If Theresa May enjoyed meeting the French president, she didn't show it

The timings could have been better. After lunch of dead duck – No 10 really should rethink its menus – in The Royal Oak gastropub near Maidenhead owned by Sir Michael Parkinson, during which Emmanuel Macron charmed the French waiting staff with reassurances that they would still have a job after Brexit, while Theresa May said little and stared awkwardly at her shoes, the French president and the British prime minister arrived a quarter of an hour late at the Sandhurst parade ground for the guard of honour fanfare before their joint summit.

Only for the skies to turn black and unleash a torrential hail storm. Macron just about squeezed out a frozen smile; May couldn’t even manage that. She remained silent and rictus faced throughout. She might have been auditioning to be an extra in Les Mis. The flypast of a British Typhoon and French Rafale was just about heard but definitely not seen, and after a hasty rendition of the Marseillaise by a bedraggled band of the Coldstream Guards, everyone gave up the unequal struggle.

As if on cue, the sun came out the moment the two leaders and assorted ministers went inside. The only person who really looked as if he had been having a good time was newly promoted Matt Hancock, who couldn’t believe his luck at being invited along for the ride.

It must have taken everyone a while to dry off as the press conference took place the best part of 75 minutes later than its scheduled 5pm start in a sub-zero, brown-tiled dining room. The location was presumably chosen because it is one of the few places in Sandhurst not covered with paintings of Britain’s past glorious victories over the French. There was certainly no hint that the talks had been particularly wide-ranging when the two leaders did emerge, as they both went on to announce things that had already been announced a day earlier.

May began by welcoming Macron in schoolgirl French that no one – not even the interpreter – seemed to understand, before resorting to her more familiar semi-detached delivery. Calais. Tick. Sending some troops to help out the Foreign Legion. Tick. Scraping the barrel with twinning towns and regions. Tick. If she had enjoyed meeting the French president, she didn’t show it.

This seemed to slightly unnerve Macron, who is clearly not used to meeting people resistant to his charms. When it was his turn to run through the same list of pre-agreed agreements he occasionally darted anxious looks towards the prime minister. To check if she was still alive. He narrowed his piercing blue eyes – normally it never failed – and smouldered. Rien. In desperation he even tried a wink. Encore rien. Sod it. He had let everyone know that lending the Bayeux tapestry was nothing to do with France winning the Battle of Hastings by reminding everyone that France had won the Battle of Hastings.

When it came to questions, the one thing that everyone wanted to know was the one thing that the two leaders had spent the whole day not talking about. Brexit.

Now the gloves came off as Macron eased back on the flirtation. It was tout simple. If Britain wanted to include financial services in a trade deal then it could cough up and stay in the single market. Fin de. May’s subsequent insistence that she was clear – never a good sign – that she wanted a deep and special partnership and could have her gateau and eat it, fell on closed ears.

Macron’s smile returned only when the press conference finally wound to a close. For the first time, May uneasily smiled back. It was a start.