If it weren’t for my job, I probably would. That’s as far as I can get in replying to my subconscious mind’s manifestation in my conscious brain. I don’t have the kind of job that’s easily transplantable to the other side of the world. I present a show that has my name in the title. My identity is so intertwined with what I do, with what I’ve done professionally for the past decade, I have no idea how I would even feel if that side of me were to fall away. What could I possibly do in France? I don’t even speak French. And I’m not the housewifely type who could keep Iris company all day long—besides, I’d spoil the animal so much it’d be the death of her.

That’s how my mind is working as I walk along these streets where, if things were different, my future could lie.

For some reason, my mind doesn’t allow me to make the same thinking exercise in reverse. Perhaps because it’s not up to me to think about Camille’s life in those terms. Maybe her son will indeed go exploring the world and he’ll end up in Australia—like many have done before him—and his mother will follow. But Ben has only just started university. And I haven’t even met him.

It’s musings like these that give this trip a bittersweet undertone. Because, yes, having these six weeks with Camille is an amazing gift, courtesy of my un-transplantable job, and every second with her is pure bliss, but for most people who are in the process of falling in love, this is normal. To get to completely immerse yourself in the exuberance of young love without having to consider practicalities and distance and how on earth you’ll cope with the absence again and again.

I’ve reached a row of government buildings and wonder what the president of the republic is doing today. It’s a silly thought. One I would never have about the Australian prime minister, whom I interviewed once, and who was perfectly groomed by his team to come off charming and even witty at times, but who still only struck me as the person I hadn’t voted for.

I think about what Camille told me about Laroche’s partner Stéphanie Mathis, the much younger PR executive who helped mastermind her victory, and how Camille said being first lady when the president is a woman is a more than arduous task. What I wouldn’t give to interview her.

Then my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Camille’s picture appears on the screen.

“Bonjour, chérie,” she says. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais?”

“Bonjour,” I reply. It’s the only part of that sentence I understood.

“I’m giving you your first French lesson tonight.”

“I’m afraid the teacher might be too distracting.”