Written in the Stars by Ali Harris Page A

being asked my opinion on anything, I never feel like I know the answer, I’m constantly battling my inner instinct to shout, ‘I don’t know!’ It’s why I don’t like museums. They’re one of the many places you’re meant to be confident of your opinions. And it’s been a long time since I trusted my judgement.
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ I pause and try to gather my thoughts, forcing myself to take control, to be more like Adam. More like a Hudson. ‘I suppose, well, I – I guess I kind of like how he looks all whimsical and sort of . . .’ I pause. ‘In repose. As if he’s trying to make a decision.’ I feel myself grow in confidence as I speak and I tilt my head thoughtfully. ‘It looks as if he’s looking back and forward all at once.’ Suddenly I feel that I can relate to this strange piece of apparently unremarkable art. ‘He’s a dreamer,’ I finish assuredly.
    ‘He certainly is,’ Adam agrees and I feel a swell of pride at being right.
    ‘Maybe I’ve missed my calling as an art critic. Because that sculpture just kind of spoke to me, you know?’ Adam leans in towards me and raises an eyebrow.
    ‘That’s funny because he’s meant to be daydreaming about his former lover.’
    ‘Oh,’ I say, trying to stop my face reddening. Suddenly I’m not so keen on it after all. ‘Alfred de Musset, you say? Alfred de Muppet more like. I mean, what an idiot, getting hung up on his ex like that!’ Adam chuckles and I take his hand. ‘So where are we going?’ I change the subject swiftly.
    Adam smiles and points at some old rickety stone steps. I peer and see that the steps curve down and round to somewhere just out of sight.
    ‘What’s down here?’ I ask as Adam takes my hand and we begin to slowly descend the steps.
    He glances sideways at me and winks. ‘You’ll see . . .’
    He leads the way down the higgledy steps, looking back at me to make sure I don’t stumble as I carefully follow. Ahead of him is a stone entrance: it’s like a giant has smashed his outstretched hand straight through a wall to make his way through. I can see a flash of green beyond, and, utterly intrigued, am led into a beautiful hidden garden, filtered by rich, golden sunlight. When Adam speaks again he’s smiling broadly.
    ‘Welcome to the Jardin de la Vallée Suisse, a secret garden in the heart of Paris that I found especially for you.’
    My heart soars. He knows me so well.
    ‘Adam, this is perfect!’ I throw myself into his arms and he lifts me off the ground. Then he leads me over to a bench and begins unpacking a picnic lunch. I stop him as he pulls out a bottle of champagne and starts to open it. I just want to soak up this perfect moment.
    ‘Shh,’ I say. ‘Listen.’ Along with the birdsong, I hear the rustle of leaves, like soft-soled feet dancing across a stage, the gentle inhale of each flower as it bends to the sun, the exhale of the trees as the breeze sighs through the branches.
    ‘It’s beautiful.’ I sink back on the bench, allowing the view to wash over me. The scent of maples and lilac fills my nose, as does the summery, Mediterranean scent of lemon trees. Evergreens wall the garden, like elegant, emerald-clad ladies waiting for a dance at a ball.
    I glance at Adam; both of us laugh as he pops the cork on the champagne and pours it into the two glasses he is holding. He begins to retell the moment he proposed to me in Kew Gardens and, as he does, I close my eyes and I feel like I’m back in that blissful moment, that the scent under my nose now is that of an English summer – lavender and jasmine, roses, not a Paris spring, and as he takes my hand now I feel like we’re actually back in that moment where he convinced me of the happy future I’d never believed I deserved. I hear him telling me again that he’ll look after me always, that he’ll make me happier than I’ve ever thought possible, and as the sun warms my face and his words my heart, I remember how ardently I believed