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THE SECOND SUMMER – 2012

‘It’s very An Affair to Remember ,’ Libby remarked on the phone as Sophie carefully packed her small, wheeled suitcase. ‘You know, when they arrange to meet on the top of the Empire State Building.’

‘Well, I hope not,’ Sophie said, holding the phone between her shoulder and cheek to free up her hands. She held a yellow T-shirt up, and deftly reduced it to a tiny square, neatly slipping it inside the satin-lined case. Packing for this year’s trip – had it really been a year? – she’d felt odd not speaking to Libby who’d always helped her choose her outfits for a trip when they’d lived together. She’d had to make do with a call instead. Sophie knew it was normal to move on into adulthood; that living in a student let with friends wasn’t forever; but sometimes she missed her friend so fiercely her heart hurt.

‘I mean, because it’s romantic, you idiot,’ Libby laughed. ‘Arranging to meet, hopefully getting back together. And in Paris! I’m not saying that you’re going to get mown down by a car on your way to meet him. Although do look both ways when crossing the street, won’t you?’

‘Libby! This is nothing like that film. I know he’s going to be there, for starters. And we’re meeting at St Pancras, not at the top of the Eiffel Tower.’

‘Oh my God, you should have made it the top of the Eiffel Tower! That’s a story for your grandkids right there.’

Sophie snorted. ‘Now who’s getting ahead of themselves?’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if he’ll still be interested.’

‘Well, he’s going to be there, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah. But he’s not giving anything away.’

‘Have you given anything away? Given him any reason to hope?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Well then. I bet you anything he still wants to be with you,’ Libby said decisively.

Sophie zipped up the suitcase. ‘You really think so?’

‘Come on, you two are destined to be together. I can feel it.’

‘Since when did you become a hopeless romantic?’ Sophie asked, ignoring the surge of hope in her chest as she listened to her friend’s words. ‘I thought you were a cynic.’

‘Well, maybe I’ve mellowed.’

‘Ha. I highly doubt it.’

They both laughed. Libby was probably the most discerning person Sophie knew when it came to dating. Which meant she rarely ever did it.

‘Did I ever mention that the night we first met, I had Will down for being more your type?’

‘Will? What makes you say that?’

Libby shrugged. ‘I could just imagine you together right away. Tom seemed… Well, you two are really different, aren’t you? But sometimes that works, I guess.’

Sophie smiled. ‘Here’s hoping.’

‘Anyway,’ Libby continued, ‘I just have this feeling…’

Sophie smiled. She also had a feeling. But she forced herself to be pragmatic. It was a holiday to Paris with a friend. That’s all they’d promised each other. Tom had been true to his word, his promise not to talk about anything more between them until this trip – which could, as Libby said, be completely and utterly romantic, but could also mean he’d forgotten what he’d suggested and had simply moved on with his life.

They’d stayed in touch, pinging off the odd email, letter and phone call over the twelve months, but both had been busy. Tom hadn’t mentioned any other girlfriend, but then it didn’t mean he wasn’t meeting people. He wasn’t one for social media, and rarely seemed to post anything. Not that she looked. Often.

‘Do you regret turning him down?’ Libby asked, almost out of the blue. ‘Wish you’d stayed together the whole time?’

‘No!’ she said instinctively. Then, ‘Well, maybe a bit. But for all I know I could have been right. He might not be interested in me like that any more. And if that’s the case, well, I’ve saved myself a lot of heartache.’

‘There she goes again. Miss Sensible.’

‘Why does everyone say that as if it’s an insult?’ She was sensible. Sensible and proud of it. It meant that she showed up to lectures and lessons on time, that she got her work done without a last-minute rush. Being sensible meant that she’d spent the last year at home, living with her parents, rather than try to find the money for a rental. It meant that she had a little money saved as a backup. And that she’d already secured a new post for September. That was sensible. And it looked OK from where she was standing.

‘Ah, it’s not,’ Libby said. ‘But maybe…’

‘Maybe what?’ she said, putting down the pair of jeans she’d been folding and holding the phone with her hand.

‘A little bit… boring?’

She was genuinely hurt. ‘I’m boring?’

‘No!’ Libby laughed. ‘You could never be boring. But you might just create a boring life for yourself if you’re not careful. And you deserve more.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Thanks – I think,’ she said at last.

‘Anyway, this is exciting. The Paris meetup.’

‘The St Pancras meetup.’

‘What are you going to do? Run into his arms? Tell him how you feel straight away?’

Sophie felt a frisson of anxiety. ‘I’m not actually sure. I might just see how it goes. Maybe on the bridge…’

‘What bridge?’

But of course, she wasn’t meant to tell anyone about that.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Just somewhere romantic, I suppose.’

‘OK, well like I said. Be careful.’

‘Hang on, I thought you said I should throw caution to the wind – take a risk?’

‘I meant be careful when you’re crossing the street. These romantic liaisons don’t always have a happy ending, you know!’

‘Idiot.’

As they said goodbye and ended the call, Sophie felt her good mood fade. It was terrifying, the thought of meeting up, not knowing what Tom was thinking, what he wanted. She was rubbish at expressing herself, she knew that. Always left it up to the guy to make the first move – not because she was traditional, but because she was usually frozen with fear at the thought of being shot down.

Hopefully Tom would take the lead.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair looked OK; it had grown quite a bit over the past few months – largely because her teaching course had kept her so busy that she hadn’t had time to arrange an appointment, but it quite suited her. She’d tried to scatter a few loose waves through it with a curling tong, and was pleased with the result. It had darkened to a mid-brown, due to the lack of time spent outside, so was quite different from when he’d last seen her. She wondered what he’d think.

But there was no time to worry about that now, she realised, checking her watch. She took one last look in her bag – purse, travel money, her new mobile phone. Not that she could afford to use it in Paris. Would it even work? She kept it on her anyway.

Almost on cue, the taxi pulled up outside.

‘Taxi’s here,’ her mum called from the kitchen which overlooked the road.

‘Thanks, Mum!’ She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and began to lug it down the stairs.

Mum came out into the hallway, rubbing her hands on a tea towel. ‘Well, have fun!’ she said.

‘Thanks, I will!’

‘Say hi to Libby for me.’

‘I will,’ she said again, feeling a little guilty but reassuring herself that she wasn’t lying exactly. When she’d mentioned the trip, Mum had simply assumed she was going with her best friend, and she’d decided not to mention it was anyone else.

Her parents weren’t prudes, she knew that. But she still felt sort of awkward admitting she was holidaying with a boy. There’d be too many questions before and afterwards that she might not know the answer to. It was easier this way.

Sam knew the truth but had been sworn to secrecy.

‘Bye!’ Sophie pulled the door closed behind her and wheeled her suitcase to the waiting driver.

Two hours later, she was feeling (and no doubt looking) overheated and dishevelled as she made her way through the glass doors into St Pancras station. As always, the space teemed with life; everyone in a hurry, streaming towards or out of trains, running to platforms, walking while talking loudly, mobile phones clamped to ears.

The statue caught her eye as it always did, the bronze of a couple, clasped together, noses touching, lips close – the perfect piece of art for the space. A scene that had perhaps been played out many times over the years in St Pancras – a place where people reunited and said goodbye hour after hour, day after day. She paused briefly, the rumble of her wheeled suitcase on the smooth floor stopping, and looked at the pair. Their foreheads were touching and their eyes stared into each others’ intensely. It was impossible to tell if it was a scene of relief or sorrow – reuniting or parting.

‘For God’s sake, woman, it’s not the Mona Lisa !’ came a voice at her ear.

She jumped, then turned around and beamed. ‘Tom!’ she said.

He was altogether the same and yet different from when they’d last seen each other in person. Gone were the baggy jeans he’d favoured at university and in their place, smarter, more fitted trousers in grey cotton, and a simple T-shirt – white with a single navy stripe. His trainers looked new – a world away from the battered pair he’d often donned back in the day. Had he smartened up his look for her? Or was this how he dressed now? What else had changed?

She saw in his eyes that he was appraising her in the same way. She’d definitely been more casual – bordering on a complete and utter mess – at university, squeezing the life out of her favourite jeans and trousers, wearing plain T-shirts and cheap jumpers. Other than at the ball, he’d probably never seen her in a dress, let alone the smart, belted one she’d picked out from New Look.

‘I like your hair,’ he said at last.

‘Thanks.’

They fell into step together and there it was, that feeling of comfort that always seemed to settle over her when they were together. But behind that, this time, was something else. A feeling of being desperate to ask: So? Do you still want to be together? But an inability to express that.

She glanced at him as they walked towards the Eurostar check-in. But his expression was unreadable.