Flinging my door shut, Gaston grabbed me from behind and pulled me roughly towards him, nearly falling over in the process. I tried to get him to slow down but he was absolutely sloshed, pushing me to arm’s length and then pulling me closer, as if we were doing a strange dance. His drunken gaze was intense, as if he were assessing me. I turned off the lights and guided him to bed.
Pulling off his shirt and running my hands over his torso seemed to settle him down a little. He ripped at my underwear and succeeded in getting off my bra. I helped him with the rest while he kissed me desperately. The sex was over nearly as abruptly as it began, and shortly after, Gaston was asleep, snoring a wine-drunk snore.
I groped around in the dark for my pajamas and slid them on, spending the next hour or so wondering what the hell had just happened. Gaston had somewhat crudely grabbed my arse seconds before finishing—and not an affectionate grab either, rather a rough, jolting grab more intended for his pleasure than my own. Is this what it’s like after settling into a relationship with a Frenchman?
I felt insecure and I was sure it wasn’t all in my head. Perhaps I’d just never feel like I could live up to the Parisian girls Gaston hung out with. Did I even want to? With Paul, I’d never fit into his social life and look how well that turned out.
I tried to visualize things long-term between Gaston and me. Getting married in a glamorous French chateau, having adorable bébés that called me Maman and spoke better French than I did. I imagined a country house filled with flowers and big wheels of cheese to be shared with our large family. Despite my vision of this idyllic French future, I couldn’t really see Gaston in that kind of life. I couldn’t see him leaving Paris and its restaurants behind. For the first time since I’d met him in Flat White, I wondered if we were well suited. Or was that just the 3 a.m. anxiety talking?
I woke early to the sound of pigeons outside my window. I’d been in such a hurry to turn off the lights the night before that I’d forgotten to close the shutters. Listening to the birds, I imagined that I’d unintentionally eaten their brother on my first date with Gaston, and now they were here for retribution. I slid out of bed, taking care not to disturb the sleeping man beside me, and decided to nip down to the bakery and pick up some breakfast.
Stepping outside into the crisp morning air felt invigorating. I tried to bask in the little bursts of sunlight streaming through the gaps between buildings, but kept getting distracted by thoughts of Gaston’s booty call. Sex with him had never been so awful, or short-lived; I wanted to put it down to a drunken one-off.
I walked into the bakery and noticed the lady behind the counter placing little walnut bread rolls into the cabinet from the baker’s tray.
“C’est chaud?” I asked, pointing at them.
“Yes, they’re warm,” she replied.
I still couldn’t understand why every Parisian had to reply to me in English when I spoke to them in French.
I pointedly replied in French, asking for three.
The lady wrapped up the walnut rolls and wished me a nice day. As I walked back to the apartment, I passed a cheese shop that I’d been meaning to try and saw some delightful-looking rounds of raisin-covered goat cheese in the window. They’ll be delicious with this bread, I thought, ducking into the store for a few small balls.
Back at the apartment, I noticed Clotilde’s door was ajar and went to check if she was in her room. She wasn’t, but had left a note on the kitchen bench that said:
Gone to the gym. Let me know if you have time to grab coffee before work. C xx
Gaston came slowly out of my room wearing my pink dressing gown.
“Is Clotilde home?” he groaned from the doorway.
“No, she’s gone out. Feel like breakfast? I got some fabulous-looking goat cheese from that little store next to the bakery down the street. Have you seen those little rounds before? The ones covered in—”
“Oh non, Ella, not more cheese! After all the fondue we ate at the snow?” He slid up behind me and grabbed my arse again.
I shrugged off my disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm and spun around, all smiles, telling him that we didn’t have to eat it right away. But as I sat buttering the warm walnut bread, I envisaged how great the cheese would taste and looked forward to the moment I’d be able to sneak a bite. Gaston’s comment about my cheese consumption, accompanied by the incessant arse grabs, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Is he saying I’m fat? I shook my head to escape this pointless train of thought.
“How’d you sleep?” I asked. “It seemed like you had a big night, did you have an event on?”
“No,” he replied. “I was out catching up with some friends.”
“Anyone I know?” My voice trembled as thoughts of him “catching up” with Camille flashed through my mind.
“Oh, no one you’ve met,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
A few seconds later, Gaston flipped on the TV and settled onto the couch. I went to the bathroom to start getting ready for work and took the opportunity to examine my arse in the mirror. It wasn’t an angle I often checked out, but I thought it was probably best to know if things had suddenly gotten wildly out of proportion back there.
After a thorough inspection, I confirmed that all was well; yes, there was a little additional padding but it certainly hadn’t morphed into a Mont Blanc–sized issue. I reprimanded myself for letting the old, insecure Ella creep back into my brain and focused on changing my thinking to reflect the confident and self-assured Parisian that I’d been working hard to become. I knew I couldn’t eat cheese every day and have a supermodel’s arse—I didn’t need a dietician to tell me that—but I had my priorities. I jumped in the shower and scrubbed away any remaining negativity in a cloud of steam and almond-milk body wash, leaving the bathroom in a much stronger frame of mind.
Checking my phone, I realized I still had time to meet Clotilde for coffee before work, so I pushed Gaston—who had at least managed to get dressed—begrudgingly out the door so I could finish getting ready. He didn’t kiss me good-bye, but muttered something about dinner soon. I decided to give him a few days to get over his hangover before contacting him again. Hopefully, absence will make the heart grow fonder.
As I was hunting for my keys on the kitchen counter, I noticed an unread email notification staring at me from my laptop. It stopped me in my stride. It was from Paul. I gasped. The subject line read: “I’m so sorry, Ella, you have to forgive me.”
Oh shit. I slammed my laptop shut as if it were on fire.
I stood immobile, wondering what Paul could possibly have to say after so many months of zero contact. Despite believing I was over him, seeing his name on my computer screen made that unwelcome Paul lump return to my throat. I took another few moments, trying to convince myself that I should simply delete the email, before giving up and lifting the screen. I couldn’t resist reading it, my curiosity greater than my pride.
Ella,
I’m so sorry for how things ended between us. I never imagined you would move to Paris so quickly after that night we had the chat.
I wish you had stayed in Melbourne. If you had, I could talk to you about this in person right now, rather than sending an email, which has already taken me an hour to write.
I want to be honest with you. After the retreat I started dating Jessyka. You remember her from CrossFit? Anyway, things didn’t really work out between us. If anything, dating her just made me realize that my life is with you.
Please come back. I’m ready to start thinking about marriage now. I promise.
I miss you, babe.
Paul
I slammed my computer shut again. What the hell is he thinking?
A few seconds passed and I carefully reopened my computer, surprised it hadn’t broken by now, and drafted a reply.
Paul, you dickhead!
I stared at the words on the screen and felt a rush of endorphins. Yes, I could do this.
How dare you send me an email, let alone an email in which you ask me to take you back.
First, I want to tell you that I’m thrilled things didn’t work out with you and Jessyka. I think some time alone will do you the world of good. Didn’t they teach you that at the retreat?
Second, leaving Melbourne was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Paris may have been where I thought I’d fallen in love with you, but now I realize how blind I’d been. You and I were never meant to be. The only thing I regret is not realizing that long before you left me to go and “find yourself” (yes, that’s the reason I left Melbourne in the first place, remember?).
Third, you say that you’re “ready to START thinking about marriage.” Well, how very gallant of you, but I’m no longer interested. I’d even go so far as to say I’d marry a wheel of cheese before I’d contemplate spending my life with you.
Finally, don’t ever call me “babe” again. You lost that privilege a long time ago, and to be honest, it always pissed me off anyway.
Please never email me again.
Ella
I hovered my cursor over the send button, amazed at how eloquent I’d managed to be despite my rage. Then I paused, remembering a piece of advice I’d once received from my old boss: Never send an email when you’re angry.
Fuck it! I thought.
I hit “send.”
Chapter
30
I MET CLOTILDE AT A cute little French café near work. I was surprised to find her in good spirits considering her father had threatened to cut her off, and it was a relief to see her smiling, especially after the weird morning I’d had.
“So, it seems that one of us had a late-night caller,” she said, kissing both my cheeks, which immediately reddened with her words.
“Oh, you heard him come in. I’m so sorry. I tried to keep him quiet.”
“Ha, never mind. I know how he gets. Was he at a work dinner?”
“No, out with friends apparently.”
“Which ones?” she asked, to which I replied that I had no idea.
I was about to launch into a monologue about how I was worried Gaston had changed since we’d first met but Clotilde jumped in before I could get my thoughts in order. “So I’ve got some news,” she said. “I’ve got a meeting with an agency tomorrow morning about some real modeling work.”
“That’s great!”
“The photographer who took my feet photos helped set it up. It’s totally legit.”
“And you want to do it?” I asked.
“It’s weird, I never even considered modeling for real, but this guy tells me he thinks I’d be perfect. Anyway, I’ll keep working at Food To Go Go with you for now and see how things go. I don’t know if it’s a long-term thing but I can’t help thinking why not give it a try? Maybe it’ll help me figure out what to do next.”
“So will you do runway shows?” I asked, totally oblivious to how the modeling world worked.
“No, campaigns only. And just for brands that I’ll be able to get past Papa.”
“Have you already spoken to him about it?” I asked.
“I’m meeting him tomorrow for lunch. I told him I wanted to apologize for everything by buying him a nice meal. If the meeting with the agency goes well and Papa seems open to my apology, I’ll ask for his opinion. But if he’s still pouting about everything, then perhaps I’ll wait a few more weeks before mentioning it. When I spoke to him on the phone he seemed to have softened a little. I think he’s missing me.”
“I’m happy it’s working out,” I said.
“Ella, I couldn’t have done it without you. I would have been a miserable mess for weeks. You were the one who encouraged me to pursue modeling seriously.”
“It was an obvious solution,” I said nonchalantly, but it felt wonderful to have been able to help Clotilde for once.
“Now tell me all about you,” she continued. “How are things with Gaston?” I was relieved she’d brought him up; I really wanted her input. I still couldn’t help thinking something wasn’t quite right between us recently, although I wasn’t sure what that was, or how to explain it. Part of me wondered if I was imagining things. Perhaps my suspicions had been blown out of proportion following my kiss with Serge. And then there was the email from Paul . . . What a mess!
“Things are OK. I mean, it’s been pretty hectic since we came back from the Alps.”
“Mmm. I heard about your skiing,” she said, stifling a giggle.
“Oh God, did Gaston tell you I was terrible?”
“He may have mentioned something along those lines.”
“Well, apart from the ski trip, I haven’t seen him that much. He’s really busy with deadlines at the moment.”
Clotilde stopped stirring the sugar into her espresso and looked up at me suddenly. “Really?” she asked.
“Yes, he’s out a lot during the day and most evenings. That’s why he came by so late last night.”
“That’s weird,” she said. “Normally, he’s quiet with work this time of year. Oh well, I’m sure something must have changed. Maybe he has a new editor or something.”
I blushed and pushed away the doubts that seemed to be accumulating in my mind. Perhaps I needed some more time to analyze the situation before discussing things further. It was my turn to change the conversation: “You’ll never guess who emailed me.”
“Who?” she asked, excited.
“Paul.”
“No! What did he want?”
Ever since I’d first divulged all the details of Paul and my breakup, Clotilde had been incredibly supportive of me having ditched him. She kept trying to convince me to contact him and rub my happy Paris life in his face.
“He wants to get back together.” Even saying it aloud felt strange.
“And?”
“Well, there’s just no way. I would never give up what I’ve got here for our comfortable old life in Melbourne. Sure, his apartment is gorgeous, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Is it because you’re too Parisian now?”
“Exactly,” I laughed. “And there’s too much going on with work and you and Gaston. And I couldn’t give up on French cheese. I love my life here.”
“So, did you reply?”
“Yep.”
No matter how many photos of food I tried to distract myself with at Food To Go Go, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gaston and Paul. It seemed odd that Paul would email me at the same moment that Gaston and I were having troubles, but I knew it was just a coincidence.
What was eating away at me more was the realization that my budding French romance, which had been mostly dreamlike up until last night, might not be as perfect as I’d imagined.
On my way home, all I wanted to do was buy some kind of new, wonderful cheese that I could write up in my cheese journal. I didn’t feel like I could go to Serge—I was still too embarrassed about the disastrous, but also perfect, kiss—so I tried a different shop.
I greeted the lady behind the counter with a big smile and a bonjour. She didn’t reciprocate my friendliness and asked me grumpily what I wanted. I panicked, got flustered, and ended up requesting a slice of Comté. Without Serge to help guide me, I was overwhelmed when faced with so many glorious mounds of cheese.
Oh well, I thought, walking out of the shop disheartened. I guess I could do a lot worse than good old reliable Comté.
Chapter
31
I WOKE WITH A START the next morning, feeling anxious and agitated. I hadn’t slept well since hearing Clotilde get home at midnight and then thinking about Gaston until I saw the clock tick over to 2:00 a.m. I somehow stumbled through the morning at work, and after a few espressos and a buttery croissant that I slathered with even more butter, I finally started to feel normal again.
During my lunch break, I sat in a café and mulled things over.
Paul’s email had reminded me how great Gaston was, and what fun we’d
had since we’d gotten together. As I made my way through a croque-monsieur, I felt certain that I’d been overthinking things—the snow, Camille, and our recent late-night encounter—and that I needed to get out of my head and back into my heart.
I decided that I had to do something special to bring things with Gaston back to perfection. I suddenly had a vision of us getting naked and drinking champagne in bed. It would be the perfect rekindling, I thought excitedly. After all, what’s sexier than a champagne-fueled afternoon frolic with a Frenchman?
I knew Gaston worked from home on Thursdays so I hatched a plan to sneak in and surprise him; thankfully, I still had his spare keys from when he’d left me to lock up the week before. It was meant to be!
I got approval from Tim to finish work early and left the office, the spring returned to my step. I stopped by the wine store to buy their cheapest bottle of champagne, feeling empowered that I was taking our relationship’s future into my own hands.
In the past, I’d always waited for Paul to make the first move, but I wanted to show Gaston how much he meant to me. In Melbourne, I’d often felt boring and tepid, but in Paris, I could be spontaneous and sexy. The new Ella adored surprising her lover and drinking champagne in bed mid-week. I smiled at how much I’d changed.
After puffing my way up Gaston’s stairs because the lift was too slow to match my level of excitement, I knocked loudly, singing out while turning my key. Seconds later, he came rushing out of his room.
“Ella, what are you doing here?” he said, shutting the bedroom door behind him and pulling on a shirt.
“Hi,” I said, holding up the champagne bottle and grinning. “Were you asleep? I’m sorry I woke you. But anyway, turn around, I want you back in bed,” I said, giving him a little nudge.
Fromage a Trois Page 21