up with work, eating cheese, and sleeping with Gaston to notice how seriously cold it had become in Paris. Even on the occasions I was aware of my nose and toes going numb I didn’t mind, as I was preparing mentally and physically for my inaugural French ski trip.

  Gaston had invited me to spend a few nights in a lodge that he co-owned with some friends—because of course he owns a ski lodge—and I’d leaped at the offer. I was beyond excited to see the imposing Alps, throw snowballs, and flounce around the chalets. The fact that I hadn’t hit the slopes since a school camp when I was sixteen—and on the much smaller mountains of Australia—didn’t cross my mind until Clotilde asked me if it even snowed Down Under.

  Gaston and I arrived at the lodge late on a Friday night after taking the fast train to Lyon and driving a hired car through the evening fog. It’d been a long day’s commute, and despite my best intentions to have rampant sex all night on a bearskin rug in the dappled light of a crackling fire, we had crumpled onto the couches, pumped the small foot heater, and fallen asleep following a quick glass of wine.

  The next morning, after marveling at the wash of fresh snow from Gaston’s balcony and picturing myself as a veritable ice-queen in my very own whitewashed tower, I was up the mountain with my winter gear on and my skis and poles scattered around me. The blissful feeling of the cozy lodge had gone and I was clearly out of my comfort zone.

  We were halfway down a particularly long piste somewhere in Chamonix, surrounded by epic scenery, and I was too distraught to pay attention to anything but the terrifying path ahead.

  When Gaston had asked me if I was a good skier, I’d boasted that of course I was. I didn’t want to lose face in front of my new beau; and from memory, I’d been good enough at navigating the slopes when I was in my teens. But now, a few years on and maybe a few kilos heavier, my internal satnav seemed to be malfunctioning and I couldn’t seem to coordinate standing up and turning my skis at the same time.

  Seconds after tumbling out of the chairlift and landing rear-first in the snow, I was on the brink of my very first ski-holiday breakdown. By my tenth fall—after only managing to successfully move about fifty meters beyond the chairlift—I was ready to pack it all in and retreat to the lodge where I could lick my wounds.

  “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, Gaston. I’m not cut out for this.” I looked at him, tears welling in my eyes. I tried to hold them back, but that all-too-familiar ball of anxiety in my throat wasn’t diminishing. I felt like a kid with a grazed knee in need of a hug. Instead, Gaston looked at me, rather bemused, as he tried to explain—again—how to snow plough and turn. While I understood in concept what he meant, aided by his wild hand movements and dramatic demonstrations, I couldn’t seem to make it work.

  “Just get me down the mountain. Maybe I can take a lesson tomorrow and then I’ll find my ski legs.”

  “What do you mean, ‘ski legs,’ Ella?” he asked earnestly.

  “It’s a joke,” I snapped.

  “OK, OK. Let’s get you down to the bar for a break,” he said, scooping me upright and navigating me down the remainder of the run.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” I said, attempting a smile once we’d finally reached the bottom of the mountain. “For getting me down in one piece.”

  “Sure,” he said, taking off his skis and helping me out of mine. “Then maybe we can try again on an easier piste.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I muttered under my breath.

  I walked proudly through the ski chalet and into the bar with Gaston, who was by far the most handsome of all the stunningly-dressed skiers lounging around.

  “What do you want to drink, Ella?”

  “I’ll have a vin chaud, please,” I said, warming up both physically and spiritually to my new habitat.

  Comfortably ensconced in the chalet, I recognized that I’d confused my desire for ski legs with a more real desire for chalet legs. Drinking mulled wine while overlooking the mountain was what my heart truly wanted. I was a snow bunny on the most fundamental level.

  One glass of vin chaud down and I felt like I was slowly beginning to recover from the morning’s trauma. That was, until I heard a woman call out from behind me.

  “Gaston!” The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d heard it before. I turned around to see who was behind it and—dammit!—there was Camille. My mind flashed back to the “bistro” where I’d had the displeasure of meeting the skinny model-slash-waitress-slash-whatever for the first time.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  I scanned around, hoping to find a suave model-slash-boyfriend accompanying her, but no such luck.

  We exchanged pleasantries and Gaston asked her to join us for a drink. As they nattered away in too-fast French, I grasped that she’d come to the snow with her dad. Of course, little rich girl with her papa at the resort . . . Still in French, I managed to translate that she’d just broken up with someone named Antoine and had come to the slopes to clear her head. Of course, my excitement at understanding some of the conversation was trumped by the reality of what she’d said. And I couldn’t help but wonder why she was telling something so personal to Gaston, who claimed they were only acquaintances.

  They continued chatting and laughing until Camille apologized for being rude and switched to English. Ha! The joke’s on you, Camille. She was clearly unaware that I’d understood most of what they’d said: mostly industry stuff, mostly boring, and all seemingly overlaid with innuendos and flirtation.

  As I watched a young boy outside eyeballing me and pelt
ing snowballs at the window, I couldn’t help thinking that this ski weekend wasn’t working out quite as I’d planned.

  Polishing off her espresso, Camille suggested we all head out for a few runs and Gaston asked me if I was ready to try again.

  Seriously? I thought. I’m not about to go subject myself to that kind of embarrassment, especially in front of Camille.

  I mumbled something about having a sore knee from an old injury I’d suffered playing netball at the Commonwealth Championships. I justified the exaggeration, reminding myself that I had easily been the best goal shooter in my Tuesday night league.

  “Do you mind if I go out with Camille?” he asked, clearly not realizing the double meaning of what he was saying.

  Of course I do. You should stay here and keep me company, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I settled on, “No, of course I don’t mind. Go for it and have fun.”

  Images of Gaston and Camille making out on the chairlift and then gliding effortlessly hand-in-hand down the mountain surged into my mind, but it seemed like a choice between letting them go alone and having to go with them myself. Self-preservation won out on this occasion.

  As they left, I overheard Camille asking Gaston what netball was, to which he shrugged his shoulders.

  I watched them saunter out of the bar and towards the chairlift and saw them giggling as they got pushed together into the seat. I continued to spy until their beanies diminished to specks on the horizon before slipping over the mountain. My gut told me I shouldn’t have let them go off together, but I tried to reason with myself. After all, Camille was just an unhappy surprise guest. Gaston had chosen to take me to his ski lodge.

  “Waiter, I think I’ll need another drink,” I sung out in panicked French. “Make it a double.”

  I sat in the same seat for the next hour, my muscles already tense from my short but physically-demanding burst of skiing. At first, I reveled in the snow-bunny life, checking out the crowd, scrolling through Instagram, and reading magazines. But then as the minutes ticked by, I ran out of things to do to entertain myself. I tried calling Gaston’s phone to get directions back to the lodge, but it went straight to voicemail—out of coverage, I supposed.

  I started to feel a little helpless. Memories of being in primary school and waiting in the rain at the gate for Mum to pick me up came flooding back. Even the waiters gave me apologetic little shrugs, as if to say, Don’t worry, love, I’m sure you haven’t been forgotten.

  Well into my second hour of flying solo, I was considering the potentially lethal prospect of going back up the ski lift to look for Gaston. I started to fret. I felt deserted in the ski chalet; left to wither away from boredom or alcohol poisoning, whichever came first. I was sure Gaston and Camille were probably shacking up in some ice cave that he’d made with his bare hands, having forgotten all about me.

  “Who cares about Ella?” I muttered to myself bitterly. “She can’t even ski.”

  I flicked through a menu, wishing I were back in Paris where I could console myself with cheese, which made me think of Serge. I wondered if he too could ski . . . I was sure he would never abandon me to go up the mountain with some floozy.

  But back to my present concerns. Where the hell is my boyfriend? I mentally rehearsed a speech in case Gaston ever emerged from his snow cave with his new and improved—i.e. able to ski with grace and decorum—ice queen. A flood of tears was threatening as I internally accused him of desertion, only to be interrupted by the man in question tapping me on my shoulder, his cheeks glowing adorably from the cool snow air.

  “You’re back,” I squealed, forgetting my monologue and throwing my arms around him.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, squirming out of my embrace and fixing his hair.

  “Where’s Camille?” I asked.

  “Oh, she went to meet her father’s friend. He’s the head of some big modeling agency back in Paris.”

  “Did you have fun?” I asked, searching his face for clues that their jaunt may not have been so innocent.

  “Sure. It was good. You would have hated it, though. Lots of black runs and back-country exploring. Even I had trouble keeping up with Camille.”

  “I thought you’d forgotten about me,” I told him, still trying to hold back the tears. All of a sudden, I didn’t want him to know how angry I’d felt while he’d been away.

  He looked at me and said, “Why would I do a thing like that, Ella? Je t’aime bien.”

  Holy shit! Did he just say he loved me?

  I paused, idolizing him.

  “Wow, Gaston,” I said. “Je t’aime, aussi.”

  He stood back a minute, looked like he was about to say something and then stopped himself.

  “Everything OK?” I asked.

  “Sure. Let’s go have a spa. I’m freezing! And then tonight, I’ve booked a table at a restaurant in town. It’s very cozy, right up your alley. There will be plenty of cheese.”

  He grabbed my hand and we headed back to his lodge.

  Our afternoon lazing in the hot tub helped to ease any remaining tension from my earlier freak-out. I’d been feeling rejected due to my lack of ski skills, that was all. Of course Gaston would never do anything with Camille, however beautiful she may be. By the time we were ready to leave for dinner, I was back to being smitten with him.

  Walking into the restaurant, I was immediately charmed. Wooden chairs and tables lined the dining room and a raging fire burned brightly in the corner. Most of the seats were filled with either families or lovers, hunched over a flaming pot. Faces were rosy, made brighter with smiles, and there was an indescribable sense of joy filling the room.

  Gaston told me that it was a fondue restaurant. He indulged my love of cheese details, adding that it specialized in Savoyard cheese fondues, using a mix of Comté, Emmental, and Beaufort. My mouth started to water as he explained the tradition of fondue and I gazed on adoringly. Originating in the mountains, the melted cheese is served in a big, communal pot, with each diner dipping hunks of bread into the mix with long forks. It reminded me of how my mother used to serve a chocolate fondue at dinner parties when I was a child, although this savory iteration now seemed so much more appealing.

  Gaston’s choice of restaurant made up for ditching me to go on black runs earlier that day. He certainly knew the way to my heart.

  By the time the pot arrived at our table, I was drooling with anticipation. In my excitement to dunk some bread into the cheese and try it, I immediately burnt my tongue. I took a huge swig of wine to try and limit the damage. Gaston laughed and called me a novice but I didn’t mind. I’d never been very patient when it came to trying food.

  The fondue, which Gaston brushed off as the ultimate “cheesy” French mountain cliché, represented to me all that was good in the world. I dipped chunk after chunk of bread into the dangerously bubbling pot, occasionally getting distracted by the accompanying charcuterie and cornichons. Once I gave the cheese a moment to cool, I tasted hints of garlic and white wine, with a distinct farmyard feel. I found it incredible how food could be so soothing and warming, especially after a long day on the slopes—or a long day in the bar, in my case.

  “So is fondue the real reason why people come to the snow?” I joked.

  Gaston leaned over and pinched my cheek. “That and, you know, the skiing,” he laughed.

  “So you don’t mind that I’m a disaster on the slopes?” I asked.

  “Of course not, you’re Australian!” he said. “You’re probably more at home on a surfboard, right?”

  Of course I was, I boasted, making a mental note never to agree to a beach holiday with Gaston.

  Looking at the gorgeous specimen in front of me, I felt like an idiot for having worked myself into a state earlier. I thanked God that I hadn’t voiced my concerns about Camille; if I had, Gaston mightn’t have said that he loved me.

  I was high on cheese, wine, and newly declared amour, and I soon settled into a sort o
f fondue stupor; the experience was almost orgasmic. And thankfully so, because after dinner, both Gaston and I were too full to move, let alone get naked. When we got back to the lodge, he suggested we watch a movie and fell asleep promptly after the opening credits. When I heard him snoring softly, I turned down the sound so as not to disturb him and reminisced over what a magical evening it had been. Sore calves and wounded ego aside, I couldn’t help thinking that I was probably the luckiest Australian to have ever moved to France.

  Chapter

  28

  LEAVING THE ALPS A FEW days later felt bittersweet. Sweet because Gaston had said he loved me—and because I knew that I’d never have to go skiing again—but bitter because it meant that my romantic getaway was over and I had to go back to the real world.

  Gaston seemed a little aloof and gruff on the train ride back and I hoped it wasn’t because of my terrible attempt at skiing. I tried to cheer him up with the suggestion of joining the meter-high club in the bathroom, but he did not join me in my enthusiasm and opted to fall asleep for the majority of the journey instead. When he woke, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck. Our romantic mini-break had obviously worn him out. I invited him over for dinner, but he told me he had a deadline the next morning so we went our separate ways, him in a cab and me on the metro, to which he gave a laugh and a shake of the head. He never understood why I insisted on taking public transport, saying it was full of “beggars, buskers, and people huffing and pushing to find space.” But I enjoyed it: The crowd was so diverse—therefore one of the best people-watching spots in Paris—and I loved it when a singer or piano accordion player serenaded my journey. It also meant that I didn’t have to try and hail one of the very elusive—and expensive—cabs in the city, or navigate a pickup location in French to an impatient Uber driver.