Page 82 of Midnight in Paris

‘What?’

‘Replaceable.’

He laughed, a short bark of humour. ‘Replace Tom?’ he said. ‘I’d like to see someone try. He was… well, unique. A great mate.A good husband. A complete and utter idiot, with his heart in the right place.’

Will was the only person she knew who didn’t seem afraid to talk about Tom. To joke about him in a way that made him still feel alive, relevant.

She smiled through her tears. ‘I think that’s fair,’ she said.

‘But it’s also OK for you to move on. I don’t mean find someone, get married, put the pics of Tom away – any of that,’ he added hurriedly. ‘But I mean, let yourself be happy – even if it’s in a small way. Tom would want that.’

He was right. Even before he died, Tom had told her that he wanted her to be happy, to live her life. It was just she had no idea how or when that was supposed to happen.

‘And I think,’ Will added, ‘I think you can be sad and happy at the same time, can’t you? You’ll always be a bit sad about Tom. But it doesn’t mean you can’t be happy about someone… something else, too.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning into him, putting her arm around him reciprocally.

‘What for?’

‘Being so bloody wise.’

‘That’s not always seen as an asset,’ he said, deflecting.

‘Well, it is to me,’ she said, and she straightened slightly and kissed him firmly on the cheek.

He turned to her, surprised, his hand moving to where her lips had touched his skin. ‘Oh,’ he said.

Then he leant towards her and gently brushed his lips on hers.

She closed her eyes now, thinking of the kiss. How utterly right it had felt. How utterly, utterly terrifying.

44

THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

They’d booked into a familiar hotel, just off the Champs-Élysées. It was expensive and ordinarily she’d be aghast at what it cost, even though they could afford it. But in reality, she’d realised how little it all mattered. Money didn’t do anything when it came to the important stuff. Tom’s parents could probably buy the hospital where he was receiving his treatment – maybe several times over – but even the best protocol in the world might not be effective.

They arrived, tired and a little strung out from the journey, and flung their cases on the bed, sitting down next to them. ‘God, I must be getting old!’ Tom quipped. ‘I feel knackered from that.’

Her silence highlighted what they were both thinking. ‘Me too,’ she added. ‘Definitely.’

She wondered whether Tom had felt like this in the early years of their relationship, when she’d oohed and aahed over Parisian tourist traps and he’d felt a little jaded by it all; had seen it all before. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paris, that she hadn’t come to look forward to their yearly trips here. It was just that knowing that they had an enormous obstacle to overcome oncehome tarnished her enjoyment, yet she knew that Tom needed her to be upbeat, enthusiastic.

She stretched her mouth into a smile. ‘So, where first?’ she asked.

‘How about the Centre Pompidou?’

‘Brilliant.’ In truth it wasn’t one of her favourite Parisian destinations, the building – with its pipework on the outside, as if it were proudly showing off its underwear in public – didn’t seem beautiful to her. But this wasn’t about her, not at all.

‘Or the Latin Quarter?’

‘Yeah, you know what. I like the sound of that more,’ she smiled, holding out her hand for his.

Ten minutes later, they emerged onto the street. August sun reflected heat back onto them. The air was sticky with it. There were others walking, some with parasols, others fanning themselves with papers or leaflets as they walked. Nobody looked happy to be out in the sunshine. ‘Guess that’s why all the locals leave in August,’ said Tom. ‘Too hot.’

‘Yeah.’

They began the walk, one they’d done a few times before. Half an hour, then they usually stopped for a coffee or a beer in the sunshine, depending on time of day and weather, then meandered through the cobbles of the quarter, dropping into tiny boutiques, staring in the window of chocolatiers and patisseries longingly, sometimes succumbing.

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