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.

But I knew I hadn’t. And she knew I’d seen. It was in her colours. And in the way she looked at me – half-smiling, as if we’d shared something more than just cake—

I know it’s not safe. But I like her. I really do. I wanted to say something to make her understand—

On impulse I turned, and found her still smiling.

‘Hey, Zozie,’ I said. ‘Is that your real name?’

‘Hey, Annie,’ she mocked. ‘Is that yours?’

‘Well, I—’ I was so stunned that for a second I nearly told her. ‘My real friends call me Nanou.’

‘And do you have many?’ she said, smiling.