I spent most of the following week walking the streets of Paris. I didn’t care that it was bitterly cold or that my nose was permanently numb; walking was the only thing that made me feel better. When I wasn’t at work, I walked the length of the Seine from Bercy to the Eiffel Tower, trying to figure out when everything had gotten so complicated.
I did laps of the Jardin des Plantes, musing over how my year in Paris discovering joie de vivre had turned into me gate-crashing a threesome and avoiding my favorite fromagerie. I fought back tears thinking about how complicated my relationships with Gaston and Serge had become.
A few weeks earlier, I’d been ecstatic, in love with my life here, and now my mind was full of men. This is exactly what I came to France to avoid, I admonished myself as I continued to trudge around the city, breathing fog into the freezing winter air.
One day, as I was walking through the Square du Temple, I spotted a familiar silhouette. It was Serge.
He was standing alone looking out over the little pond and I could see him tearing up a baguette into small pieces and feeding it to the ducks. I knew I should go say hello and apologize for rushing out on him that night after he’d cooked us dinner. I desperately missed going into his store to buy cheese. I missed chatting with him.
Before I could muster up the courage, he walked briskly back towards his store. I could have gone in to see him, settled our differences on familiar turf, but I instead found myself lulled into Le Progrès, where I ordered a bottle of red wine.
“Avec un seul verre?” the waiter asked, looking at me with pity.
“Oui,” I said, tears welling in my eyes, “only one glass.”
In the warmth of the café, the sensation slowly came back into my fingers and nose. With each sip I tried to decide what I should do next. The bottle went down quickly as I sorted through the pros and cons of staying in Paris. The pros: Clotilde, enjoyable work, amazing cheese, the wine! The cons: homesickness, the cold, Gaston, Serge, and French men in general.
I decided that while I’d loved Paris up until very recently, maybe it was time to go back to Australia. I’d had some great experiences and had learned a lot about myself—most of all that I had terrible taste in men—but right now, I thought I’d benefit from being surrounded by my family, friends, and English speakers. It was also summer back home, and watching the darkness and fog descend over Paris, I felt like this was almost reason enough to call it a day.
I polished off the bottle and made my way home, determined to look at flights out of Paris. I made a cup of tea and hopped in bed with my laptop. I was asleep before I’d even entered my password.
The next morning, with a smashing headache, I went to make coffee and ruminate on my red wine–induced decision to move back to Australia.
As much as I tried to convince myself that it was for the best, I still couldn’t shake a nagging feeling I had in my stomach. It was hard to justify, and I felt silly for even thinking it, but I really wasn’t ready to give up on the cheese challenge. A dinner bet with Serge, who I was currently avoiding, hardly seemed like reason enough to stay in Paris, but then I couldn’t leave without paying my debt for not finishing. And what about my Instagram account? My followers had been growing steadily over the last six months and I didn’t want to lose the community I’d been fostering.
Cheese had been the impetus for my move to Paris, but was it important enough to make me stay? And why did I care so much about one specific food anyway?
Spying an empty bottle of Crémant de Bourgogne on the kitchen bench, I was reminded of the truffle pasta Serge cooked for us the night he kissed me. I paused as my dehydrated brain tried to piece together something my subconscious had already figured out. Suddenly, I knew I had to make things right with Serge.
I swallowed a few painkillers, checked my watch, and rushed outside.
Chapter
32
“WHERE IS SERGE?” I YELLED in French as I pushed open the door of his cheese shop. I had arrived during the pre-lunch rush and all the customers turned to stare at me.
“Who are you?” Fanny asked.
“I’m Ella,” I said. “I once bought cheese from you. Remember?”
“Qui?” she repeated, looking at me blankly.
“It doesn’t matter. Can you please tell me where Serge is?”
“He’s out visiting suppliers dans la Loire,” she said, adding curtly, “Now please, I have customers. Unless you plan to buy something . . .”
“When will he be back?” I asked, desperately.
“Maybe he will come back next Monday. He hasn’t confirmed.”
“Can you at least tell me which supplier he has gone to visit?”
“Non, je ne sais pas. He’s gone to get more goat cheese. You should call him.”
And with that, she turned away from me and started serving a customer. I heard her say in French that all American girls were crazy, which made them both snigger.
“I am NOT American,” I said loudly as I left the store feeling deflated.
I didn’t have Serge’s phone number and I wasn’t sure how to get ahold of him. I considered waiting outside his apartment until he came back, but what if that wasn’t until Monday as Fanny had implied? It was freezing outside. I was at a loss for what to do.
Thankfully, Clotilde was out for lunch when I got home and I could skulk back to bed, hungover and heartbroken.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Serge.
I was desperate to apologize for not telling him I was in a relationship and for running out on him rather than explaining the situation. I fell asleep full of regret.
I woke like a shot an hour into my nap, my eyes flinging open in a mix of panic and excitement.
A few hours later, I was on the train to Tours.
I’d dreamed that I’d run into Serge and his glamorous new girlfriend who were visiting a Sainte-Maure supplier. I got the strongest feeling that was where he’d be.
A quick online search had revealed the name of Serge’s friend’s B&B that he’d mentioned at Christmas dinner. I called the phone number but nobody answered so I ripped a page out of my cheese journal and jotted down the address. It was a long shot, but I figured I was due a little luck. And even if he wasn’t there, I was sure his friends could help me find him.
I left a note for Clotilde and went to the station, making the train with only minutes to spare.
Zipping through the outskirts of Paris, I had time to catch my breath.
What the hell am I doing gallivanting off to the country to find a man who might hate me? I thought once the adrenaline had worn off.
I’d been so blind to believe the cheese challenge was more important to me than the man behind it. The more I thought about it, the more I saw that, even from the beginning, it had always been about Serge. Billie had been right; he was a good guy, so why couldn’t he be my guy? Is it worth a shot?
With the final jolt of the train’s brakes, I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the station and into a cab. After a few wasted minutes trying to get the driver to understand my accent, he told me that the town was really far away. I sat back, got out my purse, and told him to drive on.
After almost half an hour of navigating winding country roads, the cab rolled through the quiet town of Sainte-Maure de Touraine. My hands shook with nerves.
“Is this it?” the driver asked, pointing at a small sign as he pulled into a long driveway.
“Oui,” I croaked, checking the address I’d scribbled down before leaving Paris.
Approaching the stone cottage with its lush green garden, I saw two men standing beside a pile of wood. One had an axe in hand. The other was Serge.
Relief flooded my body.
Serge was chatting to the owner of the bed and breakfast, Jacques; I recognized him from his photo on the website. I thanked God that I’d been paying attention when Serge had told me all about Sainte-Maure de Touraine. His lessons had led me directly to him.
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br /> Both men turned to look at the approaching cab, squinting in the winter sun to see who was in the back seat. The look of recognition, and then of shock, on Serge’s face worried me, and I began to regret having traveled so far to essentially ambush him.
He left Jacques by the woodpile and started walking quickly towards the cab. I shoved a handful of euros into the driver’s hand and asked him to wait a few minutes before driving off; I had to make sure Serge wasn’t going to tell me to leave. I stepped out and the driver sped off, obviously not empathizing with the precarious nature of the situation and taking the extra money as a generous tip.
I didn’t know what to say. Why didn’t I rehearse something on the train? I thought. I had no idea how to tell Serge that I was sorry, that I really wanted us to start over, that I couldn’t wait for him to kiss me again.
“Serge, hi,” I said. Killer opening, Ella!
“Ella, what are you doing here?” he asked, sounding confused. “Are you holidaying?”
“Serge, I really like you,” I blurted out.
“What do you mean?” he replied. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“He is a massive pile of merde. We broke up.”
Serge looked at me intensely with his deep blue eyes and didn’t say anything. My heart sank. It was too late.
“I hope it’s not too late,” I said.
“Too late for what?”
“For this,” I said, leaning in to kiss him deeply on the lips.
At first, he stood there frozen, and then his soft lips encased mine, the warmth of the embrace spreading through my body like I’d just slid into a hot bath.
The memory of our first kiss flooded back to me. The joy, the release, the abandonment, it was all there. This time I wouldn’t be stupid enough to pull away. I brought him even closer and he happily complied.
After a minute or so locked together, I heard Jacques shout out “Oh là là,” which made us break apart, breathless and laughing. I’d completely forgotten he was standing there and was relieved to see that Serge was blushing too.
I waved, calling out “bonjour,” and we walked over to him. The two men chatted briefly in French and I stood there smiling like an idiot, lost in the moment.
After Serge shook Jacques’s hand and said good-bye, he led me over to his little blue Citroën parked in the driveway. The car looked so quintessentially French against a background of farmland and a cloudless blue sky that I felt like we were the stars in a French film. He opened my door before getting in himself.
“Ella, Ella, Ella.” He said my name slowly, almost like he was savoring each syllable. “This is such a surprise.”
“I hope it’s a good one,” I said.
“How did you even find me here?” he asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, and I’m starving,” I said, relieved. It felt almost too good to be true.
We drove the remainder of the driveway in silence, my heart pounding with anticipation.
Before turning onto the main road, he leaned over and kissed me again. It was tender but passionate, desperate but sweet, almost like we were making up for lost time. His touch felt electric.
When we finally broke apart, Serge looked into my eyes and said, “Ella, je t’aime.” I paused, waiting for the ‘bien,’ or the ‘beaucoup,’ as I’d been taught by Clotilde, but none came. Instead he continued, “I know it’s early and perhaps you don’t know me that well, but from the moment I saw you, struggling with the door of my cheese shop that beautiful summer morning, I knew you were my girl.”
Nobody had ever called me “their girl” before and it felt so perfect.
“It was, as we say in French, a coup de foudre,” he continued.
“Love at first sight?” I asked, shocked he’d managed to even see past my clumsiness that day.
“That sounds about right.”
I almost burst with excitement. I may have been the last to see it, but Serge was open and honest, kind and gentle. Now there was just one thing left to clarify.
“Serge, what do you mean by ‘Je t’aime’?”
He laughed. “Ella, I love you,” he repeated in English, and wrapped his arms around me.
“I love you too,” I said, surprising myself. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. I’ve been such an idiot.”
I felt like I was apologizing both to Serge and to myself for every mistake I’d ever made that had postponed me from being there, with him, in that very moment.
Chapter
33
HAVING DECLARED OUR LOVE TO each other, Serge and I sat down that night to our first real date. Over a three-course dinner with cheese and a bottle of Chinon, we spoke joyfully, switching between French and English, furiously catching each other up on what had happened since Serge had cooked me dinner. He apologized for having kissed me prematurely that night at his apartment, and I told him the only thing that I regretted about that kiss was having pulled away.
“I was worried I’d never see you again,” he said. “I’ve missed you coming to the store.”
“I’ve wanted to come, to apologize, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“It might have been easier than coming all the way out here.”
“Not nearly as romantic, though, right?” I said sheepishly.
As we got further into the bottle of wine, I explained what had happened with Gaston, how he’d tried to blame his infidelity on being French, how I’d been stupid to even date him. Serge rolled his eyes then told me very seriously that people like Gaston didn’t represent all French men.
Finally, I confessed that Gaston’s mistress had confused me with the house cleaner, at which Serge laughed so loudly and warmly that guests seated at surrounding tables couldn’t help smiling. It was a relief to find humor in what had been, after all, a ridiculous situation.
When the waiter arrived with a huge cheese trolley, Serge recommended I try the Chabichou du Poitou and the Selles-sur-Cher.
As I bit into the first cheese, which was fluffy and sweet, he asked, “So how is the cheese challenge going? Or did you quit because you were avoiding me?”
“Ha! Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I’m still going and I’m not embarrassed to tell you that I’m up to 231 types of French cheese, 233 if you count these two,” I said, motioning at my plate.
“I’m impressed,” he said. “And now that we’re talking again, I can help you get to 365. What’s missing from your list?”
I looked at him, brimming with love.
“This is a Pouligny-Saint-Pierre,” he said, offering me a slice. “The form is a topless pyramid. It resembles a Valençay but it’s whiter. It’s a personal favorite of mine.”
“Another favorite?” I asked. “Why have you never mentioned it before?”
“Well, I don’t eat it that often. For me it’s more of a special occasion cheese. I like to save it for when something good happens,” he said.
I blushed.
“I don’t normally like telling people this, but seeing as you told me about your ex-boyfriend’s mistress mistaking you for the cleaner, I feel I can be honest with you.”
I laughed, “Go on then.”
“Well,” he began awkwardly. “This is the cheese that made me want to open a cheese shop.”
“It sounds like a happy story, then,” I said.
“Not quite. Right after I split up with my wife, I was sitting alone in my apartment, feeling miserable and eating this cheese, when I had the idea to change my life. In the weeks that followed, I sold my home, quit my job, and moved to Paris to open my fromagerie.”
Serge’s route to Paris sounded unnervingly familiar.
“I didn’t know you were married,” I said, adding, “or divorced.”
“Don’t worry. It’s a good thing. My ex-wife and I got married when we were too young, and from the day after our wedding, we
slowly realized that we were incompatible. Everything I liked, she hated, and it was the same for her.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “She didn’t even like cheese . . .”
“Wow,” I said. “What a waste.”
“It’s OK. Our relationship ended in quite a friendly and mutual way. But I still couldn’t help feeling miserable that I’d failed to have a successful marriage. It took the divorce for me to realize how unhappy I’d been all those years, and not only with my wife, but with my whole life. I hated my job as an accountant and I hated living in the suburbs of Paris. I was scared because I didn’t remember how to be alone but I knew I couldn’t continue the same life as before. It was then that I decided to open a cheese store in Paris. My father used to make cheese here in the Loire before he retired and he helped set me up the shop.”
I nodded, relating more than Serge could have realized. Who could better understand the desire to completely change your life after a breakup? I decided to wait a few more days to tell him about Paul. One bad ex-boyfriend story at a time, I figured.
“Well, I’m glad cheese led you to Paris,” I said.
Biting into an apple tart topped with a decadent ball of oozing vanilla ice cream, I was almost delirious with joy. Whenever I’d eaten out with Gaston, I’d never been fully comfortable. I always got the impression I was being judged for either liking something too much or not enough.
With Serge I felt at ease; his desire to make me happy was almost palpable. Admittedly, it was a little odd opening up to each other about our past loves, but my gut—now full of a hearty country meal—told me this relationship was worth taking a chance on. Serge felt like an old friend who I was conveniently looking forward to kissing again.
We ended up parking Serge’s little Citroën at a hotel for the evening because the thought of staying clothed during the entire drive back to Paris was too much for both of us.
The next morning, after a breakfast of more goat cheese—this time with the delicious addition of honey—we drove off through the countryside, which was bursting with the first signs of spring. It felt exciting to be heading back to the challenges and joys of our Parisian lives, now entwined, hopefully forever.
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