This Foreign Affair

by Harper Bliss

  “Two months is nothing.” I kiss her on the lips, let my tongue slide in because time is running out now, and it’s the closest I can still get.

  “Bye,” she says again. “We’ll talk in about ten hours.”

  “I’ll try to stay awake after you kept me up most of the night.”

  “I’m so not sorry about that.” She looks me in the eyes. “I’m going now.”

  But she doesn’t go. She stands there with me for a few more seconds as I feel my heart sink and my stomach clench into a coil I never expect to recover from. I’ll have to stop eating until I see her again. Until I can feast on the delicious foods of Paris. I’ll be as slender as her. My mind doesn’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to let go of her hand, but I don’t want to make a scene at the airport. I want her very last memory of me to be a good one.

  “Au revoir,” she says, kisses me lightly on the lips, lets her hand slide out of mine and turns around. The queue has become a little shorter, but she’ll still have to wait. I can still look at her for a while.

  I study her posture. Camille is not looking at me; she’s staring ahead, straight-backed. The sight of her profile alone is enough to drive me mad with longing already. In the grand scheme of things, two months might be nothing, but it feels like about a decade to me now.

  Have some perspective, Zoya, I think. Keep looking on the bright side. After all, this might not have happened at all. If Myrtle hadn’t been sick. If I’d asked Caitlin to deliver a pack of batteries to the Airbnb because it’s only a five minute walk from her place. If I had said no when Camille asked me out because of that disastrous afternoon with Rebecca.

  Camille’s advancing in the line too quickly. She turns her head. Her gaze finds mine. She sends me a small smile. I wish it was me standing in that line already. Two months from now. Embarking on the long journey to see her.

  I might be determined to book my ticket this very day, but, of course, it’s not certain that everything will work out. There are so many factors. For her, it could still turn out to be a holiday fling in faraway Australia. Something, she could soon realize, from another time in her life.

  I wave at her but there’s no conviction in my action. She’s only a few yards from me, but she feels so far away already. This is the real torture, watching how she slowly slips out of my life.

  I stay rooted to my spot for long minutes after she’s passed security and is no longer in my sight. I’m hoping for a miracle. A canceled flight. Anything that will make her walk back through that gate. To make her return to me. To not have her live in Paris. But then she wouldn’t be the same woman. Our few days together wouldn’t have been so intense.

  After ten minutes, I take a deep breath, bite back the tears—because, even though she is gone now, I still want to keep my promise to her—and leave the airport.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Friday night, I don’t want to go to the open mic night at the Pink Bean. I want to stay home and wait for Camille to call. I spoke to her last night when she was on her stopover in Hong Kong, but she was in an airport lounge and couldn’t exactly whisper sweet nothings in my ear. It was a short, quite matter-of-fact conversation, that left me wanting so much more.

  Since then, she has texted me to say she has arrived safely in Paris, but I haven’t received that email she joked about before she left. There’s an eight-hour time difference between Sydney and Paris. After work for me would be a perfect time to Skype.

  Goodness, I feel like a teenager tracking her first girlfriend’s every move. Wanting to know every little thing she does. Just to feel a connection, and not merely this sense of loss that keeps expanding in my chest.

  I text Caitlin to let her know I’ll come to hear Josephine sing next time. I know that if I call her, she’ll try to talk me out of it with a slew of rational arguments I might even want to cling to, just to stop myself from feeling like this. But, truth be told, this lovesickness—I don’t know how else to describe it—is something I cherish as well. Because, as it turns out, after the whole Rebecca debacle, I can still fall in love. Her cheating on me hasn’t ruined me for the rest of my life. Going on a date with Camille was only meant to be a distraction with a woman who was meant to be unavailable, but it has turned into so much more. Although the unavailable part still holds true.

  I’ll stay home and look at the videos I’ve been afraid to download to my laptop. I’m afraid of the emotions they’ll provoke and my incapacity to handle them.

  I’ve barely sent my text, when Caitlin calls. I should have known. Perhaps I did.

  “I’m not having you sit in your house by yourself all night pining for Camille. There’s just no way, Zo,” she says, dispensing with the greetings. “Come out with us. And that’s an order.”

  “Last time I checked Jack was my boss, not you,” I reply.

  “I’ll send a car to your house and have the driver honk the horn until you get in. Your neighbors will hate you for disturbing their Friday night Balmain peace.”

  I sigh. “I just don’t feel like company that much.”

  “Of course you don’t, but that’s not the point.” Caitlin’s voice softens a little. “When we all went to dinner that night, and you went to the ladies’, I promised Camille I would not let this happen. I promised I would do everything I could to get you out of the house, where all you will do is mope and wait for the phone to ring. Do you really want me to break a promise to Camille?”

  “Remind me to never get on your bad side.” I chuckle. “You’re like a starving pit-bull with a bone.”

  “I’m your friend. I’m looking out for you. Come spend some time with us. Stay over at mine. We’ll have a big breakfast at the Pink Bean tomorrow morning. It will be fun.”

  “But… what if she calls?” As soon as the words leave my mouth I know how they make me sound.

  “Then you pick up the damn phone. You don’t have to be in your house to talk to her. Two decades ago, there was this invention called a mobile phone. I’m sure you can use Sheryl and Kristin’s apartment if you want some privacy. Besides, she wouldn’t just call. She would let you know first. Camille has been on a long journey and is probably suffering from jet lag right now. Give her some time to recover. And come out with us. I can probably sneak in some booze if it would make you feel any better.”

  “Fine.”

  “To the booze or to coming out?” Caitlin asks.

  “Both,” I say.

  The open mic is a Josephine Greenwood special, for which everyone has turned up, it seems. Or perhaps Caitlin has drummed up all the others for moral support in dealing with me. Micky gives me the kind of hug I’ve never received from her before and Amber looks at me with something that feels like pity in her glance.

  “I thought the idea was to cheer me up,” I whisper to Caitlin. “What’s with the funeral vibe?”

  “They don’t know how to behave around you,” she says. “I’ll sort them out.”

  Caitlin James. My savior. It’s as though she’s turned into the big sister who always has my back.

  Josephine is getting ready on the stage. Kristin introduces her, although no one present here still needs to be introduced to Josephine Greenwood. Every single person has come to hear her sing. Now that they still can in this intimate setting. Kristin has to hire an extra barista for these monthly events, which keep increasing in audience size as word has spread about Josephine’s voice.

  I can still remember the first time I heard her sing, when she flabbergasted us all with the intensity and sheer beauty of her voice. In that sense, it’s not a chore to come here. By the time I take my seat, I’m glad Caitlin convinced me. Being near my friends is better than staying at home and waiting for news from Camille. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t be waiting by the phone like that. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone and fallen in love with a French woman passing through either, but there you have it.

  Josephine has grown much more confident on the stage and she has a
real charming presence up there now, cracking jokes in between songs—and not sparing Caitlin when she does, which makes her a girl after my own heart. Caitlin always sits beaming with pride whenever Josephine takes to the stage, as though she turns into a different person when her girlfriend is singing. Caitlin is not really the adoring girlfriend type who pines for her lover when she’s not there—the opposite of the way I feel right now—except when Josephine sings. Then her eyes soften, her whole being relaxes, and she listens with rapture in her glance. Josephine might have started out as a Caitlin James fangirl but, from where I’m sitting, it looks like the tables have turned.

  At times, it was hard to witness her falling in love after my break-up with Rebecca. Selfish as it may sound, when your heart has just been broken into a million pieces, being faced with young love like that can be quite crushing. Because it made me realize what I was missing. Made me observe closely what love can do to a person. Made me remember what passion looked like. And it made me realize that, perhaps, at times, I couldn’t give Rebecca what she so craved anymore.

  Josephine starts singing and I keep one hand on my mobile, which I’ve put in my jeans pocket, in case it vibrates. Of course she sings a love song, which makes me miss Camille even more, but it’s also soothing in a way. Two months is nothing, I repeat to myself. I have to, not only because I need it as a mantra, but also because I don’t want to think beyond those two months. I’ve reserved my ticket to Paris already. I still need to confirm it after I have a conversation with my boss and with Camille, but I have it locked down. I can go to Paris for a few weeks. After that, I will have to return to Australia. And then what? That’s what I don’t want to think about, but my thoughts keep drifting as Josephine sings.

  “I would like to dedicate the next song to my friend Zoya,” she says. “She’ll know why.” I perk up at the mention of my name. Josephine shoots me a wink from the stage. “I wrote it myself and it’s called ‘Faraway Dreams,’” Josephine says.

  I clap along with the crowd, hoping I’ll be able to keep it dry. As I listen to the words, it’s obvious the song is actually about Caitlin, and how faraway she appeared to Josephine for a while, but I guess the lyrics can apply to my situation in a way.

  Just as I sit after thanking Jo with a standing ovation, there’s a vibration in my pocket. My heart leaps into my throat. With trembling hands, I slide my phone out. A text from Camille. Bonsoir Sydney, it says, and it’s accompanied by a picture of her blowing me a kiss. I just sent you that email, it continues. I’ve been working on it since I was waiting for my plane to leave yesterday—or whatever day it was.

  Camille sent me an email. Something unclenches in my stomach. Something I’ve been holding on to since she left. As though I was waiting for a sign that we were, somehow, still on. That she didn’t decide to forget about me as soon as she set foot on French soil. Because it’s too hard to be in love with someone living on the other side of the world. Because on her journey to find herself, she did. And she’s ready to take up a new life. A better one. I don’t know anything about the Parisian lesbian scene, but I can only imagine quite a few women would like to take her out for cheese and wine—and more.

  While Josephine launches into the next song, I open my email application and impatiently wait for Camille’s email to come in. Then there it is. In black and white on my screen.

  Caitlin is too wrapped up in Josephine’s performance to pay attention to my phone shenanigans. My pulse picks up speed as I tap to open it.

  Mon Amour,

  Zoya,

  Have I told you how much I like your name? The way it sounds and makes me feel when it rolls off my tongue? I found myself crazily whispering it out loud on the plane. I don’t know any other Zoyas. You’re the only one.

  I didn’t actually write this on the plane. But I thought about it. I composed it in my head over and over again to make time go by faster. Even though the faster time went, the farther I was taken away from you. Everything seems to have turned into this double-edged sword now that I’ve met you.

  I have a confession to make. Once I made it past security, I cried. Not a lot. Not enough to embarrass myself—not that I care much about that—but the tears just spilled from my eyes all of a sudden. It was unstoppable. Because you have done something to me. And you’re in my heart, but you’re so far away. I wonder what you’ll be doing when you get this. Have you watched our video yet?

  I take a deep breath and avert my gaze from the screen for a few seconds. Her words are creating a tidal wave behind my eyes. I can’t stay here; as soon as this song ends, I’ll ask Sheryl if I can go upstairs. I look around. I find Robin staring at me. What would she do if work took her back to the States? She wouldn’t go. I give her a small smile. She just moved in with Micky. From what Micky has told me, Robin wasn’t meant to stay in Sydney long-term, but she changed her plans. For love.

  Once upstairs, I read the rest of the email.

  I watched as many episodes of your show as I could, until my eyes hurt so much, I couldn’t keep them open. But of course, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts were too preoccupied with you. Do I sound like a lovesick teenager? But I miss you so much already. Will you call me when you get this? I don’t care what time it is. I’ll happily wake up for you. I want to hear your voice, if only to make sure you’re real, and not some figment of my imagination. Did I lose my mind back in Australia? If so, whose email address is this? ;-)

  I stop reading and scroll to her number. My heart beats in my throat as the phone rings. She picks up after two beeps.

  “That was quick,” she says, and I can so clearly hear the smile in her voice.

  “I’m at your beck and call, no matter the time zone I’m in.”

  “Hey.” Her voice goes soft. “How are you?”

  “Good now that I’m talking to you.” I take a deep breath. She hasn’t forgotten about me just yet. Distance hasn’t undone our mad feelings for each other. “Thank you for your email.”

  “I expect one in return.”

  We banter for a while and she tells me about her uneventful flight and going to fetch her cat, who hasn’t left her side since, and seeing her children again.

  “Have you booked that flight as you promised?” she asks then.

  “I just need to confirm it, but I wanted to double check with you first.”

  “There’s nothing to double check, Zoya. As soon as you’re off work, come see me. Please.”

  “I will.” Inside, I feel warm and fuzzy.

  “Good. Can you get Caitlin to call your boss again and pull some strings so your show ends sooner?” She follows up with a chuckle.

  “I’m quite sure not even Caitlin has that kind of sway with the network.”

  “Pity.” Her voice is but a whisper. “I had a lot of time to think,” she says. “Are we crazy for doing this? For feeling like this?”

  “No.” My tone is adamant. “Not crazy. We just fell in love.”

  “Which is, in itself, a sort of temporary insanity,” she replies.

  “Well, you’re the scientist.”

  “And you’re the journalist. Between us, we should be able to figure it out.”

  “There’s not much to figure out. All we need is patience.”

  “As I said before, it took me until I was forty-nine to find you, and I had to travel many miles for it. I can wait a little longer.”

  The question I haven’t been able to keep from popping up is there at the forefront of my brain again. “What happens after Paris, though?” If I can’t ask Camille, who can I ask?

  “I don’t know, mon amour. The next step, whatever that may be at the time.”

  “You’re right. We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Instead of asking impossible questions, here are a few things you can do to keep yourself occupied. Do you have a pen to write this down?” The smile in her voice is back. “One: reply to my email. Two: send me the videos. Three: let me know when we can Skype so I can see your face.
Four: confirm that ticket for July.”

  “Yes, boss. I thought about learning French as well, in between all the chores you have for me.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. I’ll teach you when you’re here.”

  “I need to be able to understand what you say about me to your friends and family when you introduce me. You could be saying anything.”

  “Perhaps, but you can rest assured they will only be good things.”

  Camille has a knack for always knowing the right thing to say, even from miles away. We exchange some more loved-up talk and by the time we ring off, my heart sings with glee.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two weeks after Camille has left, I’m the one instigating contact with Rebecca. I finally feel ready to attempt a blameless conversation with her.

  I invite her to the house, which I still haven’t put on the market. I want to move to Darlinghurst, but the sense of urgency I had before I met Camille has left me. I haven’t allowed any more bookings in the Airbnb. I’m not ready for that yet. Perhaps when Myrtle has finally recovered from her pneumonia and she can deal with everything again.

  It’s strange to let Rebecca into the house she lived in for more than a decade, but she gave me her key the night she left. I’m sure it was meant to be some sort of symbolic gesture for her, leaving the past—being me—behind. For the longest time, I left it in the spot she put it.

  “God, this place,” she says, and looks around as if she’s seeing it for the first time. “We were happy here for a long time.” She turns to me. “I’m glad you called. I need this too.”

  “How are things?” Without asking, I make her a cup of the chamomile tea she always drank.

  “Good, I—I just worry about you. I’ve been meaning to get in touch after last time, but I didn’t really know what to say so as not to provoke too much of a reaction.”