Chapter 60
60
NOW
The dress hung in the corner of their room; the bag it was stored in was so long that she’d taken a picture off its wall hook to use it for the hanger, to make sure none of it touched the floor or became tarnished.
‘Blimey,’ Will had said when he’d seen it. ‘Looks like the grim reaper standing there in the corner.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I hope the dress isn’t as scary.’
‘Oh, I’m pretty sure you’re going to like the dress.’ She was, too. Never one for dressing up or making too much of a show, she’d actually embraced the whole wedding-dress-choosing thing this time. Sam and her mum had helped her, and she’d found a dress that was somehow much more ‘her’ than her previous one had been. When she’d put it on at the last fitting, the folds of the skirt blooming around her ankles, she’d actually twirled.
‘Not long now,’ he’d said, making a face.
‘Hey, this is meant to be the happiest day of our lives!’ she’d teased.
‘I know. I’m looking forward to after more though.’
‘The honeymoon?’
‘The marriage.’
She’d hugged him then. ‘Softie.’
She’d invested in some new outfits for Mallorca, where they’d finally settled on an indulgent, all-inclusive resort – somewhere to lie by the pool and do absolutely nothing for seven days. Summer dresses, new bikinis, sandals – it had been a while since she’d been on holiday and she was really looking forward to it.
Preparing to pack, she pulled her suitcase from under the bed and unzipped it, taken suddenly by the smell of the fabric, somehow reminiscent of going away – of holidays and excitement.
Unzipping it, she flung back the lid and began to sort through the colourful clothes she’d laid out on the bed, trying to make the most of the space. Then she stopped.
In the netted part on the inside of the case, designed probably to house documents, was a paper bag – the one from Paris, from that trip where she’d sat alone and had her portrait sketched by an artist in Montmartre. She’d slipped it in her bag without even looking at it properly, too overcome with grief after dropping the locket, too full of memories of Tom and what she’d lost to really care whether the artist had captured her good side.
Feeling slightly tearful, she reached for it now and drew the stiff paper from its holding. There she was, on the bench, a sadness on her face that she hadn’t realised would be visible to anyone else. The artist had captured her beautifully, in a simple pencil sketch that somehow communicated her sorrow as well as the way she looked. Around her, Montmartre, a jumble of vague figures, easels, stalls, other artworks, tumbled into the background.
It was good.
Then she saw it, bringing the drawing up to her face to get a better look. And she felt suddenly sick. Her hands trembled and she shoved the painting back into the bag, shaking her head and feeling disorientated. Because it simply wasn’t possible.
‘Will!’ she called.
‘Yes?’
‘Can you come here for a sec?’ It was hard to keep the tremble out of her voice.
She heard his quick tread on the stairs and then he was there. ‘What’s up? Need me to do up a zip or something?’
‘No, I’ve barely started,’ she said. ‘It’s just…’
‘What, love?’
Wordlessly she handed the paper bag to him and, with a confused expression, he drew out the picture and looked at it.
‘That’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Did you get it when…’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s… you look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Shall we get it framed?’
‘It’s not that, it’s…’ she indicated with her finger and he looked again at the drawing, the stalls, the artists and their easels, the tourists that populated the square every day.
‘Sorry, I can’t see…’ Then he stopped. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
She nodded, barely able to speak.
In the picture, the woman sits on a bench, her legs crossed in front. The other seat is empty. But behind her, leaning against a tree, his eyes fixed on her, there is a man. A man with black hair and an easy smile.
‘It’s Tom.’
And it was. Behind her in the picture as she sat on the bench, dressed just as he had been in her visions of him, Tom stood and looked at her and smiled.