Page 46 of Midnight in Paris

‘But where will you go?’ she asked him.

He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Where will I be able to find you?’

‘Sophie, you won’t,’ he said sadly, reaching as if to brush some hair from her eyes.

‘But…’ Could she really bear for this to be the last time? A real goodbye? It was the right thing to do. It made sense for both of them. But when she imagined flinging the last of their connection away, she couldn’t bear it.

He shook his head, his face fond, amused, sad. ‘Soph,’ he said. ‘You won’t find me. I’ll be gone.’

‘But you’re…’

‘I’m already gone, Soph.’

‘You’re right here!’ she said.

‘But you know I’m not really here, don’t you?’ he said, his eyes crinkling with sympathy. ‘I’m not here any more, Soph.’

‘You’re…’

But suddenly she was staring at nothing. At a memory projected into the present. And it hit her hard in the centre of her stomach that he was truly gone. That he wasn’t coming back. That Tom had never really been here at all.

Stifling a sob, she pulled the locket from her neck and, kissing it, threw it into the Seine. It glittered on the surface of the water for a moment, then was pulled under, taken by the current, and even though she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see it any more.

20

THE FOURTH SUMMER – 2014

She hadn’t said anything but she’d been a little disappointed when she’d realised Tom had booked a plane to Paris rather than the train for their honeymoon. ‘I just wanted it to be a bit different,’ he’d said. ‘Travel in style.’ He’d kissed her then, the tickets discarded on the side in their immaculate kitchen. ‘Only the best for Mrs Gardner-to-be.’

‘But still the same destination?’ she said, teasing. ‘So not that different, really.’

‘Well, it’s tradition now, isn’t it? Seemed like the right place.’

She laughed, agreeing. ‘Our place.’

‘Maldives next time, though.’

‘So you keep saying.’

Later, Libby laughed at her when she told her they were going to Paris yet again, this time for their honeymoon. ‘You guys know there are other places, right?’

But Sophie was pleased. Not only because Paris had become their place – and although they’d been there a lot, they had barely touched the surface of what they could do and see – but because it was familiar, and after the upheaval and nervousnessthat came with getting married, she was looking forward to being somewhere that felt reassuringly known.

That day, months ago, when he’d tossed the tickets on the table, their August wedding had still seemed like a distant dream. Something indistinct she didn’t have to worry about too much. But the summer term at school had raced by and she’d found herself two nights ago trying on the dress for the last time, slipping her feet into satin sandals. Telling a reluctant Sam that pink reallywasher colour and that – besides – bridesmaids ought to do what they’re told.

‘Can I at least wear my Doc Martens with it?’ Sam had asked, looking at herself in the mirror, aghast.

Sophie hadn’t known whether or not her sister was joking. ‘Sorry,’ she’d said. ‘Satin slippers only, I’m afraid.’

‘Never thought you’d make me wear pink.’

It had been a joke, but Sophie had felt it keenly. The pink hadn’t actually been her choice: Julie, Tom’s mum, had suggested the dress and she hadn’t felt able to say no. That inability seemed to sum up the whole wedding somehow – people who had fixed ideas about what a wedding should be trampling over her uncertainty until she barely recognised any of it.

Then suddenly it was the day itself. She was made-up, styled, fitted into a dress that made her look like someone else entirely. She’d linked her arm with her father’s – his steady presence an anchor somehow – and they’d looked at each other in the church vestibule, eyebrows raised.

‘Sure you want this, kid?’ he’d said softly.

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