This Foreign Affair

by Harper Bliss

  “I’ve met someone,” I blurt out. It feels good but also strange to say it.

  “You have?” Rebecca looks as though this is a big surprise to her. As if, after she left me, I must have become the least attractive woman in Sydney. “That’s great.”

  “It made me realize some things about why it went wrong between us.” The only reason I’m able to speak to Rebecca in such a calm manner about this is because I practiced this conversation with Camille on Skype yesterday. When all you can do is talk—instead of other activities that occupy the tongue as well as the mind—you tend to spill your guts. Not being able to touch Camille has given me a clear window into her soul, and vice versa. Sometimes we talk without seeing each other. I just lie down, close my eyes, and enjoy the sound of her voice in my ear and the fact that, even though she’s so far away, she can still feel so near.

  “I told you before. What I did was wrong, in any respect. There’s no excuse for going behind your back and not having the guts to tell you I’d met someone else. I should have made a choice sooner,” Rebecca says.

  “But life is not perfect like that. Things ending with one partner and seamlessly moving on to the next.”

  “Life is bloody messy,” she says, and sends me a smile that used to drive me mad. A long time ago. “Tell me about the woman you’ve met.”

  I can’t suppress a grin, then tell her all about Camille.

  “Paris?” Rebecca raises her eyebrows. “Damn.”

  “I know. It’s a bit far.” I look away, past her, straight at a piece of art she acquired, but failed to take with her. When she left, it was as though she didn’t need anything from the home we shared for such a long time. As though she wanted to forget all about it as quickly as possible—and about me in the process. “But I didn’t ask you here to tell you all about my new relationship. That’s not what this is.” Although, I must admit, it does give me a certain degree of satisfaction to tell my ex I’ve found love again. “I guess I want you to know that…” This is hard to say. “I’m finally willing to take responsibility for my part in what went wrong between us. I let us coast along. It was enough for me, or so I believed. I was wrong.”

  Rebecca puts down her cup of tea and leans back on the couch. “The past couple of years, you made me feel more rejected than wanted.” She looks at me from under her lashes, as though waiting for me to change my tune and blame it all on her again. She was the one who cheated after all. The obvious guilty party.

  “I see that now.”

  “We had some serious lesbian bed death going on, and every time I tried to talk to you about it, you blew me off.”

  Yesterday, when I was talking to Camille about this on the phone, I had just woken up and I was still groggy with sleep. But I knew, as soon as I opened my eyes, that I wanted to be honest with her about how things ended with Rebecca. Really honest. Not the sort of honesty I’d been practicing with myself and everyone else, casting all the blame on Rebecca because it was so much easier than owning up to my own shortcomings.

  “It was hard. Too hard for me, I guess,” I say.

  “I think, in the end, it was a clear sign we’d grown apart.”

  “There’s a cliché phrase if ever there was one.” I manage a smile.

  “I don’t mean it like that.” Nothing about Rebecca is menacing today. She has had a lot of time to think this over as well. Actually, she’s had more. Because she came to the conclusion that we were over before I did. And it hurt that she made the decision without me, but in this either, I’m not blameless.

  “We both made mistakes.” I clear my throat. “But truth be told, when you told me that you’d be searching elsewhere for affection if I didn’t give you any some time soon, I really didn’t think you meant it.” I can smile at it now—a little. It wasn’t even a blazing row we had when she said that. We were never the screaming-arguments-at-each-other type. We always kept it civil. Maybe too civil. Maybe we should have said what we meant more often.

  “I didn’t mean it. Of course, I didn’t.”

  “Looks to me like you did.” This is far more difficult than yesterday, when the words came easier, and Camille put them into immediate perspective for me. But I need to do this. Rebecca and I need to have this conversation. It’s far too late for anything but closure, yet it seems to be what I need. It feels as though I must finish one chapter—the Rebecca one—before I can start on the next one with Camille.

  Rebecca tilts her head. “It was a little more complicated than that and I think you know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Lots of things went wrong between us. The trouble was that it wasn’t one big thing at one given time. The erosion of our relationship started so slowly, so incrementally, that we didn’t even notice. We stopped communicating properly. We stopped looking forward to seeing each other after a long day at work. We stopped hanging out. We used to be so good at just being together, doing nothing special, just chatting. And because it didn’t happen overnight, we barely noticed.”

  “And then I barely noticed when you met someone else.”

  “I always figured you knew but were waiting for me to say it out loud,” Rebecca says.

  “I guess on some level I did know, but I was afraid to confront it. I was afraid to do anything, really. In that respect, I fucked up massively.”

  “Relationships are complex partnerships. We were lucky. Ours ran smoothly for so long.”

  “Until it didn’t,” I say. Ever since she left, I’ve been trying to more closely pinpoint the time when things started going awry between us. Unlike Rebecca, I’m convinced it’s not the lack of action between the sheets. I see that more as a consequence of the distance that was increasing between us. But I’m willing to try to see things from her perspective.

  “I believed it would never end between us,” I say on a sigh. I glance at her and I can’t help but compare her to Camille. They’re not night and day exactly, but Camille’s overall demeanor is much gentler, more elegant. Rebecca isn’t large in body, but she is in personality. She can bulldoze anyone with one well-aimed phrase.

  “For the longest time, so did I,” she says. “It’s the core belief of any relationship.”

  I clear my throat. “Is that how you feel about Julie now?” Even though I’m in the throes of falling in love myself, just speaking the other woman’s name still stings.

  “I never expected to fall for her the way I did.” Rebecca’s shoulders hunch. “It all started with the most innocent flirting.”

  “That’s how most things start. And I’ve never known flirting to be innocent.”

  “Look, Zoya.” She leans over and puts her elbows on her knees. “I know I really hurt you. And that’s something I’ll have to learn to live with. But it happened. And I believe it happened for a reason. For many reasons. I’m not asking for you to get to know her, just… give her a chance. She’s not the devil.”

  I shake my head. “She knew you were in a committed relationship. She probably got off on it.”

  Now it’s Rebecca’s turn to shake her head. “It wasn’t like that at all. It took forever for us to move on to the next step. Once we did, we were both wracked with guilt.”

  I hold up my hands. “I’m not sure I’m ready to hear about how it all came to be. It’s none of my business, really.”

  “Then tell me about you and Camille. You’re here and she’s in Paris. How’s that going to play out?” Rebecca reaches for her cup. The tea must have gone cold by now.

  I think of Camille, wishing it was her sitting in Rebecca’s spot on the couch. She must be waking up right now. What are her plans for the day?

  “It’s going to have to be long-distance. I booked a ticket to Paris for July. I’ll be spending the hiatus there.”

  “So it’s serious and you’re thinking long term.”

  “I am. We are.” I scan Rebecca’s face for any signs of skepticism, but find none. “I know it will be hard but I want this to work. She’s pretty amazing.” />
  Rebecca gives a chuckle. “It’s so strange to hear you talk like that about another woman. I know I have absolutely no right to say this, but it is.” She puts her cup back down and looks around. “When she’s here for a visit, you must introduce me.”

  I hope she’s not waiting for me to give her permission for a formal introduction to Julie. I already know all there is to know about Julie Watson. I’m not ready for a sit-down dinner and a civilized conversation with my ex-partner’s secret lover just yet.

  “That might be a while.” For a split second, it seems so unfair that Rebecca got to have her cake and eat it too, while all I can do is pine for Camille. But the feeling passes quickly, because if it wasn’t for meeting Camille, and developing these feelings, I wouldn’t even be able to sit here with Rebeca and have this conversation. And Julie’s name would not be allowed to be spoken out loud in this house. Though I dread to think of the number of the times Rebecca slipped into bed with me while she was thinking of her.

  “Does she have many ties in France. I mean, could she move here in the long run? Because, in all honesty, I don’t see you moving to France any time soon.”

  “She has two children and a grandchild on the way.” Camille spoke in such hopeful, sweet tones about Flo’s and her visit to the gynecologist last week.

  Rebecca makes a tsk-ing sound. “Very strong ties.”

  “We’ll see what happens. No one can predict the future.”

  Rebecca narrows her eyes. “I know you. Better than anyone. Surely you must have thought about it.”

  It figures Rebecca would say something like this. Would try to throw me off the very fine balance I’ve found that makes our insecure future bearable.

  “I have, but it’s still early days. In a sense, it feels wrong to even have the audacity to think that far ahead.”

  “Knowing you, that wouldn’t stop you. Plus, it’s only logical. Human nature. Thoughts you simply can’t stop.”

  “Camille isn’t going to move her family to Australia, is she?” I say matter-of-factly.

  Rebecca quirks up her eyebrows. “Wow,” is all she says.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip—something I do when I’m feeling particularly uncertain. In the end, it’s the insecurity that kills me most of all. And being robbed of the opportunity to just—very simply—fall in love and get to know another woman without having to resort to the Internet and keeping time zones in mind. It’s the hours that Camille is sleeping and I’m awake that are the hardest. The feeling of not being able to reach her.

  “We’ll see.” What else can I possibly say?

  “To be continued,” Rebecca says and fixes her gaze on a picture on the wall to our right. “I was afraid to ask you before, but I’ve always liked that one.” She points at it. “Any chance your state of being newly in love has left you in a sharing mood?”

  “You can take anything you want.” If she takes that one off my hands, I can replace it with a picture of Camille.

  “How’s the house sale coming along?” There’s a sudden edge to her voice.

  “I haven’t really found an agent I’m comfortable with.”

  Rebecca cocks her head. “You’re dragging your feet. Have you changed your mind about selling?”

  I shrug. “Things are a bit up in the air right now.” She’s right. I have been dragging my feet.

  “No rush,” she says. Rebecca has always been the least materialistic person I know. When we bought the rental flat, it wasn’t for the possible income it could generate, but for the joy of having a new place to fuss over and decorate. “You’ll sell it some time before you move to Paris.” She has a crooked grin on her face and I can’t help but wonder if her words are prophetic. As ridiculous as they sound in my head, in my heart, something about them rings true.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Often, when it’s night time in Paris and I can’t sleep, I watch the videos Camille and I made. I know the interview part by heart, know every expression her face will fold into before she replies to a question. The other video has been harder to watch. The only time I managed to get through it fully was when we were simultaneously talking on Skype and we could giggle at it together—and a giggle fest it was.

  I’m still not convinced any person should ever watch themselves having sex. It might be a fetish for some, but it’s not for me. That much I’ve learned. Camille doesn’t seem to have that much of a problem with it.

  “It’s because you’re French,” I told her when we were watching it and I scrutinized her face for signs of cringing.

  “It’s just sex, Zoya,” she said. “What’s more beautiful than two people enjoying themselves like that?”

  “I can think of many things,” I replied in mild disgust.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve gone and fallen in love with a prude.” She faked a shocked expression.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve fallen in love with a woman who believes in the merits of porn.”

  “Chérie,” she said, making me melt a little. “First of all, that video of you and me is as far removed from porn as can be. Second, I actually do believe that porn can fulfill a purpose. I’d be lying if I said I don’t watch it myself from time to time.” All of this with a straight face, looking right into her laptop’s camera.

  “You watch porn?” I thought it was pretty clear from my offended tone that I didn’t.

  “You mean you don’t?” She grimaced. “That explains a lot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It explains your reaction to our video, for starters.”

  “But… don’t you think porn vile and exploitative of women?”

  “Not always, no. I’m not naive about it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it once in a while.”

  “So… what do you watch?”

  “I’ve trawled through too many hours of fake lesbian porn featuring women with nails so long, you wouldn’t want them anywhere near you.” She chuckled. “But when you dig around a bit, you can find women-friendly videos. In which the women actually look like they’re enjoying it. That usually does the trick.”

  “Is that how you remained a lesbian virgin for so long? By watching lesbian porn?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I have a pretty vivid imagination and I always had quite the crush on the principal at Ben’s school. I was quite sad when Ben left for university because it meant I would never see her again.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Some things are harder to take when your partner is ten thousand miles away.

  “I’m winding you up, chérie. You should know that by now.” She sat there grinning into the camera.

  I wasn’t entirely convinced she was, but I managed a chuckle anyway.

  I try to watch the video again—trying to be less of a prude. Trying not to tie it into how Rebecca sometimes accused me of not wanting to attempt anything too new in bed and spice things up. But Camille’s joking comment continues to give me pause. Maybe I am a bit of a prude. Maybe it’s just my nature.

  When I focus on Camille only, my pulse quickens a little. I can bear the sight of my hand on her breast, but anything more of me and my arousal plummets. Maybe matters would be helped if I watched something that didn’t involve me. Two strangers going at it. If it works for Camille, perhaps it can work for me.

  I type lesbians making love into Google and am instantly confronted with a barrage of naked women in variations of being all over each other. It reminds me of Rebecca suggesting we watch porn together once, a long time ago. I laughed her comment away. Christ, I really am a prude—and I wasn’t even raised Catholic. That’s what Rebecca used to say to me. “All that guilt and you’re not even a Catholic.” She would then shake her head and make a tutting sound. “Good thing you’re not Irish like me because our relationship might have remained purely platonic.”

  I click on one of the videos and instantly recognize the opposite of what Camille claimed to enjoy. These women are not into this at all. Th
at’s all I see. Two women pretending. Do men really fall for this? Is that really all it takes? It doesn’t do anything for me. Maybe I should ask Camille for advice on where to look, seeing as she’s such an expert. I might surprise her after all.

  In comparison, the expression on Camille’s face while I was fucking her is much more enticing. The pure ecstasy displayed in her entire posture—and the way she looks into the camera after.

  When does she wake up again? When she just returned from Australia and was suffering from a massive bout of jet lag, she would wake so early, we could chat for an hour before she had to leave for work, but as time has gone by and her body has adjusted to the French time zone, our—for her— morning chats have become shorter and shorter and have now, almost a month later, dwindled to nothing. Turns out she’s not much of a morning person after all. Something I can hardly hold against her.

  I close all tabs on my computer and check my phone. No messages. She’s not awake yet. I’ll have to exercise more patience.

  The next time we Skype it’s the weekend and we can luxuriate in a long chat.

  “Guess where I’m going tonight?” Camille asks me after we’ve exchanged our habitual silly string of I-miss-yous and I-wish-you-were-heres.

  “Hm.” I pretend to think really hard about this, even though she tends to make me guess every day she has something on and I never do, because I don’t know her friends and her going-out habits well enough to predict or see a pattern just yet. I know all about her best friends Sylvie and Sébastien, with whom she spends a lot of time during the weekend. And Flo’s parents-in-law whom she’s always gotten along with very well. “You’re doing a cabaret show at le Moulin Rouge?” I joke.

  “Close.” She sends me a smile. “I’m going to a MLR event and the president of our troubled republic is rumored to make an appearance.”

  “What?” I fake indignation in my voice. “You’re going to have a chat with Dominique Laroche while all I get to do for my Saturday evening entertainment is chat with you.”

  “I know. Tough break for you.” She sends me a faux apologetic grin. “But… we could do more than chat, I guess.”