Page 63 of Midnight in Paris

‘But much needed.’ She wiped her mouth. ‘Oh, God. That felt good.’

‘Shall I get another?’ he looked at her, eyebrow cocked – and there he was again. Her Tom.

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘Why the fuck not?’

They had planned to go to a show. But instead, two hours later, tickets forgotten and laughing as if they were studentsagain and comparatively carefree, they fell into a taxi. ‘My tolerance must be nothing these days,’ she said. ‘Two glasses and I can barely walk!’

‘She isn’t going to vomit is she, monsieur?’ asked the driver cautiously.

‘No. She’s OK,’ Tom smiled. ‘Hotel?’ he said turning to her.

‘You know what?’ she said, sitting up and feeling more energised than she had in an age. ‘Let’s go to the bridge.’

And there it was again, the easy smile she hadn’t known she was missing.

‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘And perfect timing,’ he added, as somewhere in the Parisian streets a church bell began its midnight chime.

33

NOW

Sophie took her hot coffee to the table and set it down, slipping into one of their cushioned chairs and pulling Will’s discarded newspaper towards her. Trying to keep hold of the feeling of release she’d experienced just now.

When she’d moved into her own place after Tom’s death, she’d hoped that would help to free her. And it had in so many ways. But perhaps recent events – the hallucinations, Tom’s ghost – had shown her she should have taken more time to grieve back then, instead of running away.

After the move, she fell into a dull routine. Her alarm woke her each morning and she reached out a hand to grab her phone and turn it off. Sitting up in bed, she sighed with tiredness before flinging off the covers and standing up, stretching her aching body. Somewhere, someone else was already up, playing music at 6.30a.m.; her flat’s thin walls were not effective at blocking out noise.

She tiredly took herself through her routine. Showering, dressing, eating a light breakfast, checking her lesson plans for the day. She took a moment to scroll through her messages too – one from Libby: a gif of a kitten with the words ‘Not Monday!’ emblazoned on the front. She liked the message and sent a gif back in response.

It was her second term at South Hill Academy and she was still finding her feet. It was easier now she’d found the flat, on the outskirts of the city but close enough that she still had a Cambridge postcode. Commuting from her parents’ had been difficult, and she’d begun to feel a little odd living with them. When the flat she’d shared with Tom had sold, she’d begun to look for rentals and found this small, modern bedsit – worlds away from the flat she’d shared with Tom – and signed up for it almost immediately.

‘It’s time to get things back on track,’ she’d told her mum, who’d nodded.

‘Just… go easy on yourself,’ Mum had said, pushing a strand of hair back behind Sophie’s ear. ‘It’s early days, love.’

She’d smiled and enveloped her mum in a hug. If the situation were reversed, she wasn’t sure she’d have had the patience that her parents had had. She’d fallen apart once she’d moved back home, staying in bed for days. Then she’d started going out, getting drunk, falling out of taxis and losing her key at 2a.m. She’d argued, railed, blamed them, and they’d taken it with as much grace and love as possible. And eventually, the storm had blown itself out. The grief had settled in her stomach, a bowling ball of sadness and regret she managed to live around. Gradually, slowly, she’d come back to life.

Sam had been there too, sporadically. Her own life was just starting – she was out enjoying herself, she had a new boyfriend. Things were looking good. And Sophie was genuinely happy for her sister. But she struggled to spend proper time with her, hersister’s carefree happiness contrasting so much with her grief that it meant both of them struggled to find common ground.

Libby had helped her move her few boxes of possessions into her new space. ‘It’s nice!’ she’d said, her tone full of false positivity.

‘I know it’s a bit… well, bland.’

‘But that’s OK! Bland is good. A blank canvas for you to inject your personality into.’

‘Maybe.’ Sophie hadn’t said, but she liked the simplicity of it. Didn’t need anything beyond the essentials.

‘And look, it doesn’t have to be forever. If you want something more… central?’

‘Just keeping things simple. Don’t want to stretch the budget too much.’

‘Didn’t you literally just sell a flat?’

‘A mortgaged flat.’

‘I know, but you inherited the equity, didn’t you? Don’t you have about £200k stashed away somewhere?’

She’d nodded.

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