And then I head to the door, my pulse banging in my wrists. I walk out into the street. And even though I want to, even though I can feel his eyes on my back, I don’t look back. Not even once.

Because sometimes that’s what you have to do in life: you have to bruise your own heart to ensure it doesn’t break.

Chapitre treize

We’re stuffed into a metro carriage; a sea of navy, beige and black sardines in trainers and shiny office shoes. The air is thick with body heat and damp umbrellas, and smells like cologne, stale cigarettes and wet newspaper. It’s hard to believe that just two months ago, when I came across for my interview, the city was a ghost town; the whole of Paris having emptied out towards the south. I’ve never understood how people can go to the same place year after year. If I took a holiday I’d go to Japan. I’d go in the autumn and see the maple trees changing colour.

The doors beep and close and I grab onto the silver metal pole for stability and close my eyes. A flash of Noah’s hand reaching for mine as we crossed the road. I push it away and think about the maple trees again.

A high-pitched metallic squeal pierces the air and makes me grimace, the carriage jolts and my eyes flick open. All around me people are listening to music with their eyes closed, pretending they’re somewhere else; others try reading books, their necks craned at strange angles and elbows verging into others’ private space; some glance at their reflections in the window, readjusting their fringe or tucking hair behind their ears; some are scrolling through messages on their phones; and then there’s a man by the window. He’s trying to read the newspaper but he doesn’t have the space.

There’s a guy of about seventy in mustard trousers, holding onto the same pole as me for stability. Music pounds from his headphones and I can hear the beat, the voice. Hip-hop. This makes me instantly like him. Because I imagine the numerous marketing minds that defined that music’s demographic core, and not once was mustard guy included. He’s an anomaly just like me; a hip-hop soul in the body of a middle-class grandfather to my philophobe in the city of love.

Moments like this make me feel almost normal.

I’m still looking at him when I hear: ‘Mesdames et messieurs’. I look up and behind me a man with his hair scraped back in a ponytail, wearing a pale linen pair of pants and a shirt smeared with dirt around the cuffs, makes his way through the carriage. He’s shaking a paper cup and telling some story at the top of his lungs. Everyone looks away. I reach into my pocket and when he gets to me I drop a euro into his cup. He smiles and moves on. It’s only as I watch him move to the other side of the carriage that I glance down at his black trainers: a pair of black and white Balenciagas. It’s barely 8.30 am and already I’ve been hustled. But now the train is slowing down; we’re coming to a stop.