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Chapter 8
We’d been driving for fifteen minutes or so when Léo pulled over. My adrenaline was pumping from the journey, a fast-paced set of twists and turns along narrow backstreets and across grand cobbled squares, the bike tipping so violently as we navigated some of the sharper bends that I’d imagined us crashing to the ground at any second, skidding across the tarmac like skittles. I’d had to hold on to him more tightly than ever, my face pressed into the back of his neck in a sort of blind panic.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting his helmet at me and sliding off the bike, his knee missing my face by about a centimetre. ‘Wait here one minute.’
I gave him the universal sign for ok, because I couldn’t be bothered to project my voice out of the depths of the helmet. I liked how it made me feel cut off from the world. It was nearly silent inside there; a place where nobody could see me and I could barely hear them, which most of the time was how I preferred it.
I watched Léo run into a place a couple of doors down. There was a queue out onto the street, which he seemed to have bypassed completely, disappearing inside. I hung his helmet on the handlebars and then unclipped my own. I ought to find a way to call Si. But then, how would I explain where I was?
I looked up at the beautiful, pristinely preserved creamy colonnade above my head, with its old-fashioned lanterns hanging from each arch. We’d parked right in front of Le Meurice, a luxury hotel, by the looks of it. It was one of those places with uniformed doormen outside and black executive cars sliding in and out of the loading bay, dropping people off, Louis Vuitton luggage being pulled discreetly out of boots.
‘Hey.’
Léo was back in what seemed like a nanosecond clutching two dusky pink paper cups.
‘The best chocolat chaud in Paris,’ he said, handing one over, looking to me for a reaction.
‘Great,’ I said, underwhelmed. I liked hot chocolate, but how good could it be? Of course he would think it was the best; according to him, the best of everything originated in Paris.
‘What is that place?’ I asked, more impressed by how aesthetically pleasing a disposable cup could look. The colour reminded me of Catherine’s wedding invitations: she’d gone for cream, with this exact shade of pink running around the edges.
‘It is called Angelina,’ he told me, ripping off his lid and drinking hungrily. ‘The café has been here on the Rue de Rivoli for over one hundred years.’
I could smell molten chocolate before I’d even taken a sip, its scent curling through a tiny hole in the white lid. I looked over at the café, which had a grand black awning bearing its name in gold lettering hanging over the door.
‘Coco Chanel used to have tea there,’ said Léo. ‘And Proust. It was the place to come if you wanted to be noticed in the early 1900s.’
I gingerly took off the lid and blew on the surface before taking my first mouthful. It was like nothing I’d ever tasted: thick and smooth and rich and sweet all in one, like a melted chocolate pudding. I resisted the urge to groan out loud, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting how sensational it was.
‘It’s nice,’ I said, pretending to be nonplussed.
Léo leaned on the front of the bike, watching me suspiciously.
‘Just nice?’
‘Hmmmn,’ I said. ‘Lovely.’
‘Unbelievable, non?’ he said, gulping his down.
I nodded. ‘Not bad at all.’
I sipped mini-mouthfuls of delicious froth, wanting to prolong the experience as long as I could. It felt properly Parisian in this area, upmarket and chic. Even a workman walking past in a yellow hard hat with paint-splattered jeans had impressively chiselled cheekbones.
I tipped the last dregs of hot chocolate into my mouth, already craving more. Léo took the cup from me.
‘I can get you another if you want?’ he said, as though he could read my mind.
‘Better not,’ I said, making a mental note to google Angelina when I got home. I wondered if they had an online shop. I could just imagine having a version of it at home, especially in the winter, Si and I all curled up with a hot drink each in front of the TV.
Léo went to throw the cups away and then jogged back. I noticed he had a tattoo on his right arm, a barbed wire design that curled itself around his bicep. I’d recently decided to get a tattoo of my own, although everyone I’d told had launched themselves at me with ferocity, informing me what a terrible idea it would be. Mum had warned me about the perils of navigating a job interview with ‘a body covered in tattoos’, as though I was planning to be riddled with them from the neck down. Si branded them trashy on women, which I’d told him was both insulting and misogynistic, and Ellie reckoned I’d regret it when I reached old age and my skin sagged, distorting the image beyond recognition. I fully intended to do it anyway. I wanted to find a really beautiful quote. Something about hope and moving forward and not looking back. I’d have it etched on my wrist so that I could look at it every day.
‘Next: the Champs-Élysées,’ announced Léo.
I ran my fingers along the handlebars of the bike. I should say no. I should think about Si and I should say no, that he must take me back to the station, right this second.
‘Do we have time?’ I asked.
‘It is 9.20. The train does not leave for more than four hours,’ he said. ‘You can relax a little, Hannah.’
