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‘So,’ he said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. ‘I go.’
‘Bye, then.’
He hesitated. ‘You need anything?’
‘Can you conjure up a train?’ And then a thought occurred to me. ‘Actually, if you’re serious, could I borrow your phone?’
I didn’t particularly want to give him the satisfaction of helping me, but while he was standing there, with his phone in his hand, it seemed foolish not to ask. Besides, I very much wanted to avoid having to use one of the Gare du Nord’s disgusting, rancid payphones.
‘Here,’ I said, delving into my bag, ‘I’ve got some change somewhere, I can give you some money for the call.’
I tried to pass him a handful of coins, which he waved away.
‘Why do you not have a phone?’ he asked.
‘I lost it. Left it on the counter at the ticket office.’
He looked doubtful. ‘I do not think that is what happened.’
‘It must be.’
He shook his head. ‘Non. The Gare du Nord has a problem with pickpockets. Very bad. They snatch things from you so quickly that you do not even notice.’
‘I reckon I just lost it. I’m always losing stuff.’
‘Why would somebody not hand it in, if you left it on the counter, with the cashiers right there?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, irritated now, suspecting he was one of those guys who always had to be right.
Admittedly, the idea that I might have been pickpocketed hadn’t even occurred to me, but then I was a bit slow on the uptake with things like that. It was the same with films: Si would guess the plotline before it had barely begun, and I’d constantly need clarification about what was going on. Problem-solving was not something I was proficient at.
‘Oh well. Either way, I’ve lost it. Doesn’t really matter how, does it?’
He handed me his phone. ‘I think it does matter. Because one way it is your mistake, and the other way, it is not.’
I shook my head. The sooner I could use his phone and give it back to him, the sooner he’d go. Annoyingly, when the teenage girl sloped off, her handset now clamped to her ear, he took a seat next to me, spreading out his legs at an acute angle, locking his hands behind his head as though he was watching TV on the sofa at home.
The call to Si went straight to voicemail again; I was planning to leave a message, but then I got stage fright with him sitting next to me, listening to every word I said. I noticed that the hem of his jeans had risen up revealing black ribbed socks and well-worn white Converse trainers. Si would not have been seen dead in trainers that tatty.
I handed back the phone.
‘There is no answer?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope.’
Because he was now at eye level, it was the first time I’d noticed how good-looking he was, which probably explained the swagger and the attitude. He was slightly younger than me, I’d have said, late-twenties perhaps. His lips were the colour of crushed raspberries and his tanned skin was sparkling and golden, as though he spent his summers frolicking naked on the beaches of the French Riviera (which he probably did). He clocked me staring and I pretended to look for something in my bag, emerging with my trusty lip balm. I slicked some on, pressing my lips together, attempting to give him the impression I was completely fascinated by a poster advertising day trips to Versailles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him smirk to himself. He probably thought I fancied him or something. French men thought they were God’s gift to women, didn’t they?
‘Your ankle is still sore?’ he asked.
I tentatively twiddled it around. ‘Not really.’
He looked at me as though he didn’t believe me. ‘You need to get an X-ray.’
‘I don’t want an X-ray.’
‘I can direct you to the nearest hospital.’
‘No, thank you.’
