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THE SEVENTH SUMMER – 2017

‘This is lovely,’ Tom said, sticking his fork into his coq au vin and smiling. ‘What’s yours like?’

She pushed her salmon around a little with her fork. ‘It’s OK.’

They ate in silence for a minute, the chatter of the restaurant seeming to highlight their own lack of communication. Then Tom laid his fork against his plate. ‘Have I upset you or something?’ he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’m just…’

‘Just what? We’re in Paris! Come on – I even endured the queues for Notre-Dame with you – and you know how I hate queuing.’

She smiled a little, thinking of the times he’d tried to persuade her not to join the crowds trying to make their way into the enormous cathedral with its gothic buttresses and leering gargoyles. She’d managed to make him visit it properly for the first time a couple of years ago – and he’d sulked in the queue like a child. Other times, she’d sent him on his way – told him to get a beer and that she’d catch up with him. And she’d spent hours wondering at the stonework, the art, the enormity and beauty of the centuries-old building.

Today he’d suggested Notre-Dame himself, to her surprise. And stood next to her in the queue with barely a whimper.

She felt a stab of guilt – he was working so hard to make her happy. But her mind seemed fixed on herself; her body, the baby she should be pregnant with by now. It didn’t seem fair that she should carry the weight of their failure on her own, when he seemed lighter, freer.

‘I’m sorry, it’s all this baby stuff,’ she admitted. ‘I thought I’d got a handle on it. It’s just… when we’re here it makes me realise how long it’s been.’

‘I know it is.’ He reached for her hand. ‘But I guess as they say… It’ll happen when it happens.’

She felt a spike of annoyance, snatching her hand way. ‘But that’s just it! What if it never happens? What if we just can’t?’ Tears pooled hotly in her eyes.

He shrugged, sighed. ‘It will. I’m sure it will. And look, we’ve got years. We should be making the most of…’

‘How can I make the most of anything? I just feel like I’m in this… this horrible waiting room and that other people keep jumping the queue. Do you know Sarah from work’s pregnant now?’

‘Yes. And I’m very happy for her, but it doesn’t make any difference to us. It’s not a race, Soph.’

‘I get that it’s not a race,’ she said. A couple at the next table looked over and she lowered her voice. ‘But it’s been ages, Tom. Aren’t you worried?’

He shook his head, reaching for her hand. She moved hers away. ‘I’m not worried,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sophie. This is us! We’ll be OK.’

She looked at him.

He sighed. ‘OK, I’m a little worried. Sometimes. But we can’t let it break us.’

She softened then. ‘I know. And I know I’ve been unbearable recently. I just don’t seem to be able to think of anything else again, suddenly.’

‘I do understand.’ This time when he reached his hand over the table, she let him hold hers.

‘And I’m tired. I’m so tired, Tom.’

He nodded. ‘Me too,’ he admitted. ‘I just feel… exhausted all the time. Do you think it’s just getting older or something?’

She smiled then. ‘Ha. Maybe. More likely stress. We’ve both been working so hard. And all this baby stuff.’ She squeezed his hand lightly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s probably my fault.’

‘Soph, not everything is your fault,’ he said, taking a sip of wine. ‘You’re probably right. It’s probably stress.’

They sat in silence for a minute. Then he picked up his fork. ‘You just wait,’ he said. ‘This time next year, maybe everything will have changed. We’ll be on the up. This is a blip.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, I hope so.’

They smiled at each other. She wondered, suddenly, what she was doing. Here she was, in Paris. With Tom. ‘Pass me your glass,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Just give it.’

He gave it to her, cautiously, as if wondering whether it would soon be thrown in his face. Instead, she lifted it to her lips and drank the contents in three greedy gulps, smacking her lips.

Tom laughed. ‘Well, that was unexpected.’

‘But much needed.’ She wiped her mouth. ‘Oh, God. That felt good.’

‘Shall I get another?’ he looked at her, eyebrow cocked – and there he was again. Her Tom.

‘You know what,’ she said. ‘Why the fuck not?’

They had planned to go to a show. But instead, two hours later, tickets forgotten and laughing as if they were students again and comparatively carefree, they fell into a taxi. ‘My tolerance must be nothing these days,’ she said. ‘Two glasses and I can barely walk!’

‘She isn’t going to vomit is she, monsieur?’ asked the driver cautiously.

‘No. She’s OK,’ Tom smiled. ‘Hotel?’ he said turning to her.

‘You know what?’ she said, sitting up and feeling more energised than she had in an age. ‘Let’s go to the bridge.’

And there it was again, the easy smile she hadn’t known she was missing.

‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘And perfect timing,’ he added, as somewhere in the Parisian streets a church bell began its midnight chime.