Page 61 of Midnight in Paris

‘Right.’ His tone was final, cutting her off. ‘Let’s go to the hotel then.’

‘Oh look, Tom, ignore me. I…’

‘It’s fine.’

She’d said nasty things to him sometimes, in arguments. She’d been mean, and petty, and done all the things that couples do when they bicker. She’d even, once, smashed his favourite mug during a blazing row. Things she felt ashamed about.

But this, she realised, hurrying by his side, was the first time she’d ever really hurt him.

31

NOW

She felt better after the shower. Cleansed of Paris; properly back in her own life again. Slipping on a bathrobe, she made her way to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The flat was tidy – Will had clearly gone to quite a bit of effort to make things nice when she’d been away. She was reminded of the moment after they’d finished the flat clearance; how it had been devastating but cleansing all at once.

‘It looks so… empty,’ she told him.

‘Well, that was kind of the idea,’ he pointed out.

She smiled, ‘I know, but still…’

‘I know.’

‘He’s properly gone.’

Will nodded. He opened his mouth then closed it again and Sophie was glad. There was nothing he could have said to make it better – meaningless words about Tom still being there in their hearts – the kind of thing people said at funerals or on TV.

Tom’s parents had turned up to fill the car with some of his old possessions. While they hadn’t been unkind to Sophie in any way, they’d been cold, purposeful. Sophie had seen Will’s face crease with sympathy as she’d helped them carry boxes to the car.

‘They hated me selling the flat,’ she told him later. ‘I think they felt like it was theirs, because they’d invested the deposit. But I tried to offer it back to them. They didn’t want it, said Tom would have wanted me to have it.’

‘No accounting for people,’ Will said. ‘You’d think they’d be grateful to you.’

She nodded, although she didn’t need their gratefulness. What she didn’t understand was how two people with so little apparent warmth had produced someone as open and loving as Tom had been. They’d been there for him throughout, of course, but in a monetary way – the best doctors, the best care, the best team. ‘It’s how they show their love,’ Tom had said. But it had been Sophie who’d held his hand, who’d tried to give him hope when his was failing. Who’d tried to help him live in the face of it all.

The minute Tom had died, she’d felt as if she’d been expelled from his family. They’d seemed resentful that he’d left the flat to her – and that she was selling it. But it was too much to keep on her own. Besides, she hadn’t wanted to; it was imbued with both happy and painful memories, both of which were almost too much to bear.

Her own parents had been different. Supportive. Had come over with food and hugs and words designed to help her heal. But she’d felt herself pushing them away. ‘You never wanted me to marry him, anyway!’ she’d snapped to her mum one day through her grief, and had watched her mother’s face fall.

‘Of course we did,’ her mum had said.

It was easier to be angry, she realised, than sad. More powerful. Less diminishing. She knew she’d hurt her parents by pulling away, but she’d felt almost frightened of being comforted, at first; if she’d surrendered fully to grief she might never have resurfaced.

It was different with Will. Maybe because he was the one person whom she felt shared her grief, a little at least. He’d lost Tom too – his best friend through university and beyond. And because Tom had charged him with looking after her, helping her with the flat. And so, in accepting his friendship, she felt as if she was at least doing what Tom would have wanted.

She was staying in the flat for the last time tonight, before a brief sojourn at her parents’ place, after which she wasn’t quite sure what she’d do. The flat would sell; the estate agent had barely been able to contain his excitement when she’d listed it – close to the city centre, in good nick, and she wasn’t fussed about price – but she wasn’t sure what her next steps would be. In the five months since Tom had died, people had tried to reassure her: ‘You’re young! You’ve got time to make a completely new start.’ They meant well, of course they did. But she couldn’t feel it – not now; maybe not ever.

‘Want to grab a bite?’ Will asked her, after they’d stood in silence looking at the flat as the light had faded slightly and shadows had begun to form.

She nodded and they pulled the door closed behind them. ‘Bye, Tom,’ she said softly, as she often did these days when stepping out. Will patted her back briefly. ‘Bye, mate,’ he said too, as they made their way down the stairs and into the well-lit street.

The kettle clicked off and Sophie spooned a heap of instant coffee grounds into her mug, watching as they melted to rich black liquid once she covered them in boiling water. The aroma brought her back to the present; here she was. Back home. And somehow finally ready to move forward.

32

THE SEVENTH SUMMER – 2017

‘This is lovely,’ Tom said, sticking his fork into his coq au vin and smiling. ‘What’s yours like?’