“There is. Me. I’m your emergency.” I love how she’s willing to show it all, to not hold back because of the circumstances. Maybe it’s because we have to compress an entire affair into a tiny number of days. It makes it more intense. Makes it feel like more than it would otherwise be.

“You are. Sadly, I’m stuck in traffic.”

“Do you need me to entertain you?” Her voice sounds different over the phone. Deeper. More exotic.

“Yes, please. Tell me a story.”

“Okay. Let me think for a minute.” The silence that hangs in the car for the following seconds is almost unbearable.

“We can just talk.” I manage to move my car forward a few more feet.

“No, no. You need to focus on traffic. I’ll talk.” She sounds bossy. Maybe it’s her motherly voice. The one she used to tell her children off with when they were little. Before I left work, I couldn’t resist googling her ex-husband Jean-Claude. A very handsome man, and not even in that off-kilter French way. I even found a few pictures of him and President Laroche. All smiles and French elegance in tailor-made suits.

“So, once there were two women,” Camille starts. “Who started what is now commonly referred to as an Airbnb romance. They met because of a technology that didn’t exist a few years ago. This made them very modern. Des femmes du monde, quoi.“

I hate that my French is not that good. Why don’t we get taught more of it in Australian schools? How we could benefit from being a bit worldlier. I want to understand every single word Camille speaks. Want to catch the meaning behind everything she says.

“These women both had some emotional baggage. Not to be confused with the luggage they brought into the Airbnb apartment, of course.”

I burst into a giggle at her silly sense of humor. “Of course,” I say.

“Shht. Focus on traffic,” she says. “Let me tell my story.”

Whatever was blocking the procession of cars I find myself in seems to have been cleared away, because I can pick up speed a little more. But now I just want to stay in the car until Camille has finished her story. I want to know how it ends.

“They were of a more mature age but very, er, well-kept. One of them was Australian, but of Indian descent.”

My heart starts beating faster.

“She had the most expressive eyes. And her mouth. Oh, that mouth. Lips you’d want to kiss for days.”

Oh Christ. I shouldn’t feel like this when driving. Her words connect with something deep inside of me, making my pulse pick up speed as I accelerate.