Page 109 of Midnight in Paris

She smiled then, looked up at the man who’d played such an important role in her life. Had grown up with her, then forced her to go on alone. Who’d made her laugh, shout, smile, cry and pretty much everything in between.

‘We’re going to Paris,’ she told him.

59

TWO WEEKS AGO

The whole journey there, she’d wished she hadn’t arranged it. During the rest of the teaching week she’d been able to put it out of her mind. But en route to Tom’s parents’, she’d felt rigid with anxiety and a kind of anticipatory grief.

Now, hours later and finally home, she was filled with a mixture of relief and the kind of high that only happens when something you’ve dreaded turns out to be the right thing; cathartic.

But entering the flat, flinging herself on the sofa with a sigh, she felt the tiredness of it all catch up with her.

Will bent down and kissed her softly on the head. ‘Tea?’ he said, not waiting for an answer but disappearing into the kitchen to boil the kettle.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, his voice filtering through from the other room.

‘Yeah, OK,’ she said.

‘And I wanted to ask. Any… Have you seen him at all? Today? Or since Paris?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ he said. She could hear him opening cupboards, selecting cups, carrying out one of the most mundane and ordinary tasks a person could. She tried to feel glad about it too. And she could, almost. But although she’d wanted to let go of Tom, she still missed him, felt the ache of grief that once again she’d had to say goodbye.

Will came in, passing her a steaming mug of tea and a Kit Kat.

‘Ooh, chocolate,’ she said. ‘Jackpot.’

‘Knew you were easily pleased.’

She smiled, taking a sip. ‘Well, lucky you!’ she teased.

‘You’ll be OK, you know.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Proud of you.’

‘Thanks.’

There was no need to say anything else.

When they’d dropped off the urn at Tom’s parents’, she’d seen Julie cry for the first time. His mother had even been dry-eyed at the funeral, despite her obvious grief. Tom’s father had slipped an arm around his wife’s back and they’d clung together.

‘My boy!’ she’d said into his shoulder. ‘My lovely boy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie had said. ‘I should have done this before… I…’

Julie straightened, brushing down her clothing as if she could remove the deep creases caused by the hug. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ she’d said. ‘There isn’t a best way to deal with grief. No… no instruction manual. We’ve certainly learned that over the past few years.’ She’d looked at her husband and he’d given her an encouraging smile. ‘We haven’t…’ she’d continued. ‘We haven’t always been fair with you, Sophie, since Tom… passed…’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Yes, but it isn’t really. I took it out on you.’ Her face had fallen with grief. ‘And then I realised we’d lost you too.’

Will’s hand had touched her back, a pat of reassurance and a reminder that he was there. Sophie hadn’t quite known what to do. Julie wasn’t the sort of person you… hugged. She was altogether too formal, too stiff for that.

‘Go on,’ Will had whispered.

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