Page 7 of Midnight in Paris

‘We’re good,’ Sophie had said, ‘thanks though.’

‘See, they’re fine!’ Tom had exclaimed, appearing behind his friend and throwing his arms wide. ‘They can take care of themselves, mate.’

But Will had persisted, until eventually Sophie had allowed him to walk to the taxi rank just outside with her – both of them now supporting Libby – and hand the driver a twenty-pound note on her behalf. Taxis were something she shared with friends now and then on an emergency-only basis (if one of them broke a heel, or was ill) and although she hated the fact she’d let him pay, she really didn’t have enough to cover the fare home.

At least she’d probably never see him again.

Tom had come out at the last minute, looking at Will, confused, before waving at them enthusiastically.

‘Bye, Will! Bye, Lysander!’ Sophie had joked out of the window as he waved them off.

Tom had looked at his legs protruding from his tunic as if just realising that he was now on a street at 3a.m. wearing what was effectively an ill-fitting dress, and he had made a face before giving her a brief wave and trotting back across the road towards the wooden door.

‘He was nice,’ she’d said to Libby who was leaning heavily against her shoulder.

But Libby was asleep.

4

TWO WEEKS AGO

The hotel lift was a little smaller than she remembered and as soon as she stepped into it to make her way down to the reception, she regretted not using the stairs for the four flights. Two young French men, or boys perhaps, were in there and as the doors slid closed, she realised how close together they were all standing.

The taller of the two had brown hair, thick and wavy, curling to the nape of his neck, a shadow on his top lip which might be the beginnings of a moustache. The other sported a goatee and had short hair gelled into a neat point at the front. Both were dressed in jeans, band T-shirts, smart loafers. The lift interior smelled of enthusiastically applied aftershave and teenage hope.

One of them motioned at the buttons. ‘Rez-de-chaussée?’ he asked.

She had limited French but knew at least what this meant. ‘Oui, merci.’

‘You are English?’ the other man enquired, a smile breaking across his face like a wave. ‘On holidays?’

‘Yes,’ she said, not willing or able to explain that this wasn’t quite a holiday. What else could she say it was? A mission? One last moment with Tom before she finally let him go?

‘Well, you must let us show you around!’ he enthused. ‘Evan and I, we know all the best places!’

‘Thank you, but no. I’m meeting someone.’

‘But of course!’ he said with an exaggerated eye-roll. ‘A beautiful woman like you will already have someone waiting, especially in Paris. It is not a place to come alone.’

She smiled thinly and waited as the doors slid open on the second floor to reveal an empty hallway. They were silent as the doors slid shut again and the lift shuddered into life and continued its descent.

‘Well, have a good holidays.’ The man bowed slightly as she left the metal container and stepped onto the thin carpet of the reception.

‘Thank you. You too.’

She silently walked the familiar route, seeing how little had changed over the years since they’d first come. She was only thirty-five – hardly old. But imagining the younger version of herself walking these well-trodden streets full of hope and life and excitement, she felt a strange sense of wanting to protect the younger woman. Of wanting her to know how things would work out.

Or perhaps that former her with her wide eyes and ready smile would be better off just enjoying the moment while she could.

She meandered along the Parisian streets, feeling something buzz inside her as she always did when she was here in this eccentric, artistic, historical, beautiful city. It was early August and hot, the sun beating on the pavements; people dressed in shorts and sunglasses, summer dresses and hats. In August, she knew, many of the residents made their way to their countryhouses, preferring to spend the holiday month away from the city.

But she’d almost always come this time of year – mainly because she’d always been in education (either studying or working), so her summers were free months. She enjoyed the heat, the warm evenings, the sparkle of sunlight on water. There was always shade, always a fountain to drape your hand into. Always ice-cold white wine or enormous jugs of water to pour. Plenty of sunshades on outdoor tables to take the edge off while you rested.

And although she didn’t have any way to compare, she wondered whether Paris was friendlier, more open, at a time when many residents disappeared but tourists flooded in, making an eclectic, friendly and vibrant temporary population of their own.

Once in a while, her hand would creep up to the silver locket at her neck, and she’d finger the cool metal, close her eyes and think back to a time when life was simpler, when her future had looked obvious and she hadn’t imagined the kind of curveballs life could sometimes throw.

Her phone rang and she smiled: Sam, her younger sister. ‘Hi,’ she said, bringing it to her ear.

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