Page 113 of Midnight in Paris

‘Well, I’d work a little harder for a first class degree, rather than settling for a 2.2, for starters,’ Libby said. ‘And I’d never have plucked my eyebrows into oblivion, if I had my time again.’

Sophie laughed. ‘All very serious stuff.’

‘Itisserious!’ Libby grinned. ‘I have to draw them in with a crayon. I don’t think you realise how much I resent that!’

Sophie snorted with laughter, almost spitting out the sip of wine she’d just taken.

‘There she is,’ Libby said, smiling fondly.

‘What?’

‘Miss Piggy! The snorter! You always used to laugh like that. A great big oink.’

‘Hey!’

Libby touched her arm. ‘Seriously, piggies aside, I’m pleased to hear that glorious snort again. I thought you might have lost it, with everything that happened.’

‘Really? You missed the snort?’

‘Yes. OK, it’s not an attractive sound. But it’s Sophie’s laugh. Sophie’s proper laugh when she’s happy and properly letting go,’ Libby said. Then she made an exaggerated pig sound. ‘Ooiiinkkk.’

‘Libby!’ Sophie said, then without meaning to, she snorted again.

‘See! Miss Piggy!’ Libby said decisively. ‘And you know, I’ve always thought Will had the look of Kermit about him. You’re made for each other.’

‘Which makes you…?’

‘Ah, no idea. Probably Beaker or something horrific like that.’

‘I’ve got a soft spot for Beaker, if you must know.’ Then, ‘Whatarewe talking about?’ Sophie said, laughing again.

Libby was right. It felt good to laugh. Good not to be pulled back into the past, or forward into worries for the future. Neither of which she could control. But just to be here, snorting away, sounding like a Muppet but not caring about that in the least.

EPILOGUE

NOW

The little barn had been decked with small, white fairy lights which sparkled against the bare brickwork and the dark wood, laid by builders centuries ago to house their cattle, and now transformed into a wedding venue with old world charm.

She stood in the vestibule with her dad, smiling in her dress, feeling entirely comfortable and entirely herself. Mum had done her make-up and gathered her hair into a messy up-do, with soft curls that fell against her face.

‘You look lovely,’ Dad had said when she’d arrived, and she’d squeezed his hand.

She could hear the rumble of conversation from the next room as guests arrived and settled into position. Somewhere among them, she knew, was Will’s voice. They’d spent the night apart in some sort of nod to tradition, and she was longing to see him again.

‘Do you mind if I…’ her father said now, gesturing to the little corridor where the loo was situated.

‘Oh, of course. Go ahead.’

Then she was alone in the tiny room with its tiled floor and rough-plastered wall. She set her bouquet – pink and whiteroses – on a table and went over to the window looking out over the countryside, to the fields dotted with sheep and cows, the cluster of trees on the horizon. She’d waited for this day, in some ways, her whole life – the wedding that she’d always imagined.

But her mind was muddled, filled with joy at the thought of marrying Will, but sadness too at the thought of her first wedding; of Tom.

‘Tom?’ she whispered into the empty room, half hoping to provoke a hallucination. He’d been absent in the weeks since Paris and that was a good thing. But she missed him too, found herself grieving his absence.

There was no answer.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the view of the countryside beyond the little stone barn, pictured Tom as she’d first known him, dressed as Lysander, or sipping coffee opposite her in that tiny cafe. She remembered their first trip to Paris, their last. Remembered saying goodbye to him. The recent trip to Paris when he may or may not have been there. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry it turned out that way.’

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