Page 87 of Midnight in Paris

It was made worse when she’d answered the phone to Tom’s mum a few days later. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea, Sophie?’ she’d said. ‘I know you love Paris, but try to think about Tom. His needs.’

Before Tom’s illness, she’d thought Julie’s protectiveness over her son was sweet, and understandable given that he was her only child. But since the diagnosis, something had changed; there was a sense of challenge, of ownership. Sophie knew it was grief, knew that underneath her fear and devastation Julie was a nice person, a good mum. But it was hard to feel it at times like this when her voice snapped down the line.

She’d gripped the phone and tried to keep her calm. ‘Julie, this is all Tom’s idea,’ she’d said. ‘I’m trying to do what he wants.’

‘But what he wants and what heneedsare two very different things.’

She hadn’t dignified that with a response. But she had made Tom promise that they’d get taxis everywhere instead of tackling the metro or trying to walk. He’d been more than happy to make that concession. ‘I’ll tell Mum,’ he’d said.

‘No, don’t. We can get it.’

Tom had slipped an arm around her. ‘It’s not for us, Soph. It’s for her. Mum, she always wants to fix things. Dad too. Most of the time, money’s been able to achieve that. I don’t think she knows how to handle this…’ he had gestured vaguely at his body. ‘It’ll make her feel better to do this for us.’

Finishing her meal, Sophie sat back in her comfortable seat and watched the familiar view flash by. If someone had told her when she’d taken the train under the Channel for the first timethat she’d be back every year for almost a decade, she wouldn’t have believed them. She’d have scoffed at the idea that she and Tom would get married; that they’d be celebrating their fifth anniversary soon. Yet here she was.

You never know what life might throw at you, she thought, looking at her husband who’d fallen asleep, his champagne flute in his lap – thankfully drained. You have to be grateful for the moment you’re in, because that’s all you really have.

They’d just finished their coffee when the announcements started, first in French then in English, that they were approaching the Gare du Nord, that they ought to start preparing. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she braced herself for the job ahead – gathering together their rather excessive luggage, getting Tom into his chair, managing the chilled bag of medications. They’d alerted a porter at the start of the journey, but he was yet to turn up and assist.

She masked her worry with a smile. ‘Right!’ she said as breezily as she could. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

‘Bonjour Paris!’ he said, throwing his arms wide. ‘Let’s make this one count.’

‘A holiday to remember,’ she said, forcing a smile.

‘A grand finale,’ he added.

She wanted, suddenly, to shout at him. That it wasn’t funny. That it was horrible, heart-wrenching, tragic, unfair, and terrifying. But she held it back. What was the alternative? she thought. Lie on the ground and kick and scream at the horror of it all? They’d said he probably had four weeks; this is what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.

Instead, she nodded and grabbed the heavy, wheeled suitcase from the on-board storage. She took his arm, as if it were her rather than him who needed support, and they made their way clumsily to the exit. She set the case down, gave him a quick grin, as if this were a completely normal situation, and went back infor his wheelchair. Pulling it out of the rack, she felt a sob heave in her throat. But no. She wouldn’t let it. They were going to have a wonderful time.

47

NOW

Will, Sam, and of course, Libby. The three of them had held her up in turn through those dark months. Libby, with her infectious optimism, had been the one who’d helped her to bring a little fun back, despite the pain. Booking those spa days, cinema, theatre tickets, and not taking no for an answer.

Late 2021, she’d found herself going to seeLes Misérablesin central London. Testament, once again, to her friend’s persuasive skills.

Libby was waiting in the theatre foyer, looking at her watch, when Sophie rushed in. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she panted. ‘I’m not used to the tube any more!’

Libby laughed. ‘Hey, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t stand me up.’

‘As if.’

They linked arms and made their way to the bar, determined to get a glass of something in before the performance started.It was their fifth time watchingLes Misérablesand it was becoming something of a tradition.

‘God, I love this show,’ Sophie said.

‘Even though it makes you sob your heart out?’

‘Even so,’ she smiled. It was true, the love story, the child getting shot, the misery and ecstasy of it all often left her with tears pouring down her face. But they were different tears. The kind of tears she’d shed over a book or a film. A caught-up-in-the-emotional-moment rather than the real sadness and misery she’d experienced with Tom.

‘So, how are things with Will?’ Libby asked as they took their glasses over to a standing table in the corner, giving others a chance to get to the bar before curtain up.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on. You two have been getting close.’

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