Season Four: French Kissing, Book 4

by Harper Bliss

  Ours. Zoya had been living with Camille for five months now, yet it still sent a shiver up her spine when Zoya referred to her house as theirs. A shiver of pure delight, of acknowledging how lucky Camille had been to run into Zoya the way she had. How utterly elated that Zoya was willing to leave behind her homeland to be with Camille and her children and grandchild. Camille had no idea how she could ever repay Zoya for all the sacrifices she had already made. For her. Spending Christmas in the Australian summer sunshine was hardly a punishment.

  “It’s going to be a late one,” Camille said. “These board meetings always are.”

  “Well then, it’ll just be me and Iris waiting for you. One of us naked.” She put her hand on Camille’s arm again, and, at the prospect, Camille forgot all about the existence of Bernard Duflot.

  Zoya

  Zoya added a splash of wine to her sauce. When she had prepared her first meal in France, it had felt like sacrilege to use actual French wine for cooking, but Camille had quickly persuaded her that wine was not wasted when you used it in a sauce. The whole purpose of wine was to enhance things. Dishes. Conversations. Life. When Camille had said this, looking at her from under her lashes the way she did, Zoya had believed her. She had clung to Camille’s every last word. And she’d always remember how she had stood there, a hip slanted against the kitchen counter, when she had spoken those words. Gorgeous, smart, sophisticated Camille. An inadvertent smile grew on Zoya’s lips. A private smile that warmed her core. Not aimed at anyone but her inner self.

  Zoya lowered the heat and listened to the sizzle of the wine evaporating. She took joy in being able to cook for someone else again. Although tonight, she wasn’t cooking for her partner; she was preparing her signature dish for Stéphanie Mathis.

  Steph always reminded Zoya of the unexpected path life could take you on. Two years ago, after Rebecca had left her, Zoya could never have imagined living in Paris and serving a meal to France’s first lady, let alone becoming fast friends with her. Equally, Steph had confided that she sometimes lay awake at night wondering at the course her life had taken. Perhaps this was one of the building blocks of their friendship and it was what they recognised in each other as it deepened.

  Zoya heard vehicles in the street coming to a halt, which must mean Steph had arrived. With the way of the world right now, Steph couldn’t move about freely in her own city anymore. She had to be protected—discreetly, but that didn’t make it less so—by a secret service car. As Zoya had quickly learned when they first went to a restaurant together, Steph was always followed by a few not-so-discreet photographers wanting to document her every move in public.

  “Christ,” Zoya had said, “I thought the French paparazzi were more considerate than that.”

  “Paps are relentless wolves everywhere,” Steph had said matter-of-factly, indicating she didn’t want to spend any more time even discussing these people for whom making that one money-shot meant infinitely more than the privacy every human being was entitled to—even the president’s partner.

  Zoya made her way to the door and waited for the knock. The first time the vultures had descended on their house, she had been taken aback by the lewdness of it all, but she had also, very quickly, understood why Steph preferred to meet here instead of in a public place. Once the paparazzi realised she was meeting a friend at home, they would leave knowing there was no sensational shot to be had.

  Someone rapped on the door twice and Zoya quickly opened it, ushering Steph in and dispensing with the niceties until they stood behind the safety of closed doors.

  “Bonsoir.” Steph grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on each of Zoya’s cheeks. She seemed unperturbed by the spectacle outside.

  “Lovely to see you,” Zoya replied. “Come through to the kitchen. I think the sauce needs stirring and tasting.”

  Zoya went through the motions of pouring Steph a glass of wine and sitting her down in the kitchen while she finished her dish.

  Steph was halfway through her glass when they sat down to dinner and Zoya spooned a portion of mushroom pasta onto Steph’s plate.

  “How’s life in the Elysée?” Zoya asked. The question had become a private joke between them—Zoya being the seasoned interviewer who lowered herself to asking the most obvious, basic question.

  “Same old, same old. Silver spoons and man servants,” Steph replied with a grin on her face. “This looks delicious.”

  “Nothing but the best for the first lady.” Zoya marvelled at the smell of the earthy chanterelles and the hint of wine she could still catch in the sauce. “Although I have been thinking about the term first lady with regards to you and Dominique. If you’re the first lady, then which number lady is she?”

  “None of this protocol stuff was ever invented for lesbians, obviously.” Steph rolled her eyes. “Who could even imagine such a thing? Two women in the Elysée? Such sacrilege.” She paused for a moment. “I will have to break the news to Dominique that, because of my title, she can only officially be second lady of France. It’s not going to go down well.” She painted a smirk on her face. “She may introduce some law to change this anomaly pronto, so maybe I should just leave it.”

  Zoya snickered. She hadn’t had the pleasure of spending that much time with the president, who had far more important things to do than dine with friends who were not heads of state, but she could, nevertheless, easily catch Steph’s drift.

  “Anyway, let’s not talk about my uneventful life,” Steph said, changing the subject. “Let’s talk about you. How are you doing?”

  Zoya might be the interviewer with years of experience under her belt, but when Steph asked her a question, even one as straightforward and predictable as this, she always felt it was born from more than just friendly interest. As though Steph had a sixth sense and instinctively noticed when something was a little off. Or perhaps that was just Zoya projecting, or feeling relieved that she could chat to a friend. She hadn’t made that many. Language was still a barrier, but Steph belonged to the younger generation who spoke excellent English. From the very beginning, Zoya had felt she could communicate with Steph on a level she needed. She could be frank with her.

  “Well, you know, I’m in love and I live in Paris, often coined the most beautiful city in the world, so one would think I’m doing swimmingly.”

  “Except you’re not.” Steph waited, fork poised.

  “I’m not doing badly… I mean, this is what I wanted, after all. But I do miss home more than I expected.”

  “It’s normal. I only moved districts, and I miss home terribly at times,” Steph said after she finished her bite.

  “I know it’s normal. I lived in Australia all my life and I can’t expect love to just magically make everything better. I guess the bigger issue is that I don’t really know how to talk to Camille about it, for fear I will ruin our honeymoon period.”

  “Why? You think she won’t understand?”

  Zoya looked at Steph and, again, saw some of herself in her much younger friend. The inability to let anything just go by. The ever-present need to ask a deeper question.

  Zoya shook her head. “No, of course she will understand. I just want to spare her my drama. She has enough on her plate.”

  Steph narrowed her eyes. “Can you actually hear yourself, Zoya? She’s your partner, which doesn’t mean you have to tell her every little thing that goes on in your mind, but you should be able to talk about things that infringe on your happiness.”

  “In theory, I know you’re right.” Zoya sipped from her glass of wine. “I guess I’ve been taken aback a little myself by the fierceness of my feelings. I’ve even started watching Neighbours again, just to feel that connection to home.”

  Steph quirked up her eyebrows.

  “Scott and Charlene?” Zoya asked and, when met with a blank expression on Steph’s face, continued. “It’s an Australian soap that had its heyday long before your time.” She smiled. “But as harrowing as watching something well-past it
s prime is, it anchors me to my homeland. And even saying words like anchoring and homeland makes me wonder whether I’m even cut out for this uprooting of my life. I barely gave it a second thought because of how utterly smitten I was. I still am.”

  “It’s only been a few months. You need to give yourself some time. And you need to speak with Camille. You can’t let something as important as this turn into more and have it fester into even more negative emotions.”

  “If for some reason your career in PR doesn’t work out, you can always retrain as a counsellor,” Zoya said.

  Steph was quiet for a beat, then said. “I see one. A counsellor. Have done for a while. Even though see is perhaps not the right word for it. These days we mainly have online sessions, lest it ever come out the first lady needs her soul examined on a regular basis.”

  It was Zoya’s turn to look at Steph with a bewildered look on her face. Their friendship must have reached a new height if Steph was comfortable sharing this.

  “It has really helped me.” Steph filled the silence. “If you need to talk to someone, I can definitely recommend her.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” Steph said it with so much persuasion, Zoya almost asked for the counsellor’s number there and then. Before Zoya could say anything else, she heard the door open. It could only be Camille.

  “She’s home early.” Zoya instinctively rose from her chair. Camille was talking to someone. Maybe she was on the phone. Then she heard another voice. One she recognised easily because she’d heard it on the radio many times. Even though she only understood a tiny portion of what was said on Aurore Seauve’s weekly show Sexualité Aujourd’hui, she used it to further her knowledge of the French language—and had picked up quite a few words no course book would ever teach her.

  “Hey, darling.” Camille ambled into the dining room with Aurore in tow. “We have company.”

  Aurore

  Even though Camille had told Aurore that Stéphanie Mathis would be at her house, she was a little star struck when she stood face to face with the woman. It wasn’t so much that she was the president’s partner, but more the reputation that preceded her, and the vibe of sexual confidence she exuded.

  Why could Aurore never fall for a woman like that? Then she wouldn’t have had her heart broken, again, which was why she had called Camille. Camille, who had just fled a board meeting, had told Aurore she would introduce her to Stéphanie Mathis to cheer her up.

  Aurore shook Stéphanie’s hand, then greeted Zoya in English.

  “I wasn’t expecting you home so soon,” Zoya said to Camille.

  “I’ll tell you all about the hell of a meeting I just walked out of later,” she said. “First, we must make Aurore feel better.” Camille winked at Aurore.

  For some reason, Camille had always succeeded in making Aurore feel better during her long and disastrous career in love. Although this was the first time Aurore would avail of her cheering-up services since Zoya had moved to Paris, and she wasn’t sure how this new love on display would affect the healing process of her shattered heart. She hadn’t given it a second thought when she had dialled Camille’s number—it was that instinctive. Relationship over. Call Camille.

  “Are you the Aurore Seauve?” Stéphanie asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Aurore said. “For all my talk of sex positivity and healthy relationships on national radio, my own love life has been a mess for as long as I’ve had one. If you could even call it one.”

  Stéphanie grinned. “Your secret’s safe with me.” The way she said it made Aurore believe it instantly. Maybe Stéphanie had a friend like herself she could introduce to Aurore, someone to make her forget about Vivianne. But no, unshakable types like Stéphanie Mathis, no matter how charming they were, didn’t really float Aurore’s boat. That was the problem.

  “Just a life-long commitment to falling for the wrong woman,” Aurore joked. “It takes dedication.”

  “What kind of woman might that be?” Stéphanie asked, while Zoya poured her and Camille a glass of wine.

  “Emotionally unavailable,” Aurore said.

  Camille cleared her throat. “What Aurore actually means by that is straight women.” She opened her hands, palms upwards. “Désolée, mon amie,” Camille continued, “but I’ve known you for many decades and let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we?”

  Aurore sighed. “My profession doesn’t help, of course.” She tried to ignore Camille’s comment, even though one of the pillars of their twenty-years-plus friendship was Camille’s unflinching ability to tell it how it was. Although there had been a time not so long ago when Aurore had been the one to tell Camille that she, herself, wasn’t perhaps as heterosexual as she had everyone—herself included—believe. “Straight women love to project their lesbian fantasies on to me.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to let them.” There was kindness in Camille’s voice and she put a hand on Aurore’s shoulder.

  “Maybe I’m just too much of a sucker for a good transformation story.” She glanced at Camille, then at Zoya. “Look at you ladies. You’re living proof that not all women who have always believed they’re straight actually are.”

  “That might be true,” Camille said, “but you could try dating a woman who could at least reciprocate your feelings. Imagine how much fun it would be? Two women who love women falling in love?”

  Aurore smiled at Camille just to indulge her, then looked at Steph. “Even our first female president believed she was straight for the longest time. There are so many examples.”

  Stéphanie shook her head. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, especially because we’ve only just met,” she said, “but I think you’re getting some things confused. If I could have helped it at all, I would have never fallen for someone like Dominique. How it happened for me was the other way around. I fell in love with her despite her not being an out lesbian, not because.”

  “Touché,” Camille said. “I think you hit the nail on the head there, Steph.”

  “I thought being here was supposed to cheer me up,” Aurore said. “Not tear me down even more than Vivianne has already done.”

  “You’re right,” Camille said. “As long as next time you meet someone you’re interested in, you get my approval before you date her.” She sent Aurore a grin.

  Aurore held up her glass and looked Camille in the eye. “No one will enter my bed until they’ve passed your rigorous vetting process first.”

  “We’ll set up a panel,” Zoya said.

  “I can get you a presidential seal of approval if needed,” Stéphanie said.

  They all burst out laughing and, with that, Aurore did start feeling a little better. As long as she could stay in this cosy—even though a tad too bourgeois for her taste—living room a while longer, in the embrace of her old friend, Camille’s partner, and the first lady of France.

  She wondered if tonight’s conversation would make it to the president’s ears. Whether she would be the subject of pillow talk at the Elysée tonight. She should really get a grip. And start dating actual lesbians—or at the very least a woman who had kissed another woman before.

  “If you know of any eligible lesbian bachelorettes, Stéphanie, please let me know.”

  “Please call me Steph,” she said and paused before answering the question. “I don’t really travel in those circles anymore. If you’d asked me two years ago, I could have hooked you up in a heartbeat, but not so much now.”

  “Do you mean the Elysée is not swarming with lesbians now that we have a lesbian president? There goes my fantasy!”

  “What fantasy?” Zoya asked. “Lesbian orgies in the Elysée every other day?”

  “God no. No such thing. Just some good old lesbian nepotism. You know, to once and for all drive home the gay agenda. At least, that’s what the far right would like to have us believe.”

  “If you ask me, Séverine Marechal is a closet case herself,” Camille said.

  Steph c
huckled. “Dominique would have a fit if she heard all of this.”

  “Will you tell her?” Aurore couldn’t help but ask. On her radio show, she asked people about their most private emotions all the time. Compared to that, this was just skimming the surface. “Do you talk to Dominique about evenings like this?”

  Steph sank her teeth into her bottom lip and regarded Aurore for a moment in silence before speaking. “Of course. If there’s time.”

  Aurore painted on a smile—the kind she would use on a studio guest if they were still balancing on that edge between being too shy and really wanting to share something profound. “Is there?”

  “Not always. Not as much as I would like there to be,” Steph said.

  “Is that an issue for you?” Aurore had a vague sense of crossing a line—she wasn’t in the studio, after all, she was sharing a glass of wine with friends after a bad break-up.

  “Zoya interviewed me a while back about all of this,” Steph said. “You can find all the answers to your questions on YouTube.” She tilted her head and kept her gaze on Aurore, as if asking, are you done now?

  “I’m so sorry,” Aurore said. “I’ve always been the curious type.”

  “Nosy more like,” Camille said.

  “It’s in our blood,” Zoya said.

  “What happened with you and Vivianne?” Steph asked. The room fell silent. “What? You two can be nosy and I can’t be?” The grin on her face was irresistible.

  A frank answer to Steph’s question would be an opportunity to apologise and to say some much-needed words about the woman who had just broken her heart. “She went back to her ex, whom she’d left for me.”

  “Ouch,” Steph said. “I’m very sorry. How long were you together?”

  “Almost six months.” Aurore sighed. “I thought we were ready for the next stage of our relationship. She clearly didn’t.” She sipped wine. “But hey, at least it was only six months, which means, according to publications like Marie-Claire, it should only take me three months to get over her.” Her phone started ringing in her handbag. She dug it out, by now already relieved she could take a break from talking about Vivianne. It might only have been six months, but the memory of Vivianne looking her in the eye and saying she was leaving still had the power to wound. It felt like a blade sliding between her ribs straight into her heart—again.