She nodded. ‘Sorry.’ Then, realising what she’d said, ‘Oh! Sorry. I mean…’
He laughed. ‘That’s more like it. Much less apologetic.’
She found herself giggling too. ‘Perhaps we’re not as good communicators as we gave ourselves credit for, even now.’
‘So what’s the plan? Eiffel Tower, Montmartre and then, at the end, the bridge?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘OK. Yes.’
‘It’ll be OK, you know; “all things come to an end” and all that,’ he said.
‘Yes, they do.’
‘And you know, if things go tits up with Will, maybe there’ll be a chance for me in another life.’
‘Tom!’
‘Well, can’t blame a bloke for trying.’
The day gradually came into itself as they walked, Sophie trying as hard as she could to take in all the sights and sounds of the city she’d come to love and associate with love. Of the city that had seen some of her happiest times, and her worst too. She looked at the buildings, the balconies, shutters flung open to let in the light. The cafes with their colourful awnings. She took in the scent of coffee, of cigarette smoke, the chatter and the buzz of it all. She looked up at Tom by her side, sometimes with his eyes fixed ahead, sometimes turning to look at a riverboat, or a passer-by; always beautiful, always her Tom. And better now. Not drawn and pale as when they’d last been here. Not grey in his face and hollow in his eyes.
Whatever happened next, she’d had this time with him. And she was going to commit as much to memory as she possibly could.
For some reason, seeing the Eiffel Tower again, looking exactly as it always had, almost took her breath away. The structure so familiar, so shockingly enormous each time, so strangely beautiful despite the fact it looked a little like scaffolding withits hard lines and unyielding metal construction. But it wasn’t the tower itself that made her feel this way, although seeing it always felt special; it was the memories it instantly evoked in her – as if in her mind there were a folder marked ‘Tower’ where the emotions from all her previous visits were stored and tumbled out as she stood at its base.
She thought back to that first, magical time when they’d been determined to take the stairs and spent the next day hobbling, their aching muscles protesting; about the last time, that awful last time with the lift and the grim knowledge hanging over both of them that everything was about to change. The tower had witnessed her highs and her lows, her excitement and disappointment. And now she was back – how would this memory be filed in her mind in the future? As something she thought of fondly? As a terrible betrayal and mistake? Or as something that ended so painfully she wanted to lock it away and never access that file again? She put her hand on the locket. It felt cold against her fingers.
‘Cheer up love, it might never happen,’ came a voice with a strong cockney accent in her ear. She jumped and put a hand to her chest before giggling.
‘Tom!’
She’d told him in the past of the men she’d encountered who’d called out at her to smile, or cheer up, or the hundred other versions of the same phrase, and how annoying she always found it, how she’d wanted to retort each time and say it was none of their business how her face looked. From him, though, it was somehow hilarious.
‘Can’t have a pretty thing like you looking down, can we sweetheart?’ he continued.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I booked online. Let’s go up.’
He nodded and turned towards the snake of tourists heading for the lift.
‘Oh no. Not so fast,’ she said. ‘I booked the stairs.’
‘Seriously?’
She shrugged. ‘Old times’ sake.’
‘You know that not everything that happened in the “old times” has to be repeated for nostalgia’s sake, don’t you? I know our trips have been brilliant, but sometimes there’s a reason things have… evolved as they’ve gone on. I mean, I won’t be buying a sandwich from that dodgy street vendor near the station either.’
‘Well, no. Me neither. But come on, when we visited the Eiffel Tower – the time we took the stairs – it was one of the best days.’
‘You’re looking back with rose-tinted specs,’ he told her. ‘You’ve forgotten the pain of it. My legs took about six months to recover.’
‘Ah, don’t be a lightweight,’ she said. ‘Come on!’
‘I’m not worried for me,’ he said. ‘But you’re getting on a bit now, aren’t you?’
She opened her mouth in mock horror. ‘How dare you!’
‘It’s your funeral,’ he quipped, following close behind as she strode towards the door leading to the staircase at which, unsurprisingly, the queue was far shorter.