Chapter 2
2
TWO WEEKS AGO
The trip to Paris – her tenth visit but her first alone – had seemed easy, logical, from a distance. Meeting Tom one last time, in the city they’d both loved, and drawing a line under part of her life. A place she probably wouldn’t want to return to in the future after everything that had happened; it was steeped in memories of them both, synonymous with her love for Tom.
Now she was here, booked into a room at Hotel Cler – a cheap place they’d stayed in before, right at the start of things – it felt almost silly; dramatic. And somehow terrifying, too. Worse for the fact that she’d lied to Will about coming; he knew she was here, but not that Tom would be here too.
She let herself in to the small, clean room with its chocolate-brown floor and cream walls. Beige curtains hung from the windows and on the walls, there was a scribbled artist’s impression of Paris – an attempt, she supposed, to make the room look arty.
She’d decided on the train that she’d take it easy when she arrived, get a coffee, make her way to the bridge without rushing, but found that as soon as she’d unpacked and drunk one of the hotel’s gifted water bottles, she was too restless to simply sit. She might as well do what she was here to do. And though she wasn’t even certain he’d be waiting, she felt something inside her stir – as if some unconscious part of herself knew that he was close.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Will. And suddenly the bubble she was allowing herself to inhabit here was burst, its delicate structure pierced by memories of saying goodbye to Will at the station, inhaling the fragrance of his clean clothes, and the unmistakable scent of Will beneath. His arms, strong and dependable, had laced behind her and she’d held him tightly in return. It was evolutionary, wasn’t it? This need for closeness, contact. Ridiculous but when she was in Will’s arms, she felt as if nothing bad could touch her; that they formed this impenetrable circle of safety from the rest of the world. She’d drawn back, looking at his face, and had opened her mouth.
‘Stop it,’ he’d said.
‘Stop what?’
‘I know what you’re going to say. You feel guilty about leaving me, going off to Paris on your own.’
‘Well, yes,’ she’d admitted. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, you know. Psychic powers. Plus the fact that you’ve said that about ten times this morning already.’
She’d grimaced. ‘Sorry. I just feel bad about leaving you.’
‘Well, don’t,’ he’d said firmly. ‘We talked about it, and decided it was for the best. I’d only get in the way. You know that. You’ll be grand on your own.’
She’d shrugged, not wanting to admit it. ‘Still,’ she’d said.
‘I’m a big boy,’ he’d grinned, ‘I’ll cope.’
‘You mean you’ll live on takeaways and spend the entire weekend sitting around in your pants,’ she’d teased, grinning.
His eyes had met hers. ‘How did you know?’ he’d joked in return, then kissed her firmly on the forehead. ‘Now go. Before I change my mind and whisk you back to my lair.’
‘Do you promise?’ she’d said, pushing herself up on tiptoes to kiss him back. ‘Because from where I’m standing, your lair looks pretty darn tempting.’
He’d laughed. ‘Even though I’m going to be wearing nothing but my pants?’
‘Especially because of that.’
On the train, she’d fingered the silver heart locket at her throat and felt the heaviness of guilt settle on her again. Sure, Will knew about Tom. Knew all about their history, their connection with Paris.
What he didn’t know was that Tom would be there to meet her. Didn’t know that part of the reason Sophie had persuaded Will to stay at home was that she needed to be alone with Tom in the place that had become theirs.
She’d wanted to tell him; opened her mouth to several times. But if she’d been completely honest, he might have wanted to stop her going. And she had to see Tom; had to say goodbye properly – in a way that would draw a line under everything.
Now, a woman in a navy shift dress, her hair tied up in a sensible bun, served her yoghurt and a Danish pastry, offered her tea or coffee. She chose coffee, knowing as she did so she’d probably be unable to stomach it. A white cup and saucer were set in front of her on a tray, the black surface of the steaming liquid wobbling and reflecting the light. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled.
‘No milk?’
‘No, thank you.’
And at last, the woman moved on along the half-empty carriage. Sophie found herself dipping the silver teaspoon into the bowl of white, creamy yoghurt, with its dash of raspberry coulis, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat. Was it guilt, or excitement, or the fear that even after all she’d risked, maybe he wouldn’t even meet her when she got there?
It would be her tenth time in Paris; and every year she’d been, she’d left a little of herself behind. Would all those Sophies – the ghostly past versions of herself shed like snakeskin – be there too? Would she be able to gather up some of their optimism, stoicism? Capture some of who she’d been before it had all happened?
She wasn’t the same person, she knew that. Knew she’d changed for the worse. Always cautious, she was now almost neurotic at times. But who could blame her after everything she’d – they’d – been through.
Tom. Lovely, carefree, jokey, loving Tom. It was OK for part of her to still love him, wasn’t it? Didn’t everyone carry a tiny torch for their first love?
She dipped her spoon into the yoghurt, half-heartedly bringing it to her lips, before setting it down and turning her attention to the windows as the train journeyed under the Channel and emerged in the place where she’d finally see him again.