Page 60 of Midnight in Paris

She nodded, sensing where this was going.

‘But this shouldn’t be hard work,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s no reason why it should be. It should be… joyful.’

‘Joyful? Seriously?’ she cocked an eyebrow.

‘Well, natural then.’

This was also a bad choice of word. ‘If someone tells me one more time that it’s natural, that we have to be patient, or to frickin’ RELAX, I am going to smash something!’ she’d told him a couple of months ago after going out with friends.

She sighed deeply, deciding not to pick him up on it this time. ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘But at the same time, I don’t want to do anything that might… well, hinder our chances.’

‘Even drinking a couple of sips of champers?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, yeah.’

He looked at her, then something seemed to change in his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said, setting his own glass down. ‘OK, then I won’t either.’

Finally, she felt herself smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’ll be worth it in the end. And look, for what it’s worth, Iwilltry to relax.’

‘Good,’ he told her. ‘Because seriously, Sophie, we have all the time in the world.’

And in that moment, it really felt true. But then the worries flooded back, pushing her good humour aside. The stories and stories and stories online of women who’d never made it, others who’d fallen pregnant at the drop of a hat. The fact that it all seemed out of their hands. The helplessness she felt; the fear.

She tried as hard as she could to keep it inside, this rising anger that seemed to engulf her, that stopped her feeling like herself. That made her resent Tom for not being miserable enough, when she was clearly miserable enough for the both of them.

They left the restaurant and began the walk back and she wished for a moment that she’d had the champagne. That she’d grabbed the flute and chugged the whole lot, and allowed herself to escape on a wave of bubbles and alcohol. Then they’d be stumbling back, laughing; instead, they were more or less silent, watching happy couples stream past them as if they were the only ones swimming, defeatedly, downstream against a tide of joy.

Then, ‘Bridge?’ he said, glancing at his watch.

‘What?’

‘It’s nearly midnight,’ he flashed his watch at her as if for proof. ‘I thought we could…’

‘Seriously?’

He looked hurt. ‘Why not?’

‘Tom, I’m exhausted. I’m meant to be looking after myself. I need to get to bed.’

‘OK.’ His tone was flat.

But she couldn’t leave it. ‘What?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on. You’re sulking. Does it really mean so much to you? A fucking bridge?’

‘Yes. It does, actually,’ he said. ‘And I thought it meant something to you too.’

Something turned over inside her. ‘It did once.’

‘But not any more?’ He stopped, looked at her. A man in a black hat walking too close stumbled and nearly crashed into them, then carried on, muttering under his breath.

‘Tom. Seriously? Magic? Possibility? You can’t tell me that you still believe all that crap,’ she said. Hating herself, but feeling unable to stop.

He dropped her hand. ‘It’s not crap. Well, maybe it is. But I thought…’

‘If the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that there’s no magic, no possibility. There’s fucking science and a bit of luck and that’s about it.’

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