by Harper Bliss
She eyed the folder which had thickened at an alarming rate, because she wrote everything down—every last little thing. She had grown so paranoid that she even took note when someone gave her a funny look in the hallway. This had been going on long enough now and she no longer knew who to trust.
She heaved a sigh at the unpleasantness she had to start the day with. It was all so unnecessary. There was already so much hatred in the world. It baffled her that her being with a woman could contribute to it. It made her despair of people. But it also made her combative. Not that Camille hadn’t considered throwing in the towel. Granted, she was a bit young to retire, but she could afford to. Or she could look for another job. But that would mean admitting defeat to her bullies and Camille refused to ever do that. She could not let the likes of Duflot win. Because he might just be after her job, using any means necessary to discredit and destabilise Camille, but his minions thrived on pure hatred. Camille could not let hatred get the better of her. If they wanted a fight, she would give them one.
Moreover, Camille had done nothing wrong. She just needed to bide her time, gather evidence, wait for Duflot to make a mistake, then make her move. She tried to shake off the memory of the piece of paper and cast her glance to her inbox. The week before an anonymous email had arrived with no contents, only a subject line, saying that Camille Rousseau was no longer fit to lead her team at the CNRS. That was it.
Camille had forwarded the email to Zoya and no one else. She didn’t discuss any of what was going on at work with her colleagues. She only talked about it with Zoya—she only trusted her partner. What her bullies were too bigoted to realise was that the very thing they had suddenly come to despise about Camille would eventually be their downfall. In her secret battle against Duflot and his gang, Zoya was her secret weapon. In her job as foreign correspondent, Zoya met people from all walks of life. Hackers like Guy, who could figure out who sent her that anonymous email with a few simple searches. Lawyers like Amina who had pleaded successful harassment cases against homophobes before. And, of course, Zoya herself, who would not rest until the culprits had all been dragged in front of a tribunal and fired.
Duflot had made the mistake of trying to mess with the wrong woman. Because Camille was not alone. No bigot was going to oust her from her job or get away with trying.
Of course this made it harder to focus on her work, but if she had to work longer hours, she would. If she had to hand deliver every report she wrote, she would. If she had to double check every one of her team members’ work, she would. If she had to turn into a paranoid, mistrusting, difficult boss for a while, she would. If it meant ending up with the CNRS rid of people like Duflot and filled with people she could trust, it was worth it.
She opened the report she’d been compiling the day before and went to work. No stupid piece of paper would keep her from getting the job done. Finishing this report would be her first small victory of the day.
Zoya
Zoya knew Camille was under pressure at work, and perhaps her own issues faded into nothing in comparison, but then again, Zoya didn’t much believe in anything fading into nothing. She had to talk to Camille. She had no choice. A relationship was a two-way street. She helped Camille as best she could, speaking to contacts she’d made and deliberately seeking out topics to report on for ANBC that put her in contact with people who could help her.
Before Zoya had started presenting The Zoya Das Show, she had been a halfway decent investigative journalist—and some things could never be unlearned.
In a few minutes, when Camille came home from work, Zoya would sit her down and tell her about the dread that had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t found the exact words to express her feelings yet, but she hoped she could count on years of experience of having to talk under pressure of the spotlight to bring them to her when she needed them. It was important not to alarm Camille, just to give her an inkling of what was going on inside her head. To start a conversation so she could address her homesickness better. Steph had been right. Zoya had to talk about it. Not doing so would only lead to more of the same. More suppressed feelings that would need to surface at some point.
“Come here.” Zoya pulled Iris onto her lap. “You certainly help with my homesickness.” She scratched the cat behind the ears. “You wouldn’t think it possible for a small, furry animal to have such powers, but there you have it.”
Iris’s ears perked up when the door opened, but she didn’t jump off Zoya’s lap.
“Are you putting ideas in Iris’s head again?” Before even taking off her jacket, Camille walked over to Zoya and kissed her on the lips. “She already believes she’s the queen of Neuilly.”
“How could she?” Zoya asked. “When clearly you are the one and only queen of Neuilly.” Zoya kissed Camille again and fought against the feeling that always overtook her when she did. The urge to squash what she really felt, which was so easy to do when Camille walked through the door, but made them catch up on her much harder when Zoya was alone again. “How was work?”
Camille shook her head. Zoya had received a picture of the sheet of paper someone had left on Camille’s desk on her phone already. They kept a digital file of everything that could serve as evidence as well, a back up on both their phones, Zoya’s laptop, and an external hard drive.
“It’s after seven. I don’t want to think, let alone talk about work anymore.”
Zoya could see how saying this pained Camille. She loved her job. When they’d just met, and she had tried to explain to Zoya a particular project she’d been working on—which Zoya had failed to understand without doing some research of her own—Zoya had seen the pride she took in her profession glimmer in her eyes.
“Une verre de vin, mon amour?” Zoya asked. She still took French lessons, but her pace of learning was not as intensive anymore as in the beginning. But asking whether Camille wanted a glass of wine was one of her most-used sentences, so she could manage that one quite well.
“Oui, volontiers, chérie,” Camille replied.
Zoya handed her a glass of red and they sat and drank in silence for a bit. Iris purred in Zoya’s lap. Zoya locked her gaze on Camille. She had to say something now, before the evening took its course, and she lost her nerve again.
“Can we talk about something or do you need more time to unwind?” Zoya asked.
“We can talk about anything you want, my love.” Camille narrowed her eyes. She looked tired. Zoya hoped they would be able to bring a case against Camille’s tormentor at work soon so they could put this unpleasantness behind them.
“I know you’ve been going through a lot at work, but, er… I’ve been dealing with something myself.”
Camille pulled her delicious lips into a small smile. “I know,” she said. “And I haven’t been very attentive to your needs.”
“How do you mean?”
“I know you miss home, Zoya. It’s only normal that you do.”
Since Zoya had moved to Paris, Camille had often displayed an ability to understand things without Zoya having to spell them out. It surprised Zoya every time.
“You can talk to me,” Camille said. “I won’t think you love me any less.”
“You know?” Perhaps Zoya should have guessed, but she was still shocked by Camille’s admission.
“Of course I know, Zoya, because I know you.” She put her glass down. “I see you watch the ANBC news online, not with a professional eye, but with a nostalgic one. Watching The Caitlin James Show every week is such a production in our home. You even watch those soaps you previously didn’t have anything good to say about. You talk with your mother much more than in the beginning. You stare at that outback screensaver on your laptop while lost in thought. Granted, I am a scientist, but I could have easily figured it out without my professional skills of deduction.”
“Perhaps I should have said something sooner,” Zoya said. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I’m a grandmother now, darling
. I’ve seen a thing or two in my life, and have had my fair share of worries. You can tell me anything.”
“It’s just… I don’t know. It’s hard to put into words.” Zoya pointed at her stomach. “Something that sits here, like an actual physical thing, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.”
“Nothing is ever just physical or just emotional.”
“It’s not as if I don’t love being here, with you. That means everything to me.”
“One doesn’t exclude the other.”
Zoya nodded. “I was just so struck by the force with which I miss home. I didn’t realise Australia was such a part of me. It’s not just the people that I miss. It’s the country as well. My feet walking on Australian soil. If you’d told me this might happen before I moved away, I would have laughed it off, would have called it utter nonsense, but now I can no longer do that. There’s this pull. I’m much more of an Australian than I thought I was, even though I never considered myself a patriot and, especially as a journalist, I’ve always been very critical of my country. But none of that seems to matter anymore.”
“Do you want to plan a trip home?”
“We already have one planned for Christmas.”
“So? That doesn’t mean you can’t go home before.”
“I guess it’s also the notion that everyone I used to know is almost literally on the other side of the world. Even though we have the internet and FaceTime and email, they always seem so far away—I seem so far away from my former life.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate the psychological effects of geographical distance. The world may be globalised, but that doesn’t mean our emotions, let alone our genes, have caught up.”
“I’ll look into planning a brief visit tomorrow.” The mere prospect seemed to dislodge that ball in the pit of Zoya’s stomach a little already.
“Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you moving here for me?”
“You can never tell me too many times.” Zoya put her glass down as well. Iris was sunk into a deep sleep in her lap. She scooped her hands underneath the cat and gently laid her down on the sofa. She hardly budged. Zoya scooted closer to Camille and kissed her on the cheek. “Tell me again.”
“In words or through other means?” Camille let her lips hover next to Zoya’s ear.
“Both.” Zoya’s breath stuttered in the back of her throat.
“Avec plaisir,” Camille said, and then proceeded to show Zoya how much she cared, not using any words at all.
Aurore
“I refuse to feel the shame the Laroche administration wants me to feel,” Aurore said. “Moreover, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Sexual expression has never been anything remotely shameful for me. Not back in the day when I was part of the cast for that movie, and not now, two decades later. If it makes me persona non grata at the Elysée, so be it. I wasn’t very welcome there the last time, anyway.” Aurore wasn’t entirely sure how Anne Rivière would react to her bringing up the video, but what she was saying had to be expressed regardless.
“I’m sick of Laroche being such a two-faced panderer to the centre—even to the left. She’s trying to pass as semi-progressive, or at least more down the centre than most of her party, but deep down, she’s not. She hasn’t even reacted to my bill proposal yet. How long has it been? A week?” Anne shook her head. “If she keeps up her silence, she’s going to pay for it in the polls. Le Matin has one coming up. She’s going to take a beating.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” Aurore inquired.
“Of course, but I want other things as well. Let’s just say I have a more long-term vision.”
Aurore nodded. “I just need your guarantee that this video will never be used for political reasons.”
“I truly don’t care about this video or whatever else it is you’ve ever done, Aurore. I care about your support and your advice. Both have been invaluable to me.” She stroked her chin. “What I am worried about, however, is you getting the same guarantee from the Laroche camp. Clearly someone there is holding enough of a grudge to have dug it up. How can we be certain they won’t use it against me?”
“We can never be certain.” It felt so much more natural for Aurore to be sitting across from Anne Rivière than from Dominique Laroche, no matter how much she admired the president. Birds of a feather flocked together, and Aurore would never feel a hundred percent comfortable amongst members of the MLR. “And I don’t trust Solange Garceau as far as I can throw her. But I do trust Stéphanie Mathis. The only problem is that she and Solange are at war. But in the end Laroche always has the final say.”
“That’s not enough. I may not care about the video, but voters will. If cornered on the eve of the next election, Laroche may very well screw her so-called integrity and use it to paint me in a very bad light. That’s not something I can have hanging over my head.”
“I understand. Our society is, sadly, far from being that tolerant. Do you want me to keep my distance?”
“No, I want you to get the guarantee. I want to fight Laroche on political issues. I know I have a good chance if I do. I want this video out of the picture, for it to become a non-issue.”
“We both know that once a video like that makes it online, it can never be destroyed.”
Anne nodded. “I’m well aware. The only option is to get both Laroche and her chief of staff’s word of honour.”
Aurore scoffed. “Their word will be enough?”
“It has to be.” Anne leaned over her desk. “If that can’t be enough, well… we wouldn’t want to use what we know about Laroche’s partner, now would we?”
“One of the reasons why I support you is because I know you would never stoop that low, Anne.”
“Indeed, I wouldn’t. So let’s make sure the other party knows this.”
Aurore sighed. “I never wanted to get involved in the politics of this. That’s not my forte.”
“I know, but no one else can take care of this. Only you can.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Steph.” Aurore wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.
“Or Solange,” Anne said. “She’s the one who started all this, after all. It’s time to shut her down.”
This reminded Aurore of her initial plan to get Solange Garceau alone. Maybe Anne was right. Maybe that was what she needed to get all of this done.
It had taken some convincing words on Aurore’s part to get Solange to meet with her, but Aurore hadn’t had to resort to any threats, for which she was glad. Solange Garceau was smart enough to put two and two together.
Solange was due to arrive at Aurore’s apartment near the Bois de Boulogne. She had spent the better part of her career working on the radio so she wasn’t a recognisable face. Solange was definitely known in political circles, but most people would walk past her without realising the considerable amount of power she held. They could have met in public, but it was better to not take any risks. Besides, Aurore was glad to have this conversation behind closed doors, in the privacy of her apartment, without having to worry about anyone overhearing what might be said.
Solange rang the bell at eight in the evening—not a minute before and not a minute after. Aurore buzzed her up and while she waited for the president’s chief of staff she caught herself casting a critical glance over her living room. It wasn’t too messy but it wasn’t exactly tidy either—Aurore enjoyed a bit of coordinated chaos. It made her place look cosy and lived-in when she came home.
She was sure Solange would judge her for not living in a hyper-clean environment—she dared to bet Solange’s living quarters were meticulously vacuumed every single day, not leaving a single speck of dust in sight—but Aurore had long ago learned to dismiss other people’s judgements of her.
The knock on the door was sharp as well—as though Solange Garceau was physically incapable of being anything but clipped and measured. As she opened the door, Aurore remembered what Steph had said about hiring a gigolo to lighten Solange up, which put a wide smil
e on her face as she came face to face with her.
“Would you like to sit?” Aurore asked. “Or at least take off your coat?”
“I won’t be staying long,” Solange said. “Just say what you have to say.”
“Not even a glass of wine? Or tea? I have a great collection.”
Solange looked at her watch, then cast her glance around the room. “I have work to do.”
“I just brewed a pot of camomile tea. It will help you sleep tonight,” Aurore insisted.
“Sure. Fine.” Solange took a few paces towards the sofa.
Aurore quickly poured her a cup and handed it to her on a saucer. “So… that video. Must have been fun snooping around the internet to find it.” Aurore arched up her eyebrows. “At least I hope you got something out of it.”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak to me like that.” Solange stood there stiffly in her coat, cup of tea awkwardly in her hands. Aurore felt a little sorry for her and decided to go about things in a different manner. Even though Solange was so easy to tease, Aurore would try a less antagonising, but more friendly and congenial approach.
“Okay. We got off on the wrong foot and I apologise. Will you please sit for a minute so we can talk?” She used her softest tone of voice—the one that had gotten many doors to open for her over the years.
Solange hesitated, heaved a deep sigh, then put the cup down and shrugged out of her coat. Mission one accomplished. Getting the chief of staff to relax around her was the first step in Aurore’s new, gentler approach.
“For your information, I got no pleasure whatsoever out of searching for that video. I fervently wished it was not a task I had to burden myself with, but someone had to do it.”
“Why?” Aurore couldn’t help but notice how tightly Solange’s stark white blouse was tucked into the waistband of her pressed skirt. Everything about her was so rigid. Aurore might have gotten her to take the first step, but many more intermediate steps would be necessary to have Solange unwind enough so they could have the kind of conversation Aurore was aiming for.
