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17

TWO WEEKS AGO

The day was simply going too fast. Sophie thought back to all the days she’d spent in school – the slow, mocking tick of a classroom clock; the fact that the hands never seemed to shift. And now here she was in Paris and time was slipping through her fingers like liquid.

She’d bought a baguette for dinner, filled with thick slices of freshly cut ham, and munched it on a bench with Tom at her side, the picture – that had turned out quite realistic and more expensive than she’d expected – next to her.

Then they’d stood and she’d brushed the crumbs from her front decisively. ‘Right,’ she said.

‘Want to go and take a look at Notre Dame – or what’s left of it?’ he offered.

They were both surprised when she shook her head. ‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ she asked. ‘I think maybe it would be better just to be somewhere we could talk.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

She laughed then. ‘Tom, I don’t think that after everything that happened, there can be any more bad news, do you?’ she said. ‘If what you said about luck being in a balance, you must have loads of great things to come.’

They were silent then, remembering.

‘Do you forget?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes?’

‘Forget that…?’ He indicated his body.

She nodded.

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it doesn’t feel that different. Then I remember and…’

She felt a stab of grief. ‘Oh, Tom.’

He shrugged. ‘It is what it is, not much we can do about it now. And better not to dwell on all the bad stuff that happened.’

‘You’re telling me!’

They smiled sadly at each other. An old man with a dog sat on the end of the bench, leaving space between them, and began to fill an enormous pipe with tobacco.

‘Do you ever visit your parents?’ Sophie asked, more quietly now.

The man looked at her, his brow furrowed. ‘ Désolé ,’ he said. ‘ Je ne comprends pas . I don’t understand.’

‘Oh. No,’ she said. ‘I’m not talking to… Sorry.’

He turned back, impatient at her lack of French. Labelling her, no doubt, as another mad tourist. Sophie looked at Tom, who was shaking with laughter.

‘What?’ she mouthed.

‘You, chatting up an old guy. Come on, Soph. What would Will say?’

She got to her feet. ‘Think perhaps we’d better…’

The old man looked up again, impatiently, before shaking his head – apparently having given up on her.

‘This is hard,’ she said to Tom as they walked. ‘I mean, all of it’s hard, obviously. Seeing you. The… the goodbye bit. But just being here together. Forgetting.’

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she felt the tingle of it. ‘I know,’ he said.

They walked in silence for a while, both noticing how the light was fading; neither commenting.

‘Have you seen anyone else since…?’ she asked. ‘Your parents?’

He shook his head. ‘Just you.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘Not sure anyone else wants to see me, to be honest,’ he said. ‘They’ve kind of moved on.’

‘And I haven’t?’

‘You’re trying to, and it’s good. A new start. And you know, maybe things will work out this time. Maybe you’ll even… well, you know. Babies. Motherhood.’

Her cheeks were hot. ‘Maybe,’ she said, and only he could understand the enormous pressure of hope and despair behind that word. ‘Maybe not. I’m trying…’ she took an enormous, shuddering breath. ‘I guess I’m trying to take one day at a time this time. Not… push things too much. Not make it all about that. Trying just to… well, to live. Sorry.’

‘No sorrys, remember?’ he said. ‘And it’s great.’

‘But how I was… with you. I ruined it, didn’t I? I was so impatient for time to pass month after month. And it felt like we had so much of it. I didn’t realise…’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘I just wish I hadn’t taken so much away,’ she said simply.

He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You didn’t. It was us. Our thing. I felt it just as much as you. And neither of us were to know. Plus, how do you think I feel? Becoming that mess of a person I was afterwards. That fucking wheelchair.’

She laughed through her tears. ‘Come on, you looked hot and you know it.’

He smiled back. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘Come on, Soph. No regrets.’

They were halted by the sound of a clock chime ringing out, marking a quarter past eleven. Both froze.

‘Bridge?’ he said, his voice wavering a little.

She nodded. Just once.