Page 7

6

TWO WEEKS AGO

‘So where to?’ he said finally, as they turned from the Seine and began to negotiate the busy pavements. ‘The Louvre?’

‘Ha ha. Very funny.’

‘I mean it. Why not?’

She looked at him askance. ‘Seriously? You actually want to go to an art gallery? I had to literally drag you there almost every time I wanted to go before.’

He shrugged. ‘For old times’ sake. Plus, we’ve probably only seen about fifteen thousand pieces there; that makes – what – just twenty thousand to go. We ought to try to see a few at least.’

‘Wow!’

‘What?’ He looked at her. ‘Things can change. People change.’

‘Not you,’ she said, her tone a mixture of sadness and fondness. ‘And you know… this trip is about you, really. I don’t mind where we go.’

‘Then we’ll go to the Louvre,’ he said. ‘I spent too many years complaining about it. But I’ve become somewhat fond of it and its motley inhabitants. Anyway, if this really is the last time.’ He looked at her, eyes full of mischief.

‘Tom. You know it is.’

‘I know. But a man can dream.’

She laughed. A woman passed her and shot her a look, as if her laugh had seemed odd. It hadn’t been that loud, had it? She covered her mouth for a moment, then decided that it didn’t matter. This was the last time, after all. Paris wouldn’t remember her.

Her feet were rubbing against her shoes and she could feel the sting of skin on leather. She thought about suggesting they take the metro, but decided she’d prefer to stick to the familiar routes, to the places where their memories merged and she could picture them – every year for almost a decade, through all sorts of things she’d never imagined, bad and good – together in the place that had somehow become their place. Heels be damned.

Instead, she slowed her pace and Tom immediately matched hers, staying close to her side. She remembered that first time, the way he’d been so energised – always racing off, hardly thinking about her.

He was looking down, concentrating on the ground in front of them, but as she watched, he lifted his head and gave her the full force of his brilliant eyes.

‘What’s he got that I haven’t got?’ he asked, half smiling, half serious.

‘What?’ She looked at him, not understanding.

‘Will. What’s he got that I haven’t got?’

She almost laughed, but there was something so desperate in his asking. Where had this come from, this question? ‘Don’t, Tom.’

He was silent for a minute. ‘But I suppose what I’m trying to say is, if it were different… If things were… If we could still be together, would you choose me? Would you choose me over him – even now?’

‘What kind of question is that?’ she said, her voice louder than intended. She felt heat rise in her, realising what she’d said. ‘For God’s sake, Tom. I’ve moved on. Changed. I’m not the same person. After you left…’

‘But what if I hadn’t?’

‘But you did!’ She was exasperated now. ‘You left me. YOU left ME. And I am who I am partly because of that. You can’t take it back, you can’t turn time back. So stop!’

‘Stop what?’

‘Torturing me!’

‘What? I’m only wondering?’

She shook her head. It was too much. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. ‘Everything changed,’ she said, her voice quieter now. ‘I’ve changed. Maybe we’d have changed together if things had been different. Become one of those older couples who finish each other’s sentences. But we’ll never know.’

He nodded, just once – a finality about it. ‘It would have been nice,’ he said.

‘What? Getting old?’

‘Getting old with you.’

They were silent for a moment, and she looked across the Seine, the sun still on their left, glittering; the boats still making their slow and silent way along its length. Across the way, more people, colourful dots on a Monet painting in front of buildings she’d passed so many times and would never see again. It was too much. She touched the diamond ring on her left hand and twisted it slightly, the metal still cool against her finger.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s OK.’

‘You still miss me though, right?’

She almost laughed.

It was three o’clock, but as they moved away from the ancient municipal buildings towards the cafes and shops on the Quai du Louvre , the tables set out on the street were still full as people sipped tall glasses of ice-cold beer, or after-lunch espressos. Some wore suits, others sundresses, some still sported jumpers, others had vest tops and T-shirts. Everyone somehow belonged to the scene – tourists, locals, people here on business, sightseers – each had a sense of permanence, each always formed the backdrop to this place. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Paris – yes, it was different, foreign, but you felt part of it the minute you stepped off the train at the Gare du Nord. Part of some essential whole.

‘Can we stop for a sec?’ she said, suddenly gasping. ‘I could do with a drink.’

He looked at her, gave a single shoulder shrug. ‘If you want. It’s not like we have an itinerary, is it?’

She smiled, although there was still something a little sulky about his voice. ‘Table for two?’ she said to the waiter, and he nodded half-heartedly towards a small table under the awning still covered with glasses and plates from the previous clientele. She thanked him and sat down, as he cleaned and cleared in front of her. ‘ Voilà, Madame ,’ he said at last. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Just an orange juice, please.’

‘And for your friend?’

She shook her head. ‘Not right now.’ She caught Tom’s eye.

‘Of course,’ the waiter said with a nod before disappearing.

‘God, I could murder a beer,’ Tom said, more to himself than to her. He watched for a moment as a couple opposite sipped from sparkling glasses.

Sophie didn’t respond.

Her drink arrived quickly and she sipped the iced orange liquid through the paper straw and sighed. Tom regarded her steadily, a half-smile on his face. He looked exactly the same as he always had. No, better in fact. Younger somehow than when they’d last been together. She was conscious that time had faintly sketched lines under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth – an artist planning a canvas to which he’d add detail later. In contrast, Tom’s skin looked smooth, almost translucent.

‘What?’ she said at last.

‘Just looking at you.’

‘I know. Stop it, will you?’

He shrugged. ‘Can’t help it.’

She smiled, trying to remind herself that this was the last time; that before this, there was a time when she was sure she’d never see him again. How, back then, she’d have given anything to spend a day or two with this infuriating, bewitching man.

‘Just don’t go making me fall in love with you again, Tom,’ she said quietly, shaking her head.

He smiled that slow, confident smile of his and she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Whatever she’d convinced herself of, where Tom was concerned, there would always be something there. That was why she was here. To cut it off. To say goodbye to him, to the past version of herself who loved him, and to step into her future.