‘I’m sorry. It’s not like I never want to go to France again. But… with you, for our honeymoon…’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I should have thought. Sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘I guess I knew about the Paris thing,’ he continued, clearly a bit hurt. ‘Didn’t realise you’d feel that way about the rest of France.’
‘Sorry.’
‘But it’s OK. Now you say it… I do get it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Only…’ He cleared his throat. ‘This is going to sound stupid and self-indulgent, but you do want this, don’t you? This life with me?’
‘I loveyou,’ she said. ‘I want to spend my life with you. And I definitely want to go to France, even Paris, with you one day. But it’s too… there are so many memories. Some are good. Some bad. All with him. And it just… we can go there another time maybe. But I want this to be just about us.’
He nodded, his face looking slightly less downcast. ‘I get it. Stupid of me really.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ She grabbed his face, turning his head towards hers. ‘It was a lovely idea. So lovely. Thoughtful. Just… not quite right. Not yet.’ She kissed him firmly on the lips.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘We can think of somewhere else, together?’ she suggested.
‘OK. Ooh, maybe Italy? Greece?’
It was later, when she’d showered and washed and was lying in bed in the darkness, hearing Will’s gentle snores next to her, that she began to think of Paris again. She’d never considered that what had happened with Tom would taint her view of France. In fact, she’d thought it might enhance it – be somewhere she could remember him, the good times they’d had there.
But when she’d seen the teddy, the wine, had figured out what Will was getting at, she’d felt a stab of fear, had frozen at the thought of it. And hurt Will’s feelings in the process.
It had been five years since she’d made that last, awful, wonderful trip with Tom. What would it feel like to walk those streets, to see the sights she’d only ever experienced with him? Had Paris died for her when Tom had?
It was only when she woke again to the dull half-light of 4a.m. that she realised.
She pulled her covers more closely to her and tried to get back to sleep. But her body was buzzing suddenly with adrenaline. Because suddenly she knew what she needed to do. For Tom. For her. For Paris.
Giving up on the idea of getting any rest, she climbed out from under the covers and made her way down to the kitchen. She guiltily rummaged in the cupboard for the cheap metal urn and pulled it out, holding it to her for a second.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered quietly. ‘I should have done this a long time ago.’
‘Better late than never,’ came a voice. She turned, but nobody was there.
57
TWO WEEKS AGO
When Will came down three hours later, she was sitting in the kitchen, the blinds still closed, Tom’s urn on the table in front of her.
‘Hey,’ he said, his eyes taking in the scene and a look crossing his face.
‘Hey.’
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
‘Something like that.’
He walked to the sink and ran himself a glass of water, gulping it down thirstily. Then he pulled the blind, flooding the room with light which sparkled off the metallic surface of the sink, the shiny red of the kettle, and seemed to focus on Tom’s urn like a spotlight. She watched as he leant briefly on the counter-top, looking out at their rather tangled garden. Then, shaking himself slightly, he made his way to the table, pulled out a chair and sat opposite her, reaching for her hand. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Shoot.’