‘Well, you’re not a clone, that’s for sure. I bet you know a few tricks—’

‘Tricks?’ I thought of the waitress and the spilled lemon tea. I looked away, feeling suddenly awkward again, wishing someone would come with the bill so that I could say goodbye and run back home.

But our waitress was avoiding us, chatting with the man behind the coffee bar, laughing now and flicking her hair, the way Suze does sometimes when Jean-Loup Rimbault (that’s a boy she likes) is standing nearby. Besides, I’ve noticed that about waiters and waitresses: even when they serve you on time, they never want to bring you the bill.

But then Zozie made a little forked sign with her fingers, so very small I might have missed it. A little forked sign, like flicking a switch, and the waitress who looked like Jeanne Moreau turned round as if someone had prodded her and brought us the bill at once on a tray.

Zozie smiled and took out her purse. Jeanne Moreau waited, looking bored and sulky, and I half-expected Zozie to say something – after all, someone who can say ‘arse’ in an English tea-shop surely isn’t shy about speaking their mind.

But she didn’t. ‘Here’s fifty. You can keep the change.’ And she handed the waitress a five-euro note.

Well, even I could see it was a five. I saw it quite clearly, as Zozie put it on the tray and smiled. But somehow the waitress didn’t see.

Instead she said: ‘Merci, bonne journée,’ and Zozie made that sign with her hand, and put away her purse as if nothing had happened—

And then she turned and winked at me.

For a second I wasn’t sure I’d seen it right. It might just have been a normal kind of accident – after all, the place was crowded, the waitress was busy, and people sometimes make mistakes.

But after what had happened with the tea—

She smiled at me, just like a cat that could scratch you even as it sits purring on your knee.

Tricks, she’d said.

Accident, I thought.

I suddenly wished I hadn’t come; wished I hadn’t called to her that day in front of the chocolaterie. It’s only a game – it’s not even real – and yet it feels so dangerous, like a sleeping thing that you can only poke so many times before it opens its eyes for good.

I looked at my watch. ‘I have to go.’

‘Annie. Relax. It’s half past four—’

‘Maman worries if I’m late.’

‘Five minutes won’t hurt—’

‘I have to go.’

I think I expected her to stop me, somehow; to make me turn back, as the waitress had. But Zozie just smiled, and I felt stupid at having panicked like that. Some people are just suggestible. The waitress was probably one of them. Or maybe they both made a mistake – or maybe I did.