Fromage a Trois Read online

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Drive

  Eagle, ID 83616

  amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Brownlee

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Cataloguing-in-Publication data available upon request

  ISBN: 978-1-948705-13-4

  E-ISBN: 978-1-948705-25-7

  For Jamie and Clementine, my little Paris family

  Chapter

  1

  HOPPING ABOUT ON ONE FOOT, I spied a patch of unshaved hair on my ankle as I struggled to roll up my stocking. Damn, I thought, swinging my head to check the clock and see if there was time for an emergency shave. There wasn’t. I pulled out a tiny red number I’d found in a sale bin the day before on my lunch break and stepped into it. Zipping up the slightly crinkled dress and standing tall, I checked the effect in the mirror and winked at my reflection. Not bad, Ella. It was a size smaller than I’d normally wear—pinching more than slightly around my already-ample bust—but it looked good, and I wanted to look good tonight. I was heading off on a potentially life-changing date.

  I was hunting for my black heels on all fours under the bed when my phone started vibrating softly. I scrambled to get myself upright in the restrictive dress and started flinging clothes and books aside in search of it. It could be Paul calling to alter our plan.

  “Hello,” I said, picking up the phone, panting.

  “Ella, darling. I wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

  “Mum,” I sighed. “It’s only you. I’m fine. Just getting ready.”

  “Did you get any more hints this morning before he went to work?” Mum had been preempting this proposal since my first date with Paul. She always referred to him as a “good catch.”

  “Mum! Please stop. I have no idea if anything is going to happen.” Even saying it out loud, I wasn’t convinced. I had a sneaking suspicion tonight was going to be special.

  “Just tell me exactly what he said when he asked you to dinner.”

  But Paul hadn’t revealed anything. He’d casually told me that he’d booked a table at Francine, our favorite French bistro, and had asked me to meet him there. I assumed he wanted to keep some element of surprise.

  “He must be planning something . . .” she said.

  And then she began to rattle on about how Paul might sneak a ring into a glass of champagne, or perhaps nestle it into dessert. Listening to her made me visualize the possible proposal and butterflies began to flutter in my stomach. For the past eight years, it had felt like Paul and I had been working up to this moment. Of course, as the years rolled on, I’d had the standard midtwenties’ doubts about how compatible we were—me, an indecisive drifter, and Paul, a realist on a fast track to becoming a hedge fund partner—but our lives had continued to become further entwined and now it felt like our future was all but set in stone. Then again, there’d been anticipated proposals before this that had never come to pass: weekends away, holidays overseas, sunsets on the beach; and every time I would find myself at the end of it, gazing down at my ringless finger. I figured there was no point getting overly excited that something would happen tonight and I’d been trying to stop my imagination from running away from me all day. I’d even hunted around the apartment for a jewellery box earlier that week while Paul spent another evening at the gym, but sadly found no trace.

  “Mum, seriously, stop. I’ve got to go and finish getting ready. I’ll give you a call if anything happens. Love you.”

  “Good luck, darling. Keep me updated.”

  It was a relief to get her off the phone. Her nerves had the tendency to rub off on me and I wanted to be composed at dinner, at least in appearance.

  I went to the bathroom to apply another layer of deodorant and put on just enough makeup to enhance my dark-green eyes, while still looking like the type of girl that a guy would want to marry. After a few failed eyeliner attempts that resulted in more of a lady-of-the-night rather than potential-wife vibe, I nailed it and marveled at my work. I’d tied my hair up into a messy bun, which tamed some of the wild, dark curls. Demure but sexy, a desirable combo.

  Climbing the stairs to the open-plan lounge and kitchen, I grabbed Paul’s car keys and slid them into my clutch. I couldn’t help stopping a minute and admiring his apartment—our apartment—and the glittering lights of the city that you could see through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the far wall. We’d moved in in January after nearly a year of searching for the perfect place, and it was finally starting to feel like a home. My mind went back to when we walked in at the sale inspection, nudging each other, both realizing without saying anything that it was perfect. While I had baulked at the price, Paul had reassured me it would be fine. After all, he was paying; he had money to burn after a recent promotion. He was, as he would say, “kicking goals” at work, and this apartment was his celebratory gift to himself, and to us. I could almost feel Paul behind me now, whispering into my ear, as he had done when we were placing our fictional furniture, that he was going to buy it for us.

  The night we moved in, and before all of our stuff had arrived, Paul had set up a makeshift bed and we’d stayed up all night reminiscing about our first apartment—small, cramped, and run-down; a lifetime away from where we were now—and talking about how we were going to decorate this one. Thinking about how far we’d come had been exciting, and the new apartment felt like the opening paragraph of a new chapter for us. We were in a good place, and despite our drastically different career choices, I’d increasingly attached myself to him and this new life we’d chosen. While previously the idea of settling in one place with one person scared me—the prospect of being a wife or mother had made me feel physically sick—I gradually started to see the joy in having a beautiful home and reliable car, of having job security and an income. While sitting on that makeshift bed with him, I swear I even heard my uterus yelp.

  After a few months in our new home together, I’d hinted at Paul that I was ready to commit. I hadn’t been sure he’d registered this, but when a few weeks later he told me he’d started saving again, I quietly rejoiced. And since then, I’d been on edge thinking about when he might pop the question. My flighty solo days of backpacking around the world having adventures were becoming remnants of my past. They were happy memories, but now I was on a new path.

  I checked the time on my phone and snapped out of my daydreaming.

  Shit, shit, shit, I was going to be late.

  I slammed the front door behind me and, hearing the lock click into place, walked excitedly down to the garage. It was raining outside—a sign of good luck? Or was that reserved for wedding days?—and I drove the few kilometers to Bistro Francine. I was so on edge that I had to take care to drive extra carefully. A crash in Paul’s car on the way to dinner would not set the right tone.

  Paul was already sitting at our regular table, having squeezed his tall frame into the booth seat. Not that I minded taking the chair and facing away from the restaurant’s action; I only wanted to look into Paul’s eyes tonight. Everything else was simply ambiance, background noise for the big question. I leaned over, allowing him a nice view down m
y dress, and kissed his clean-shaven cheek before sitting down and shaking the drops of rain from my curls. I smiled. I was ready.

  The waitress came over to our table and I hesitated before asking Paul if we should order a bottle of champagne. He shook his head and pointed at the vodka soda he’d ordered before I arrived. He seemed distracted.

  But then, who isn’t nervous when they’re about to propose?

  We scanned the menus in silence. I felt too jittery to start a conversation and Paul was concentrating intently on the specials, probably deciding which dishes wouldn’t break his Paleo diet.

  When he looked up, he smiled and asked me how my day had been, immediately breaking the tension. Maybe I was overthinking things? I tried to remain casual while I told him about how I’d had to spend the whole afternoon photocopying a book on Victorian-style gardening, and then caught myself. Ranting about my job was not sexy. I changed the subject and asked about his day, which had been equally frustrating. He’d been trying to close some big, secretive deal before the weekend and it’d fallen through at the last minute because the guy’s wife had been in an accident.

  “Oh my God, is she OK?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask. I really needed him to sign today. I can’t believe my luck.”

  I nodded politely, deciding that Paul was probably a little off because he was worried about work. He wasn’t usually so thoughtless.

  Nothing a surprise engagement couldn’t improve, I told myself. I wasn’t going to let anything spoil my good spirits.

  The night went swiftly and things began to warm up between us as we moved between courses. Paul even ordered a bottle of expensive Yarra Valley pinot noir for us to share. But despite the improvement in mood, I was still struggling to relax and ended up sipping my wine with greater gusto than I normally would. By the time we finished our main courses, I was tipsy, flinging my head back and laughing loudly in an effort to put Paul at ease and hurry him up a little. It was meant to be one of the happiest moments of our life and I didn’t want him to be anxious about it.

  I was jubilant on the outside. Inside, I was biding my time until dessert, hoping to find a glittering diamond crowning the top of our favorite apple tart.

  Paul looked at me sideways as if he was about to say something important, but our server’s untimely arrival at the table interrupted the moment. She asked if we’d like to share our usual tarte tatin or if we fancied something different for dessert. I looked hopefully over to Paul, waiting to see what he would order. Could it be an indicator of where he’d hidden the rock? I figured that must be why he’d gotten here early, to arrange it all with the chef. He smiled softly and paused, and after a few anxiety-inducing seconds, asked for a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin with one ice cube. I pouted, the waitress nodded at Paul’s request and after emptying the remains of the bottle of wine into my glass, walked away.

  Paul gazed at me across the table, saying my name quietly. I felt my heart start to beat uncomfortably in my too-tight dress that seemed to have shrunk during dinner.

  This is it, I thought. Of course my Paul wouldn’t go the clichéd route of a hidden ring.

  “We need to talk about something,” he said.

  Oh God, it’s happening. Try to look calm.

  “Yes,” I whispered, eyeing his mouth impatiently, willing his next words to hurry. I watched him inhale deeply while looking out the window.

  “Ella, I’ve decided I’m leaving . . .”

  Chapter

  2

  I LEANED ACROSS THE TABLE, not sure I’d heard him correctly. My long necklace smashed into my water glass making a loud clang, which drew all eyes in our direction. I looked at him, wide-eyed and astonished.

  What the fuck is going on? This wasn’t the plan!

  “Leaving?! Leaving me?”

  “Leaving Melbourne,” he said quietly. “And, well . . .”

  “Leaving Melbourne? Where are you going?” I didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence.

  “To find myself . . .” he said, an air of calmness washing over his face as though he was now completely unburdened, having told me.

  “Paul, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ella, it’s complicated. See, I earn all this money and I’m doing so well at work. I feel like I’m getting lost in my own success.”

  “But you love your job. You love being successful.”

  “But is that enough?” he asked. “I need to get away to find out how to take the next step. All the top partners are doing it. If I’m going to make it even bigger, Ella, I need to do it too. It’s not enough to rise through the ranks at work anymore. I also need to challenge myself spiritually.”

  I sat poised, ready to laugh. He was about to tell me this was all a big joke. But his stony face hammered home quite the opposite. He was being serious. I tried to figure out what this decision meant for us as a couple. Paul had been known to get swept up in wellness trends and health fads, the latest of which were his CrossFit and Paleo obsessions, but generally these “hobbies” hadn’t affected us. If anything, they just made Paul more attractive to me.

  “So, where are you going?” Despite feeling apprehensive, I decided to try and be supportive.

  “It’s a three-week retreat on a secluded beach somewhere in Thailand. The organizers won’t even give you the address before you arrive; they just pick you up at the airport and take you there. This particular retreat is really hard to get accepted into. You need at least two recommendations from former participants.”

  “So it’s like a glorified rehab or something?”

  “No, it’s a meditation and wellness retreat. It’s apparently very enlightening. I’ll probably come back a different person,” he said earnestly.

  I tried not to roll my eyes. I couldn’t imagine Paul—the man I’d known for close to a decade—changing who he was, or even wanting to change.

  “OK . . .” I said slowly, buying myself some thinking time. “And when are you meant to leave?”

  “My flight out is tonight so I’ll leave directly after dinner. I’ve got a bag packed and I’m ready to go.”

  What? Why didn’t he tell me about this earlier?

  “And how did you find out about this retreat?” I asked, trying to remain calm despite the fact that my stomach was anxiously poised and ready to jump out of my mouth.

  “Oh, it’s a cool story, actually. You know my trainer at CrossFit? The one who’s really into mindfulness? Well, she went away on a retreat last year and said it completely changed her life.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “When I was telling her about my recent promotion,” he continued, “and how I wasn’t even excited about the huge pay rise I got offered, she recommended I go. She’s really on my wavelength.”

  Really on my wavelength, I scoffed. What fucking wavelength? And why the hell is he taking life advice from a meditating CrossFit girl?

  “Why now?” I asked instead. “Couldn’t you have gone on this soul-searching ‘journey’ sooner?”

  “I didn’t feel like I had the support before,” Paul said, a serious look on his face. “But now my boss has agreed to give me time off work, and Jessyka has been coaching me on how to tell people in a neutral environment and what to expect when I do . . .”

  He paused and I furiously wondered how my boyfriend could be taking life advice from someone who spells her name with a ‘y’ and ‘k’. When I first saw Jessyka’s name come up on Paul’s phone, I thought he must have entered it in wrong. But things were about to get worse. “She’s also helped me figure out how to manage people who might not support my decision . . .” he said, trailing off.

  “Like me?” I suggested.

  “Ella, please. This isn’t about you. It’s just something I have to do for myself. It’s a big life journey . . .”

  I could feel my blood pumping more and more angrily in my chest. This retreat had all the ha
llmarks of a typical Paul stunt: him acting like he could fast-track his way to enlightenment in one easy three-week course. I reached out for his hand, mustering all my reserves of calmness and self-control.

  “I’m just trying to understand, Paul.” I cleared my throat, trying to squash my anger. “So this different person you’re coming back as, does he envisage a future with me?”

  “Ella! Don’t be like that. I don’t know what will happen when I get back. Everyone experiences these retreats differently. I can’t predict how I’m going to feel. I also can’t promise anything. It’s probably best to wait and see what happens when I get back . . . Sound good?”

  Now I was confused. Was Paul leaving me or not? Waiting around for his return certainly wasn’t the proposal I’d been hoping for.

  “And is that what you want?” I asked. “For me to wait for you? Are you able to at least commit to our relationship before you go?”

  “What are relationships, anyway? What is commitment?” he asked, almost to himself. “I’ve been meditating a lot on this recently . . .”

  I looked at him stunned, unsure whether to attempt a response.

  “And what does it matter if and when we commit?” he continued. “We’re here together now, having a lovely dinner before I go away. Isn’t that enough?”

  Why is he being so infuriatingly vague?

  “And did you think to ask me about any of this?” I asked.

  “Ella, you know we can’t be happy if I’m not happy, right?” he said.

  “Are you being serious, Paul?”

  “One hundred percent serious, Ella. I wouldn’t joke about something as important as this.”

  “But I’ve done everything for you. I settled in Melbourne and got a nine-to-five job. I stopped traveling. God, I even got a savings account. I thought that’s what you wanted from me. Now you’re leaving me for some kind of hippie cult.”

  “Don’t call it that. And I never asked you to change who you were; quite the opposite. The Ella I met all those years ago, that girl in Paris, was the type of partner who would support me on this journey. The Ella I met back then was open to change. I don’t really know who you are anymore. Perhaps we’re just not on the same page. But don’t worry. It’s not you; it’s me. I’m changing too.”