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‘To eat cake,’ he said.
‘I said I wasn’t hungry,’ I called after him.
He pretended not to hear and had already crossed the road, stopping outside a burgundy shopfront with La Patisserie painted in gold on the window. When he realised I hadn’t followed him – which blatantly he’d expected me to, as though I was incapable of making my own decisions – he turned to look at me with his hands on his hips.
‘Come on, Hannah!’
Outside the bakery, groups of young, trendy Parisians were clustered around shiny zinc-topped tables stuffing flaky pastry into their mouths. I’d have to get the cheapest thing and pray my card went through. My stomach rumbled again and I walked over to join him, purposely taking my time.
‘Why did you take so long?’ he asked, seemingly genuinely baffled.
‘This is embarrassing to admit, but I don’t actually have any money,’ I said, deciding honesty was the best policy.
He looked confused. ‘None at all?’
‘Not really. I used the last of my cash to get a cab to Gare du Nord. And I’ve got a credit card, but you know … there’s not much actual credit on it.’
He looked surprised.
‘I left my purse in my boyfriend’s bag,’ I said. ‘I’ve got money in there, obviously.’ I didn’t want him thinking I was a charity case.
‘You should have told me before,’ he said, looking annoyed. ‘I will give you some euros Hannah. You cannot go for so many hours without money, that is crazy.’
‘I don’t want your money,’ I said firmly.
He waved a hand in front of his face, ‘It is no problem.’
‘Well it’s a problem for me. I can manage for a few hours more. Being a bit hungry is hardly the end of the world, is it?’ I said.
‘Ah, so you are hungry.’ The grin split his face and irritation rose up inside me. I hated him knowing he’d been right.
We moved forward in the queue, stepping inside the shop, but I couldn’t quite see past the people already at the counter.
‘Are you going to be too proud to let me buy you something?’ asked Léo.
‘You don’t need to do that,’ I said quickly, although the offer was seriously tempting.
‘I know I do not need to.’
We were here now and it did seem a shame to be in Paris and not try at least one local delicacy.
I caved in. ‘Well only if you’re sure,’ I said, ignoring his far too cocky smile.
The queue moved forward and finally I was able to see the display in its full glory. Behind the slanted glass were rows and rows of the most perfectly presented, colourful, ornately decorated cakes I’d ever seen.
‘Better than your English bakeries, non?’ he said.
‘What are they all?’ I asked, wondering how I was ever going to choose.
‘So these are baba au rhum,’ he said, crouching down so that he could see through the glass, pointing to a line of squidgy, treacly-looking sponges topped with a crest of cream. ‘And these here are Paris-Brest, a soft pastry with praline inside of it. Then we have many different types of éclair, tarte tatin, clafoutis, puits d’amour and at the end, Mont Blanc, a kind of pureed chestnut meringue.’
I shook my head, overwhelmed. ‘I can’t decide,’ I said.
‘What have you never had before?’ he asked. ‘You must try something new.’
‘I’ve definitely never had a Mont Blanc.’
‘Good choice,’ he nodded and took his turn at the counter. ‘Bonjour Madame, comment allez-vous? Alors … deux Monts Blancs, s’il vous plait.’
