AFTER THE BUZZ OF CLOTILDE’S and Chris’s visits, the house felt desperately quiet, and with Serge still spending most daylight hours on the farm, my boredom returned quickly. I decided to drive myself into town to do our weekly shopping. I was no closer to getting my French license, but in the end I’d thought bugger it, figuring my Australian license and a little foreigner charm would probably do the trick if I ever got pulled over by any country cops.
The Chinon market was easily one of the best things I’d found since arriving in the countryside, with the buzz of the shoppers and stallholders taking over the streets of town. I’d amble along the busy, cobbled lanes, sampling little tasters as I went. I’d spend minutes inspecting the pieces of fruit that were cut open and put on display for all to judge their worth. I’d fill my basket with seasonal produce.
In general, market shopping in France was a very laid-back affair. You were never rushed, and therefore it was expected that you’d never rush anyone. And while it wasn’t unheard of to queue for close to twenty minutes to buy fish from the fishmonger, as soon as you reached the front of the line, you were treated like royalty. You could ask for recommendations, for cooking advice, even about the water temperature of the sea that a certain fish was fished out of. I’d learned more about seafood from market shopping in France than I think I’d ever learned in Australia, a country surrounded by water.
Shortly after arriving at the market that morning, I ran into Marie, who was weighed down by a huge basket of apples and pears. She put down her shopping and kissed me hello. After exchanging some pleasantries, she asked how I was enjoying life in the country. I think she was still baffled at the idea of anyone choosing to live in an apartment above, below, and next door to strangers.
“It’s mostly going well. I’m finding plenty to keep busy,” I exaggerated.
“I know the feeling,” she replied.
“Oh? Is the B&B busy at the moment?” I asked.
“Oh, no, a few bookings, but it’s manageable. I’m spending most of my time at the moment in the kitchen baking.”
Just as I was imagining her and Jacques eating their weight in baked goods, she explained that she baked tarts for a café in town. The enormous basket of fruit made a lot more sense in that context.
“That’s a brilliant side gig,” I said.
“It brings in some more money and keeps me busy. I wasn’t brought up to sit around idly.”
I envied Marie’s down-to-earth approach. I could really do with a dose of her get-it-done attitude in my country living plan, I thought, as we said goodbye.
I stopped by the fromagerie on wheels to pick up my standard selection of hard cheeses—Comté, Emmental, and Gruyère—and was surprised to see a row of Serge’s wrapped goat cheeses. I didn’t know he’d gotten his cheese stocked at the market. I beamed with pride.
“Is it good?” I asked in French, motioning to the goat cheese, hoping to do a bit of sleuthing for Serge.
“Comme ci, comme ça,” he replied.
Huh? The cheese is only so-so?
After everyone had raved about farmer Michel’s cheese, why was this guy saying that Serge’s was average? Oh, God, is Serge making bad cheese? Is this the real reason why it’s not selling?
“Is that right?” I asked.
“There’s been a change in ownership,” he said, as though that explained everything. “It’s just not the same.”
When I’d asked Serge if I could sample his first batch of cheese, he’d told me quite strongly that I should continue to avoid eating unpasteurized varieties. I regretted not having sneaked a small taste and quickly ran through the likelihood of a bad batch. Yes, Serge had never farmed nor made cheese before; but he had immaculate taste and he certainly wouldn’t try to sell something that was below par. Or . . . did he need to sell it? I guess what else would he do with the stuff he’d already produced? And what did this mean for my cheese room?
I pushed on with my market shopping, but I was distracted by my interaction with the cheese guy, and I ended up with a rather random assortment of vegetables. I’d settled on a very handsome and very heavy pumpkin, some pears, onions, carrots, and potatoes. Looking at my haul, I felt a little dismayed, wondering what I was going to cook.
Then, on my way to the butcher, I spotted Chuck working in the café. I automatically ran my hand over my hair, hoping I didn’t look too dishevelled, and then tapped on the window and waved. It took him a moment to look up and I panicked, wondering if he was ignoring me. But he raised his hand, obviously finishing writing a sentence, and then waved me inside.
“Chuck, what a surprise. I haven’t seen you recently,” I said. I didn’t take off my coat out of fear of having to explain my growing bump.
“I had to zip back to London for an event. Did I miss anything?” he asked.
I looked around at the near-empty café and laughed.
“So, what’s for dinner?” he asked, looking in my basket.
Is he angling for an invite? I wondered momentarily before awkwardly asking him if he’d like to join us. I wasn’t sure how Serge would feel about a surprise dinner guest, but I knew I was keen to spend more time with Chuck.
My offer was met with an equally awkward answer. “Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t mean to just invite myself to dinner,” he said.
“Oh, it’s really no problem. You’re very welcome,” I rushed on. “Anyway, I’ve been brushing up on my cooking, and it seems I’m still learning about portion control.”
“Then I’d be honored,” he said seriously.
“Great, well, it’ll be pretty casual. It won’t be the most glamorous meal,” I said, trying to keep expectations in check. “And our house is in a bit of a state.” I stopped myself from making any more excuses in case it was starting to sound like I was retracting the invitation.
“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he said encouragingly.
“Would you like to bring someone, perhaps? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?” I offered. I didn’t really know anything about Chuck’s personal life.
“Will it spoil your plans if I join you solo?” he asked, not giving anything away.
“Of course not,” I reassured him before rushing off to continue my shopping.
I went to the butcher for some chicken and my daily dose of friendly service. Visiting him reminded me of when I first arrived in Paris and used to visit Serge to be guided through the world of French cheese. Although the butcher was around sixty and wasn’t any threat to my current relationship, he’d taken a shine to me, and his smile when I walked through his door brightened my day. And his advice on cooking meat had so far played a big part in my success in the kitchen.
I headed home with a long to-do list buzzing around my head. On top of cooking an unintentional comfort-food-inspired menu, I wanted to clean the kitchen and the living and dining area, and try to hide some of the clutter.
I also wanted to unpack some books to avoid looking completely illiterate in front of Chuck—although I wasn’t sure my selection of memoirs on travel and a few trashy romance novels was going to win me many points. Serge did, however, have a solid collection of French books, but their covers were all so identical and boring that I’d never even bothered opening them when they’d lined the shelves of his Paris apartment.
“Serge, what kind of books are these?” I asked later as I was pulling them out of boxes.
“Oh, there are many different genres. A lot of police and crime novels. I also enjoy a good political biography.”
“Hmm,” I said, wondering what Chuck would make of this, which reminded me: I should probably tell Serge about our dinner guest.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I ran into Chuck earlier today, you know, that English guy I met. He’s just back from a trip to London. Anyway, I ended up buying too many ingredients so I invited him over for dinner. I hope that’s OK.”
“Parfait, it’ll be nice for you to have an English-speaking friend here,” Serge said generously. “I’ll dig out some wine.”
“And some of your cheese?” I suggested, trying to gauge his reaction.
“I’ll see what I can find, but I think most of it is packed already,” he said.
“By the way, why don’t you have a stall at the market?” I asked.
“I hope to eventually,” he said.
“But why not now?”
“Don’t rush me, Ella,” he said sharply, making me wonder if my pregnancy hormones were contagious.
He went off to the cellar, and I was left to question whether there’d been some truth behind the cheese vendor’s comments. Why else doesn’t he want to show off his creations?
Chuck arrived in a beat-up Renault that evening. I watched him out the kitchen window as he walked up to the door, flowers in hand.
“For my lovely host,” he said when I opened the door. “You look wonderful.”
I blushed. I hardly even took off my coat these days, so I guess I’d made a little bit more of an effort when getting dressed tonight. I was wearing black jeans—elastic-waisted, of course—and a red top, which was perhaps a little too low-cut considering I was now sporting a more generous bust thanks to the pregnancy hormones.
“Welcome, welcome,” I said, ushering him in.
I’d done an OK job of making our house look a little more charming. Thank God it was winter and the sun had set hours ago, meaning that a little flickering candlelight went a long way to soften the look and feel of the farmhouse. I just had to keep Chuck out of the kitchen, where, unfortunately, I’d been relying on the fluorescent light bulbs to finish dinner.
“This is Serge,” I said, introducing the two.
“I’m Chuck,” he said, and then paused. “But you can call me Charles if you like.” I couldn’t help a little laugh, remembering what Chuck had said about the French finding it hard to pronounce his name.
Serge looked relieved. “Bonsoir, Charles. Welcome to our home,” he said, extending his hand.
As we all sat in the living room, I realized I felt nervous. I was desperate for tonight to go well, for Chuck to become a friend to me and Serge rather than just an acquaintance of mine. I took a deep breath.
“So, you’re enjoying the country life?” Chuck asked Serge, who was busying himself serving a couple of glasses of whiskey.
“Oui, c’est magnifique,” Serge replied, looking up; however, his delivery of the word “magnificent” felt very flat. “And it will be so much better for the little one,” he continued, handing a glass to our guest and sitting down. Chuck looked confused.
Merde, I forgot Chuck still doesn’t know. Clearly my bump wasn’t as visible as it felt.
“Ah, yes,” I chipped in. “I’m pregnant. Ta da!” Oh, dear God, shut me up, I thought as we fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Chuck looked at me carefully; his expression was hard to read. His eyes creased slightly and his shoulders seemed to slump.
Does he seem surprised or just ambivalent? And why do I care?
“We’ve moved here to escape the city life and bring our baby up among the trees,” Serge continued. At least he had a way of making our escape to the country sound poetic.
“It’s not too much of a change then?” Chuck asked.
I looked expectantly at Serge, wondering how he might respond.
“Well, it is certainly not like Paris,” he said and then chuckled. “But it has always been a dream of mine to have a family in the country.”
Before I could get any more clues on how Serge felt about our move, he asked Chuck what he was doing in Chinon.
“I’m a writer,” he said with conviction, before adding, “Well, at the very least, a tortured artist.”
Serge looked to me for help deciphering what this meant. I quickly explained to him that Chuck was writing literary fiction, and that this process involved a certain amount of torment and heartbreak. It wasn’t like writing romance novels, I told him, figuring that writing anything less than a literary masterpiece had to be easy.
“And how is the farming business?” Chuck asked.
Again, I carefully watched Serge’s reaction, hoping he’d perhaps be more honest with Chuck than he had been with me until this point.
“Ça va, ça va,” Serge replied, either evading the question or wanting to keep the small talk light. “But enough about business. Shall we eat?”
Dinner itself was a veritable success. The food—despite my concerns that the menu lacked finesse—was delicious and, maybe due to the freezing temperatures outside, it was well received. We started with a hearty onion soup topped with a cheese-laden crouton, followed by a rich coq au vin with a buttery potato mash and roast pumpkin.
Serge organized the cheese plate and presented a selection of pasteurized varieties that he claimed were all pregnancy-friendly. The absence of his own cheese among the selection seemed to confirm my earlier suspicions.
For dessert, I took inspiration from Marie and made a pear tart. The flavor of the fruit was deep and the taste was sweet, almost like candy. And the pastry, which I’d made with local butter, was thick but not heavy, soaking up the pear juice and the sugar that I’d used to glaze the top of the tart.
Over tea and coffee, Chuck and I fell into a lengthy discussion about the TV shows we used to watch as kids. As we were laughing about one in particular that had encouraged us to do large-scale, and very messy, artworks, I realized Serge’s attention had drifted, and he was staring off into space. I tried to bring him into the conversation but he continued to seem distracted. I decided that he must be tired, so I started to clear the table.
Chuck gracefully took the hint.
“Do you mind if I call a cab?” he asked. “I’ve probably had one too many drinks to drive myself.”
I was about to offer to drop him off, seeing as I hadn’t been drinking, but Serge had already dialed the number.
Later, Serge asked me what the deal was with Chuck’s writing. I explained again his ambitious, multigenerational, multi-perspective project.
“Seems a little pretentious to me,” Serge said.
“Serge, that’s because you’re a farmer now,” I replied.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice catching slightly.
“I was just ribbing you, Serge. I adore your new rugged ways,” I said, giving him a hug and dragging him off to our room. Thankfully he let my comment slide.
But, in bed that night, I mulled over the fact that I was now dating—and having a child with—a farmer. In France of all places. Serge had been an integral part of my first year in Paris, but I couldn’t ever have predicted we’d end up here.
When Billie had convinced me to try going out with a different kind of man, was this what she’d had in mind? I snuck out of bed to call her.
“Hey, Billie. It’s just me. Do you have time to talk?” I asked.
“Yep, what’s up?”
“Why does something have to be ‘up’?” I said incredulously, stalling so as not to immediately bombard her with my question.
“No reason . . .,” she said, playing along.
“Well . . . seeing as you asked, I have a few follow-up questions on something we talked about a while back.”
“Oh, dear,” Billie said.
“It’s just that I’m worried I misunderstood what you meant when you told me to date different types of guys. Did I rush into things with Serge?”
“Ella, you can’t be thinking like this now. You’re having a baby together.”
“I know, but it’s just—”
“Nope.” She cut me off. “This is a very unproductive line of questioning. Are you not enjoying your country château?”
I looked around the living room unenthusiastically.
“Just a few adjustment issues, I guess,” I said.
“Talk me through them,” she said.
I outlined some of my concerns about our escape to the country—the isolation, the state of the house, my doubts about Serge’s farming capabilities—and as I was finishing the list, I heard the bedroom door. I panicked.
“Serge?” I called out. “Shit, Billie, I better run. Thanks for the chat.”
I went back into the bedroom and saw Serge getting back under the covers. Merde! How much did he hear?
“You OK, Serge?” I whispered.
“Oui, Bella. Come back to bed.”
I apprehensively slid back into bed and risked slipping my arm around him. He didn’t throw it off, which seemed like a positive sign, but as I lay there I replayed my entire conversation with Billie, trying to remember exactly what I’d said. The words “Did I rush into things with Serge?” contributed intensely to the growing feeling of nausea in my stomach.