Page 12 of Midnight in Paris

‘Doyouthink she looks like George Harrison?’ she asked a woman on her left who gave her a sharp look and turned away.

It was hard to stay enthusiastic on her own, and eventually she wandered towards the exit and the gift shop where she found Tom peering at a stand of postcards.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice.

He shrugged. ‘Got bored.’

She shook her head. ‘I thought you were meant to be the intellectual.’

He looked at her then, amused. ‘Yes, but I’m selectively intellectual. I like music, but art… well, it’s OK but it doesn’t fascinate me.’

‘So no more galleries?’ she said, hoping he’d laugh and say they’d go anywhere she wanted.

‘No more galleries.’

Instead, they’d walked – Tom pointing out landmarks from Notre-Dame to La Défense and clearly in his element being tour guide. She’d tried to keep her responses muted – not wanting him to realise how excited she felt every time she recognised a monument she’d only seen before from photographs.

Dinner was in a pizzeria – something that disappointed her a little, considering where they were – but she didn’t say anything. It had been delicious in any case – fresh, thin-crusted and dripping with piping hot cheese, and they shared a bottle of rosé.

By the time they left the restaurant, the sun had disappeared and the sky was bright and star-sprinkled. She checked her watch: 11.30p.m. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘It’s nearly midnight!’

‘Oops. Past your bedtime?’

She slapped him lightly. ‘No. Of course not. Just thought it was earlier.’ She stifled a yawn that she wasn’t sure came from actual tiredness or from her acknowledgement that it was so late. Yes. Maybe itwaspast her bedtime.

He grabbed her hand. ‘One more stop,’ he said.

‘Seriously?’

‘Trust me.’

He walked quickly, she making little running steps every few paces to keep up. And then they made their way onto the Pont du Carrousel, its arched stone length stretching across a Seine whose dark water twinkled with starry reflections. At the centre, he rested his hands on the edge of the thick balustrade and leant over slightly towards the water.

‘Tom!’ she said, instinctively grabbing a bit of material on the back of his shirt.

He laughed. ‘I’m not jumping, you know.’

‘Yes, but…’ She felt embarrassed, but he had looked like he might slip, and he’d been drinking. The Seine passed choppily below, ready to gather anything that fell into it. ‘Can we go?’ she asked.

He stood and put an arm around her. ‘In a minute.’

‘Why?’

He sighed, but not in frustration; almost as if taking it all in. ‘Memories, I guess.’

‘Memories?’

He looked at her, his eyes enormous pools of black reflecting the light. ‘Mum brought me here once. I was eight. Sure it was going to be a carousel. You know, a real one.’

She laughed. ‘Oh no!’

‘Yeah. I made such a fuss.’ He was quiet for a minute. ‘But then Mum kind of lifted me up, sat me on the stone, held me of course. And it was late. And she made me look at the stars.’

Sophie wrapped an arm around Tom’s back, rubbed it briefly.

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