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My musical tastes were dodgy, even I admitted that. I owned an Olly Murs album, for example, although in my defence it had been a Christmas present from Mum and my step-dad, Tony. Also, Ellie and I had gone to the Take That reunion concert at the O2, which I wasn’t totally ashamed to admit, but there was no way I was going to mention it to this guy. Because whatever edgy, alternative bands he was into, I could pretty much guarantee I wouldn’t have heard of any of them. He was probably only asking me so that he could make a pretentious comment about it afterwards to make himself look good and boost his already massive ego.
He pulled a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Six hours to wait, eh? Not good.’
He offered me the packet, but I shook my head, even though I badly, badly wanted one. I hadn’t smoked for nearly a month. Si had nagged me about giving up from the moment we’d met. Obviously I’d tried to stop before, for years, but the timing had never been right; I’d enjoyed it too much and I had terrible willpower. But once Si and I had moved in together and I was spending most of my time with him, I began to cut down, eventually managing to go without altogether. I didn’t even really crave them any more. Except at times like this. Then I missed it.
He took a cigarette out of the packet for himself and slipped it behind his ear.
‘Do you know anybody in Paris?’ he asked.
His voice was low and scratchy, like he had a sore throat, or he’d had too many late nights. Probably the latter.
‘No. No one.’
I shivered, longing for something warm to slip over my shoulders. Stupid of me to leave my cardigan on my seat. Ridiculous of me to waltz around moving carriages in the middle of the night in the first place. What had I been thinking? I suppose I hadn’t been, that was the problem.
‘Here,’ he said, throwing his bag to the ground and combing through the insides of it. He pulled out a red hoodie. ‘I suppose you could have this.’
I held my hand out to stop him, horrified. ‘No. No way.’
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I have many clothes in here. And it is raining. You cannot walk around Paris in your vest.’
He threw it at me, not quite meeting my eye, and I caught it clumsily, suddenly self-conscious about the lack of clothes I was wearing.
‘Thank you,’ I said, pulling it on, wrapping it around myself like a dressing gown. I wouldn’t usually wear clothes belonging to someone I’d only set eyes on an hour ago, in fact I’d likely be grossed out by the thought of it. But nobody would be happy if I turned up at the wedding with hypothermia. I noticed his top smelled like he did, of tobacco and leather and vinyl.
‘You are a photographer?’ he asked, pointing at my camera, zipping up his bag.
‘Not really,’ I said, running my thumb and middle finger up and down the strap. ‘It’s just a hobby.’
He took the cigarette from behind his ear and hesitated, leaving it hovering a centimetre from his bottom lip.
‘Alors, I am going to walk,’ he said. ‘All this time in the Gare du Nord? It is not possible.’
I thought it sounded like a nightmare too, but I couldn’t risk leaving the station, just in case, by some miracle, an earlier train was announced.
‘Good luck,’ I said.
Once he was gone and I was alone again, I’d be able to think more clearly. Make a proper plan.
‘You can come if you want,’ he said gruffly, as though there was nothing he would like less.
I laughed. ‘I think I’ll pass.’
‘Too risky for you?’
I fiddled with the sleeves of his hoodie.
‘It’s called being sensible.’
‘Ah. You think I am a criminal. A murderer. That I will kidnap you and make you stay in Paris forever.’
‘Very funny.’
As if I was going to go off God knows where with a man I barely knew. No, I was going to stay at the station and drink the cheapest coffee I could find and read my book and probably get very bored, but still. It was the mature thing to do.
‘You will not see any of the city?’ he asked, sounding disappointed. I had no idea why he cared whether I saw it or not. Was he an ambassador for the French tourist board, or something?
‘Well there’s the problem of my ankle,’ I pointed out.
He did up his jacket and slipped both hands into his pockets, his thumbs hanging over the edge.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, giving me a look that suggested he thought a slightly sprained ankle was a feeble excuse for not dashing out to sightsee around his precious home town.
‘My name is Léo, by the way. Et vous?’ he asked, the cigarette now dangling from his lips.
‘Hannah,’ I told him hesitantly.
He nodded, adjusted the strap of his bag for a second or two and then he was off, merging seamlessly with the crowds, zig-zagging across the concourse. He was tall and lean, like a long-distance runner or one of those insane Parisian guys who leap about from building to building. I shook my head at the way his bag sat on his back like a turtle’s shell, so big it took up as much space as an actual other person. There was nothing spectacular about his clothes: a biker’s jacket and black jeans slung so low I could see a flash of the white waistband of his boxers, but against a backdrop of the Gare du Nord, with hundreds of commuters blurring into insignificance around him, he managed to make the scene look like an editorial spread in a fashion magazine. I watched until he almost disappeared. At the last second, he swivelled his head to look back at me, dragged his hair out of his eyes and raised his hand in a sort of dismissive wave. I resisted the urge to wave back, and then he was gone.
