Page 3 of Midnight in Paris

‘I won’t distract you, don’t worry,’ he’d said before proceeding to distract her constantly – especially frustrating as she was already struggling to get through the enormous tome and had come to the cafe in the hope it would help her focus.

By the end of the hour, he had her number and she wasn’t 100 per cent sure exactly how it had all happened.

‘Smooth operator,’ Libby had said when she’d told her. ‘Are you going to see him again?’

‘He probably won’t ring.’ She’d shrugged, embarrassed that she desperately wanted him to. Even though he was annoying. Even though he’d made her even more behind with her work with his incessant (albeit charming) chatter. Even though she resented him for making her feel something when she was so determined not to.

He’d called her that evening. And now, somehow, they were in this fledgling relationship where all her newly acquired, near-adult confidence seemed to disappear. He had an aura about him, something about privilege maybe, and it was hard to fully read him sometimes. She wasn’t sure exactly what they were to each other even now, whether it was a fling to him or something more. And she hated that he had her wondering like this – like a lovelorn schoolgirl rather than the woman she was determined to be.

Being at different unis, they had no friends in common whom she could ask about him, no ex-girlfriends in her circle whose ears she could whisper into. The students from the two universities – and within them their colleges and departments –seemed to cluster together, sharing halls and houses and lecture notes with their own and forming tight-knit groups with friends who had become, over the short, intense years, like family.

Their first date had been to the theatre – a rather tired, student-led production ofThe Importance of Being Earnest,followed by drinks at The Anchor, sitting on a little bridge over the Cam and watching the river sparkle below. ‘So, what made you choose English?’ he’d asked her.

She’d shrugged. ‘I love reading. Books. Language. What about you? Why philosophy?’

He’d laughed. ‘I’m a whore for Socrates,’ he’d told her. Then, ‘Nah. Just didn’t know what else to do, if I’m honest. And there was a place, so…’

‘Right.’

He was fun, she’d decided after he’d kissed her goodbye and she’d walked home along the back streets of Mill Road. He’d sent a text message asking her out again and she’d typed ‘OK’.

Their second date had almost been their last. A picnic on Parker’s Piece – a large area of green that stretched between her university and the city centre. He’d brought sparkling wine and two glasses, she’d brought some ‘nibbly bits’ then felt embarrassed when he’d laughed at her calling them that.

But they’d got on well, again, and she’d begun to feel herself relax in his company. He was funny, told a good anecdote and she found herself laughing freely. Until he’d said it. ‘You know your laugh reminds me of something?’

‘What?’ she’d asked, almost priming herself for a compliment.

‘A pig.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. You snort like a pig when you laugh.’ He’d told her this as if she would take it as – what? A compliment? A joke? But she’d flushed – she knew she had an unusual laugh, a tendencyto draw air through her nose and snort when really amused. But she hated any attention being brought to it.

‘Oh, come on, Miss Piggy!’ he’d said. ‘I think it’s cute.’ He’d nuzzled against her, making snorting noises, opening his eyes wide and trying to appease her.

‘It’s not funny.’

‘Sorry.’ He’d sat up then.

An awkward silence had come over the pair of them as they had sat together, tearing bits off the French stick, sipping at their wine. And she’d thought to herself that if he asked her out again, she wouldn’t say yes.

Then he’d shifted closer to her again, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. ‘I really am sorry, you know. What an idiot!’ he’d said. ‘I just… I was trying to make you laugh. I love your laugh. I do, honestly.’

It wasn’t his words that had soothed her as much as his touch. The smell of him as she nestled closer. And she realised that when she was in his arms, she’d forgive him almost anything.

Now they spent most nights together in his digs, went for drinks or food in the town several evenings a week. Spent far too long on the phone when they weren’t together. At twenty, it was the most serious relationship she’d ever been in.

Even so, going away on holiday together seemed significant.

She’d tucked the envelope back into her rucksack, pulling it out later in her bedroom – slightly curled after being caught under her lunchbox – and smoothed it on her desk.Don’t overthink it, she told herself. After all, she had always wanted to go to Paris.

2

TWO WEEKS AGO

The trip to Paris – her tenth visit but her first alone – had seemed easy, logical, from a distance. Meeting Tom one last time, in the city they’d both loved, and drawing a line under part of her life. A place she probably wouldn’t want to return to in the future after everything that had happened; it was steeped in memories of them both, synonymous with her love for Tom.

Now she was here, booked into a room at Hotel Cler – a cheap place they’d stayed in before, right at the start of things – it felt almost silly; dramatic. And somehow terrifying, too. Worse for the fact that she’d lied to Will about coming; he knew she was here, but not that Tom would be here too.

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