Chapter 5
5
THE FIRST SUMMER – 2011
The train pulled away and she sat opposite Tom sipping sparkling wine and looking out of the window as the scenery flashed past: the apartment blocks with balconies full of washing or children’s toys; the graffitied walls and tunnels; the rows of tiny terraces stretching away – then they moved farther from London and she watched the view transform from green and natural to built-up and back again, and people’s lives ebbed and flowed past her like a river.
Tom, uncharacteristically, had his nose in a book – disinterested in what, for him, was quite an ordinary journey, she supposed.
In her bag, the brand-new passport she’d had to borrow money from Mum to buy, the photo embarrassingly recent. She’d never left the country before, never been farther than Cornwall. Now she was racing towards the coast on a train that ran under the water and would take her to the city she’d dreamt about seeing for years.
‘Have you never been on a train before?’ His voice broke through her thoughts.
She blushed. ‘Of course I have! Just not this one, is all.’
He laughed as if it were cute that she was so untravelled, folded down the corner of his page and moved across to sit next to her, nuzzling against her neck.
‘Get off!’ she said, laughing, nudging him with her elbow.
He laid his head elaborately on her shoulder. ‘I just want some attention,’ he said. ‘What have those buildings got that I haven’t?’ He widened his eyes in a way that he clearly hoped was appealing.
She looked at him, amused. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘You’re jealous of some buildings?’
‘I’m jealous of anything you look at like that ,’ he said, flashing his trademark cheeky smile and straightening up. He drew a tiny MP3 player from his pocket and offered her one of the earphones. ‘Soundtrack?’ he said.
She’d actually have preferred to sit quietly, lose herself in her thoughts. But instead, she took the small, plastic, foam-covered bud from him. The Black Eyed Peas began playing in her right ear, the sounds of the train continued in her left. Tom reached and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze, and she settled back against the headrest, enjoying the closeness of him, the music, and allowing herself at last a little excitement at what was to come.
What was to come, it turned out, was a bog-standard hotel, a three-star establishment in a building that was majestic on the outside but tatty inside. She was rather relieved when they walked in, although Tom’s face flushed a little when he saw the size of the room.
‘It looked better on the website,’ he said.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s lovely. We’re in Paris, for God’s sake!’ She walked to the window and fiddled with the catch, eventually finding purchase and opening the windows, flinging them wide then standing, looking down on the narrow street, the people meandering or striding along, the bicycles, the chatter, the sound of distant music. She breathed deeply. She was here .
‘We can check in somewhere else if you like,’ he said, kicking the leg of a dressing table.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a shithole.’
She looked at him. Was he serious? ‘Tom, it’s fine. It’s clean, it’s got a bed. We’re in Paris. It’s good.’
He lifted a shoulder, reluctantly acquiescing. ‘I guess.’
He seemed childish, suddenly, and she felt a flash of annoyance. ‘Come on. Let’s not waste time on the room.’
‘I guess I’m just…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tom, what were you going to say?’
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’m used to better things?’ he said, an inflexion in his voice now.
‘Whereas I’m used to crappy hotels at best? Is that what you mean?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that .’ He sighed, running his hands through his hair. ‘I just wanted to treat you, is all.’
‘You have.’ She swallowed down the insult; he hadn’t meant it. ‘It’s fine. We’re together, that’s the most important thing.’
Tom’s features relaxed then and he walked towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist, the movement bringing, as it always did, a shiver of pleasure. She wished sometimes that she wasn’t so attracted to him. Because it would no doubt end in tears.
‘You don’t date Tom, you borrow him,’ one of Tom’s friends had joked when they’d met briefly in a bar. ‘The minute you feel settled, he’ll be on to the next.’
Tom had laughed it off, but something in the back of her mind had recorded this and she had filed it away in a box marked ‘Danger’ in her brain. She couldn’t allow herself to fall for this man because he simply wasn’t someone who fell for anyone back.
But she turned to him and let him cover her with kisses; felt her body respond until she no longer cared about his past or their future but simply the moment; she forgot about everything other than him, and her, and the both of them together in this tiny fourth-floor hotel room in Paris.
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked two hours later when they stood in the square outside the Louvre, tourists milling around them.
‘Are you kidding me?’
He shrugged. ‘You’ve seen the outside. And we can get pictures…’ He trailed off, sensing he wasn’t going to win this one. ‘Maybe we could come back later? The queue is totally insane.’
She was too taken with the sight of it to mind the queue, this building she’d seen many times before in guidebooks and online but never in the flesh. The traditional, sombre buildings that hugged the square, and the pyramid of glass and light that rose up in the centre, both at odds with – and somehow complementing – each other. The Louvre had been her first choice, the first place she’d wanted to come when he’d asked, and she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.
‘It’ll be just the same later,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should just wait.’ She hated the hesitancy in her own voice – knew it was, in part, because he’d paid for the trip. He owned their time in Paris.
‘You don’t know that. Maybe people stop coming at teatime or something.’
‘Tom, we’re in Paris.’
‘Yup.’
‘It’s not going to stop for teatime.’
‘OK.’ He looked sulky, boyish. ‘I just hate queues, is all. And there are loads of other galleries.’
‘It’s the Louvre, Tom.’
‘Yes, I’m aware.’
‘And you must have known. The website said most days you’d have to queue.’
He sighed and suddenly it felt as if he was half her age. A small boy frustratedly waiting at the window of the ice cream van.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Go, if you want. I’ll queue. We can meet up later? Or I can call you when I’m nearer the front or something.’
‘Your phone won’t work here, remember?’
‘Well, maybe you could just pop back and check from time to time. I’m staying, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.’ She almost stamped her foot with frustration, but managed to contain the impulse.
His eyebrows shot up at her tone. ‘What?’
‘Well, you’re clearly not that bothered so…’ she shrugged, meaning it.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You want to see the Mona Lisa , we’ll see the Mona Lisa .’ She bristled a little at his sing-song tone, but when he smiled and rolled his eyes, she couldn’t help but smile in return. Damn it, the boy was good-looking. No wonder he seemed to get away with everything.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Even though she looks a bit like George Harrison.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. You wait. The spit of him in his longer-haired days.’
‘Beard and all?’
He grinned. ‘Well, no. But actually, I think one might suit her.’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. So we’re staying, yes?’
‘Looks like it. Even if I pass out from boredom or dehydration or something in the queue.’
She stood on tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. ‘My hero.’
‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he added. ‘The Mona Lisa is a massive disappointment. I’ve seen it four times and each time it looks a little bit more crap.’
She slapped him with her guidebook. ‘Don’t. You’ll spoil it. I’ve never seen her.’
‘Seriously, I have no idea why people think she’s gorgeous. I’d rather look at you.’
‘Oh! Praise indeed,’ she joked.
‘Well, it’s true.’
‘Well then, Tom, you can look at me and I’ll look at her. We’ll all be happy.’
As it was, the queue moved quickly and they were inside the glass pyramid in just over half an hour, their voices hushed as they moved from work to work, reading the information cards. She absorbed, taking in every detail. He, impatient, wanting always to move forward, forward, forward, occasionally sighing audibly, leaving her embarrassed.
‘Don’t leave me behind!’ she said at one point when she almost lost sight of him. Her voice echoed more than predicted in the high-ceilinged space and a man turned, regarding her with a frown.
‘Sorry,’ Tom said, returning to her side. ‘Ants in my pants, my mum always says.’
She looked at him, softening. He really wasn’t in his element here. ‘Look, thanks for this. I know you’re not really an art guy. Your choice of venue next.’
‘You promise?’ They fell into step and he reached for her hand. ‘We’ll look at it all though, if you like.’
She snorted. ‘Did you know that if we spent thirty seconds looking at each piece of art here, it would take us over six months?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘There are thirty-five thousand of them.’
‘Oh. Never did get around to reading that guidebook.’
‘So we’ll stick to a couple of rooms this time.’ She reddened at having used the words ‘this time’, although he appeared not to notice.
‘OK, let’s make a deal. See the Mona Lisa , look at the paintings on the way, then coffee,’ he said hopefully. ‘We’ll look at more next time we come.’
She raised an eyebrow at the thought of next time, how he said it so casually as if it were a foregone conclusion, then nodded, ‘Deal,’ turning back to the guidebook she’d brought and then looking intently at a picture of a woman sitting on grass, her hand on a tiny rabbit. There was something almost transcendent about seeing the painting in the flesh, something she couldn’t put into words. To be as close to the painting as the artist had been, to see the grooves of his brushstrokes, the places where the paint was thicker, masking indecision and mistakes; to feel so close to someone whom you’d never met but whose work made your heart race all the same.
When she looked around again, Tom was gone.
The Mona Lisa , when she finally reached it, was a tiny bit disappointing, she had to give him that. Somehow less vibrant and so much smaller than she’d imagined. It didn’t help that she was surrounded by people craning their necks for a closer look.
‘Do you think she looks like George Harrison?’ she asked a woman on her left who gave her a sharp look and turned away.
It was hard to stay enthusiastic on her own, and eventually she wandered towards the exit and the gift shop where she found Tom peering at a stand of postcards.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she said, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice.
He shrugged. ‘Got bored.’
She shook her head. ‘I thought you were meant to be the intellectual.’
He looked at her then, amused. ‘Yes, but I’m selectively intellectual. I like music, but art… well, it’s OK but it doesn’t fascinate me.’
‘So no more galleries?’ she said, hoping he’d laugh and say they’d go anywhere she wanted.
‘No more galleries.’
Instead, they’d walked – Tom pointing out landmarks from Notre-Dame to La Défense and clearly in his element being tour guide. She’d tried to keep her responses muted – not wanting him to realise how excited she felt every time she recognised a monument she’d only seen before from photographs.
Dinner was in a pizzeria – something that disappointed her a little, considering where they were – but she didn’t say anything. It had been delicious in any case – fresh, thin-crusted and dripping with piping hot cheese, and they shared a bottle of rosé.
By the time they left the restaurant, the sun had disappeared and the sky was bright and star-sprinkled. She checked her watch: 11.30p.m. ‘Oh,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘It’s nearly midnight!’
‘Oops. Past your bedtime?’
She slapped him lightly. ‘No. Of course not. Just thought it was earlier.’ She stifled a yawn that she wasn’t sure came from actual tiredness or from her acknowledgement that it was so late. Yes. Maybe it was past her bedtime.
He grabbed her hand. ‘One more stop,’ he said.
‘Seriously?’
‘Trust me.’
He walked quickly, she making little running steps every few paces to keep up. And then they made their way onto the Pont du Carrousel, its arched stone length stretching across a Seine whose dark water twinkled with starry reflections. At the centre, he rested his hands on the edge of the thick balustrade and leant over slightly towards the water.
‘Tom!’ she said, instinctively grabbing a bit of material on the back of his shirt.
He laughed. ‘I’m not jumping, you know.’
‘Yes, but…’ She felt embarrassed, but he had looked like he might slip, and he’d been drinking. The Seine passed choppily below, ready to gather anything that fell into it. ‘Can we go?’ she asked.
He stood and put an arm around her. ‘In a minute.’
‘Why?’
He sighed, but not in frustration; almost as if taking it all in. ‘Memories, I guess.’
‘Memories?’
He looked at her, his eyes enormous pools of black reflecting the light. ‘Mum brought me here once. I was eight. Sure it was going to be a carousel. You know, a real one.’
She laughed. ‘Oh no!’
‘Yeah. I made such a fuss.’ He was quiet for a minute. ‘But then Mum kind of lifted me up, sat me on the stone, held me of course. And it was late. And she made me look at the stars.’
Sophie wrapped an arm around Tom’s back, rubbed it briefly.
‘It’s stupid,’ he said. ‘It’s just I had the feeling in that moment… that everything was kind of magical, timeless. And I was an eight-year-old idiot, but I felt something. As if the lack of a proper carousel didn’t mean anything. Because I was with my mum looking at the stars, and it felt…’
‘Felt…?’ she prompted after a moment.
‘If you tell anyone how pathetic I’m being…’ he said, grinning embarrassedly.
‘Just between us.’
He sighed. ‘I’ve never told this story to anyone. But I suppose in that moment, in my tiny mind, it felt as if I could see heaven. As if I were part of this enormous universe, but that it was safe, magical, and we would all go on together. And Mum told me it was midnight, which when you’re eight is, like, mind-blowing!’
‘Aw.’
‘Yeah,’ he glanced at her. ‘So I try to come, when I’m here. At midnight. Usually on my own. Just to… It’s never felt that magical again. But…’ he looked up at the sky. Somewhere she could hear a bell chime. ‘It’s kind of become special; a ritual.’
And they stood together, looking into the deep navy of the night sky, studded with jewels, and she imagined for a moment that she could feel it too. That sense of eternity he’d felt all those years ago.