This Foreign Affair

by Harper Bliss

  “You’re in love. It’s normal for your priorities to shift.” She glances at her coffee. “I feel like we should have had this conversation in a bar rather than a coffee shop.”

  “I just miss her. And it sounds stupid, but really, it’s the thought that occupies my mind the most. I just miss her. And it makes me feel all sorts of inadequate but at the same time, the thought of her also fills me with hope and love. I don’t want to sit here feeling sorry for myself, because look at me? I have it all. But when you look a little closer, I don’t really. And everything just feels so screwed up in my head.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. First your break-up from Rebecca and all that put you through. All the while needing your focus on a demanding job. Then having to say goodbye to Camille. It’s okay to feel the way you do. You can express as much self-pity to me as you like.”

  I wave her off. “Nobody wants to listen to their friends complain all the time.”

  “Well, I’m telling you that I don’t mind listening to you.” She shoots me a warm smile.

  “Thanks.” I stare out of the window for a second. “It’s only twenty-one days now and it’s already so hard. Say everything goes well in Paris. I stay with Camille for two months and we fall deeper in love. Then I have to come home and I can’t go back for another nine or ten months.”

  “She can come here.”

  “Can she?”

  “Why not? She can take a few weeks off work.”

  “Sure, a few weeks.”

  “What are you really trying to say?” Caitlin asks.

  “I’ve been thinking about taking a sabbatical.” I glance at her from under my lashes. “Don’t I get to go on my Eat, Pray, Love journey?”

  Caitlin pins her gaze on me. “Of course, but just don’t make any rash decisions. Go to Paris first. See how things go.”

  “But that’s just the thing about my job. I can’t just come back from Paris, call up Jack, and ask him for a year off. It’ll be too late by then.”

  Caitlin shakes her head. “You don’t know that.” She pulls her lips into a smile. “From what I’ve learned in my long and prosperous life, there’s usually a solution to every problem.”

  I quirk up my eyebrows. “I know for a fact you’re only saying that to cheer me up. There have been plenty of situations that didn’t have an easy way out.”

  “I never said it would be easy. You just have to think outside of the box a little.”

  “What are you trying to say?” I get the distinct feeling this conversation is no longer only about me.

  “There are always options.” She leans back in her chair. “Say you come back from Paris and want to go back the next month for an extended period. This could happen. I mean, it could also not happen, but let’s say things play out that way. How about you, Jack and the network come to an easy agreement on who to replace you with for the time you’re away. And I’d like to stress the word easy.” She sits there grinning coyly.

  The penny drops as I stare at the triumphant expression on her face.

  I start smiling too, not so much because of the possibly elegant solution Caitlin has come up with, but mostly because of the sheer audacity of it. “I didn’t know one of my best friends had her eyes on my job.” I’m not sure whether I should feel thankful or threatened.

  “I don’t. The idea just came to me. But the more I think about it, the more it excites me.”

  “Is this because you fear your girlfriend might become more successful than you? You want a regular primetime spot on national television?”

  Her mouth drops open for a split second, then she recovers. “Firstly, I’m trying to do you a favor here. I know Jack is quite fond of me and the network doesn’t seem too averse to me either. Secondly, this has nothing to do with Josephine.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She waves me off. “Ah, you’re in a state. It’s true that she has been very busy lately. And she refuses to move in with me, so I don’t get to see her as often as I would like.”

  “She’s young. She needs her independence.”

  “What she needs most of all is more hours in her day.” Caitlin’s voice isn’t scornful, just a little melancholic.

  “Don’t we all.” I throw up my hands. “You would, if you wanted to present The Zoya Das Show.”

  “We’d have to temporarily rename it The Caitlin James Show, of course.” She chuckles.

  “You’d have to interview a few people you don’t like very much. I’m not sure you can be trusted to treat them with the necessary respect required on TV.”

  She slants her head. “I never said it would be easy.”

  “You’re quite something, Caitlin.”

  “All I’m trying to say is that if you need a woman—a friend—to keep your seat warm, I’m up for it. Details are for later. I just want you to have some peace of mind and not walk around in Paris worrying about your job. In the end, it’s just a job. It’s a lucrative and prestigious one, I won’t argue against that, but it is just a job. Other things are more important.”

  “Thanks for the motivational minute.” It’s easy to say for Caitlin, who has always had something else to fall back on—all careers she built for herself. But I do appreciate the message she’s trying to send. It’s her way of saying everything will be okay and things will fall into place as they tend to do. “Are you sure you and Jo are okay?”

  She doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “We’re fine. We really are. But it seems that the dynamic of our relationship is changing rather quickly.”

  “In a good way?”

  “I’ve always believed that as long as there’s respect, there is no bad way.” She falls silent again. Perhaps she’s not ready to talk about it yet. Knowing Caitlin, she’ll tell me all about it when she is. She refocuses her gaze on me. “Twenty-one days until you get an in with Dominique Laroche. Have you come up with a strategy yet?”

  “President Laroche is the least of my worries. All my thoughts are preoccupied with one woman.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Twenty-one days later, I’m finally on the plane. My flight follows a different route than Camille’s, with the longest journey to Doha first, followed by a slightly shorter one to Charles de Gaulle Airport in France.

  I can’t quite believe I’m on my way to see her. But when the plane takes off, and I’m flying in the direction of Camille, all the pent-up emotion breaks free and I burst into inadvertent tears.

  A member of the cabin crew rushes to my side, asking whether I’m all right.

  “Just a bit emotional,” I mumble. “Nothing to worry about.”

  When she’s gone, I wonder whatever I’m going to do with myself for the next twenty-odd hours in this cabin in the sky. Drinking is an option, but I want to arrive in Paris looking the best I can. Even though I’ve waited two months to board this plane, these last few days have been the hardest. Time seemed to slow down more and more as my departure time approached. On top of that, Camille hasn’t been that reachable because four weeks ago she became a grandmother to a baby girl named Emma and she’s been spending most of her free time helping out her daughter.

  I’m not one to be jealous of a newborn baby, but sharing the spotlight of Camille’s heart with someone new from all those miles away has presented me with an extra challenge. There was an unexpected benefit though. A few days after Flo was allowed to leave the hospital, Camille Skyped me from her daughter’s house and formally introduced me to Flo, Mathieu, and Emma. It was a significant moment in our relationship.

  Soon, I’ll be meeting them all in the flesh. Soon. First I have a flight to get through. And it’s a flight unlike any other I’ve been on before. Not because of my fellow passengers and not even because of the destination—it’s not my first trip to Paris—but because of all the emotions that lie in wait for me when I arrive.

  It feels like I’m traveling toward a new life. Even though there’s also the anxiety of not really knowing what is go
ing to happen when I see Camille again. When I spend time with her on her turf. When she tries to integrate me into her everyday life and introduces me to her family and friends.

  Two months of anticipation make me ask for a double gin and tonic after takeoff and I eagerly wait for the alcohol to hit my bloodstream and relax my frantic mind. Despite Camille’s insistence that these days anyone can get around Paris perfectly well only speaking English and that she would teach me all the French I need, I’ve purchased a French language course. I’m meant to repeat the words, but I feel a bit silly saying words I can’t even pronounce out loud on an airplane, so I only repeat them in my head, probably not helping myself and my learning progress much.

  After the stopover in Doha, which is short and swift and a welcome break to stretch my legs, I manage to fall asleep, images of Camille and, for some reason, Rebecca haunting my stunted dreams. By the time I land, I’m groggy and disoriented—and not much more fluent in French than when I left. It seems to take ages for the luggage to arrive, but by that time I have received eight text messages from Camille telling me she has arrived, she’s waiting for me, and will I hurry up and make it into the arrivals hall.

  And, then I do. In my tired mind, it happens in slow motion. I go through customs with nothing to declare except an insuppressible smile on my face. I walk through the open doors and scan the crowd. Then there she is. She’s holding up a sign that says Madame Zoya Das. It makes me snicker, then it makes me tear up. All the built-up anticipation that has been growing for weeks and reached its peak on the long journey over here releases at the sight of Camille. Of her beautiful fingers clutching the piece of paper and her gorgeous face peeking out over the top. My eyes fill with tears as I bridge the last few steps that separate us. I stand in front of her for a split second, unable to move or say anything. Then it all bursts loose. It all comes together. I feel the conclusion bubble up right from the center of my heart. I love her. This is right. Camille and I, we’re meant to be.

  The sheet of paper with my name on it gets crumpled as we fall into each other’s arms. I hug Camille as if I never want to let her go again. Her scent in my nose, her flesh pressed against mine. She peppers kisses on my neck and cheek.

  “I thought you would never come out of that door,” she whispers in my ear. “I couldn’t believe you were here until I actually saw you.”

  “I’m here.” I hold her a little tighter. “I’m here for six whole weeks.”

  “Let’s not waste a minute of them.” She holds her head back for an instant, looks at me, cups my jaw in her hands, then kisses me ever so softly on the lips. “Come on.”

  Charles de Gaulle airport is a mess. Camille is so elated she doesn’t immediately remember where she parked her car, and once she does, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat next to her, it takes forever for the queue of cars we’re in to make it out of the parking lot and off the airport premises. While Camille utters the occasional expletive—I think—in French and throws her hands in the air in exasperation, there’s no room in my heart for frustration or road rage. I’m in a car with her. She’s taking me to her house. I’m here for a month and a half. I haven’t been to Paris since Rebecca and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. I’m ready to make some new memories here, with the new woman in my life. All the time I’ve had to wait, which seemed like decades while I was doing the actual waiting, seems to have dissolved into nothing, a mere speck in the course of my life, because the reward of being with Camille is so big, it obliterates the tiniest negative emotion I carry inside me.

  I have no idea what time it is. The dashboard clock says 9:18 but it doesn’t feel like it could possibly be nine in the morning. It doesn’t matter. One look at how Camille navigates us through the bumper-to-bumper traffic onto the périphérique is enough for fatigue and jet lag to become distant notions, small nuisances that hold no meaning in this brand new, dazzling universe I just walked into.

  Camille talks and talks, her accent more pronounced than when I met her in Sydney. She chatters about her one-month old granddaughter Emma and how she can’t wait to introduce me to her family, but this first weekend will be only for us. No one else is allowed inside her house except her cat and me. She has instructed Flo to only call her in case of extreme emergencies.

  “Obviously, I didn’t want to spell out to my daughter what her mother was going to do all weekend long.” She looks at me and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “But I think she got the picture nonetheless.” She chuckles and shrugs.

  “Ben’s in Provence with a bunch of his university friends,” she says. “They’re staying in the house we used to go to every summer when Jean-Claude and I were still together. I’d like to take you there. Show you all aspects of my life.”

  “I would love that.” I stare at her while she’s driving. It’s the first time I’ve seen Camille behind the wheel and she looks different, but also very much the same as the day I met her. Endlessly capable of getting things done. A confidence about her that says a flat battery in a smoke detector is the least of her worries. The assured air of all the mothers I know who are not fazed by the small things in life. Except for traffic. That does seem to bother her, whereas her reaction to it amuses me greatly.

  “Connard.” She lays on the horn. “Did you see how that abruti cut me off?” She turns her face to me.

  I can’t help but burst out laughing. “Remember that phone call in Sydney when I was stuck in traffic?”

  “I’ll never forget.” From the look on her face, she seems to have forgotten about the connard—another word to add to my expanding French swear word vocabulary—who cut her off.

  “Maybe you should think about that while you drive,” I suggest.

  “Thoughts are no longer enough now that you’re here.” She puts a hand on my knee. “Which is why I want to get us home as quickly as possible.”

  I nod my understanding, relishing the simple touch of her hand on my knee.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I whistle through my teeth when Camille pulls up to the driveway of her house.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “This is a politician’s house, not a civil servant’s.”

  “I was thinking no such thing.” I stare at the limestone facade, the ornate front door, and the sheer size of the place.

  “I inherited this house from my grandparents. Jean-Claude had no claims to make on it when we divorced. Now that the kids have flown the nest, it is admittedly a bit big for just me, but I love it here.”

  “I can’t wait to see the inside.”

  “What are we waiting for then?” She leans over, brings her cool hand to the back of my neck, and slips her tongue inside my mouth. With her other hand, she opens the car door on my side.

  I smile and as soon as she draws away from me I pull her closer again, kissing her.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a posh neighborhood. Two women kissing in a car will be heavily frowned upon,” Camille says with a wide smile plastered across her face.

  “I’m so very, very sorry. I wouldn’t want to traumatize your neighbors and put any ideas in their head about the decent woman who lives on their street.” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

  Camille’s face goes serious. “Inside. Now,” she says, her tone all intention and gravitas. She leads by example and gets out of the car, fetches my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it inside.

  If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside is even more so. I always believed the house Rebecca and I lived in was majestic, but it pales in comparison to the grandeur of this place. And we’ve only made it to the entrance. I must ask Camille about her grandparents some time.

  “Do you want coffee, tea, or just me?” Camille throws her arms around me again. “Also, just for your information, I intend to let go of you as little as possible in the coming six weeks. You’d better get used to having me glued to your skin at all times.”

  “No need,” I whisper back. “I’m used to it
already and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I kiss her on the lips. “To answer your question: I think I’ll just have you.” The heat I grew so familiar with after meeting Camille in Sydney is rapidly making its way from the depths of my body to the surface of my skin. As exhilarating as it has been to lay eyes on her again, to see her in the flesh, and kiss her on the lips, I need more, and I need it now.

  “Come on.” She takes my hand and leads me up the wide staircase. I follow her and get a good look at her shapely behind while she heads up the stairs in front of me. Oh, to have my hands all over her again after all this time.

  She opens one of many doors and we stand in the bathroom. “Bath or shower?” she asks.

  “Whichever is most easy for you to join me.” I sling an arm around her waist.

  “That’s a question I’ve never given any thought to at all. Let’s take a minute to think this through.”

  “How about you put your scientist brain to rest and hop into the shower with me? A bath takes too long to run.”

  “I’m easily convinced today.” She stands in front of me. “But promise me we will test both in the weeks to come.”

  I nod and start unbuttoning my wrinkled, traveled-in blouse.

  “Oh no.” Camille puts a hand over mine. “That’s my job now.” While she stares into my eyes, she undoes the buttons and guides the blouse off my shoulders.