Page 39 of Midnight in Paris

‘No, but I should have thought…’

He smiled, leaning for a moment against the stone, his eyes closed. ‘No, let’s not.’

‘Not what?’

‘Talk about it. It’s fine. I found you.’

‘What made you choose Montmartre?’ she asked as they fell into step together again.

‘No idea. Just sort of found myself here,’ he admitted. ‘I thought, where would Sophie go?’

‘Nice to know I’m so predictable,’ she said, smiling.

‘You and all the other tourists.’

They joined the throng of people making their way up the cobbled streets. The sun warmed Sophie’s back between the straps of her dress; she inwardly scolded herself for forgetting sun cream. Something about the back of her neck, her upper shoulders and back seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, as if those parts of her body were determined to get burnt one way or the other.

They stood silently on the edge of the square, looking at the familiar artists – none of whom they recognised individually, but who made up the centre of the cobbled area, filling it with easels, paper, small stools, chairs for subjects.

‘I told Libby I was coming to see you,’ she said.

‘You did?’ He looked surprised. ‘What did she say?’

‘She told me to be careful,’ she admitted.

‘That’s it?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Pretty sure she thinks I’m borderline insane.’

Tom laughed. She’d forgotten how much she loved the sound of it. ‘Exactly how I like my women,’ he said. ‘Just crazy enough.’

‘Thanks very much,’ she grinned.

‘And she’s not going to tell Will? Don’t want him sending the cavalry out to rescue you.’

‘The cavalry being…?’ she smiled.

He grinned. ‘No idea. His parents? Yours? Libby?’

She giggled at the idea of it. ‘No, I think she knows me well enough to know that I’m going to keep myself safe. Good old sensible Sophie.’ She felt her mouth quiver, giving away the emotions that bubbled underneath.

‘This is hard for you, isn’t it?’ he said.

She shook her head, lying. ‘It’s good. I want this.’

They moved off, meandering around the different artists, peering over shoulders at easels, remarking over paintings they liked, more subtly grimacing at ones that were perhaps not quite at the artistic level of Vincent Van Gogh.

‘Painting, madame?’ a voice asked.

It was a woman, dressed in black, long hair glossy against her shoulders, paint on her sleeve.

‘Oh, I don’t think…’

‘Go on,’ Tom nodded. ‘For old times’ sake!’

‘I thought you were anti-nostalgia?’

‘Only when it suits me.’

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