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‘Actually, I don’t,’ I said with a wry smile. ‘I was just too scared to ask Sylvie for some.’
He tutted. ‘She is very soft-hearted underneath. She is not as tough as she makes out.’
I nodded. ‘Your friends are important to you, aren’t they?’
He thought about it for a second or two ‘You know, in a way they saved me. When I first came to Paris, my head was all over the place. I could not play my instruments, I could not apply myself to anything. My father was falling apart, already dating other women only a month after my mother had died.’
‘That must have been tough.’
He shrugged. ‘But then I met Hugo and some of the others and we had the same interests, the same outlook on life. Similar hopes for the future. And I know what you might think of them, that they are very cool, a little too Parisian, not very welcoming, perhaps. And that is true. But these friends became my family, at a time when that was what I needed in my life.’
I nodded, concentrating on my now-empty wine glass, putting my finger inside the rim and twirling it around and around. I could feel his eyes on me. We thought we had a connection, but we couldn’t have, how could we? Of course it had been lovely, the two of us wandering around Paris in the sun, with hours to kill and nothing to do but talk and walk. I felt excited about life again, had been reminded of how much fun it could be, and some of that was because of him and the risk-taking part of myself he’d tapped into. But in reality, Léo was exactly the sort of person I went out of my way to avoid. He was too good-looking and over-confident (on the outside, at least) and – most worrying of all – afraid of commitment. I’d never let myself fall in love with a man like that; it was the polar opposite of what was good for me. Until yesterday, I’d been reassured by Si’s stability and straightforwardness, by the fact he didn’t care about the past, and had concrete plans for our future. But now I wasn’t so sure.
I pulled off the top of the milk, spraying it everywhere, all over the table, on the knees of Léo’s jeans. He laughed, wiping it off with his hand. I sipped at my tea and borrowed his phone again to check whether Catherine had posted any pictures of the wedding preparations on Instagram. Since I was going to this wedding whether I liked it or not, I had to find some way to feel invested in it again.
‘You are on Instagram?’ said Léo, craning his neck to see.
‘Mmmn,’ I said.
‘You like it? All these showy photographs that people share?’
‘God, no,’ I said.
I felt him looking at me.
‘I know, I know, then why do I bother?’ I sighed and promptly carried on scrolling.
Three or four posts in there was a shot of Catherine. She was admiring herself in a full-length mirror, all wistful and serene in her white cotton robe, her hair up in curlers, and her three bridesmaids – her cousin Nancy, Jasper’s sister Sophie, and an ethereal-looking Alison – were gathered around her, one of them crouched next to her, another with her hand on Catherine’s shoulder. It was such a picture of female solidarity, of friendship that I almost forgot myself and smiled. I zoomed in on Alison, looking for clues. I managed to deduce absolutely nothing, except that she looked lovely. That was the thing about weddings, everybody was at their very best, as though you were observing them through a rose-tinted filter. And Catherine had chosen the most gorgeous bridesmaid’s dresses. She’d described them to me in great detail on numerous occasions, but they looked even better than I’d imagined. I liked the way the magenta fabric pulled Alison in at the waist and then billowed out in romantic drapes down to her ankles.
I refreshed the page, and Catherine’s most recent post came up.
‘Who is that?’ asked Léo, his face so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath on the nape of my neck.
‘Si’s sister, Catherine.’
‘This is the wedding you go to?’
I nodded.
Catherine had captioned the shot with the title: The calm before the storm.
I had butterflies in my stomach for some reason, as though I knew it was going to reveal something to prove that I’d been right to have all these suspicions about Si and his secret messages. I clicked on the photo anyway, enlarging it, sliding my fingers across the screen, zooming in. It was a wide shot of the hotel room: the tiara laid out on the bed, the white satin heels by the door. The bridesmaids.
‘You know these girls?’ he asked.
‘Sort of.’
In the bottom corner was Catherine with her back to the camera, a teaser of the yet-to-be-revealed gown. Jasper’s sister was arranging the veil with the sort of soft, dutiful look in her eyes that only the most selfless of bridesmaids could achieve. Nancy was flopped on the sofa holding a glass of champagne aloft and looking altogether less interested. And by the door, leaning against the wall, were Alison and Si. She was looking directly at the camera, her hands clasping her bouquet. But Si was not looking at the camera, he was looking at her. His arms were crossed in front of him and he was all grim-faced, like they’d had a row. Or he was upset about something. I couldn’t tell. They had some sort of history, I could see it in his eyes. She’d needed to speak to him at the wedding for a reason, and by the looks of it, he hadn’t liked what she’d had to say.
Léo stopped fiddling around with the plastic lid of his tea. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Hannah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why has the photo upset you?’
