Page 90 of Midnight in Paris

‘Yes, you did. But it included… you know… ’Til… well, ’til death do us part.’ Libby grimaced at her own words. ‘So, you know.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘You deserve a bit of fun, at least. It doesn’t matter whether Will’s the second love of your life, or just someone nice to date. It’s OK to move on.’

Sophie snatched her arm away, suddenly defensive. ‘Two years isn’t long, Libby!’ she said.

‘For God’s sake.’ Libby, usually the coolest of cucumbers, was beginning to sound impatient. ‘Look, you’ve got to stop feeling so guilty about everything. What happened to Tom, it was awful. But you know, it happened to you too. You deserve happiness. And who’s to say what would have happened if Tom hadn’t got sick. I mean, things weren’t… great with you guys before that, were they?’

‘They were OK.’

There was a silence as the two women looked at each other. As if neither could quite believe Libby had said that.

‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘Too much. No relationship is perfect, after all. I suppose I’m just saying… We don’t know what life might have waiting around the corner. And maybe it’s time to think about living again?’

Sophie’s body filled with indignant adrenaline. She wanted to march out of the theatre, into a taxi and get home as soon as possible. She wanted to yell at her friend. She wanted to shake her to say, ‘Tom and I – we weren’t like that! We loved each other!’

But looking at Libby’s face, she softened. People sometimes said the wrong thing for the right reasons. So many of the friends on the periphery of Sophie’s life had melted away whenshe was bereaved. Had crossed the street to avoid an awkward conversation. Had not known what to say, so had said nothing at all. Libby had always been there. And while Sophie didn’t always appreciate her interventions, didn’t always agree with what she said, she was grateful that she was still at her side, still talking to her. Not worried, as others seemed to be, that bereavement might be catching. She felt a shiver of longing and frustration, sadness and residual anger run through her and wondered, not for the first time, how the simple five letters of grief could encompass such a range of emotions.

‘Shit,’ Libby said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve upset you, haven’t I? I’m such an idiot.’

‘You’re not, you’re not!’ Sophie wiped her eyes, annoyed that they were betraying her. ‘I mean, you aren’t exactly tactful.’

Libby snorted.

‘But you’re here. You’re saying something. And there isn’t anything you can say that would be right. Most people run away from that.’

Libby nodded. ‘Soph, you guys loved each other. Anyone could see that. Just, I love you too. And I want to help. I’m just not very good at it.’

‘Not very good?’

‘Shit. I am completely and utterly shit at it.’

Sophie felt the ghost of a smile flicker on her lips. ‘That’s more like it.’ She slipped an arm around her friend. ‘But thanks,’ she said.

Libby’s eyebrows raised. ‘For what?’

‘Ah, you know.’ And she gave her friend a small smile, which was returned.

The pair walked into the theatre to lose themselves in other people’s misery and heartache and redemption, and forget about their own traumas for a while.

She’d book tickets again, thought Sophie now. To another musical. Because Libby loved them. And it was time she started being a better friend.

48

THE NINTH SUMMER – 2019

People gave them a wide berth. The young girl, in her summer dress, hair shoulder-length and styled, make-up on, making the best of things. And the boy, thin, pale, in a wheelchair. A contrast between someone at the beginning of life and what they’d been told would soon be the end of life. Occasionally, Sophie would catch a glance of herself and Tom, in the reflection of a taxi as the driver removed the chair for her, or in a shop window as they passed. And she’d be surprised and horrified anew at what she saw.

But the rest of the time, it was just her and Tom, Tom and her. It was as if Tom had emerged from a cocoon: the worry, the treatment, the dread had been removed. There wasn’t any point to any of it now. And beneath it all there he was, the boy she’d fallen in love with and the man he’d become.

‘The Louvre?’ he asked when they first exited the hotel, wheelchair at their side, ready in case he became exhausted.

‘Seriously?’

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