“I believe I can think of some ways.” Camille scoots closer and wraps an arm around my waist.

I sink into her warm embrace and try to erase images of Dominique Laroche from my mind, but it’s hard, despite the insistence of Camille’s lips and hands. It’s not every day you wake up finding out you’re going to meet the president of France.

The way my stomach is coiled into knots as we drive from Camille’s to Dominique Laroche’s house in a village about ten miles away, you’d think I was about to go into my first TV interview. You’d think I was someone impressed by fame and fortune, instead of the person who, respectfully, tries to pick apart the facade of the people who populate the news—serious outlets and tabloids alike.

Maybe it’s because this is a social call that I feel so out of sorts. Or maybe it’s just because Dominique Laroche is in a league all of her own. The combination of the stature that comes with being the leader of her country, the way she rose to the top, and the grace with which she seems to move through the highest levels of politics thwarting all the attacks and criticism leveled at her, is like nothing I’ve ever come across.

“Remember, chérie, we’re not here for that foursome we talked about. It’s just dinner,” Camille jokes as she parks in the driveway.

When I look at her, she sends me a wide smile. “She’s just a person. Just a woman like us. No need to curtsy either.”

Camille’s relentless teasing makes me chuckle. She hasn’t crossed the line just yet, and I know it’s her way of trying to relax me. I must have looked like a student being driven to her first ever exam, the way I sat clammed up in the passenger seat en route over here.

I spot a discreetly positioned security guard to the left of the house, but that’s all. As we approach the front door, it gets thrown open wide and two children stand in the doorway. Lisa and Didier, I immediately think, as if I know them. Then a tall, lanky figure appears behind them and I recognize the woman from the many pictures I’ve seen of her: Stéphanie Mathis.

She says something in French to the children, but they all keep standing there.

“Stéphanie.” Camille opens her arms. “Ça fait trop longtemps.” She hugs Steph, then formally shakes the children’s hands, which they seem to enjoy greatly.

“This is my partner Zoya.” She smiles at me, and while I’ve been introduced as her partner a few times now, it still incites a little tingle in my tummy every time she does, although I guess this one could also be due to the special circumstances I find myself in at the moment.