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‘You were happy with how they turned out?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. I never showed them to anybody, so it was difficult to be objective.’
After a few more minutes of snapping away and a change of film, we walked closer to the tower, dodging the crowds of influencers taking their best I’m in Paris! photo. We passed a restaurant with tables spilling out onto the terrace. Léo stopped, reversed back and peered through the window.
‘Un moment,’ he said, holding a finger up to me and opening the door to go inside.
What was he doing now? While I waited, I watched a glamorous woman wearing a red dress and heels leaping through the air as a professional-looking photographer tried to capture her with both feet off the ground.
‘Voila!’ said Léo, re-appearing with a bottle of red wine and two plastic glasses. ‘You cannot appreciate the full glory of Paris without a French wine in your hand,’ he said. ‘Come, let us sit.’
He ushered me over to a bench, handing me one of the cups. I took it reluctantly.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for this?’ I said, covering the top of the glass with my hand. ‘I don’t want to turn up to the wedding drunk, do I? Plus, you’re driving.’
‘I promise you I will be careful,’ he said. I watched him pour a small amount of wine into his own cup. ‘Relax, Hannah. You will not be in Amsterdam for hours, have some fun.’
I moved my hand so that he could fill my glass. ‘You’re very tuned into everyone else’s flaws, aren’t you?’ I said, bristling at the fact he’d branded me uptight already, without giving me the chance to prove him wrong.
‘It’s no problem,’ he said, clinking his cup against mine. ‘We all have them.’
I took a few sips in quick succession, swilling the bold, spicy wine around my mouth to get the full taste sensation. ‘It’s good,’ I admitted reluctantly. My gaze dropped to his lips as he took a sip of his own drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down when he swallowed.
‘How tall is this thing, then?’ I asked, looking up at the tower. From here I was close enough to watch the lift slide up and down through the centre and to make out the shapes of tourists milling about on the lowest platform, clamouring to get near the window, cameras flashing.
He frowned. ‘I cannot remember the exact measurement. Around three hundred metres, perhaps.’
‘It’s huge. Much bigger than I’d thought.’
‘When it was built in 1889, it was supposed to be a temporary structure only,’ he explained. ‘It was part of an exposition to celebrate the French Revolution.’
‘Seems like a lot of work only to have it ripped straight down again,’ I said.
‘Exactly. The architect – Gustave Eiffel – had to prove that not only did it attract many visitors, but it had other attributes, too. It was used as a radio tower in the First World War, for example.’
I took off the leather jacket and put it on the bench between us.
‘You are warm, now?’ he asked.
I nodded, putting my camera to my eye to snap a few more shots of the tower, and the velvety-smooth grass nearby which was scattered with people relaxing in the sun, lying on peeled-off jumpers, their heads propped up on bags while they pored over guidebooks or flicked through their phones. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something like that, had an unplanned picnic in the park, or sat out in the sun all afternoon with friends. Perhaps that was what happened in your thirties. People moved away, bought houses out of town; every meet-up took a bit more planning. Being here, on this bench with Léo, felt like the most spontaneous thing I’d done in months.
‘So tell me, what is this wedding in Amsterdam you are so desperate to get to?’ asked Léo, who had stuck his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle.
‘My boyfriend’s sister is getting married at 5.30 in some swanky hotel.’
‘Shame you will miss it,’ he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
I tutted. ‘Talk about me being negative. If the train gets in just before five, I don’t see why I can’t jump in a cab and get to the ceremony on time. Amsterdam is tiny compared to Paris, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose,’ he said.
I swirled wine around in my glass. ‘You don’t think I’ll make it, do you?’
He stretched. ‘Maybe.’ I noticed how his white T-shirt rode up to reveal a tiny strip of flat, tanned stomach and I drew my eyes away, putting my camera to my eye and playing about with the focus dial.
‘Let’s go,’ I said after a while, standing up. ‘I need to get back.’
I’d call Si again from Gare du Nord.
Léo peeled himself off of the bench, checking his watch.
‘9.55,’ he said, handing me the wine and his cup to put in my bag. ‘Better rush, non?’ he said, walking off and laughing at me over his shoulder.
