by Harper Bliss
I can only nod at that point as I try to keep the tears that well up behind my eyes from rolling down my cheeks.
One last kiss, a lingering one, and I force myself away from her and walk to the security line in the back of the departures hall. I don’t look back as I walk, afraid I will relapse and run to her in an exaggeratedly romantic fashion, which wouldn’t be romantic at all, only a prolongation of this miserable moment of me walking away from the woman I love.
Instantly, a deep sense of loneliness takes hold of me. A sensation I feel all the way into my bones, into the deepest parts of me. Because now that I’ve fallen in love with Camille, my body knows we’re not meant to be apart. Every last cell of me is full of this knowledge and the very act of me queuing to go past security is a violation of my body’s most fervent wish. To stay. And in that moment, I know for certain my future is in Paris, with her and her family and her friends. I don’t feel the tiniest smidgen of joy at the prospect of returning to Sydney. Because she’s not there. In my head, I already prepare the defense I will have to give to my friends and family at home when I tell them about my decision. My reasoning that they will try to punch holes into with words of incredulity and a failure to understand what it’s like to feel like this. The compulsion to uproot your life, to leave everything you’ve ever known behind, for another person.
My defense is not very long, but it’s air-tight: I love her. Try to argue with that.
When the queue in front of me has dwindled to only three people, I look back. I see a woman trying very hard to hold it together but failing miserably. Even from this distance I can make out the tears streaming down her face. I give her one last wave, then look away, because I have to. This is not how I want to remember her. When I think of Camille I think of her eyes narrowing in laughter after she’s made one of her silly jokes. I think of the sounds she makes when she comes and the look of utter surprise on her face every time she does, still now, after all the glorious time we’ve spent in bed together. As though she still can’t quite believe this is who she is now. I want to think of the warmth in her eyes when she looks at her granddaughter, the way her arms soften in preparation for holding the baby in their embrace.
Once past security, a single tear runs down my cheek, but I don’t mind. It’s a tear I’m proud of crying because of the woman who inspired it. A woman who has changed my life already, and will do so even more.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“No, no, no, no, no,” Caitlin says. “No, Zoya, I refuse to let you move to Paris. I don’t care if you’re going to be best buddies with Dominique Laroche. You have to stay here. You’re my bestie.”
“I’m not your bestie. What are you even talking about?” I chose to tell Caitlin after finishing a bottle of wine together. After the extensive wine-drinking training I’ve had in France, I seem to deal with it much better than her.
“We’re BFFs, you and me.”
“You’re being melodramatic.” I wish Josephine were here. She has the precious gift of being able to cut through Caitlin’s bullshit with one well-aimed sentence. “Singing somewhere, I gather,” Caitlin said earlier when I asked her about the whereabouts of her partner.
“Pull yourself together. This is an important conversation,” I say.
“Well, I suppose I can’t really hold it against you, seeing as I lived in the US for so long. Tell me though, has Laroche met Trump? And does that drastically decrease my degrees of separation to that orange blob of lunacy? I’m not very happy about that.”
“Strangely, it didn’t occur to me to ask when I met her.”
Caitlin sighs. “I knew you’d go for good. I knew it when you booked your trip. It’s just that Sydney will lose a lot of its appeal for me once you leave.”
“What’s all this sentimentality about, Caitlin? We’re close, but we’re not even lifelong friends like you and Sheryl are. And you fell in love here.”
“I guess I just missed you. It’s been a cold and rainy winter in Oz so far. And Josephine is always busy with something.”
“Is she not paying you enough attention? Is that what this is all about?”
Caitlin shrugs. “I guess I could do with a little more. I love to hear her sing, but I don’t want to go to every gig. Especially not when she’s playing in a dingy student bar in front of a bunch of sweaty youths. That’s not very appealing to me. I told her to be a bit more discerning when accepting bookings, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“Well, she’s not singing for you, is she?”
“Oh, I know. I’m being an ass. But I’m upset because you’re telling me you want to leave town. Hell, you want to leave the country and the continent.”
“I love her.” My most simple and most impenetrable defense. “I guess you would do the same in my position.”
“Of course I would. I have done long-distance, even though Boston-New York is hardly comparable to Sydney-Paris, and I know how taxing it can be. But you’ll be leaving a good gig here, Zoya. Your audience will be devastated.”
My audience. I’m sure Jack, the producer of the show, will try to persuade me to change my mind when I talk to him about my plans using those two simple words that hold so much meaning.
“I’ve done the show for ten years. Surely, it’s time for a change.”
“Tell Jack I’m up for it. Or at least try to persuade them to not have you replaced by some boring silver fox male. You’ve inspired so many women in this country just by being a female on TV, Zoya. You paved the way for many.”
“Let’s not get too carried away, shall we?”
“Maybe you don’t realize it anymore because you’ve been doing it for so long, but it’s true. You’ve made a difference. You make a difference every single Saturday when The Zoya Das Show airs.”
“You’d better stop before you make me change my mind.”
“If I’m able to change your mind with what I’m saying right now, then you probably shouldn’t go.”
“I guess you’re making me feel guilty.”
Caitlin nods. “Fully my intention.” She leans back in her chair. The effects of the wine seem to have worn off a bit. “Purely objectively speaking, when someone with your job and your stature falls in love with a foreigner, it would make more sense for said foreigner to move here to be with you, not the other way around.” She holds up her hands. “I’m guessing that’s the way public opinion will lean once this gets out.”
“She has children, Caitlin. Children change everything. I’ve witnessed that with my own eyes.”
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“I also, honestly, don’t think I have another five years of the show in me.”
“Australia is running out of interesting people to interview, anyway. Even though you haven’t even had me on your show yet.”
“That’s why I have to go to France to interview fascinating people. And I promise you will be on the last season of my show. I couldn’t possibly leave without grilling you in front of the camera.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” She pauses to scan my face. “But what will you do? You can’t just sit around all day waiting for your Mrs to get home from work. Folding laundry and cooking beef bourguignon.”
“I’ll get a job. Or maybe I’ll freelance. I don’t know yet, but I’m confident it will work out, because it has to. And because I have acquired some skills over the years. Except for that elusive one: speaking French.”
“I have no doubt in my mind that when I come visit you in a few years, you’ll speak it fluently.”
“What do you mean in a few years?”
“Well, when I come visit you next year, you won’t be fluent yet. Let’s not get carried away. French is bloody hard.”
I laugh, then ask her, “So you don’t think I’ve lost my mind?”
“Of course you have. Falling in love equals losing your mind at least for a little while. But you have to do this. What would your life be if you didn’t?”
&nbs
p; “Thank you.” I mean it from the bottom of my heart.
“You’re not leaving just yet, thank goodness. You have to tell Jack and Jason and the network and your family. So many hearts to break before you can make your own whole again and live a loved-up life in Paris.”
“My mother has been pestering me about finding a new partner ever since Rebecca and I broke up. She’ll be over the moon when I introduce her to my posh French lady-friend over Christmas.”
“No arguments from me on that front.”
“Unfortunately, I have one last season of The Zoya Das Show to complete before I can join said lady-friend.”
“But so much to look forward to.”
“Yes, like an impromptu trip to Paris next month to interview Stéphanie Mathis.” My heart swells at the mere thought of it.
“Major coup, that. You don’t happen to need a humble assistant to carry your bags, do you? Or hold the microphone while you’re interviewing her?”
“We have people for that.” I look into Caitlin’s smiling face.
“I’m going to miss you. You’re just one of those people I gravitated toward naturally since returning from the States.”
“I was so glad to have you become my friend when you did. So you could help me pick up the pieces of my life.”
“And look at us now.” Caitlin quirks up her eyebrows. “Both of us madly in love with, perhaps, unlikely partners.”
“We should probably drink to that.” I eye the empty bottle on the table between us.
“Let me see what I can find in the fridge.” Caitlin heads to the kitchen, while I think about the broken person I was when she first came back to Sydney less than a year ago, and how quickly things have turned around for both of us.
Chapter Thirty
I book my one-way ticket to Paris while Camille is on Skype with me. I’ve had all the conversations I needed to have. Some were easier and some harder than I had expected. Jack was surprisingly easy; perhaps he was getting tired of producing my show after ten years of it. My parents’ first reaction was sheer devastation—somehow I hadn’t expected that. I guess, whatever their age, parents have a hard time letting their children go.
There’s a lot to sort out, such as a permanent visa and a job, but I want to book this ticket now. I want to print it out and hang it next to my desk at work, and a copy next to my bedroom door so it’s the first thing I see when I get out of bed in the morning. The ticket to my new life.
“Are you sure, babe?” Camille is teasing me again. “Are you sure that interview with Steph didn’t go to your head and you’re not overly confident about all of this?”
According to Camille, said interview has gotten a lot of air and press time in France, and I might be able to create some work opportunities off the back of it.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to click this button and buy the ticket?” I click away from the airline website and look straight into the camera. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“Zoya, please, click the button now.” Her voice is earnest. “Please, do it now.”
I pause for a second to get another good look at her face, before I click away from the Skype window and go back to the booking page. I’ve gone through all the steps. On 5 July next year, in exactly eight months and ten days, I will be embarking on my new life. When Camille comes over here for Christmas and I drop her off at the airport after her visit, our goodbye will still be bittersweet because of the long months we won’t see each other, but it will also be full of hope and dreams for our shared future, which will begin later that year.
I take a deep breath. I’m a thousand percent certain I want to do this, but this simple button click is still momentous. Then I press my finger onto the mouse button. I’m asked to confirm. My ticket is booked. I’m moving to Paris. I’m going to live with Camille.
I click back to the Skype window, painting a worried look on my face.
“I couldn’t do it,” I say. “It’s too much. I’m having second thoughts.”
“Zoya, please,” Camille says matter-of-factly. “I just heard you utter the biggest sigh of relief. Not to mention that I could still see you. I do sincerely hope your future career prospects don’t include acting, because you’re not very good at it.” She smiles widely at me, and then, out of nowhere—not anywhere I can see on the screen, anyway—she produces a glass of champagne. “À notre futur.” She raises the glass.
“It’s nine in the morning, sweetheart.” Empty-handed, I stare at her drinking champagne.
“That doesn’t matter one bit. And from the looks of it I’ll have to drink for both of us since you didn’t bother to prepare the celebration of this big step in our lives.”
“I’m still detoxing from all that wine you made me drink when I was there in October.”
“All the more reason to prepare yourself properly for your big move to wine and cheese country.”
I shake my head at her. “You are incorrigible.”
She puts her glass away and brings her face closer to the camera. “Thank you so very much for doing this, chérie. For doing this for us.”
“Thank you for staying in my Airbnb and messing with the smoke detector so you could meet the owner.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
The rental apartment was snapped up two days after it went on the market. The house will go on sale soon—finally. Rebecca and I will divide the money, and I will have no more property left in Australia, or anywhere in the world. But the only practical matter on my mind right now is that ticket I just booked. I open my mail app and see the new email that has just come in: Confirmation and E-Ticket Flight Itinerary from Sydney to Paris.
“Now we can really start making plans.”
“It will be all we do when you’re here next month.”
“Hm, I do hope we do some other things as well.” Camille picks up her champagne glass again.
“Of course, we’re going to Perth where I will introduce you to my parents and my brother and his extremely loud family. It will be three weeks of utter bliss.”
“Your parents who dislike me already because I’m taking their daughter away from them.”
“I’ll make sure they’ve properly warmed up to you by then. Besides, one glance at you and they’ll know why I want to move to France so badly. They’ll fall in love with you so quickly they won’t know what hit them. Just like I did.”
“And I with you, my love.”
I stare at the email with my ticket for a bit longer while Camille chats and I wait for any sign of doubt to set in, but none shows up, and by the time we end our Skype call, every part of me is utterly convinced I have made the right decision.
Epilogue
As I travel back in time, because that’s what flying away from Australia feels like, the journey feels so different from the two previous times I undertook it. The first time I was so nervous and unsure about what my future with Camille would bring, and if there would even be one after the trip. The second, quick trip to Paris, back and forth in five days to not jeopardize the flow of my show too much, I was nervous and elated at the same time. Elated to be able to steal some time with Camille and nervous because even though I’ve been interviewing people from all walks of life for years, traveling to Paris to interview Stéphanie Mathis felt special. Not only because of her partner, or because of her connection to Camille, but mostly because of the impression she made on me when we first met. I was charmed and intrigued and inspired all at the same time.
Today, as I fly into the night, I know I won’t be able to sleep, and I’m much too agitated to even consider focusing on my French course. I spend most of the journey staring ahead of me, unable to believe this is actually happening. I’m on a one-way trip to France. No return ticket. It’s just me flying in the direction my life took the day I met Camille. And I think about love and how it can completely take over your life. I think about how life can thrust you into a situation with a stranger, compelling you to get to know them be
tter, because it feels, in your bones, like you have no other choice and your soul knows there is a possibility of happiness.
I think of the life I will lead in France, of which a large part is still unknown to me, because I haven’t secured a job yet, and I still don’t speak French very well. It’s possible too that Camille and I might need to get married for the completely unromantic reason of getting me residency. All of these are things to be discussed while we lounge on her patio or after we wake up lazily together on Sunday morning. While we just—very simply—are together. And it’s because of this upcoming proximity to each other, and the surge of happiness it evokes in my stomach every time I think about it, that I know everything will work out. I’m confident that the first few weeks after my arrival will be spent in a haze of happiness and sex and prancing around Paris with a smug smile of pure joy on our faces. After that, we’ll see. On verra.
And of course it’s scary to be making my way to the other side of the world without career prospects, without my family and my circle of friends, and literally putting my destiny in the hands of another person. But what a person she is.
When I step into the arrivals hall, Camille’s entire family is waiting for me. Little Emma is, very lopsidedly, holding a banner that says “Welcome, Zoya” and Camille is jumping out of her skin with excitement.
I had no idea she’d be bringing her family along and the sight of them all as I approach moves me, because they want to make me feel welcome on this happy but nevertheless daunting day in my life. The day I leave the past behind and step into the future, wide-eyed and ready.
“There you are,” Camille says when I’ve reached their group, and puts her arms around me, and welcomes me with an embrace that is so tender, so loving and warm, I know I won’t be able to face her family—my future family—with dry eyes. But it doesn’t matter, because this moment of reunion is the culmination of many moments we’ve already gone through together. And as of now, we can truly be together. I stand in her embrace for a long time, until the children start whining and whistling and generally letting us know that we’re being untoward.
