He honeymooned in Paris with Amy, who cared if it was a cliché? They walked until their feet hurt (hers more than his, she wore stylish ankle boots that she later admitted were less comfortable than she claimed, but she was determined to look elegant, not like a tourist). They drank so much coffee they joked that they’d both develop palpitations. Wine, too. And the light, they drank that too. A worldly light, a sky that’s seen everything, pellucid yet dense, grey and gold. Amy’d just had her hair cut before they arrived and had brought with her the perfect trench coat. In Paris he bought her a scarf to go with it. She checked her reflection in cafe windows and smiled, her pleasure in how she looked heightened her pleasure in everything she saw and m...

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