Page 13 of Midnight in Paris

‘It’s stupid,’ he said. ‘It’s just I had the feeling in that moment… that everything was kind of magical, timeless. And I was an eight-year-old idiot, but I felt something. As if the lack of a proper carousel didn’t mean anything. Because I was with my mum looking at the stars, and it felt…’

‘Felt…?’ she prompted after a moment.

‘If you tell anyone how pathetic I’m being…’ he said, grinning embarrassedly.

‘Just between us.’

He sighed. ‘I’ve never told this story to anyone. But I suppose in that moment, in my tiny mind, it felt as if I could see heaven. As if I were part of this enormous universe, but that it was safe, magical, and we would all go on together. And Mum told me it was midnight, which when you’re eight is, like, mind-blowing!’

‘Aw.’

‘Yeah,’ he glanced at her. ‘So I try to come, when I’m here. At midnight. Usually on my own. Just to… It’s never felt that magical again. But…’ he looked up at the sky. Somewhere she could hear a bell chime. ‘It’s kind of become special; a ritual.’

And they stood together, looking into the deep navy of the night sky, studded with jewels, and she imagined for a moment that she could feel it too. That sense of eternity he’d felt all those years ago.

6

TWO WEEKS AGO

‘So where to?’ he said finally, as they turned from the Seine and began to negotiate the busy pavements. ‘The Louvre?’

‘Ha ha. Very funny.’

‘I mean it. Why not?’

She looked at him askance. ‘Seriously? You actually want to go to an art gallery? I had to literally drag you there almost every time I wanted to go before.’

He shrugged. ‘For old times’ sake. Plus, we’ve probably only seen about fifteen thousand pieces there; that makes – what – just twenty thousand to go. We ought to try to see a few at least.’

‘Wow!’

‘What?’ He looked at her. ‘Things can change. People change.’

‘Not you,’ she said, her tone a mixture of sadness and fondness. ‘And you know… this trip is about you, really. I don’t mind where we go.’

‘Then we’ll go to the Louvre,’ he said. ‘I spent too many years complaining about it. But I’ve become somewhat fond of it and its motley inhabitants. Anyway, if this really is the last time.’ He looked at her, eyes full of mischief.

‘Tom. You know it is.’

‘I know. But a man can dream.’

She laughed. A woman passed her and shot her a look, as if her laugh had seemed odd. It hadn’t been that loud, had it? She covered her mouth for a moment, then decided that it didn’t matter. This was the last time, after all. Paris wouldn’t remember her.

Her feet were rubbing against her shoes and she could feel the sting of skin on leather. She thought about suggesting they take the metro, but decided she’d prefer to stick to the familiar routes, to the places where their memories merged and she could picture them – every year for almost a decade, through all sorts of things she’d never imagined, bad and good – together in the place that had somehow becometheirplace. Heels be damned.

Instead, she slowed her pace and Tom immediately matched hers, staying close to her side. She remembered that first time, the way he’d been so energised – always racing off, hardly thinking about her.

He was looking down, concentrating on the ground in front of them, but as she watched, he lifted his head and gave her the full force of his brilliant eyes.

‘What’s he got that I haven’t got?’ he asked, half smiling, half serious.

‘What?’ She looked at him, not understanding.

‘Will. What’s he got that I haven’t got?’

She almost laughed, but there was something so desperate in his asking. Where had this come from, this question? ‘Don’t, Tom.’

He was silent for a minute. ‘But I suppose what I’m trying to say is, if it were different… If things were… If we could still be together, would you choose me? Would you choose me over him – even now?’

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