Page 17 of Midnight in Paris

‘This is Tom we’re talking about. He’s basically got a huge reputation as a slag.’

‘Libby!’

‘Well, he does. You know that.’

Sophie remembered the lingering kiss they’d had on the bridge, the second night of their trip. How something had shifted inside of her; how Tom had seemed different in Paris –more attentive, somehow more grown-up. But Libby was right. He’d soon move on to the next girl in any case.

‘So really, it’s sensible,’ she said, running her finger along the seal of the envelope to make sure it was properly stuck.

‘Yep. Sensible Soph.’

‘Hey!’ she laughed. It was an ongoing joke in their group that if anyone did all the recommended reading, it would be Sophie. And she was the only one who would be up and ready for every early class, every lecture. But she didn’t think that made her boring, just driven. Sometimes all she could think about at night was the amount of debt she was accruing simply by being here. She had to make it count somehow. She didn’t have an allowance or friends in industry who could give her a job, her parents earned modestly in their little kitchen-table bookkeeping business, but they couldn’t support her and she wouldn’t want them to. Besides, there was her sister Sam, too, at home, still ploughing through her A levels.

She had her place on a teacher-training course and there would be a bursary to keep her going through that. But she was under no illusion that it would be easy. For her, there would be no gap year, no travel, no internship on astronomical pay. She wanted to squeeze every bit of value out of her degree as she could – and if that made her boring, so be it.

The conversation moved on, Libby not realising how momentous the decision was to write Tom a letter, pop it through the door of his shared digs and run, half terrified, half giggling around the corner before anyone opened the door. It was juvenile. People were meant to talk about this stuff, at least make a phone call. But whenever Sophie was with him, she couldn’t find the words. Something about his easy smile – those eyes – defeated her every time.

Tom, at least, wouldn’t be too bothered. He’d roll his eyes and shake his head. Maybe he’d feel sad for a day or two. But hewasn’t an idiot. He must know as she did that this wasn’t a love story for the ages. Just a little fling between two bored students making the most of the last weeks in student accommodation before they were spat out into the world.

The cocktail bar was buzzing with life – not the affluent customers it was probably used to, but with groups of snickering students poring over its sticky menus and laughing at the names of some of the drinks on offer. On Mondays, they did a buy-one-get-one-free hour and it never failed to attract the crowd from the ex-polytechnic.

The barmen duly pretended to smile every time a giggling eighteen-year-old requested a ‘Sex on the Beach’ with barely suppressed amusement, or nodded as if impressed when a second-year necked a couple of shots, slamming the glasses down on the counter in triumph. Only a few noticed the glazed expression in the eyes of most of the staff as they tolerated this lucrative – but extremely taxing – time each week.

The moment the hour was up, the bar would clear and the staff would quickly make the rounds with cloths and trays, gathering discarded drinks and wiping sticky surfaces. A sense of calm would return and only those who could afford the usual prices would remain.

Sophie had treated herself to a Brandy Alexander – usually a bit too calorific for her to enjoy without residual guilt. ‘Drowning your sorrows?’ Libby had said, cocking an eyebrow. Sophie had laughed as if it were a joke but in reality, she supposed she was – a bit.

This summer was going to be full of goodbyes and lasts, and scary new horizons. Nothing that had seemed fixed in herlife for the past three years was going to stay in place. Friends would scatter home and they’d all be ejected into adult life, like baby birds nudged from a nest. She took another sip and felt the creamy, decadent liquid with its reassuring afterburn slide down her throat. There were a lot of sorrows to drown.

Libby had started talking to a boy at the table next to them when the hand grabbed Sophie’s. She started at the unexpected touch and looked up to see Tom, clutching at her wrist, his face serious.

‘Hi, Tom,’ she said, trying to stay neutral. She raised her glass. ‘Can’t beat happy hour!’

He took the glass from her hand and set it on a table, his expression unreadable.

‘Hey, I was drinking that!’ she said, half laughing, half annoyed.

‘I’ll get you another one,’ he said, gently tugging at her arm and pulling her towards the exit. ‘Just come. Please.’

‘What are you doing?’

She allowed herself to be led.

It wasn’t aggressive, more insistent, and as usual her skin responded to his touch with a series of tingles that shivered over her body. By the doorway, he paused. ‘Just hear me out,’ he said, as if she hadn’t already let herself be dragged out of the bar, leaving her expensive drink, to do just that.

‘Sure,’ she said.

It was still light outside. After the gloomy, electric-lit atmosphere of the bar, it was a shock. She became aware that her make-up, now no doubt punctured by beads of sweat, would look horrendous in the daylight. The day had been warm, but had cooled in readiness for evening; her shoulders, in a thin vest top, felt somehow vulnerable.

He led her opposite, out of the way of the queue of people waiting to be granted entrance. ‘I got your letter,’ he said.

She nodded, feeling herself flush.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Oh, come on, Tom,’ she said lightly. ‘It was never going to be a long-term thing. It makes sense.’

His eyebrows furrowed. ‘What do you mean? How do you know if you never gave it a chance, Soph?’

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