Page 51 of Midnight in Paris

It was said in jest, but suddenly the doubts seemed to flood her brain. Tom was barely ready to look after himself, let alone achild. What if he said he didn’t want children? What if he wasn’t ready and didn’t feel the same urgency?

What if he decided to cut and run when he found out that she had this enormous defect?

Sophie sat on the bed in the fading light and looked at her passport. That girl, so innocent; her, just a few years ago. Not knowing what was ahead.

She’d looked forward to connecting with Tom on this trip. To being together, to exploring the city, to spending long, lazy mornings in bed in their hotel.

Now, all she could think of was the conversation they had to have. And whether it would break them.

23

TWO WEEKS AGO

She sat on the train, feeling such a mixture of relief and grief as it began to pull out of the station that she had to turn her face away from the other passengers, didn’t want them to see her face crumple.

Luckily, the carriage was quite empty – it was late: an extra few trains had been laid on for the summer season, but it appeared uptake was low. It meant she had a little arrangement of four seats to herself, and the only other passengers in her eyeline were a man in a creased suit, scrolling on his phone, and a woman with a book who eyed her occasionally but hadn’t felt prompted to ask if she was OK.

She reminded herself of the facts. She’d said goodbye to Tom, just as she’d planned. She’d put an end to this stage of her grief; an end, she hoped, to the hallucinations. She’d done it alone. Yes, she was emotional, but that was to be expected. And she was going home to Will, a man she loved fiercely and who loved her back.

It was OK. It was OK.

The train entered the tunnel and the announcement came on, first in French then in English – safety warnings,information, the driver then telling them what the weather would be like on arrival.

She tried to still her breathing, distract herself with her phone, to close her eyes and sleep. But all she could see was the silver locket falling, falling and being engulfed by the water. And she’d thought in that moment how much Tom had always hated the water, always preferred to be above it than on it. Had never agreed to take a boat trip with her on the Seine. And she’d thought of that part of him enclosed in the silver heart that would be battered and buffeted by the water, that would be nudged by fish or other river-dwelling creatures. How, if it wasn’t swept too far, the boats he’d always avoided would travel over him every day.

And she’d felt a surge of regret. A feeling that she’d somehow missed, got something wrong.

But it was the bridge, she reminded herself. The bridge where he’d first been aware of his place in the universe, where he’d felt that sense of magic and love and eternity.

She didn’t believe that Tom was in those scooped-up ashes in any case. Didn’t believe, if she was honest, that he was anywhere. But if he was – if there were ghosts, if there was something else waiting for us on the other side, he would be there. Not in the bottom of the Seine but somewhere else, living in a way she couldn’t imagine. Free from pain and part of the universe he’d glimpsed all that time ago.

It was this thought that, finally, enabled her to close her eyes and give in to the heaviness of sleep.

24

THE FIFTH SUMMER – 2015

Sophie had planned to speak to Tom on the last night of their trip. Partly because she hadn’t wanted to spoil the holiday – although in all honesty, the anxiety she felt had spoiled it a little already – partly because if it didn’t go well, they wouldn’t have to pretend. They could go home, have some space, work out what to do next.

But the anxiety that had been steadily building since she’d packed her case had become almost unbearable. She’d been functioning – playing the part of the Sophie she usually was. But clearly, acting wasn’t her forte.

‘Are you OK?’ Tom had asked her more than once. And, ‘Have I done something wrong?’

And she’d lied and said she was fine and tried to smile and enjoy some of their usual haunts. But her mood had affected them both and rather than being upbeat and humorous, Tom had fallen silent by her side as they’d traipsed the Latin quarter, walked the Champs-Élysées.

Now, settled in a small restaurant for an early dinner, she could feel her secret – the question she wished she didn’t have to ask – build inside her. And she was pretty sure he could too.

‘For fuck’s sake, Sophie,’ he said at last, after she’d drained her white wine at record speed. ‘Just tell me what’s wrong?’

She looked at him, at his worried face, and glanced away. The quickly ingested wine made her head swim. Turning back towards him, she realised that none of her plans made sense. She’d been delaying the inevitable. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said.

‘That’s obvious,’ he almost snapped. ‘You’re killing me, Soph. Just – whatever it is – tell me? Are you sick? Has something… happened? Is there someone else?’

She laughed, not sure whether it was humour or hysteria driving her. ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said. ‘Of course there’s not someone else. Have you seen how knackered I am these days? There’s barely enough energy for us, let alone…’ but she trailed off. His face remained serious. Her fault. ‘Sorry.’ She took a deep breath, fiddled with the stem of her wine glass.

And she told him. Not in the confusing, euphemism-drenched way of her mother. But clearly, precisely, biologically. Using facts and setting out her position. Trying not to give in to the wave of emotion that made her want to beg him to do this with her, to take this journey earlier with her than they might have planned. Because he had to want to. That was the whole point.

‘So, not ideal,’ she said, shrugging. ‘And I suppose I have to ask you – do you feel ready? I mean, do you think we can do this? Do you want to?’

---