Sylvie and Sébastien, who live around the corner, are just as lovely, switched-on and elegant as I would have expected Camille’s best friends to be. This glimpse into her life, albeit a festive and not an everyday one, teaches me so much about her, and makes me fall in love with her even more. This convergence of our two separate lives on opposite parts of the globe strengthens my feelings for her, and the conviction that I’ve met a truly special lady—one I never want to let go of.

Camille drops down next to me, her thigh touching mine and as she does, I see Ben and Flo exchange a look. What I wouldn’t give to be a—French-speaking, of course—fly on the wall when they discuss their mother’s new lover in private later. Or perhaps I’m better off not knowing what Camille’s children really think of me.

Camille, who must still be feeling the effects of the champagne, pecks me on the cheek. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she whispers in my ear, making me feel very self-conscious.

Camille on the other hand doesn’t shy away from public displays of affection in front of her children and best friends at all, and while she re-engages in conversation, she puts a hand on my knee and leaves it there. Perhaps she’s trying to make a statement to these people she loves most, and who love her, that this is who she is now.

We make plans for Sylvie and Sébastien to have us over for dinner next weekend, to have Emma sleep over next Wednesday evening, and to drop by Ben’s apartment in Marseille in a few weeks when we’re on our way to Camille’s house in Provence.

By the time everyone has left, and Ben has gone into town to meet some of his old school friends, I sink into the cushions completely exhausted.

“They loved you. I can tell,” Camille says as she lies down with her head in my lap, looking up at me. “It was a truly wonderful afternoon.” She smiles up at me and a rush of happiness blooms in my chest, but as is always the case, it’s accompanied by a sense of finality as well. As wonderful as today was, we only have four more weekends together until we’re relegated to living ten thousand miles away from each other again. And I already know that the time we’ll have to spend apart then will be much harder because of these weeks we spent together in Paris.

“It was lovely.” I say, looking into her bright eyes, simultaneously relishing this moment and regretting that we’re not in the sort of situation in which we can bring our groups of friends together, see how they mesh.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.” I try to convince her with my wide, television smile.