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‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you still think I am rude, Hannah?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. And then I smiled, too. ‘Did you see that? I just told you exactly what I thought of you.’
He nodded. ‘See? It really is not that difficult.’
I watched other customers coming in and out, mostly locals by the look of it, one holding a tiny, fluffy dog under her arm, and a ridiculously gorgeous couple draped all over each other as though they’d actually morphed into one exceptionally aesthetically pleasing human.
‘What is it like, then, this place you have together that you could not wait to move into?’ asked Léo, pressing remnants of goats’ cheese onto his fork.
‘We’ve got a one-bedroom flat,’ I said, pleased to be back on familiar territory. ‘Small, but it has a little balcony, which I love. Any outdoor space in London is a massive bonus, by the way.’
We had the best view over other people’s back gardens and of high rises, and the shops across the road that never seemed to close, their colourful stripy awnings permanently extended out onto the street. I loved sitting out there, watching the world go by, listening to the sounds of the city, the honking and the police sirens and the jumbo jets coming in to land at Heathrow; the odd fight outside the dodgy pub a couple of blocks away.
‘I sit out there sometimes and I drink tea and watch people down on street level. Try to work out where they’re going, or who they might be meeting. You can see all sorts from up there.’
‘Like what?’
‘People chatting with their neighbours. Drunk blokes staggering home from the pub. Arguments.’
‘What are they arguing about?’ he asked.
‘I can’t really make it out. There’s a load of shouting and finger-pointing and then the next minute someone’s crying and they’re hugging it out. Occasionally there’s a really bad one, though. I hate that, seeing people screaming at each other, saying things they don’t mean.’
‘Perhaps they do mean it,’ he said.
He took a mouthful of beer, leaving a trail of froth on his upper lip. I watched him lick it off.
‘I don’t know. When I say things in anger, I always regret it,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I suppose I’m worried I’ve pushed them too far. That they’ll give up on me altogether. Walk away.’
Léo pushed his plate to the side, looking around for the waiter to clear our table.
‘What makes you think that people will walk away?’ he asked.
‘Well my dad did.’
He cocked his head to the side. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He left us, me and my mum.’
‘When you were how old?’
‘Seven.’
‘That is tough,’ he said. ‘But it was your mother he left, Hannah, not you.’
I still remembered little details about the day he’d gone. My dad had been packing his tatty old suitcase and I’d run into his room and jumped on his back, wrapping my arms around his neck; my legs around his waist. I’d begged him not to go. I’ll be good, I’d told him. I won’t be naughty again. And when I’d looked up, panicked, Mum had been crying quietly in the corner, blowing her nose into a soggy tissue.
‘So your parents divorced?’ he said.
‘Yeah. Eventually.’
‘You are close to your mother?’
