“Hm.” Camille just hums. “Dominique is usually a bit more highly strung, but she’s on holiday with her children. This is a good time for her.”

“It just makes you wonder about the lives politicians are forced to lead. Constant stress and scrutiny. Always having to be ready for something. Never letting your guard down. It takes a special kind of person.”

“Tell me about it.” Camille rolls her eyes. “My ex-husband was nowhere near being president and just being his wife was often a chore. The endless dinners and misogynistic chatter of the old boys’ club to endure. At least Dominique’s election has injected some much-needed feminine perspective and ambiance into French politics.”

“To be a woman and then come out as gay in that world.”

“Dinner won’t be long.” Steph re-emerges. “I hope you’re not expecting anything too fancy. The kids always need all of our attention the first few days we’re here. And my natural cooking ability isn’t anything to speak of.” She smiles that apologetic smile again that is so damn sexy. The hearts this woman must have broken.

This time I do restrain myself from asking the first question that pops into my brain, because it sounds too much like part of an interview. This must be so hard for you. It’s a bit of a cowardly question that would surely be vetoed before any actual interview on my show, but it’s the first thing that springs to mind when I look at Steph.

She looks as though she would be much more at home in a night club, or just casually strolling through a life she constructed for herself by being the person that she is. Anything but having to live with the constraints of a life as first lady to the first female president of her country. Of course, I only know Stéphanie Mathis from what I read about her in the press, but it seems incongruous with the person sitting across from me.

We chat some more about their vacation plans—just chill and do pretty much nothing—and my and Camille’s plans for the rest of my stay, and then Dominique comes back out and dinner—a simple but delicious goat’s cheese salad—and more wine are served, and slowly my bewilderment changes into a more relaxed state of being, and I forget Dominique is who she is, and I could just as well be having a lovely dinner with a new pair of friends.

After midnight, the wine is still flowing freely—Camille’s intake increasing further—and everyone is a little tipsy, but it doesn’t matter because we have nowhere to be the day after and it’s summer and the woman I love is sitting next to me and the conversation is getting more and more interesting.

“I know you had your reasons, Camille,” Dominique says, “but you should have left him years ago.”