But then the ride begins to slow, and the music stutters to an end, and I remember that in just a few hours, I will have a huge decision to make. And I have no clue what I should do.
We dismount our charges and wander to a nearby stall to buy hot, sticky Nutella and banana crêpes.
‘So, what d’you reckon to the Manège?’ Alice asks, as we watch the next load of customers pile onto the platform, the children all squabbling over who gets to ride which crazy creature.
‘It was great,’ I say. ‘The perfect start to Christmas Day.’
‘Don’t worry, there is more.’ She pops a slice of banana into her mouth. ‘So. What would you have been doing today if we hadn’t bumped into each other?’
‘Well, I definitely wouldn’t have been sitting in a giant turtle.’ I take a bite out of my own crêpe, managing to smear Nutella across half my face. ‘I don’t know, really. I’d probably be back in the apartment, writing.’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘How is the writing going?’
If I remember rightly, the writing was going pretty bloody terribly at this point. High on the thrill of seeing Alice again at that first café, I think I’d bigged myself up as something of a budding experimental novelist. I even have a dim recollection of using the term ‘Kafkaesque’ – although I really, really hope I’m misremembering.
The truth is, I spent the past couple of months here starting, and then almost immediately abandoning, a dozen different projects. A TV sitcom script, a dystopian sci-fi story, a truly awful one-man stage play: all of them fell quickly by the wayside.
Paris was supposed to be my last chance to actually give the whole ‘proper writing’ thing a go. And when I failed at it – when I came back to London in January with nothing of any merit on my laptop – it was like a door finally slamming shut in my face. I gave up on that dream right there and then.
Still, I’m sure when Alice asked me this question first time round, I probably tried to style it out; made out that I was effortlessly bashing out page after page of sparkling prose. But now, for some reason, I don’t have the strength to pretend. ‘The writing is … not going very well, to be honest,’ I sigh. ‘I think the chances of me actually getting anything published are pretty slim.’
She shrugs. ‘Ah, well. Who cares about getting something published? You enjoy writing, that’s what counts.’
‘I don’t really enjoy it at all, actually,’ I say blankly.
Alice swallows a bite of crêpe as she considers this. ‘If you don’t enjoy it, then why are you doing it?’
I stare at the Dodo Manège spinning gently in front of us. Last time around, I was trying so hard to impress her, mentally triple-checking everything I was about to say before it came out of my mouth. I was dead set on appearing cool and successful, rather than lost and confused.
Right now, though, I feel an impulsive desire to tell her the truth: to just lay everything out and see what she says. It’s partly the unreality of the situation – the whole thing feels like a strangely vivid dream – but also partly because I know that, whatever I say here, she won’t remember it back in 2020.
‘I don’t know why I keep writing,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe because I think my life will suddenly magically get better if I succeed at it. Maybe because I want to … reconnect with my dad.’
As I say it out loud, I realise how ridiculous it sounds.
‘Sorry. That sounds stupid.’
Alice shakes her head and smiles. ‘No, not at all. I get it.’
Weirdly, it feels like she really does. I remember sensing this a lot during the first term – that Alice instinctively understood me. That we understood each other.
‘Anyway, I’m not sure my dad would care either way, to be honest,’ I say quietly. ‘He left when I was ten. I haven’t seen him in years.’
She balls up her napkin and drops it into the bin beside us. ‘I remember you saying. At uni.’
I look at her. ‘Did I? When?’
She laughs softly. ‘We were pretty close that first term, Ben. I guess you forgot. Remember the last day of freshers’ week? We stayed up all night in my room, talking and drinking that horrendous Swedish liqueur we found under the sink. You told me about your dad then. Not much: just how you weren’t really in touch at the moment, but you hoped some day you might be.’
I shake my head. I’d completely forgotten about that night. The minute I met Daphne, it was like all these moments with Alice were just erased from my brain. But she’s right: there was a connection between us. I told her stuff that night that I’ve only ever gone on to tell Daphne.
I thought about kissing Alice so many times during that first term. What would have happened if I’d got up the nerve to do it? What would my life look like now?
She studies me closely for a second, and reaches into her bag for her cigarettes. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, as she lights one. ‘I’m not sure you should really care what your parents think about your life anyway. I mean: what do they know? I feel like mine have always wanted me to be someone I’m not.’
‘How d’you mean?’
She exhales a plume of smoke as she considers this. ‘Well, my dad’s OK. He’s a management consultant,
