Page 64 of Midnight in Paris

‘And you’re not using it because…’

‘It’s Tom’s,’ she’d said.

‘You want to save it for something… permanent?’

She’d shrugged. ‘I guess.’

Libby had looked at her, worry etched on her face. ‘You know Tom would have wanted you to use the money, right? I mean, he loved you so… I have to say, if it were me, I’d be living like a queen!’ Libby had grinned and stretched her arms expansively as if to indicate the extent of her largesse. Then, noting Sophie’s expression, brought them down slowly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be!’ Sophie had said. ‘I probably should. Tom definitely would want me to. But a lot of it’s the life insurance. It just seems… weird.’

‘OK.’

‘And I want to give some of it back. To his parents. The deposit they gave him. I’m just not sure how…’

‘Would they even want it?’

Sophie had shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But it feels like the right thing. It’s just easier to put it away for now… try not to think about it.’

‘You, my friend, are a unique individual, you know that?’

‘So I’m told.’

‘Guess that’s why we all love you so much.’

‘That and my wealth,’ Sophie had joked weakly.

‘Well, yes. Of course. Most of us are hoping for a handout at some point.’

Sophie had found herself laughing. ‘Thank you,’ she’d said.

‘What?’

‘For being an idiot. Everyone’s so gloomy around me. And I know, I get that I’m hardly the best company right now. But thanks for ignoring all that and being yourself. It’s… nice. Kind of reminds me that there’s a world out there.’

‘Even if that world is filled with wise-cracking idiots?’

‘Precisely.’

Sophie sipped the last of her coffee and set down her cup. Back then she’d wondered if she’d ever move past the grief. But here she was, doing the impossible. Moving on.

34

THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

A fortnight before they were due to go to Paris, she woke in the night to find herself alone. Tom’s side of the bed was cold; he’d clearly not been there for a while. Then she heard a noise from the living room – a brief, strange cry of pain.

Brow furrowed, she slipped out from under the covers and made her way to where Tom lay on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his middle. The TV was on, quietly flickering in the corner – an old film she recognised from years ago.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’

‘Just one of my stomach aches. It’ll pass. Probably ate too much at dinner.’

She thought back to their simple meal of mild curry and rice. He’d barely touched it, she remembered.

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