Prologue
Nick and I stood at the very top of the Eiffel Tower, looking down at Paris laid out below us, all treetops and sweeping boulevards and skyscrapers spiking up out of nowhere in the distance.
‘You get the best views from this side, apparently,’ he said. ‘North-west. Look, you can see the shadow of the tower reflected on the river.’
I leaned against the railings, two hundred and seventy-six metres up in the air, feeling perfectly safe thanks to the thick lattice fence curling over our heads. It took a second or two for my eyes to adjust, to pick out exactly what he meant, but then I saw it: the picture-perfect shadow of the Eiffel Tower straddling the shimmering, deep blue waters of the Seine.
‘It’s stunning,’ I said.
‘And that’s the Trocadero. The Jardins and the Palais de Chaillot. Next time, when we’re here for longer, I’ll take you up there.’
I nodded, unwrapping the cardigan I’d tied around my waist and slipping it over my arms, which was more difficult than it sounds, as I was also holding a baseless plastic flute of champagne. It was chillier up here than it had been at street level, despite the sky being unseasonably clear and blue, and it was almost completely silent – a contrast to the rest of Paris with its honking horns and the constant roaring of traffic. If you ignored all of the other tourists onthe top level with us, that was – I didn’t think I’d ever heard so many different languages being spoken in one relatively small place: I’d already picked out French, Italian, English with an American twang and Japanese.
‘Let me hold your drink for you,’ laughed Nick, taking my ‘glass’ and then handing it back to me once I was sorted.
I took a sip, savouring the moment. It was just like Nick to whisk me away to Paris for a night as a surprise. When he’d asked me to meet him at St Pancras the morning before, I’d presumed he was taking me out for breakfast in Coal Drops Yard. I couldn’t believe it when he’d produced my passport and a Eurostar ticket!
I wrapped my arm around his waist, tucking myself under his arm as he pulled me into him and kissed the top of my head.
‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ I said.
‘Actually, I did have an ulterior motive.’
I frowned. ‘What ulterior motive?’
Nick dropped his hand away from my shoulders, clearing his throat.
‘Is it me or is it hot up here?’ he asked, unbuttoning his cuffs and pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.
A particularly strong gust of wind answered the question for me.
‘Not really,’ I said, feeling a pang of anxiety. What was wrong with him? ‘Are yousweating\?’
‘I’m not the best with heights,’ he replied, trying to smile, except that his mouth didn’t seem to want to do what his head was telling it to.
‘I thought it was just flying you didn’t like?’
Nick had a strange look in his eyes and I could have sworn he was tearing up. My mind immediately went – as it tended to – to the worst-case scenario. Had he brought me to thetop of the Eiffel Tower to tell me that it wasn’t going to work out between us after all? That we were just too different (I mean, we were, but so what?)? That I was too young for him (ten years was nothing!)? That our lives were going in different directions? These were all valid points, things I’d thought about myself, on and off, but none of it mattered. I loved him and he loved me back and I’d never really had that. And no matter how much it looked like it shouldn’t on paper, it worked between us.
‘I wanted to do this later. Somewhere more … private,’ Nick said. ‘But I’m sorry, I don’t think I can wait.’
‘Do what?’ I asked, my pulse going haywire. ‘Wait for what?’
I swallowed, sweating myself now. Why would he bring me all the way to Paris to dump me, it didn’t make sense. I remained confused as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a red velvet ring box, and I still couldn’t quite compute as he dropped to one knee, looking up at me.
‘Maddie,’ he said earnestly, ‘in the two years we’ve been together, I’ve fallen more and more in love with you every day.’
I glanced nervously around. A few people had stopped ogling the view and were now staring unashamedly at the two of us, nudging each other with voyeuristic interest. I looked at Nick and only Nick, focusing on his blond hair with a hint of a curl (and more than a hint of grey, which I didn’t mind at all) and his kind eyes and his city boy shirt and his private-school accent that I found sexier than I’d thought I would. He was lovely and he was presumably, unless I’d got it completely wrong, about to tell me that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.
Nick took my left hand in his clammy right one and squeezed it. ‘Will you marry me, Maddie?’ he asked, looking up at me hopefully.
I laughed, out of embarrassment and shock and a million other things. ‘Are you serious?’ I spluttered.
If this was a joke, I’d kill him.
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Would you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
I bit my lip, hesitating. I wasn’t sure why. It was a bit overwhelming, I supposed. And it felt like the entire population of the viewing platform was waiting for my answer.