Page 110 of Midnight in Paris

She’d forced herself to step forward, put her arms out, and Julie had stepped into them, hugging her daughter-in-law tightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she’d said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too.’

They’d refused an offer of a drink afterwards; it seemed better to leave and let Tom’s parents come to terms with their renewed grief. But she had promised to stay in touch. And she would, she decided. Even if Julie never let her guard down again, she’d seen beneath the veneer of coldness that there was a sadness there that made her unexpectedly vulnerable. And it would be no trouble to at least try.

‘Thanks,’ she’d said, as Will had signalled and pulled away.

‘For coming with?’

‘No, for encouraging me to hug Julie. You know.’

‘The pat on the back?’ he’d asked, confused.

‘All of it. When you whispered, “Go on” in my ear.’

He’d looked at her. ‘I didn’t say a word.’

60

NOW

The dress hung in the corner of their room; the bag it was stored in was so long that she’d taken a picture off its wall hook to use it for the hanger, to make sure none of it touched the floor or became tarnished.

‘Blimey,’ Will had said when he’d seen it. ‘Looks like the grim reaper standing there in the corner.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I hope the dress isn’t as scary.’

‘Oh, I’m pretty sure you’re going to like the dress.’ She was, too. Never one for dressing up or making too much of a show, she’d actually embraced the whole wedding-dress-choosing thing this time. Sam and her mum had helped her, and she’d found a dress that was somehow much more ‘her’ than her previous one had been. When she’d put it on at the last fitting, the folds of the skirt blooming around her ankles, she’d actually twirled.

‘Not long now,’ he’d said, making a face.

‘Hey, this is meant to be the happiest day of our lives!’ she’d teased.

‘I know. I’m looking forward to after more though.’

‘The honeymoon?’

‘The marriage.’

She’d hugged him then. ‘Softie.’

She’d invested in some new outfits for Mallorca, where they’d finally settled on an indulgent, all-inclusive resort – somewhere to lie by the pool and do absolutely nothing for seven days. Summer dresses, new bikinis, sandals – it had been a while since she’d been on holiday and she was really looking forward to it.

Preparing to pack, she pulled her suitcase from under the bed and unzipped it, taken suddenly by the smell of the fabric, somehow reminiscent of going away – of holidays and excitement.

Unzipping it, she flung back the lid and began to sort through the colourful clothes she’d laid out on the bed, trying to make the most of the space. Then she stopped.

In the netted part on the inside of the case, designed probably to house documents, was a paper bag – the one from Paris, from that trip where she’d sat alone and had her portrait sketched by an artist in Montmartre. She’d slipped it in her bag without even looking at it properly, too overcome with grief after dropping the locket, too full of memories of Tom and what she’d lost to really care whether the artist had captured her good side.

Feeling slightly tearful, she reached for it now and drew the stiff paper from its holding. There she was, on the bench, a sadness on her face that she hadn’t realised would be visible to anyone else. The artist had captured her beautifully, in a simple pencil sketch that somehow communicated her sorrow as well as the way she looked. Around her, Montmartre, a jumble of vague figures, easels, stalls, other artworks, tumbled into the background.

It was good.

Then she saw it, bringing the drawing up to her face to get a better look. And she felt suddenly sick. Her hands trembled andshe shoved the painting back into the bag, shaking her head and feeling disorientated. Because it simply wasn’t possible.

‘Will!’ she called.

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