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Léo put his hands behind his head, as though he was sunning himself on the beach. I noticed that his feet were tanned, too, just like the rest of him.
‘They have just this month signed a recording deal with one of the biggest labels in France,’ he said. I could tell he was impressed, but trying to play it cool.
‘You must be so proud of him,’ I said, turning to Sylvie.
She shrugged.
Léo laughed. ‘That is Sylvie’s way of saying that yes, she is very proud.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, pretending to understand why she couldn’t just say it.
‘You are not doing so badly yourself, eh, Léo?’ said Sylvie.
‘Really?’ I said, perking up, wondering why he was so reluctant to talk about his job, then, if things were going so well.
He didn’t look pleased and said something to Sylvie in French. I glared at him, annoyed that he’d done it purposely so that I couldn’t understand.
‘You want to come and look in my closet?’ said Sylvie. ‘What size are you, Hannah?’
‘A twelve,’ I said. ‘Sometimes a ten on the top.’
‘Come, then,’ she said.
I shot off the sofa, following her, determined to keep out the negative thoughts that were threatening to start nagging away in the back of my mind. So what if she was at least two dress-sizes smaller than me and about four inches taller? In general, I was happy with the way my body looked. I’d long ago come to terms with what it was and what it would not be; my stomach would never be flat; my thighs would never have a gap between them, and that was ok. But there was something about Sylvie that brought back all the insecurities I’d had when I was younger, when I’d never felt good enough, when I’d longed to be like the pale, thin, popular girls that the boys from round our way had seemed to prefer.
Sylvie’s bedroom was awash with colour, from the pop art propped casually against the walls to the deep purple rug and the red velvet armchair. Her bed was unmade, as though she’d only just rolled out of it, fresh from a romantic tryst with her musician lover.
‘Nice room,’ I said.
She threw open the doors of an antique wooden wardrobe and began to flick through the hangers with a frightening intensity.
‘What do you want, a dress? Some jeans?’ she glanced at me. ‘Non. My trousers are too small for you. I have some skirts that are stretchy here.’
She made a circular movement around her waist.
‘Great,’ I said, trying not to feel deflated.
She threw an elasticated black mini skirt and a white oversized T-shirt in my direction.
‘Léo said you met on the train,’ said Sylvie, putting the things I wouldn’t have a hope of squeezing into back in the wardrobe.
‘Yeah,’ I said, stroking the satin label on the inside collar of the T-shirt. It was from Sandro, the chic French clothes line I’d only ever peered longingly through a shop window at because I wasn’t into torturing myself by trying on things I couldn’t afford. I’d looked on the website once and even a pair of socks had been over my budget.
‘You two seem very – how do you say? – cosy,’ said Sylvie, folding a pair of indigo jeans and placing them on a shelf full of other tiny, skinny trousers.
‘Hardly,’ I said, leaning against the foot of her bed. ‘We’ve been at each other’s throats all day. I think he’s only sticking around because he felt too guilty to leave me at Gare du Nord after I fell over his stupid bag.’
Sylvie turned to look at me, nodding knowingly. ‘He felt responsible for you. He is like that.’
She swanned over to her bedside table where she straightened yet another stunning photo of her and Hugo, this time on a beach, the pair of them sitting cross-legged under a palm tree. Sylvie was actually smiling in this one.
‘Do you need anything else?’ she asked, going over to a shabby chic chest of drawers and opening the top one. ‘You want underwear?’
‘Um …’
‘Here,’ she said, lobbing a pair of pristine white briefs in my direction. ‘Do not worry, I have not worn them.’
I wondered what kind of person owned a draw full of knickers they didn’t wear. I was lucky if I could find a clean pair with the elastic intact.
