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‘It’s got something to do with Amsterdam, hasn’t it?’
I waited. Then I widened my eyes at him, as if to say: Has it?
‘Yes,’ he said, looking as though even admitting that had been too much for him.
‘Why is it so difficult for you to talk about it ’ I asked.
‘I am used to being the one who asks all the questions,’ he said.
‘You don’t like talking about yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘I do not,’ he said. ‘And do not even think about asking me why, which I know is going to be your next question.’
‘Ok, ok,’ I said, holding my hands up in surrender. ‘God, I thoughtI was closed off.’
I lifted my face up to the sky and breathed deeply. This part of Paris smelled different to where we’d been before. Sweeter; woodier. Less like car fumes.
‘Come,’ he said, standing up, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Follow me. Five minutes’ drive from here is the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. The views are crazy, you will make some very cool photographs for your portfolio.’
I bit my lip. ‘I shouldn’t, you know.’
I’d already been much longer than I’d meant to be. I couldn’t risk it.
‘Think of your project, Hannah.’ He bent down to tie his shoelace. ‘And it is not too much of a detour,’ he reassured me, looking up.
‘Just for a minute or two, then,’ I said, running my hand along the railings as though it was a musical instrument, listening to the different notes it made.
‘It is 10.52, before you ask,’ he said, waving his wrist in my face and making a big show of checking his watch. ‘We still have lots of time.’
