This Foreign Affair

by Harper Bliss

  “You’ve only known her a few days,” Caitlin butts in. “She can be quite the princess sometimes.” She follows up with a laugh. I hope Camille gets the joke.

  Camille responds by throwing an arm around my shoulder. “My beautiful princess. At least for a day and a half longer.” She kisses me on the cheek and it shoots straight through me, warming my flesh, quickening my pulse. Counting eight hours at work tomorrow and a few hours of sleep, we have about twenty-four waking hours left together. I think it’s time to go.

  Chapter Eleven

  After work on Wednesday I rush home. Camille is coming to my house for her last night and morning. We have a lot of plans, and most of them are best executed in my house.

  My day has been so hectic—the production schedule is already demanding, and I also had to make up for the time I’ll lose tomorrow morning. I haven’t had ten spare minutes to myself to come up with the questions I want to ask Camille in our interview. I’m going to have to improvise. Or maybe we can skip directly to the raunchier part of tonight’s recording. Because I have said yes. This morning, before work, I told her I would do it. I would make both videos. In the face of all this passion, no matter how foolish and bound by time, trust is not an issue. Besides, we’ll both be on the tape. We both have equal amounts of dignity to lose if it ever comes out. And I want that kind of memory of her. No matter how idiotic it sounded when she first brought it up, now I can’t imagine the prospect of not having this sensual experience to remember her—us—by. My emotions are too strong for that.

  Camille arrives a mere five minutes after I’ve parked my car. She kisses me deeply and pulls me close, then pushes herself away.

  “We have to wait,” she says. “Save the best for the camera.”

  “We could flip things around.” I tug her toward me again. “Sex first, interview later.”

  She ponders this for a few seconds. “A naked interview in bed. I quite like the sound of that.”

  “I’d be too distracted to ask you any interesting questions. Let’s stick to the original plan, which is already crazy enough.” I let her go—for now.

  “You’re in charge, Miss TV Journalist.” Camille smiles. “Can I wear something of yours for the first part of the evening’s entertainment?” She’s wearing a rumpled pair of jeans and an equally wrinkly linen shirt—I assume she’s running out of clean clothes and hasn’t bothered doing laundry this close to her departure—but she still looks scrumptious.

  “Why? You look delicious. Bohemian almost-chic suits you. Must be because you’re French and you can wear anything you want and still look effortlessly good in it.”

  “Oh yes, that’s definitely a super power all French citizens are born with.”

  “Feel free to browse my wardrobe, but I’m not sure you’ll find anything that fits. We don’t exactly have the same body type.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something.” She shoots me another smile and then, as if she has lived in this house for years, she walks into my bedroom, in search of something camera-friendly to clothe herself in.

  While I hear her rummaging around in the other room, I set up the necessary equipment for the interview. I’m not an expert, but I know enough to set up a pair of lamps that will enhance our complexions, and the camera, which is just a point-and-shoot with a decent video function, so it can capture us both in the frame. All we need is a touch of make-up, a few rounds of test shooting, and we’re a go.

  Camille enters the room in a colorful pull-over dress that I inherited from my grandmother. It’s canary yellow and bright orange and every shade in between. It washes out her pale skin tone, but I don’t mention it. I’ll dim the lights a little and apply some more foundation to her face before I hit record.

  “What was the highlight of your trip to Australia?” I ask, expecting nothing less than a flippant answer about kangaroos and koalas. It has only taken me a few short days to get accustomed to Camille’s sense of humor.

  But Camille’s facial expression is serious. This interview is no joke to her. “When I arrived at your rental apartment and that smoke detector kept beeping. After two months on the road, and a lot of unexpected encounters and adventures, I had learned that the things that appear the most annoying at first, can lead to the most interesting experiences.”

  “Really?” I would usually never follow up an interviewee’s answer like that, but sitting across from Camille, I can’t be expected to keep my composure.

  “I am a woman who hasn’t traveled much. We went on our yearly family holidays. Provence in summer and Courchevel in winter, but apart from a few city trips in Europe, I had barely left the country. Coming to Australia for two entire months is about the biggest step away from normalcy I could take.” She looks at me intently. “Truth be told, the first ten days to two weeks were horrible. I was so out of my depth and I only had myself to rely on. The scenery was stunning, the accommodation just fine, and the people so very nice, but I just couldn’t find my groove. It was so bad that, on more than one occasion, I looked up how much it would cost me to cancel my upcoming reservations and change my flight back.” She brings two fingers to her chest. “This malaise deep in here. A rupture from my routine, from my everyday life, my children, my house. Not to be able to sit in my favorite chair. Not to stop for coffee in my neighborhood tabac before going to work. It was the little things as much as the big things. I don’t want to compare the proximity to my children to a cup of coffee at Gérard’s, but I missed them both in equal measure. Until I realized that to have a successful trip, I should focus on the little things that could make my stay here great, instead of all the overwhelming big things.”

  I nod to encourage her to just keep talking, while I hang on every word she says.

  “Yes,” she continues, “the landscapes were breathtaking, but, in the end, they weren’t the real reason I came here. It helped that I could think about my life back home with a gorgeous backdrop, no doubt about that, but the hard work would have to take place inside of me.” A tap on the chest again. “And then, little by little, day by day, I started smiling again. I became less flighty. I engaged more with the people I met. I found a routine that pleased me even though I was on the road most of the time. I structured my days so I didn’t have to worry so much about details, and could experience maximum freedom.”

  Come to think of it, I didn’t need to prepare any questions. Maybe that’s why I didn’t. Because I subconsciously knew that Camille would just talk—and I would get to know her better and appreciate her even more in the process.

  “Traveling alone gives you a lot of time to think. A lot.” She inserts a light chuckle. “Too much at times, I guess. Because I do believe there’s a danger in overthinking. I’ve always been more a woman of action. I’m a mother. Action has been my go-to mode for the past twenty-five years.” She falls silent for a few seconds.

  My turn. “What will be the first thing you do when you get back to Paris?”

  She purses her lips together. “I land on Friday morning. Deliberately timed that way because it’s a public holiday in France, so I can have breakfast with my children. Ben will be coming up from Marseille for the long weekend. He’ll pick me up from the airport and we’ll go to Flo’s together.” Her voice breaks a little. She breathes in deeply, takes a few more seconds, recrosses her legs. “I miss them so much. It has come and gone in waves. In the beginning, it was really bad. I was Skyping them every other day. Then as I got more comfortable, I managed to keep my distance—literally and figuratively. But now, so close to seeing them again, it can sometimes well up in me with such force.”

  “Not long now.” My own voice doesn’t sound so stable.

  “Then I met you.” A feeble smile appears on her face. “And I already know I’m going to miss you like crazy.”

  Maybe this is when we talk about it, address the elephant that’s been in the room with us for a few days now. We’ll have it on tape forever if we do.

  “Are you sure I can’t put
you in my suitcase? Sneak you out of the country unnoticed so no one will give you a hard time about it?”

  “Getting a half day off work already required Caitlin talking to my producer behind my back. The show’s season is long, and there are still quite a few weeks to go.”

  “When is your last show?” Camille squirms in her seat.

  “Early July.”

  “Come to Paris in July, then. Fifty percent of the locals leave town after the quatorze. It’ll be like having the city all to ourselves.”

  “You want me to come to Paris?”

  Her nod starts small at first, but soon transforms into an extremely convincing one. “Of course I do.”

  “You say that now, but July is still two months away.”

  “So?” I can tell she’s itching to get out of her chair. “Two months is nothing.”

  “Two months of what?” It’s excruciating to be thinking of a camera while having this conversation. But when a camera is trained on me, I’m always aware of it. I can’t help it.

  She sucks the inside of her cheek into her mouth. It makes a cute smacking sound when she lets it inflate again. “Longing. Pent-up desire. Love notes. I don’t really know, Zoya.”

  “You mean a long-distance relationship?”

  “Wouldn’t it be the cruelest thing of all not to try?” She scoots up out of her chair, crouches in front of me and takes my hands in hers. “I know I want to. At least try. I can’t not.”

  “I want to as well.” A smile of pure joy spreads on my lips. To just say it after barely wanting to think about it for the past few days is liberating.

  “Then let’s do it. We have the Internet. We can talk as if you’re in the next room. And since you’re ahead in time, I can find a sickly-sweet email from you in my inbox every morning.” Camille’s smile equals mine.

  “As long as you send me one back every evening…” I chuckle. “I’ll have to find a way to miraculously internalize time zones. That always messes with my head.”

  “There are apps for that. There are apps for everything these days.” Camille swallows hard. “Summer in Paris is beautiful. I can’t wait to spend it with you.”

  “Okay.” Camille stands and I let her pull me up. “It’s a deal.”

  Before she kisses me, she says, “You didn’t think I would get on that plane and disappear from your life forever?”

  “I could think it but I couldn’t imagine it.”

  Camille presses herself against me.

  “You’re not wearing a bra,” I murmur. “We might have to redo the interview.”

  “I’m not wearing any underwear either.” She pulls up the dress, takes my hand, and brings it between her legs.

  “I guess it’s time for part two of the evening.”

  “Interview me on Skype when I’m back in France. It will give us something to talk about.” She pushes my hand so high between her thighs I can feel her wetness. “This is our last night together. Let’s make the most of it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In between gropes and kisses, we’ve moved the recording equipment to my bedroom. There’s no time for a test shoot or to set up special lighting. It might be that only our buttocks or just shadows are visible when we look at the video later. But I don’t care. Because this is not a performance. Camille and I have slept together a lot since we first met—I’ve had numerous orgasms and countless hours of the most exquisite fun—but this time, it’s different. It’s far removed from the first, more hesitant time. Tonight, in my bed, we’re making a promise to each other. And we have no choice but to call this a relationship, albeit long-distance. It’s implied in the term. Perhaps, if she lived here, we’d be dating. Or going out. But, in the end, it would all just be a matter of silly semantics. Because I’m in love with her, and she is with me. And we have no way of knowing whether our infatuation will survive the distance between us, and whether it’s strong enough to turn into something more. We have no crystal ball. All we have are our feelings.

  The yellow dress is already discarded next to the bed, on which Camille lies stark naked. I want to dive in and devour her, and take my time and savor her in equal measure. Maybe I can do both. Devour first, savor later.

  I’m still in my work clothes. I look at her, take in her svelte form, while I clumsily step out of my shoes and tug at my clothes, not able to remove them fast enough.

  By the time I finally lie down next to her, I feel a little exhausted just because of all the building anticipation.

  “I had so many things left I wanted to ask you,” I say.

  “Ditto.” Camille scoots closer to me. “But talking is something we can do over the phone. This is not.” She pulls me close, her kiss deep from the start.

  I can’t imagine waking up on Friday and having no one to kiss like this. Was it only last Friday that I met her? It seems like a lifetime ago. A lifetime of intimacy and intensity compressed into less than a week. It’s madness, but a madness hinged on a truth that can’t be denied. Or are my feelings not real? Will they gradually lose steam as the days increase the distance between us? As she picks her life back up in Paris. Slips back into the mundane. Spends time with her family, friends and colleagues. Because I can’t imagine my life going back to how it was before I met her. The emotional residue of my break-up with Rebecca. Welcoming new guests to the apartment. I want to take the listing off the website straight away so no one else can sleep there and erase Camille’s presence, undo her memory.

  “Hey.” Her hands are in my hair. Her face is so close. “It’s going to be all right.” She kisses me on the nose. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

  I nod, biting back tears.

  She runs a fingertip over my arm, leaving a field of goosebumps in its wake. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Say it in French,” I ask.

  “Tu es si belle.” Her fingertip glides up again. “Si ravissante.”

  Before I kiss her again, I vow to myself to learn French. I’ll watch French movies, listen to French songs in the car. Anything to make me feel closer to her.

  Our bodies are pressed together. The warmth of her skin is soothing and arousing at the same time. I want her, but I want to lie here like this for a long while as well. I want everything I can’t have.

  “Je te veux,” Camille says. And my brain might not know what it means, but my heart does. Even if she hadn’t spoken a word of English, I still would have fallen in love with her. Incontournable.

  Camille brings a hand to my breast and lightly cups it in her palm. I look down, at her pale skin against my brown one. At how my flesh spills over her fingers. At all the physical differences between us. Emotionally, right now, we are one and the same. We live on the same page. We both want the exact same thing. For this night to never end. And if it does, for this memory to last forever, to feed our souls over distance and time.

  Camille’s hand becomes more insistent. She slides down a little, brings my breast to her mouth, and takes my nipple between her lips. She uses her teeth and the sudden jolt of pain is so exquisite, a moan escapes my throat. With her, everything feels like it is being done to me thousandfold. The intensity dialed up to maximum strength. It doesn’t seem possible to feel any more than I do when I’m with her.

  She pushes me onto my back and focuses her attention on my other breast and nipple. She gives them the same treatment: hand squeezing, teeth sinking in.

  Camille doesn’t say anything in French anymore. We’ve gone beyond words. The way she looks at me says enough—more than words ever could. Her gaze sweeps over my naked body while her fingers glide along my skin. Is this really a woman who just a week ago had never slept with another female? Did the lust between us elevate her lovemaking skills to expert level? Or, perhaps, it’s not about skill and experience at all. It’s about emotions. How we are together in these moments. Connected. Our truest selves. Bound by this mysterious spell that was cast upon us when we met.

  Her gaze finds mine. She looks at m
e and her lips draw into a sly smile. “I’ve been fantasizing about something,” she says.

  “Have you?”

  She just nods, doesn’t say anything else for a while, just looks at me.

  Then she speaks again. “It kind of feels like now or… well, not never, but at least not for a good long while.”

  A smile breaks out on my face. I grab her by the wrist and bring her hand to my mouth. “Tell me.”

  “Can I show you instead?”

  I nod and wait. Every cell in my body is filled with anticipation. Will she ask me to turn around and spank my ass? Ask me to spank hers? Does she want me to tie her up? I may have a decade-old pair of handcuffs in a drawer somewhere.

  Camille keeps her eyes on me, pushes herself onto her knees, then swings one leg over my body to straddle me. She pauses, scans my face again.

  I nod to encourage her. This could still go in many directions, although I gather no spanking will be involved.

  My eyes are drawn to her spread legs. How I want to feast on her there, extract every last drop from her. Her knees start shuffling toward my face. Oh. I think I know where this is going.

  “Tell me if you don’t like it,” she says, a little tremor in her voice. The shakiness of her tone surprises me, because, from the very beginning Camille has been so assured in the bedroom.

  “I promise.” I can’t keep a grin off my face. “But I think I’ll like it.”

  She smiles back, her confidence has returned. The tripod with camera stands on the side of the bed, and she turns her head and looks into the lens. I can’t wait to see the footage. I can relive this moment many times over. I can see her look at me the way she just did again and again.

  Camille scoots closer to my face. Then she’s so close I can smell her most intimate perfume. A few more wriggles of her body and her sex hovers over my mouth. Before she brings it within reach of my lips and tongue, she looks down at me. Her eyes are different. More alive with a mischievous sparkle. The eyes of someone whose fantasy is about to become reality.