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I pulled him closer to me, resting his hands on my hips, noticing how the heat of his hands burned through to my skin. I was painfully aware of the rise and fall of my chest, of the way the tips of our noses almost brushed together.
‘I have wanted to kiss you all day, you know,’ he said.
I curled my arms around him, linking them around his neck. ‘Well you hid it very well.’
He laughed. ‘I will wait for you, then,’ he said. ‘Until you are ready. And then you will come to Paris and we will eat Monts Blancs again.’
I smiled. ‘It’s a date.’
‘So. Let us see … you have your course, non?’
‘Yes,’ I said, meaning it. I was going to write the statement for my application on the plane home, and get my images processed as soon as I got back.
He slid his phone out of his pocket, flicking his thumb across the screen. ‘And you will be finished by … Christmas?’
I shook my head. ‘End of February.’
‘Then we will meet at the Gare du Nord on the … un moment … 29th February next year. A little more than seven months from now. Oui?’
I laughed, confused. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course. I will be waiting for you there, at 12 noon, at the end of Platform 19, where we had our second conversation.’
‘Conversation or argument?’
‘Definitely a conversation.’
I looked doubtful. ‘What if you change your mind? It’s a long way to come to get stood up.’
‘I promise you I will be there,’ he said, raking his hands through my hair. ‘I already know that I will not change my mind. But I want you to be sure, Hannah. And if we still think about each other after seven months, we will know that we have something special, yes?’
‘Are we allowed any contact at all?’ I asked, not sure what the rules were.
He thought about it. ‘I think you should have a clean break. Focus on your course, work everything out with your boyfriend. If we text and call, it becomes more complicated, non?’
I had to admit, I quite liked the idea of some time to myself. I didn’t want to go rushing from one relationship headlong into another.
‘Platform 19, you say?’
‘You will be there?’ he asked.
‘As long as you don’t try to break my neck this time.’
‘Noted. I will leave my bag at home.’
I cupped his cheek in my hand. ‘The 29th of February it is, then.’
We looked at each other for what felt like ages and then he was gone, striding off down the street, his keys jangling in his back pocket. ‘See you in seven months, Hannah!’ he called over his shoulder.
I stood very still, watching him, pulling at the hem of his hoodie, my heart racing, trying to tell myself that he must have meant what he’d said. He never said things he didn’t mean, he’d told me that himself. I watched him until he reached a bend in the road and disappeared out of sight.
Paris, seven months later
I pressed my cheek against the window of the train, watching the bleaker, emptier outskirts of Paris transform into the more built-up centre of the city. The train was already beginning to slow and the usual announcements were made, first in English, then in French. I checked my phone. 11.50. I’d booked the train without thinking it through: what if we’d been delayed? It was as though I’d left it up to fate; would I get there in time or wouldn’t I?
As we pulled into the station, I caught a glimpse of the domes of the Sacré-Coeur. It looked incongruous there, next to the more modern buildings surrounding it, a beautiful piece of history, all white and gleaming and serene like an over-the-top wedding cake. Several times over the last seven months, I’d imagined Léo sitting on the steps in the early morning light, looking at his beloved Paris spread out in front of him, writing lyrics, or tweaking a melody for a song. And I always wondered, afterwards, whether he’d had the same thoughts about me: about where I might be, or what might be going well and what might not be. Whether I’d applied for my photography course and whether I’d finished it. I’d been tempted to call him, lots of times. I wished I had now, because then at least I’d have known whether he still felt the same way about me.
The train was slowing down, hissing off steam. I felt actually, physically sick. Because there was a chance that I was going to come full circle, that this was going to be another disastrous trip to Paris, like my first. I’d spent one day with Léo. We hadn’t spoken for over half a year; the odds of him turning up weren’t great. Everything had changed for me, so I could only assume that it had been the same for him. He could have met somebody. He could have forgotten about me completely. It was impossible to know, and there was only one way to find out.
