Page 59 of Midnight in Paris

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Just a sip.’ He held out the glass, bubbles running up the golden liquid inside. Her mouth watered and for a moment she was tempted. Then she felt anger course through her veins, feeling a little like she’d been transported back to her teens, when friends had tried to ply her with cheap cider at the park. ‘Tom! No!’

‘It’s not like you’re actually pregnant!’ he said, holding out a glass.

She gave him a look that clearly communicated how that particular reassurance had made her feel. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said coldly. ‘It’s not like I’m thinking about that fact every single day.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, so deflated that she felt guilty. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘You never do,’ she said snappily.

‘Oh, come on. We’re on holiday. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.’ He sat back in his chair, arms crossed.

‘Yes, well, maybe some of us find it harder to switch off from real life than others! I read that article, didn’t I, saying it’s better to avoid drink altogether. And I’m doing everything I can tomake this work for us. I just don’t feel as if we’re on the same page.’

‘Of course we are!’ he said, his cheeks reddening slightly. ‘How can you say that, Soph? You know I want a baby just as much as you do.’

A man sitting at the next table lifted his eyes from his bowl of mussels and looked at them for a moment.

‘Ido,’ Tom insisted more quietly, shifting forward. ‘I just don’t think we should put our lives on hold for it, that’s all. And you know, maybe if we stop thinking about it all the time, we’ll be more likely to…’

‘I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s the problem.’

‘Would it really hurt to have a sip of wine? Take a break from it? Look, we could forget about it all this month if you like. It’s not like we’re anywhere near biological clock territory, even with the menopause thing. What’s one month?’

He just didn’t get it. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but then took in his earnest expression. ‘I know.’ She reached for his hand then. ‘I just… I don’t want to do anything to jeopardise…’

‘I just think, you know… You could relax a bit more about it.’

She stiffened, grabbing back her hand. ‘Seriously? You’re telling me to relax?’

He almost shrank from her. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He held both his palms up in a gesture of defeat. ‘I just meant, we’re on holiday and…’

‘Well, I can’t relax! Never could. So I suppose now you’re going to tell me it’s all my own fault that I’m fucking barren.’

He glanced over at the man, whose head was now pointedly turned towards the window, then back at Sophie. ‘Come on, Soph. You know I don’t think that.’

She felt herself soften a little, leant forward and touched his arm lightly. ‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘I know what you’re trying to say. I really do. And I get it. I’m sorry that I’m such a…’

‘Bitch?’ he suggested.

‘Mess.’

‘Sorry.’

She smiled then. Sighing deeply, she let her shoulders sink against the back of her chair. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just don’t seem to be able to switch off from it all.’

‘I know.’

‘I just wish… I wanted us to…’ she trailed off. He knew all of it already, of course.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Want to know what I think?’

‘Yes,’ she said, rather cautiously, ‘as long as you don’t say something about relaxing more.’

‘Noted,’ he grinned. He looked at her, his expression loving. ‘I think, Sophie Gardner, that you’ve had to work hard for everything you’ve got…’

‘I can’t help?—’

‘No! No, it’s a good thing. Well, not good. Admirable though,’ he said hastily. ‘But you’ve kind of equated succeeding – getting what you want – with hard work.’

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