Page 47 of Midnight in Paris

She’d nodded. She wasn’t sure about any of the decor and colour choices, the hair or make-up or shoes or flowers or the three-tier fruit cake festooned with elaborate royal icing, but she was sure about Tom. And when it came down to it, that was all that mattered.

He’d squeezed her arm and then she’d found herself stepping into the role of ‘bride’ for the day – the only thing that hadn’t felt surreal had been Tom’s look when he’d turned in the church and seen her for the first time. He’d smiled, their eyes had locked, and she’d almost got the giggles. It was all so ridiculous. But at least it was them.

The day itself had passed in a blur. She’d been a chattel, pulled in this direction or that. Not her own person. One moment standing, holding hands in front of the registrar, the next, racing back down the confetti-scattered aisle. Then the photos, the endless photos when she’d wished she could be making real memories.

The wedding breakfast – although it seemed an odd word for it, given it was served at 3p.m. and consisted mainly of chicken – was the first time she’d sat down all day. Three glasses of champagne and it was all that she could do not to nod off into her cake as the speeches passed over her – her father joking about his little girl, Tom telling everyone how lucky he was. Then best man Will was there, standing up in his grey morning suit, looking completely out of place somehow. He’d done everything the other men had done but he still looked like a rugby player playing dress-up.

Will had made the usual jokes about Tom’s past, his reputation at uni, how when Sophie had first met him he’d been wearing a dress (cue: laughter and hilarity). Then he’d raised a glass to them both and caught her eye. She’d smiled sleepily and raised her glass in return, grateful that Tom had such a loyal friend, and that he had – as asked – kept mostly off the subject of Tom’s exes: not naming any, not telling the story about the girl who used to follow him to the bus stop, keeping it all vague and non-specific as she’d hoped.

She’d thought she’d want the day to last forever, but in reality she was glad when it was over, the last loitering guests finallybid farewell and she and Tom could stumble back to their room, sink into bed and sigh with pleasure at the soft mattress, feather duvet, deep, soft pillows.

There had been no sex, just a tiredly whispered: ‘Goodnight, Mrs Gardner’ and an arm curling around her, pulling her to him. Which had been absolutely perfect.

Now, as the plane taxied along the runway at Charles de Gaulle, she couldn’t help comparing the tarmacked newness of the airport with the more traditional building of the station. On the train, she’d felt as if she’d threaded right into the heart of Paris from the off; the plane instead took them to somewhere both familiar and generic; was functional rather than romantic.

Still, with Tom on her arm, a wedding band on her finger and a glass of champagne fizzing in her stomach, she had to admit she was looking forward to the break.

Her first year of proper teaching had been challenging and she’d ached with exhaustion by the time the end of the academic year arrived. Tom had been working long hours too, getting back at their flat at eight or sometimes later, despite the fact his office was a stone’s throw away. Gone were the lazy student afternoons in her house or his college room, watchingCountdownor reruns of property programmes and feeling gloriously and luxuriously bored. Instead, they had snatched time together and made promises that it wouldn’t always be this way.

The hotel his father had chosen, Hotel Le Marianne, was just off the Champs-Élysées and made last year’s smart hotel look shabby in comparison. He’d booked out the hotel’s biggest suite and he’d had the room filled with bottles of champagne and chocolates and decadent products for the bath and shower. The bed was enormous – soft and feather-padded – and if they’d wanted, they needn’t have left it at all: room service was exquisite and everything was covered by his father’s credit card.

She’d felt slightly sick when she’d seen the price of the rooms – it seemed an awful lot to spend on an experience rather than something tangible. Not much of an investment. But she’d tried to push her thoughts down – after all, this would be her one and only honeymoon and the last thing she wanted to do was ruin it. It was so generous of Tom’s father, too.

As soon as they were left alone, Tom had turned to her, grinning, and taken her in his arms. ‘We ought to make up for lost time, don’t you think?’ he’d said playfully into her ear. ‘Don’t want the marriage to be annulled because it hasn’t been consummated, after all.’ She’d laughed and held him around the back of the neck as he kissed her and slowly drew down the straps on her shoulders, sliding her dress off.

But later, after they’d showered and dressed, she felt a familiar restlessness, the call of everything that was out there waiting to be seen. Clipping her earrings on, she’d noticed him watching her in the mirror from his place on the bed.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he’d smiled. ‘You want to go to the fucking Louvre.’

‘Tom!’ she’d said, half insulted, half amused.

‘I’m kidding. Anywhere you want to go is fine by me.’

‘Well, if you must know, I just fancy going for a walk,’ she’d admitted. ‘Getting some fresh air.’

‘Or inhaling some traffic fumes?’

‘OK, I’m hoping to inhale some pollution and wondered if you’d like to join me,’ she said, turning with a smile. ‘I don’t know. I feel kind of restless. Just want to walk, look at the sights. Maybe get a bite to eat somewhere?’

‘Sounds good,’ he said, lazily getting up and doing up the top button he’d unfastened on his black jeans. ‘Will I do?’

She looked at him, amused. She’d carefully selected an outfit – a green silk dress with sandals – and taken the time to curl her hair under as she’d dried it. He’d pulled on the same jeans he’dworn for the flight, albeit with clean underwear. Yet in his lazy, half-arsed way, he looked just as ready for the night as she did.

‘You’ll do.’

She liked it that the evening had started to fall, and that the lights in the shop windows gave out a comforting glow. It was only 9p.m., but August was on the cusp of giving way to September and beyond it, the autumn and winter. She could see people inside the bars – a riot of colour against polished wood – and the people she passed on the street looked smart and purposeful. Every now and then the words ‘I’m married!’ would pop into her head, and she could hardly believe that she’d tied the knot with this man who’d turned in a few short years from a serial dater to a one-woman man. She looked at him.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Just thinking,’ she said. ‘Never had you down as the marrying kind.’

‘Me neither.’ He looked at her. ‘Yet here we are.’

‘Here we are indeed.’

Later, after a simple meal in a tiny brasserie, they began to meander the streets, winding their way back to the hotel, hand in hand, letting the noise of the Parisian evening settle over them. People passed, showering them with snippets of conversations – words in French, English, other languages rained down on them piecemeal, meaningless. The rumble of occasional traffic on the road, even at this hour, the odd horn being honked, all fading into the background of their walk. The sound of their own shoes hitting the pavement, the occasional clink of her earrings as she moved, their own breathing and heartbeat – everything together and separate at once. This was it, she thought. The perfect evening. The perfect moment. Newly married, honeymooners, young and with life simply stretching in front of them. She wanted to grab it, hold the moment to her, preserve it before it slipped away.

He looked at his watch pointedly as they began to cross the bridge. Almost midnight – he’d clearly planned it. Smiling, she stopped momentarily, leaning on the balustrade to admire the view. He wrapped his arms around her. ‘I just feel,’ he said, ‘as if no one and nothing can touch us.’

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