AFTER A COUPLE OF WEEKS of spring rain, the sun came out, just in time for the soft launch of Ella and the Goats—the café name still a work in progress for want of Serge, me, Mum, and Ray agreeing on a better idea.
It’d been a mad race to the finish line—of course—and, with a last-minute burst water pipe slowing our progress, we’d worked late into the night to get everything done. The result, thankfully, exceeded expectations. We’d found two perfect brown leather couches, and I’d sourced some huge vintage posters to add pops of color to the walls. The cheese cabinet had arrived just in time—after more than a few phone calls to ensure the express delivery—and Serge had carefully filled it with a selection of his cheeses.
I stared out at the empty car park, which Ray had landscaped beautifully, creating a line of shrubs that he promised would soon grow into a hedge. I was proud of what we’d managed to create but I still wasn’t sure how it would resonate with a French crowd. I felt both nervous and excited to find out.
With the early-morning fog lifting and rays of sunshine streaming through the windows, it finally felt like we were ready to go. I arranged the scones and tarts, and set up a sample cheese-tasting plate for some promotional pictures. As a finishing touch, I placed the congratulatory bouquet of wildflowers that Serge had picked for me that morning next to the coffee machine. He came over and wrapped his arms around me.
“Congratulations, Ella. You did it!” he said.
All we needed now were customers, or at least some friends, to come and help fill the space.
Thankfully, Chris was catching the train from Paris with Clotilde to be with me in time for the opening. To my surprise—and perhaps Clotilde’s—Chris had recently decided to take a break from pursuing French women, having had his heart broken “more times than was worth counting,” in his own melodramatic words. He was focusing on himself for a while, which also worked in my favor because he was able and willing to teach me to make coffee. Clotilde, as always, was just excited to be involved in an activity that was away from cameras and catwalks. While I didn’t have many friends out here in the French countryside, my friends from Paris managed to take up the slack.
After I gave them a quick tour, we got to work—Chris on my coffee-making skills and Clotilde on our social media presence. She promoted the cheese room as a destination for Parisians looking for good coffee and good vibes outside of the city. As she went outside to take photos of our goats to highlight the farm-to-table aspect, I double-checked if Chris’s romantic feelings toward her, which were as strong as a pungent slice of Munster when I was still living in Paris, were also on pause.
“Ella, I will always love Clotilde. But now is not the moment,” he told me.
“Have things really been that bad?” I asked, and he nodded gravely.
“I’ve decided I need to wait for the right person. Perhaps the female version of Serge,” he said.
“I’m sure she’d be magnificent,” I joked. “But seriously, nobody is ever perfect.”
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.
“Not so much trouble, just some roadblocks,” I said.
“Well, Ella, what did you expect? You haven’t done things the easy way,” he replied.
And Chris was right. Serge and my honeymoon period had been hacked into like a wheel of Camembert at a party. After a few months of uneventful bliss, we’d been placed under an increasing amount of pressure, from the unexpected pregnancy and the move to the farm to starting a business. It had been an intense period. Perhaps I should cut Serge more slack, I thought.
A dozen trial coffees later, and after a few decaf versions for me, we still didn’t have any customers beyond Marie and Jacques, who had arrived at eleven o’clock and had been slowly sipping two espressos in an attempt to fill out the tables until lunchtime. Although we’d distributed flyers telling people in Chinon about the “grand opening,” they were obviously holding out on stopping by.
I thought back to the conversation I’d overheard at the village party and wondered if people weren’t coming because they continued to think of Serge and me as outsiders. But I wasn’t about to let some hesitant locals cramp my style. If all went well, the cheese room would become a destination. People would travel to come and visit us, and we wouldn’t need to rely on our more small-minded neighbors. And for now, at least there were enough of us to make it look like we were having a relatively busy day to anyone who drove past. Everything will be fine, I kept repeating to myself, although as the minutes ticked by, my nerves intensified.
In true French style, some customers arrived for lunch at midday on the dot. Two women in their late sixties looked around, mouths agape, at the cabinets and the imposing coffee machine. I quickly stepped in to explain the concept of the cheese room, something that should have been obvious but, in country France, was actually quite original.
“It’s a melange of a cheese-tasting room and an Australian-style café,” I told the pair. “We also have cheese tarts, salads, or maybe dessert if you prefer something sweet. And coffee, of course. Good coffee,” I clarified, smiling, although perhaps the nuance was lost through my French.
“And do you have a lunch formule?” one of the women croaked.
Merde! I thought. How could I have not thought to have a formule? The French love their entrée–main or main–dessert combo.
“Of course we do. It’s fifteen euros for main–dessert,” I ad-libbed.
“Quite reasonable,” they said, nodding, and went to sit down.
I looked on desperately as the women ate goat cheese tarts with lettuce from Ray’s makeshift garden, followed by a peach cobbler. When they initially refused an espresso, I told them it was on the house to celebrate our opening. They begrudgingly agreed.
“I’ll be up all night,” one said grumpily as I dropped the cups off at their table.
“I’ll probably have heartburn all afternoon,” said the other.
The coffee was met with stern approval.
“Très bon,” one said, as the other murmured either enjoyment or disdain; it was hard to tell.
Once the ladies had gone, I rubbed my hands together and looked at Serge.
“Not bad for our first lunch,” I said.
“You think?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not a very big village. Word will spread,” I reassured him.
“And they liked the goat cheese in the tart?”
Crap. I’d actually forgotten to ask.
“They said they enjoyed everything,” I replied.
Serge forced a smile, but I could tell he was disappointed at the lack of customers.
“Good things take time, Serge,” I reminded him, but I, too, felt his disappointment.
“I’m just relieved we didn’t get a proper loan from the bank,” he said.
I still hadn’t told Serge about the money Chuck had contributed, and until now, I’d hoped he simply hadn’t noticed.
“Huh?” I asked.
“It’s much easier knowing we have some flexibility in our repayments.”
“Right . . .,” I said, nervously. Is this conversation about to get ugly?
“Well, it was very generous of your mum,” he said.
“Mum?” I said, before retreating back. “Of course, Mum. Yes, it was generous. But let’s not worry about all that now,” I went on, trying to buy myself some time to figure out what was going on. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
Over the sound of grinding beans, I furiously tried to figure out how Serge came to think that Mum had lent us money. Other than the conversation we’d had very early on about me securing extra funding, had I said anything that would lead him to believe she was behind the loan? Did Mum mention something? Regardless of how he came to the conclusion, now that he knew about the extra money I’d spent, it was probably time for me to come clean.
I went to talk to Mum, but before I could even broach the subject, we were hit by a surprise afternoon rush. People had obviously caught wind of the “English” girl opening up a “tea shop,” and they piled in for tea and scones. It wasn’t quite the market I was after, but by that point, I wasn’t going to turn anyone away. Perhaps the “outsider” angle was just what I needed.
I rushed Mum into the kitchen to make another batch of scones as I prepared yet another pot of English Breakfast tea. I stared longingly at the coffee machine and gave it a consolatory rub while Serge stood futilely behind his cheese counter.
“Ella, coffee order,” Chris called out some time later.
Finally, I thought, heading over to the machine. All is not lost.
“From someone French?” I asked.
“Not sure,” he replied. “He’s over there if you want to find out.”
I spotted the enormous bunch of flowers before I saw the man who was behind them.
“Chuck, hello,” I said, after I’d glimpsed his face over the foliage.
“Congratulations, Ella! What an achievement,” he said, hugging me. I stole a glance at Serge to see how he reacted to Chuck’s flowers, but he was busy rearranging the cheese cabinet for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon.
“Thanks, Chuck. Although it’s been a bit of a disaster,” I said honestly. “Only two customers for lunch, and now we seem to be running some kind of English tea shop. We’ve already sold out of scones.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have minded one.”
“How about some peach cobbler instead?” I suggested.
“Perfect.”
I made Chuck a flat white and then went to sit down with him. It felt good to rest my legs. I was determined not to let my belly slow me down but I had to acknowledge that it was tiring me out.
“So, what’s the news in the world outside of this place?” I asked.
“Same old,” he replied. “Except with the addition of a roof leak.”
“Oh, no. Perhaps you could use the bathtub to catch the water,” I suggested.
We both laughed, causing Serge to look over. I motioned for him to join us but he either didn’t notice the invitation or chose to ignore it. I turned back to Chuck.
“And what’s going on with your book?” I asked.
Chuck launched into his current plot dilemma, asking me for advice. It was a relief to jump into his fictional world and its problems so I could forget about my own for a few minutes.
Mum brought out a fresh tray of scones and spotted me sitting with Chuck. She came over to say hello to him, standing behind me and resting her hands on my shoulders. As she chatted away happily, I felt relieved that she now seemed to have accepted him as one of my friends.
“Well, I best get back to it,” she said. “You too, Ella, chop-chop.”
“Yep, I’ll be with you in a minute,” I said.
Before walking away, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You should be helping Serge. People will get the wrong idea.”
I got back to work.
We shut the café to customers around five o’clock. It had been a long day, and to thank everyone for coming and lending a hand, I’d bought a six-pack of local sparkling wine. I set down glasses and got everyone onto the couches.
Chuck, who had tried nearly everything on the menu by this point, made to leave but I insisted he stay. I ushered him into a spot next to Clotilde, hoping they might flirt a little and get Mum off my back.
I began blushing before I began talking.
“I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your help. I only came up with the idea of starting this place a few months ago,” I said, laughing because, while I could sound casual now, I knew how much work had gone into setting it up. “But since then, it’s been all I can think of, and without your help I certainly couldn’t have got everything ready in time.”
I could have gone on, but Serge got up to relieve me from my embarrassment. “So, we should all raise a glass to Ella—for her crazy dreams and her capacity to follow through on them. It’s one of your most admirable qualities, ma belle,” he said, turning to me.
I blushed harder, finally taking a moment to acknowledge how wonderful it felt to have survived day one of owning a business in France.
But then Serge added, “And thank you to Ella’s mum for her financial assistance. It wouldn’t have been possible without her help. So, cheers!”
Merde! I still hadn’t spoken to Mum.
I shot her a look that said “I’ll explain later,” and then glanced over at Chuck to see he’d gone a deep shade of red. I smiled, but Serge seemed to have noticed all of the looks darting around the group and suddenly seemed uneasy. What should have been a joyful moment had suddenly turned complicated.
While Serge was packing away his cheese, I pulled Mum into the kitchen and told her about the mix-up.
“So, he must have realized I got some additional funding and then assumed it was from you. I was going to tell him earlier today, but then we got so busy this afternoon.”
“Ella, you should have told him as soon as Charles had offered,” she said sternly.
“I know, but it’s complicated. And the money seriously helped at a time when I was rather desperate.”
“You could have come to me,” she said.
“But you’ve already done so much,” I replied. “Besides, Chuck offered so willingly, and he made accepting very easy.”
“And you’re sure his intentions are honorable?”
“Oh, Mum, stop! I just need you not to mention anything to Serge.”
“You’re entering dangerous territory, Ella,” she said. “But if this is what you want . . .”
“It is. Thanks, Mum. I’ll tell him everything soon enough.”
Thankfully, Serge didn’t bring up the loan again for the rest of the evening. I’d finally managed to convince myself I was just being paranoid about it until later, when we were alone in our room.
“Did I do the wrong thing by thanking your mum for helping fund the cheese room?” he asked. “She seemed upset when I mentioned it.”
I’d been trying to figure out the best way to tell Serge about Chuck’s financial assistance since his speech earlier that evening. I still wanted to come clean but I got the feeling Serge wouldn’t take the news well. And I certainly didn’t want him to feel like he couldn’t support his own farm and business, especially when things had gotten off to such a rough start.
“Of course, you didn’t do the wrong thing,” I said to Serge. “Mum was just embarrassed. I don’t even know if she’d spoken about it in concrete terms with Ray.”
“Oh,” Serge said, and then he apologized.
“It’s totally fine,” I said. “Already forgotten.”
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful. Not only had I lied to Serge, but now I’d also implicated Mum. I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I’d be able to pay off Chuck’s loan quickly enough; I just had to hope that Serge wouldn’t find out the truth before I did.