Page 11 of Midnight in Paris

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You want to see theMona Lisa, we’ll see theMona Lisa.’ She bristled a little at his sing-song tone, but when he smiled and rolled his eyes, she couldn’t help but smile in return. Damn it, the boy was good-looking. No wonder he seemed to get away with everything.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Even though she looks a bit like George Harrison.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. You wait. The spit of him in his longer-haired days.’

‘Beard and all?’

He grinned. ‘Well, no. But actually, I think one might suit her.’

She shook her head and laughed. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. So we’re staying, yes?’

‘Looks like it. Even if I pass out from boredom or dehydration or something in the queue.’

She stood on tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. ‘My hero.’

‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he added. ‘TheMona Lisais a massive disappointment. I’ve seen it four times and each time it looks a little bit more crap.’

She slapped him with her guidebook. ‘Don’t. You’ll spoil it. I’ve never seen her.’

‘Seriously, I have no idea why people think she’s gorgeous. I’d rather look at you.’

‘Oh! Praise indeed,’ she joked.

‘Well, it’s true.’

‘Well then, Tom, you can look at me and I’ll look at her. We’ll all be happy.’

As it was, the queue moved quickly and they were inside the glass pyramid in just over half an hour, their voices hushed as they moved from work to work, reading the information cards. She absorbed, taking in every detail. He, impatient, wanting always to move forward, forward, forward, occasionally sighing audibly, leaving her embarrassed.

‘Don’t leave me behind!’ she said at one point when she almost lost sight of him. Her voice echoed more than predicted in the high-ceilinged space and a man turned, regarding her with a frown.

‘Sorry,’ Tom said, returning to her side. ‘Ants in my pants, my mum always says.’

She looked at him, softening. He really wasn’t in his element here. ‘Look, thanks for this. I know you’re not really an art guy. Your choice of venue next.’

‘You promise?’ They fell into step and he reached for her hand. ‘We’ll look at it all though, if you like.’

She snorted. ‘Did you know that if we spent thirty seconds looking at each piece of art here, it would take us over six months?’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘There are thirty-five thousand of them.’

‘Oh. Never did get around to reading that guidebook.’

‘So we’ll stick to a couple of rooms this time.’ She reddened at having used the words ‘this time’, although he appeared not to notice.

‘OK, let’s make a deal. See theMona Lisa, look at the paintings on the way, then coffee,’ he said hopefully. ‘We’ll look at more next time we come.’

She raised an eyebrow at the thought of next time, how he said it so casually as if it were a foregone conclusion, then nodded, ‘Deal,’ turning back to the guidebook she’d brought and then looking intently at a picture of a woman sitting on grass, her hand on a tiny rabbit. There was something almost transcendent about seeing the painting in the flesh, something she couldn’t put into words. To be as close to the painting as the artist had been, to see the grooves of his brushstrokes, the places where the paint was thicker, masking indecision and mistakes; to feel so close to someone whom you’d never met but whose work made your heart race all the same.

When she looked around again, Tom was gone.

TheMona Lisa, when she finally reached it, was a tiny bit disappointing, she had to give him that. Somehow less vibrant and so much smaller than she’d imagined. It didn’t help that she was surrounded by people craning their necks for a closer look.

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