Page 16

15

TWO WEEKS AGO

It had felt odd asking Tom to leave for a bit, all things considered. But he’d nodded and allowed her to return to the Cler without making a fuss of it. Bit different from back in the day; he’d been childish in his neediness sometimes – annoyed or threatened when she’d wanted a bit of Sophie time. But she’d had to get away, just for a moment; needed to call Will and also spend time getting her head straight.

She’d wanted to ask Tom where he was going to go, but held her tongue. It wasn’t her business to know everything about him, not any more.

In their years together, they’d gotten over the initial reserve that comes at the start of a relationship when you don’t want to put the other person off by letting your guard down too early ( I want a big family! I’d love to get married one day! I have a third nipple! ) and they’d developed an openness with each other; had known each other inside out. Now she wasn’t so sure, so easy around him. It was hardly surprising after not seeing him for so many years.

She picked up her phone and answered a text message Libby had sent yesterday.

Libby

How’s it going?

Sophie

OK.

A green dot appeared by Libby’s name, accompanied by a moving ellipsis; her friend was online, typing.

Libby

OK? Is that all I get after 12 hours of wondering why you hadn’t replied? How is Paris? And, more importantly, HOW WAS THE MILLEFEUILLE!

Sophie

Glad to see that you have your priorities right!

Libby

Precisely. And pictures next time or it didn’t happen.

Sophie

Hard to find my appetite with… well, you know.

Libby

I know. But seriously girl you are in IN PARIS. It’s criminal not to at least come back a few pounds heavier.

Sophie

OK. I’ll get to it.

Libby

Love you, you know.

Sophie

I know.

Libby

Wish I was there.

Sophie

Because of me? Or the pastries?

Libby

Well, both. I have a lot of love to give to both of those things.

Sophie

Idiot *smiley face*

Libby

I’m offended! Seriously though, look after yourself, OK? That’s an order.

Sophie

Thanks Lib. I will.

Libby

I have to ask… is he there? Tom I mean. Like you said.

Sophie

Yes.

Libby

Oh, Soph. Look, I’m not going to judge you. I know how much you miss him. But just be careful, OK?

Sophie

I’m fine, honestly. I know what I’m doing. It’s OK. I know how to cross the road safely, look both ways.

Libby

Very funny. Well, look. Call me – day or night – if you need.

Sophie

Thanks.

Sophie lay for a moment, flicking through social media. Will hadn’t posted anything, which was far from surprising. Libby had posted one of the non-smiling selfies she’d favoured since discovering her newly etched crows’ feet and deciding her skin was smoother when she kept her expression neutral. Otherwise, nothing.

This wasn’t doing her any good, she decided, forcing herself to get up and move. Straightening the bed, she stood, checked her reflection in the mirror, grabbed her bag and took the shuddering lift down to the foyer. Tom would just have to catch up.

Montmartre was just as it had been all those years ago. Perhaps there was a little more graffiti outside the metro, a few shops boarded up, their windows whitened from the inside; maybe it was a bit busier. But essentially, it hadn’t changed. Probably in fifty, a hundred years’ time some other tourist would walk down these same streets and wonder the same thing. Perhaps even?—

‘Hey, no fair! Why didn’t you wait for me?’

The voice made her jump and she whirled around, almost knocking her bag into a passing woman who stepped back, alarmed, then continued on her way, muttering at the strange young lady spinning around in the street for no discernible reason. But it didn’t matter.

‘I wasn’t sure when you’d be back… so…’

They moved to the edge of the street, against the cool stone of a building, where they’d no longer be in anyone’s way.

‘Yes, but what I if I hadn’t found you?’

She was going to say something about his being needy, but stopped herself. She wasn’t sure how this was going to play out; wasn’t sure of the rules any more than he was. ‘Sorry,’ she said instead.

He was silent for a moment. ‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault I’m like this.’

‘No, but I should have thought…’

He smiled, leaning for a moment against the stone, his eyes closed. ‘No, let’s not.’

‘Not what?’

‘Talk about it. It’s fine. I found you.’

‘What made you choose Montmartre?’ she asked as they fell into step together again.

‘No idea. Just sort of found myself here,’ he admitted. ‘I thought, where would Sophie go?’

‘Nice to know I’m so predictable,’ she said, smiling.

‘You and all the other tourists.’

They joined the throng of people making their way up the cobbled streets. The sun warmed Sophie’s back between the straps of her dress; she inwardly scolded herself for forgetting sun cream. Something about the back of her neck, her upper shoulders and back seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, as if those parts of her body were determined to get burnt one way or the other.

They stood silently on the edge of the square, looking at the familiar artists – none of whom they recognised individually, but who made up the centre of the cobbled area, filling it with easels, paper, small stools, chairs for subjects.

‘I told Libby I was coming to see you,’ she said.

‘You did?’ He looked surprised. ‘What did she say?’

‘She told me to be careful,’ she admitted.

‘That’s it?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Pretty sure she thinks I’m borderline insane.’

Tom laughed. She’d forgotten how much she loved the sound of it. ‘Exactly how I like my women,’ he said. ‘Just crazy enough.’

‘Thanks very much,’ she grinned.

‘And she’s not going to tell Will? Don’t want him sending the cavalry out to rescue you.’

‘The cavalry being…?’ she smiled.

He grinned. ‘No idea. His parents? Yours? Libby?’

She giggled at the idea of it. ‘No, I think she knows me well enough to know that I’m going to keep myself safe. Good old sensible Sophie.’ She felt her mouth quiver, giving away the emotions that bubbled underneath.

‘This is hard for you, isn’t it?’ he said.

She shook her head, lying. ‘It’s good. I want this.’

They moved off, meandering around the different artists, peering over shoulders at easels, remarking over paintings they liked, more subtly grimacing at ones that were perhaps not quite at the artistic level of Vincent Van Gogh.

‘Painting, madame?’ a voice asked.

It was a woman, dressed in black, long hair glossy against her shoulders, paint on her sleeve.

‘Oh, I don’t think…’

‘Go on,’ Tom nodded. ‘For old times’ sake!’

‘I thought you were anti-nostalgia?’

‘Only when it suits me.’

They smiled at each other, the years between before and now falling away.

The woman was standing patiently waiting when Sophie broke her gaze. ‘Sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘Go on then. Yes, please.’

She sat on the small bench and lightly patted the seat next to her. But Tom shook his head.

Sometimes she forgot. Just for a moment. It was understandable, she told herself. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten Will or why she was here; and it certainly didn’t mean that she loved Will any less. But in this timeless place, with so many memories of Tom, it was understandable that she forgot that not everyone could see things the way she did.

She nodded. ‘OK,’ she said.

The woman looked up. ‘Ready?’

And she lifted her paintbrush and began running it lightly over the canvas.