Wish You Were French
1. Audrey
The French had a saying, ‘avoir le coup de foudre’, which meant to be struck by lightning. It was used to describe either love at first sight or something unexpected, annoying even, dropping upon you. Weighing about 1.6 grams and travelling roughly 60 kilometres-per-hour, the bird poo that splattered over my hat was not the side of the idiom I wanted to be on.
“Really?” I called to the blue sky above, taking off my favourite beret once I felt the hit. I had the type of dread that made you stop mid-stride, hoping no one just saw what happened. This was an omen—one that reminded me I’m not where I belong.
“Lucy!” I shouted as I walked through the back entrance of the café where my best friend worked. “The universe is telling me I need to leavethis place.”
“Didn’t Cathy scold you about walking through the back doors?” Lucy echoed her boss’ warning from behind the café till, before she turned back to the customers she was serving. It was an older couple—the woman wore a coastal grandmother-inspired cable knit sweater, while her partner wore a weather-proof jacket. I didn’t recognise them, so they wouldn’t be staying in town for long. They never did. “Sorry,” Lucy said. “We’ve called the cops on her, but she just doesn’t stop breaking in.”
The woman clutched at her pearls while her husband stood solid, ready to take whatever came his way. “She’s joking,” I clarified, only to have them mutter something along the lines of ‘kids these days’ as they made their way to the table. Being in my early twenties, I’ve been anxiously waiting for the day that older folk would stop calling me a kid.
“I’m using your sink.”
“No, no! That is not food safe,” Lucy hissed. “Just bin the beret, it’s seen too much.”
My mouth curved into a frown. “I can’t—berets aren’t in season at the moment, so I’d have to wait until next year for a replacement.”
“I never said buy a new one.”
“Lucy,” I warned. “You know what it means to me.”
“If it was an heirloom, I’d get it. But it’s an off-brand piece of fabric from 2012, and you reallyought to be moving on from that contaminated thing.” She had a point, I thought—even if Lucy’s statement was on the harsher side, she said it out of love. And best friends don’t let each other look bad. “Sit down, I’ll get you a croissant.”
“You know just what to say.” I batted my lashes, then eventually dumped the hat into a takeaway bag so I could wash it later.
My mother always told me that I had an addictive personality, but lacked the passion to make a hobby stick. Too wrapped up in what to do next, I was the type of girl who spent hundreds of dollars on self-help books just to store them on a dusty shelf, before buying a guitar I’d never play. I once burnt all my energy running kilometres along the shoreline, promising I would do it again the next morning at 5:00am, only to snooze, then delete my alarm entirely. I loved wanting to be something—it just took me a while to find what that something was. Then, after watching a midnight flick on the international movie channel, an obsession finally stuck. I wanted to be French.
I went to France once. Back when my parents still pretended to love each other, and I was too young to remember any of it—except for the snow, drifting down on a sweet, early December evening. I always wanted to go back to Paris, the city of love. Ever since I was young, I’ve had my hair cut in a soft, long bob with a beret holding its frizz together. My style was heavily inspired by an article on ‘French fashion’ from when I was a teen, and I’ve been wearing assortments of red and white, skinny-striped t-shirts ever since. Though for now, I was stuck here in a land far, far away from France. A small, coastal destination only a few hours away from Brisbane. In a place like this, people enjoyed living the simple life; those who grew up here didn’t want to leave, and their biggest accomplishment was either getting married and having kids, or finding a rare species of fish out on the open water.
The café was the perfect spot to overlook the sea without surfers coming in and drenching the wooden floorboards. This particular spot was mostly used as a shipping port, and most of the traffic we got to see were boats going back and forth throughout the day. I didn’t come here for the view, though. As much as I enjoyed the idea of leaving everything behind to travel abroad, I also liked showing up here to be somewhat social. It was comforting to watch the regulars gather, and I liked how they would give swift nods at me when they walked by—even if I became their talking point when they laughed about my clothing choices; a ‘Parisian’ inspired outfit every time. But aside from my ruined beret, today I wrapped a black woollen scarf around my neck to protect me from the slight chill, reminding everyone that it was, indeed, nearing winter.
A cup of hot chocolate held my hands hostage, while I waited for my ham and cheese croissant to be toasted. I sat at one of the chairs facing the ocean and closed my eyes while breathing in the serenity. The waves always found a way to relax me, which is why I wasn’t all that disappointed in hanging around until I could afford a one-way ticket to Europe. But as soon as I could, I’d be gone without a second thought.
“Did you hear?” A group of girls gossiped from the table beside me. “There’s a new man in town!” It wasn’t often that someone new stayed in town for longer than a visit to the beach, so their fangirling was… appropriate. But the news didn’t faze me—more attachments made it difficult to escape the clutches of the Australian shore.
Following a ding of the oven, Lucy came over to my table and set my breakfast down in front of me. “Here you are, Mademoiselle,” she teased, taking a seat beside me. She’s the person I’d miss the most.
“Merci,” I replied with a wink. Lucy’s focus lingered on the group of ladies next to us as they packed their things and paid their bill at the counter. They had always been a louder group, and frankly our main source of intel. “All they do is talk about which men visit our town. What’s wrong with the men we have here?” I sighed, shaking my head as I pulled apart a piece of my toasted croissant, watching the cheese drape down my fingers while the steam rose up my nostrils.
“You mean our fine selection of fishermen, and the odd surfer with an ego bigger than his board?” Lucy scoffed. “It makes sense why a foreigner gets the girls so excited.”
“Wait, he’s from abroad?” I choked. That was it—the moment my exterior shifted, and the cool, carefree persona I pretended to have was cracked. It was also Lucy’s favourite version of me, because it was the one she loved to make fun of.
“But you wouldn’t want to hear about him, I’m sure.” Lucy looked over the view of the blue waves through the window, a slight smirk tugging at her lips.
“No, not at all,” I answered.
“And there’d be no point knowing about him anyway,” she said, “if he ends up going back to Europe.”
“That’s right. See? You get me.” My words were coy and unbelievable, because deep down, Lucy knew I was begging for her to say more. I just didn’t want to be the one to ask for it. “I’m not really interested,” I said my final lie, then distracted myself with Lucy’s treats like I always did. When the pastry finally found its place in my mouth, I closed my eyes with a soft moan, because it was just as delicious as it smelled.
“But with your… specialinterests… have you considered that maybe he’s from France?”
With all the shame in my body, one of my eyes popped open from intrigue. I’d officially put a target on my back.
“I knew that would get you.” Lucy’s devilish smile turned to a grin.
With a huff, I straightened my posture and dove into her trap. “Alright, I’ll take the bait. What do you know about him?”
“Well, I didn’t actually see him, so I don’t know for myself, but Cathy met him yesterday. She said that he had dark brown hair, a handsome stature, and apparently, an accent that was so hot it could catch a flame.” I laughed at the thought of Cathy saying anything like that, so she must have meant it. And a ‘hot accent’ did match the description of my perfect man—a French Prince, ready to whisk me away. Residency couldn’t hurt, if I was heading that direction anyway.
“Did she say how old he was?” I asked. Cathy was in her late thirties, so her version of attractive could range up to forty-five, which was well out of my dating circle.
“She said he didn’t look a day over twenty-five. But guess what the best part is?” I waited for her to carry on. “Cathy said he should be coming down today.”
“When?” My heart thudded against my chest and I could feel heat on my face. I couldn’t meet him like this, when I worried about smelling like my ruined beret. Why couldn’t it be after a shower, or when I’d just gotten a fresh haircut?
“Apparently when he came by last night, he said he couldn’t buy groceries since he arrived in town after the shops closed,” Lucy said. “He’ll be coming here for breakfast this morning.”
I coughed, punching at my chest so that my last bite went down where it should. “But I’m not ready!” I shouted as I stood, pouring the leftover hot chocolate into my gob, only for some to leak down the edges.
“Gross, Audrey.” Lucy laughed with a grimace. “Close your mouth!”
In a hurry, I placed the empty cup on the table and ran to the exit. The bell rang, but I wasn’t there yet, meaning someone else was coming inside. I couldn’t break my momentum, and before I knew it, we collided. My force must have caught the victim off guard, because the scene turned sideways, and we’d fallen to the floor.
Groaning from the impact, I rolled off their chest, worried that I’d hurt someone more fragile than myself. But when my eyes finally took them in, my pulse rose. Surely, it was him—dressed in long slacks that gave off a European vibe, and dark hair that wasn’t yet bleached by the Australian sun. My eyes grazed over the symbol on his belt and I spotted the brand name, Louis Vuitton. It’s French, and more expensive than any of us here could afford.
“Sorry about that,” I said, my voice still catching its breath. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” While he found his bearings, I braced for his angry reaction. But his dark eyebrows weren’t furrowed in a frown, and his nice, straight nose wasn’t scrunched in annoyance. His green eyes were still darting around the room while he started to push himself off the ground, and even from where we fell, I could tell his height was on the taller side. It was definitely him, I could feel it; my French Prince Charming. Almost as if in slow motion, his mouth began to quirk up in a smile—his chest vibrating as he chuckled.
Thank God,I thought, maybe I hadn’t blown my chances. As he stood, he offered me his hand and I gladly took it. I even started to wonder if he had someone special back home, and if not, I wondered about how many women must’ve been chasing after him. Then the more I looked into his eyes, the more certain I became that I’d be chasing after him, too.
In my dazed state, I noticed Lucy in the background, cringing at the dramatic turmoil that I had caused. I looked at her with panic in my eyes, not knowing what to do next. “Introduce yourself!” she whispered fiercely, then my face heated up once more as I held out my hand to shake his.
“I’m Audrey.” My voice was soft, albeit a little croaky from my mug of hot chocolate—it was an attempt to feel flirtatious, and I hoped the tone would wash away the tension. His hand attached itself to mine once more, and I fought hard with myself so that I wouldn’t become entranced again. It was the moment I had been waiting for—he’d reveal himself as my French dream-come-true. My heart raced as his mouth opened, waiting for his voice, yearning for it. And suddenly, there it was. “Nice to meet you, Audrey,” he said clearly, in the most alluring… enticing… British accent. “I’m Theo Atkins.”