“Which is, in itself, a sort of temporary insanity,” she replies.

“Well, you’re the scientist.”

“And you’re the journalist. Between us, we should be able to figure it out.”

“There’s not much to figure out. All we need is patience.”

“As I said before, it took me until I was forty-nine to find you, and I had to travel many miles for it. I can wait a little longer.”

The question I haven’t been able to keep from popping up is there at the forefront of my brain again. “What happens after Paris, though?” If I can’t ask Camille, who can I ask?

“I don’t know, mon amour. The next step, whatever that may be at the time.”

“You’re right. We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”

“Instead of asking impossible questions, here are a few things you can do to keep yourself occupied. Do you have a pen to write this down?” The smile in her voice is back. “One: reply to my email. Two: send me the videos. Three: let me know when we can Skype so I can see your face. Four: confirm that ticket for July.”

“Yes, boss. I thought about learning French as well, in between all the chores you have for me.”

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll teach you when you’re here.”

“I need to be able to understand what you say about me to your friends and family when you introduce me. You could be saying anything.”

“Perhaps, but you can rest assured they will only be good things.”

Camille has a knack for always knowing the right thing to say, even from miles away. We exchange some more loved-up talk and by the time we ring off, my heart sings with glee.

Chapter Fifteen

Two weeks after Camille has left, I’m the one instigating contact with Rebecca. I finally feel ready to attempt a blameless conversation with her.

I invite her to the house, which I still haven’t put on the market. I want to move to Darlinghurst, but the sense of urgency I had before I met Camille has left me. I haven’t allowed any more bookings in the Airbnb. I’m not ready for that yet. Perhaps when Myrtle has finally recovered from her pneumonia and she can deal with everything again.

It’s strange to let Rebecca into the house she lived in for more than a decade, but she gave me her key the night she left. I’m sure it was meant to be some sort of symbolic gesture for her, leaving the past—being me—behind. For the longest time, I left it in the spot she put it.

“God, this place,” she says, and looks around as if she’s seeing it for the first time. “We were happy here for a long time.” She turns to me. “I’m glad you called. I need this too.”