The Day We Meet Again
Miranda Dickinson
‘A spark of true joy. I adored every page’ Josie Silver, author of One Day in December ‘An engrossing love story, beautifully written’ Sarah Morgan, Sunday Times bestselling author ‘Exquisitely tender and breathtaking…This is Miranda at her best’ Cathy Bramley, Sunday Times bestselling author ‘Emotional story…full of both heart and soul’ Fabulous ‘This story will have you championing the pair all the way’ Sun ‘A sparkling romance, packed with tenderness’ Woman’s Weekly ‘Tenderly written novel is full of hope and the joy of taking a second chance’ Daily Express * * * * * Their love story started with goodbye… The brand-new novel from The Sunday Times bestselling author, Miranda Dickinson. ‘We’ll meet again at St Pancras station, a year from today. If we’re meant to be together, we’ll both be there. If we’re not, it was never meant to be... ’ Phoebe and Sam meet by chance at St Pancras station. Heading in opposite directions, both seeking their own adventures, meeting the love of their lives wasn’t part of the plan. So they make a promise: to meet again in the same place in twelve months' time if they still want to be together. But is life ever as simple as that? This is a story of what-ifs and maybes – and how one decision can change your life forever…
Praise for Miranda Dickinson (#ulink_fa6fa60e-680b-5cb9-adc8-a51087f5aa3d)
‘Family secrets, forgiveness, unlikely friendships and learning to love again … a story that touched my heart’
Cathy Bramley
‘A sparky feel-good story that hits all the right buttons’
Fanny Blake
‘Original and hilarious and life-affirming, and full of magical moments’
Cressida McLaughlin
‘Full of charm, warmth, wit and wonder’
Rowan Coleman
‘Sparkling, romantic, feel-good’
Julie Cohen
‘Fun and life-affirming’
Fabulous magazine
‘A sweet story perfect for a rainy afternoon!’
Bella
‘Romance, written with a light-hearted touch; I was hooked’
Woman & Home
‘Enchanting and captivating’
The Sun
‘A heart-warming delight’
Good Housekeeping
MIRANDA is the author of ten books, including six Sunday Times bestsellers. Her books have been translated into seven languages and have made the bestseller charts in four countries. She has been shortlisted twice for the RNA awards (for Novel of the Year in 2010 with Fairytale of New York and again in 2012 for Contemporary Novel of the Year for It Started With a Kiss). She has now sold over a million copies of her books worldwide.
Also by Miranda Dickinson (#ulink_88ffdc25-7355-59c5-aa2f-95c109a89b54)
Somewhere Beyond the Sea
Searching for a Silver Lining
A Parcel for Anna Browne
I’ll Take New York
Take a Look at Me Now
When I Fall in Love
It Started With a Kiss
Welcome to My World
Fairytale of New York
The Day We Meet Again
Miranda Dickinson
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright (#ulink_8d6b9311-2cb5-5b91-bc88-44692280c794)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2019
Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 978-0-008-32322-6
Note to Readers (#ulink_0b3b0599-dd85-5191-9fa2-a5d29778b565)
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323219
For Bob and Flo –
my two curly-headed serendipities and proof that
life is endlessly surprising. I love you to the moon
and back and twice around the stars xx
‘Take chances, make mistakes.
That’s how you grow.’
Mary Tyler Moore
Contents
Cover (#uc6646aa4-1252-5789-8a68-491a4b2aea90)
Praise (#ulink_e6b5ff75-3345-5821-9464-0a4a0dcc3722)
About the Author (#u34658fe5-16cc-53fa-8826-cd801bbc99f0)
Booklist (#ulink_3843ec53-9a8d-5241-aec3-b9f2281fe04d)
Title Page (#u8bfffcea-db2a-508e-9d21-f792ef2b42d5)
Copyright (#ulink_50bedd26-d1b2-588b-b621-e7f5607014fa)
Note to Readers (#ulink_513b7a0c-6c60-5ecd-9c54-926e705bb6ef)
Dedication (#ubcd4e816-45ea-5a68-b473-126282bc09a6)
Epigraph (#ue42e084e-3141-56b9-9cd2-80b15c02fb66)
The Day We Met (#ulink_14d909a2-4614-5793-a5d4-1bf7e9322b21)
Chapter One (#ulink_2c7b6009-0399-562d-8d81-29a447d2415b)
Chapter Two (#ulink_3923fe7b-bbc5-59a5-804a-2ff98a0d9046)
Chapter Three (#ulink_ee2f72f3-cb0c-55dc-a03d-6e19767a6522)
Chapter Four (#ulink_58a4c66a-6cc4-53d6-a6c8-ba5bb071a290)
Chapter Five (#ulink_4839dfa6-c64a-513f-bf06-948484271a39)
Chapter Six (#ulink_545e16af-9c33-5b78-8775-72fe124fd4d9)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_b966d16b-0843-54c4-a9bf-88b4d3108fdb)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_6b66ac36-b5c1-5810-a752-67c5f28e4723)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_7fe2b4ca-fb20-56dc-a417-ff432b766990)
Chapter Ten (#ulink_0c6d6e10-282d-540f-8580-399cc99f4d63)
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_fcfbc37a-6b0e-5b50-82c6-41876abc07c7)
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_a49c3ba8-d168-562a-a8bc-4f0c9bdf2371)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
The Day (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
A few things that inspired Miranda when writing The Day We Meet Again (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
The Day We Met (#ulink_e4d23698-d2f3-5588-a0d5-592933aa6c20)
14
June 2017
Chapter One (#ulink_3ada01dc-e9d6-5e7b-9613-c06d5fd40c36)
Chapter One, Phoebe (#ulink_3ada01dc-e9d6-5e7b-9613-c06d5fd40c36)
ALL TRAINS DELAYED, the sign reads.
No, no, no! This can’t be happening!
I stare up at the departure board in disbelief. Up until twenty minutes ago my train had been listed as ON TIME and I’d allowed myself a glass of champagne at St Pancras’ Eurostar bar, a little treat to steady my nerves before the biggest adventure of my life begins.
‘Looks like we aren’t going anywhere soon,’ the woman next to me says, gold chains tinkling on her wrist as she raises her hand for another glass. She doesn’t look in a hurry to go anywhere.
But I am.
I arrived at St Pancras two hours early this morning. The guys driving the cleaning trucks were pretty much the only people here when I walked in. They performed a slow, elegant dance around me as I dragged my heavy bag across the shiny station floor. I probably should have had a last lie-in, but my stomach has been a knot of nerves since last night, robbing me of sleep.
I’m not always early, but I was determined to be today to make sure I actually get on the train. I want this adventure more than anything else in my life, but doubts have crept in over the last two weeks, ever since all the tickets were booked and my credit card had taken the strain. Even last night – frustratingly wide awake and watching a film I didn’t really care about, after the farewell drinks in our favourite pub in Notting Hill when I was so certain I was doing the right thing – I found myself considering shelving the trip. Who jacks in everything and takes off for a year, anyway? Certainly not me: Phoebe Jones, 32 years old and most definitely not gap-year material.
It wasn’t just that thing Gabe said, either. Although it threw me when it happened. After all his bravado inside the pub – the You won’t go through with it, Phoebs, I know you speech that in his actor’s voice rose above the noise and look-at-me-I’m-so-important laughter from the tables around us – the change in him when he found me on the street outside was a shock.
‘I’ll miss you.’
‘You won’t, but thanks.’
And then that look – the one that got us into trouble once before, the one that has kept me wondering if it might again. ‘Then you don’t know me, Phoebs. London won’t be the same without you.’
Why did he have to launch that at me, the night before I leave for a whole year?
But the money is spent. The tickets are in my wallet. My bag is packed. And Gabe is wrong if he thinks I won’t go through with it. I know my friends privately think I’ll cave in and come home early. So I got up hours before I needed to this morning, took my bag, closed the door on my old life and posted my keys through the letterbox for my friends and former flatmates to find. And I’m here, where Gabe was so certain I wouldn’t be.
But now there’s a delay and that’s dangerous for me. Too much time to think better of my plan. Why is the universe conspiring against me today?
‘Having another?’ the woman next to me asks. Her new glass of champagne is already half empty. Perhaps she has the right idea. Maybe drinking your way through a delay is the best option.
‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I reply. I can’t stay here, not until I know exactly what kind of delay I’m facing. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening.’
The woman shrugs as I leave.
The whole of St Pancras station seems to have darkened, as though a storm cloud has blown in from the entrance and settled in the arcing blue-girdered roof. Beyond the glass the sun shines as brightly as before, the sky a brave blue. But I feel the crackle of tension like approaching thunder.
At the end of the upper concourse near the huge statue of a man and woman embracing, a crowd has gathered. Somewhere in the middle, a harassed station employee in an orange hi-vis gilet is doing his best to fend off the angry mob’s questions. And then, without warning, the crowd begins to move. I’m almost knocked over and stagger back to stop myself falling. Being trampled to death is definitely not in the plan today.
The mob swarms around the station employee as he makes for the stairs to the lower concourse. The forward motion of their bodies pushes me backwards until my spine meets something immovable. I gasp. Around me the angry commuters part, a splitting tide of bodies flooding either side of me, their feet stomping inches from mine. Once they pass me they continue their pursuit of their prey as the poor station official flees down the stairs.
I’m shaken, but then I remember: I hit something. Someone.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I rush, turning to see the poor unfortunate soul I’ve slammed into. But my eyes meet the kind, still expression of an iron man in trilby and suit, his billowing mackintosh frozen in time as he gazes up, as though checking the departure boards for his train.
The Betjeman statue.
I’d forgotten he was here. Compared with the huge iron lovers beneath the enormous station clock over the entrance, he’s diminutive. I’ve seen visitors double take when they find him. He’s just there, standing in the middle of the upper concourse, humble and friendly. The only thing marking him out as a statue and not another train passenger is the ring of slate around his feet, the words of one of his poems carved into it in beautifully elegant script. I’ve heard station announcements asking commuters to meet people by the Betjeman statue when I’ve been here before and thought nothing of it. But finding him here this morning, when everything has suddenly become so uncertain, is strangely comforting.
‘I don’t think he minds,’ a voice says.
I jump and peer around the statue. ‘Sorry?’
Over the statue’s right shoulder, a face grins at me. ‘Sir John. He won’t mind you bumped into him. He’s a pretty affable chap.’
Laughter dances in his voice, his green eyes sparkling beneath dark brows and a mess of dark curls. And I instantly feel I know him.
‘I can’t believe I just apologised to a statue.’
‘Happens to us all, sooner or later.’ His hand reaches around Sir John’s arm. ‘Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Mullins. Pleased to meet you.’
I hesitate. After all, this is London and my seven years in the city have taught me strangers are supposed to stay anonymous. But Sam’s smile is as warm and inviting as a newly opened doorway on a winter’s night and – suddenly – I’m accepting his handshake. His hand is warm around mine.
‘Phoebe Jones. Pleased to meet you, too.’
The concourse is eerily empty now; the raging commuters all disappeared to the lower floor chasing the poor man from the train company. It’s as if me and Sam-with-the-smiling-eyes-and-laugh-filled-voice are the only people in the world.
Apart from the statue, that is.
‘Did you get to hear what the bloke from the station was saying?’ I ask, suddenly aware I am still holding Sam’s warm hand, and quickly pulling mine away.
‘Most of it, before the mob closed in. They’ve stopped all trains in and out of the station. I haven’t heard the Inspector Sands announcement, so I’m guessing it isn’t a fire or a bomb threat.’
My stomach twists again. I’ve only heard the automated announcement used to alert station staff to a possible emergency like a fire or a bomb once before at Euston and I ran from the station like a startled hare then. Given my nerves about my journey, if I’d heard Inspector Sands being mentioned today I would already be halfway to Holborn. ‘Did he say how long it was expected to last?’
‘Well, I heard four hours, but there were so many people yelling around the chap by then I guess anyone could have said that.’
‘Four hours?’
‘Nightmare, huh? Trust me to pick today to make the longest train journey.’
I blink at him. ‘Me too.’
‘Oh? Where are you headed?’ His eyes widen and he holds up a hand. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer. That was rude of me.’
It’s sweet and it makes me smile. ‘Paris, actually. To begin with. You?’
‘Isle of Mull. Eventually.’
‘Oh. Wow. That is a journey.’
He shrugs. ‘Just a bit. Already had to change it because of the engineering works at Euston, so I’m going from here to Sheffield, then over to Manchester then changing again for Glasgow. Going to stay with two of my old university mates near there for a night or two, to break it up a bit. Then I’ll catch a train to Oban, take the ferry to Craignure and then it’s a long bus ride to Fionnphort, where I’m staying with a family friend.’ He gives a self-conscious laugh. ‘More than you wanted to know, probably.’
Although I’ll move on from Paris later, Sam’s journey sounds epic and exhausting by comparison. And it’s strange, but I don’t even consider that I’ve just met him, or question how he can share his entire travel itinerary with me when we don’t know each other. Like the heat from his hand that is still tingling on my skin, it feels like the most natural thing. So I forget my nerves, my shock at finding myself here beside the statue, and the looming delay. And instead, I just see Sam.
‘How long will all that take?’
‘The whole journey? Hours. Days, even.’ He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I have several books in my luggage and my music. I’ll be fine.’
Novels are one thing I do have, although they are safely packed at the bottom of my bag. Books are the reason I’m here, after all. The Grand Tours across Europe inspired my PhD and have underpinned all my dreams of seeing the places the authors wrote about for myself. My much-loved copy of A Room with a View is in my hand luggage and I’m more than happy to hang out with Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson for the thousandth time, but I’d much rather be on the train heading off already.
What if this delay is a sign? I hate the thought of Gabe being right, but the doubts from last night return, swirling around me, Sam and Sir John Betjeman like ragged ghosts. There are other ways of pursuing a great adventure, they call. You don’t have to spend a year away to prove you’re spontaneous… My room at the flat-share is already someone else’s but I could persuade one of my friends to let me stay at theirs until I can sort out a new place. I don’t really want to go home to Evesham, but I know my parents and brother Will would love having me to stay for a bit. Maybe I should be a bit less intrepid – Cornwall would be nice this time of year, or maybe the Cotswolds? Safer, closer, easier to come home from…
I don’t want to doubt this now, not when I’m so close to boarding the train, but I can feel panic rising.
But then, Sam Mullins smiles – and the ground beneath me shifts.
‘Look, if you’re not going anywhere for a while and neither am I, how about we find a coffee shop to wait in?’
Did I just say that? But in that moment, it feels right. Who says my new, spontaneous self can’t start until I board the train for France?
‘Yes,’ he says, so immediately that his answer dances with the end of my question. ‘Great idea.’
As we walk away from the statue of Sir John Betjeman, Sam’s fingers lightly brush against my back.
And that’s when I fall in love.
Chapter Two (#ulink_2e858233-8b8c-5107-90c5-3e0e17f08bb2)
Chapter Two, Sam (#ulink_2e858233-8b8c-5107-90c5-3e0e17f08bb2)
What am I doing?
I hate complications. As a musician I’ve done my level best over the years to avoid them wherever I can. When band politics have got too much, I’ve quit. When my brother stopped talking to me, I walked away. When relationships have become too demanding, I’ve backed out. Simple. Effective. Safe.
And I’ve been doing okay with that. Mostly. The last four years have been the happiest of my life professionally – playing my fiddle in studio sessions in the winter and spring and joining festival-bound bands in the summer; teaching where I’ve needed to make up shortfalls; even scoring studio time for my own new-folk project and producing a half-decent EP that, touch wood, will bring in a steady flow of cash on iTunes and Bandcamp. And my new studio venture with Chris that we launched last night finally gives us a chance to make real money. To be fair, I said I’d postpone this trip so close to the launch, but Chris said he wants to get it running smoothly and I’d just be getting in his way. So that complication has been ironed out, without me even trying. Why would I willingly volunteer for one to take its place?
She just looked so lost by the Betjeman statue.
And gorgeous…
I should have been annoyed by this unplanned delay to the journey I’ve promised myself for years. I’ve waited so long for the time to be right and then, suddenly, it was. Time to make the journey to find who I am. It was supposed to begin now, not in four hours, or whenever the train system deems it possible. Train delays are the worst, especially for a jobbing musician travelling to gigs across the country and particularly given the shenanigans I’ve already encountered changing stations for this journey. On any other day I would have been right in the thick of that angry commuter mob, baying for someone’s blood.
But I’m not.
And it’s all because of Phoebe Jones.
I glance at the large ironwork clock over the coffee concession counter and I’m surprised to see almost an hour has passed already. She was shy at first, but as soon as she suggested we come here she just – blossomed. Like watching a water lily unfurl on the other side of the bleached-wood table.
It’s beautiful to witness.
‘I know a year away is a big step. I mean enormous for me. But ever since I first read A Room with a View and Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, I’ve dreamed of doing this. Paris, Florence, Rome – seeing the places the authors and characters in their books saw. I’ve saved forever to do it. My parents gave me the last bit of the money I needed when I got my PhD last month.’
‘So you’re Dr Jones?’
I could bask in the way she beams for a long time.
‘That sounds so funny, doesn’t it? Dr Jones. I like it but it still feels like it should belong to somebody else.’
‘A PhD is a huge amount of work, though. You’ve earned it.’
‘I have.’ There’s a self-conscious laugh she does that’s like a flash of sunlight. Blink and you’ll miss it. ‘I loved every minute of it, though. It was such a surprise to find that from a piece of work.’
‘Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be doing.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, like for me, playing and gigging and the studio I’ve just set up with my friend – none of that’s easy. It’s all long hours and hard work’ – I nod at the concourse beyond the coffee concession window which is packed with stranded passengers – ‘and train delays… But I’m energised by it, you know? Because this is what I’m meant to do.’
Phoebe nods but she isn’t smiling. ‘I hear that all the time. My best friends all seem to have found what they’re meant to be doing. Meg’s the most amazing event organiser, Osh is a film director and Gabe is an actor. When they talk about what they do, it’s like they are describing a piece of themselves; like if you put them under a microscope their job titles would be imprinted on every cell. I haven’t found what I should be doing yet. But I think this year I might get closer to working out what I want.’
‘Do you write?’
A patter of pink traverses her cheekbones. ‘No – well, not unless you count my PhD dissertation. I mean, I love the idea of writing fiction, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. Gabe says I’m not personally tormented enough to be a writer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.’
She isn’t wearing a ring – I mean, of course I’ve checked. But she’s mentioned Gabe a few times already and I notice her right hand instinctively touches the finger on her left that would have worn one when she says his name. Who is he? A recent flame? An ex? An unrequited love?
‘He thinks I can’t do this. But I know I can.’
‘Why do you care about what he thinks? He sounds like a knob.’
She laughs. The sound is joyous. It surges up from her core, like champagne bubbles. ‘Maybe he is. But I’ve always talked to him about everything. We used to trade awful dating stories when both of us were between dates – it became a game we’d play to make ourselves feel better.’ She toys with the teaspoon in the saucer of her almost empty cup. ‘So, enough about me. What’s taking you to Scotland? Work?’
‘No. Well, maybe a little.’ I see a fine line form between her brows. That’s me sussed. ‘I’m going for personal reasons,’ I reply. And then, just because it feels like she’s the person to say it to, I say more than I have to anyone else. ‘I was born on the Island and then my father left home. He played fiddle, too, although he left before I discovered music for myself. I guess I’ve always wondered, you know? What happened to him.’ Suddenly aware I’ve said too much to be comfortable, I pull back. ‘But I plan to hook up with some friends from the circuit while I’m there, too. Relearn the trad stuff.’
‘You’re a folk musician?’
‘New-folk, I guess you’d call it. But I want my next project to be the old tunes I vaguely remember from being a kid on the Island.’
‘I thought you had a bit of a Scottish accent.’ She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, should that be Hebridean?’
It’s the most hesitantly British thing to say and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. ‘Scottish is fine.’
‘So you’re going home?’
Home. That’s a word I haven’t used for a while. With Ma gone and my brother Callum as good as dead, I don’t know what I call home any more. The flat I’ve been sharing with my drummer mate Syd is homely, but is it home? Is that what I’ll discover in Mull when I return?
‘I don’t know. Maybe. You?’
I’ve asked it before I can think better, but here in the too-warm crush of the coffee concession, I realise I want to know the answer. I expect her to sidestep the question, but to my utter surprise, she doesn’t.
‘Not a home to live in. I want to find out how to be at home with myself.’
Until that moment, everything Phoebe Jones has told me could just have been polite conversation. But this is something else. It’s a window, inviting me in. I lean closer, zoning out the clamour and conversation around our small table, not wanting to miss a thing.
‘Me too.’
Her eyes hold mine.
‘I haven’t said that to anyone before.’
‘Not even Gabe?’
‘Especially not him. He thinks I’m too serious.’
‘No!’
‘I know, right? I mean, look at us, Sam. We met – what – an hour ago? And all we’ve done is laugh.’
‘You’re a very funny lady.’
‘Well, thank you for noticing.’ Her eyes sparkle as she mirrors my grin. There is so much more going on behind those eyes than she’s allowing me to see. I sense it bubbling away, just out of view.
And that’s when I realise.
Sam Mullins, your timing stinks.
The more we talk, as the minutes become an hour and head towards two, the more the feeling deep within me builds. Phoebe Jones is perfect. And I know my own battered heart. I’d sworn I wouldn’t fall for anyone again, not after Laura. The pain and injustice I’ve battled most of the year and the bruises still stinging my soul have all been good enough reasons to avoid falling in love.
Could this be love?
No.
But what if it is?
By now we are wandering the concourse, passing crowds of stranded travellers. Every available bench has been commandeered and people are claiming the floor, too, perched on makeshift seats made from suitcases, holdalls and folded-up coats. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, displaced people caught in limbo, dazed by the experience. Some groups of travellers are even talking to each other. In London, that’s pretty close to a miracle.
I have to step to the side to avoid a small child who’s weaving in and out of the crowd – and when I do my hand brushes against Phoebe’s. Startled, she looks up and our eyes meet. The noise around us seems to dim, the pushing bodies becoming a blur as I sink into the deep darkness of Phoebe’s stare.
‘Do you believe in fate, Phoebe?’ The words tumble out before I can stop them.
‘I think I do,’ she breathes, as her fingers find mine. ‘Do you?’
I gaze at her, a hundred thoughts sparkling around us like spinning stars. And suddenly, all that matters is the truth.
‘I didn’t before today.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_475c6dd9-1abb-58f4-a142-fc12a1b36535)
Chapter Three, Phoebe (#ulink_475c6dd9-1abb-58f4-a142-fc12a1b36535)
He feels it, too. Whatever is happening between us is real.
The moment Sam’s fingers lace though mine, the air between us seems to shift. I don’t even think about pulling away.
We move at glacial pace through the crowded concourse until Sam spots a gap for a service door between the glass-fronted concessions and we sneak into it.
Now we’re standing within a breath of each other. It would be so easy to close the distance and kiss him…
What am I doing?
Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have considered kissing someone I hardly knew. But twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know Sam existed. Our hands are joined between us and we both look down as if seeing them for the first time. When Sam laughs, I feel the buzz of it through his skin.
‘Well, this is unexpected.’
‘It is.’
This is where my apologies and caveats would normally begin, my usual rush to backtrack on an impulse. But instead, calmness fills the space where those words would be. They’re not needed here.
I’ve only known Sam for a couple of hours. How can this be possible?
‘Reckon they can delay our trains for another four months or so?’ His whisper is warm velvet against my ear.
‘Only four months?’
I love his laugh. It shudders up from his chest to his shoulders, throwing his head back as it escapes into the air around us. It’s wild and unbridled, unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion. His laugh is who he is, as if his spirit shimmers out of him in that moment.
His fingers squeeze mine. ‘Oh well, excuse me. What I meant was four years. Forty-four years. Four centuries.’
‘Steady on…’
‘Even when we’re wrinkly and incontinent and basically breathing dustbags our love will burn as bright…’
I don’t know whether I’m breathless from laughter or just being here with Sam. He’s talking as if we’ve been together for years, but it doesn’t scare me like it should. I can imagine being loved by him, even though I’ve yet to kiss him. It’s a game that feels so much more than make-believe. And I’m happy to play along. ‘Thank you for your faith in us.’
‘My pleasure. This is surreal, isn’t it?’
‘Completely.’
‘There are a million things I want to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘Then let’s begin here…’ I dare to flatten my palm against his chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of his heart through the faded fabric of his T-shirt. This heart has been beating for years, I think, and I never knew.
For a while we stay like this, saying nothing, the only movement our breath and heartbeats, the familiar-unfamiliar sensation of closeness surrounding us.
Then without warning, I’m crying.
Mortified, I try to smother my sobs, jamming my eyelids shut to squeeze the tears back. But it’s too late. Sam breaks the embrace and lifts my chin with his hand.
‘Are you crying? Phoebe, why are you crying?’
‘I’m sorry…’ I rush, but speaking flicks a switch that releases more. I don’t want Sam to see, don’t want to break this perfect, wonderful moment. What will he think of me? I don’t even know what to think of myself.
I don’t cry much in front of other people – never in public and certainly not with someone I hardly know. But I do know Sam, crazy as it sounds. So despite every scrap of head-logic screaming at me to stop, my heart won’t listen. It feels wrong but it seems like I don’t have much choice.
‘Hey, hey… Let’s sit down, okay?’
‘There isn’t any room.’
‘Then we make room.’ He slips the strap of the violin case from his shoulder and places it on one side, his rucksack on the other. In the space between he concertinas his body down until he’s sitting cross-legged, reaching up for me. ‘Your seat, milady.’
I laugh despite the tears staining my cheeks. ‘I can’t sit on your lap.’
He shrugs and slides his rucksack beside one leg. ‘An alternative, then. Although, you’ll need somewhere to sit when we’re 400-year-old, hot-lovin’ dustbags. You could just get used to it now.’
That smile will be the death of every argument we ever have, I think.
‘Your rucksack will be perfect, thank you.’ I sit, my legs still shaking from my sudden tears.
‘Glad to help. Now, what’s happening?’
I’ve heard loved-up friends of mine say things like, ‘I see myself in his eyes’, and ‘when he looks at me it’s like he can see into my soul’ and always thought them ridiculous. I mean, I’ve dated guys with nice eyes before and I’m a fan of meaningful looks as much as the next person. But until this moment I thought it was the kind of clever phrase dreamed up by authors and screenwriters. Not anything you’d ever experience in real life. But when I lock eyes with Sam, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. And I can see my reflection in the moss green of his irises.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. To be so sure. I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I know hardly anything about you, about your life.’
He nods and I wonder if he feels it too. ‘Then we should start there. Even if there are other more interesting things we could be doing…’
He’s cheeky but I can’t help smiling. ‘Be serious.’
‘I’m trying. Believe it or not my friends think I’m the serious one. Okay. Best start with the basics, I guess. Full name: Samuel Hamish Mullins—’
‘Hamish?’
‘Mock that and you’re mocking my heritage, lady.’
I stuff my giggles away behind my hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a lovely name.’
‘Tsk, typical English sarcasm. I know your game.’ He grins. ‘So, what else? I’m thirty-two, although my ma always said I was born with an old soul so nobody ever believes me when I tell them my age. Like I said, I was born on Mull, but I grew up in Edinburgh and Carlisle and moved to London when I was eighteen. Been here for more years than I’m comfortable admitting and I play tunes for money. I’m just under six feet tall, but I’ll usually add an inch to feel better about it. Oh and I’m allergic to early mornings, although I’m quite glad I got up before eleven today. Done. You?’
It’s strange to be trading introductions now, after everything else we’ve shared, but I find it strangely comforting, too.
‘Phoebe Eilidh Jones, also thirty-two.’
‘Eilidh? That’s not a very English name.’
‘That’s because my great-granny was an Erskine from Paisley.’ I like this card when I play it. He clearly had me pegged as a dyed-in-the-wool Anglo Saxon. Shows what you know, Samuel Hamish Mullins. ‘She moved with my great-grandad to Evesham to take over a fruit farm with six children in tow.’
‘So, Caledonian heritage all round. Excellent. I don’t know any Eilidhs but I have an Auntie Ailish – she’s not a blood relation, but my ma’s best friend. I’m going to see her when I get to Mull.’ He chuckles. ‘So in another life we might have been Hamish and Eilidh. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘It does.’
‘Continue, Phoebe Eilidh Jones.’
I giggle. ‘Okay – I’m five feet six inches exactly and I’m quite happy with that. And I love early mornings. And late nights, actually. I don’t sleep much.’
‘How come?’
The truth is, I don’t know. I remember as a kid being concerned that I’d miss something important if I slept, although I don’t know where that fear originated. ‘I’ve just always been that way. Although every few weeks I’ll have a day when I just sleep a lot. Maybe it all evens out in the end.’ I grin at him. ‘So we’re the same age. When’s your birthday?’
‘March 2nd. You?’
‘May 4th. My life, I’m lusting after an older woman!’
I cuff his arm. ‘Oi, watch it!’
‘Hey, I’m not complaining. So what do you do for work – or rather, what did you do, considering you’re taking a year off?’
‘Oh all kinds of things. Most recently I’ve worked in a publicity office for a large West End company. It’s fun.’
‘But it’s not what you wanted to do?’
‘I like every job I’ve done. For a long time I thought I’d end up working in horticulture – I trained as a horticulturalist at college. And then I came to London to see my friend Meg and ended up staying. Then I did my PhD while working for Ebert and Soames Theatre Productions. But I do know that books will always be my first love. That’s why I’m going to Europe.’
The thought of the journey makes my heart drop to the floor. Because getting on that train, whenever the gods of Network Rail deign that to be, will mean leaving Sam. And this. And us.
Chapter Four (#ulink_f711c907-3c46-5650-8f50-2d84b988324a)
Chapter Four, Sam (#ulink_f711c907-3c46-5650-8f50-2d84b988324a)
We talk. About everything.
Well, everything we can think of, which in the grand scheme of things probably isn’t even scratching the surface. The urgency takes me by surprise. It’s as if we’re trying to conduct a whole relationship in a few hours. Packing everything in so we can justify what our hearts knew immediately.
She sparkles when she learns stuff about me; shines when she shares things about herself. Playing catch-up has never been so thrilling.
And she’s so close to me. On her rucksack perch, the length of one thigh is against mine and although I’m no longer holding her hand she keeps touching my arm as she talks. I feel like a kiss is in the air between us. One move from either of us could bring it into being.
It would be so easy to kiss her.
But I can’t let it happen yet.
When you’re always on tour – or always on call for a gig – you tend to make decisions quickly and regret them at leisure, but it’s like you’re in this loop. More times than I’ll admit, I’ve started a relationship, gone away and returned in time for us to both admit it wasn’t working. A weird way to conduct relationships, but then nothing about being a gigging musician is ever regular.
So much of what I’m learning talking to Phoebe is about myself. I even tell her about Laura – and though it’s been six months since she left me for an annoying Russian conductor and stamped all over my heart, I haven’t wanted to talk about her to anyone before.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Phoebe says and I’m struck by how genuine this is. Most people say sorry when what they really want you to do is change the subject.
‘It’s hard to make relationships work in my line of business. Always heading off in opposite directions, too many hours between meetings to stop doubts setting in.’ I realise how close this might be to Phoebe and my current situation. I push the thought away. ‘With Laura, I thought I could make it work. And it did. Until the other bloke appeared.’
‘Was Laura a musician, too?’
I nod. ‘She’s a session singer who also plays cello, violin and viola – and when string sections cost the earth to hire, she’s a good person to know. In a few hours she could record all the parts a string quartet would perform, for a fraction of the cost. Saving money appeals to studios and record companies, so she always had more than enough work to keep her in one place. And I liked that, in the beginning. It was good to know she was there, even if I was called away on tour for weeks at a time.’ The rawness returns to my gut. Time to move on. ‘Anyway, she chose someone else. I started working to make the studio happen with my mate Chris and here we are.’ I decide to hedge my bets. ‘So, Gabe. Is he an ex?’
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she might be offended. Then her shoulders slump a little. ‘No. Not really. Once. But it was a mistake and we’re still friends.’
‘How long?’
‘One night.’ She pulls a face. ‘That sounds terrible out loud, but it’s the truth. One night, after drinking too much beer and both of us being dumped at the same time. I hardly remember anything and he was drunker than I was. Anyway, it was a mistake.’
A mistake I can deal with. But it makes me realise how little I know about her and how much I want to know. Even though Phoebe and I are cramming as much information as we can into the time we have together, it still feels like nowhere near enough. When she cried earlier, it shocked me. If I’d known her for a while longer I would have known how to be, but I’m flying blind with so much of this. My head is still trying to make sense of it all. My heart has no such confusion, which is confusing in itself.
I can’t think about this now. There will be plenty of time once I’m on the train.
But do I even want to get on the train any more?
I was serious when I mentioned a longer delay to Phoebe. What if meeting her was meant to stop me going back to Scotland? What if this is life dealing me a last-minute detour that I’m supposed to take?
It wouldn’t be the first time I delayed this trip.
I was supposed to visit Mull the year I turned 30 and was all set to go, but then I met Laura and put it back. I haven’t been able to escape the thought that maybe if I’d followed my heart instead of my – well, you know – I might have had an easier time.
Phoebe could be another Laura.
I don’t think I could bear that.
I check myself, refocus on the beautiful woman beside me. She is not Laura. She could well be the love of my life. So what do I do?
Phoebe has changed subject and is now talking about her childhood, growing up on a fruit farm in the Vale of Evesham.
‘That sounds idyllic.’ I catch her expression and hold up my hand. ‘I mean, I’m sure it was hard work. But working in fruit orchards, being surrounded by your family – that sounds great.’
‘I guess. When you’re a teenager dreaming of being anywhere else but Evesham it doesn’t seem like that.’
‘Sure. I mean my growing up was a world away. When we moved to the mainland we lived in a series of dreary council estates in Edinburgh and Carlisle. Not quite as picturesque as a Worcestershire fruit farm.’ I’m pretty certain Phoebe’s mother wasn’t a functioning alcoholic like mine, either, but I don’t say that. I loved my ma, but I know she was never happy after my father, Frank Mullins, disappeared. ‘Mind you, I have one of the places we lived in Edinburgh to thank for this.’ I pat my violin case.
‘How did that happen?’
‘We were living in Dumbiedykes and Ma was friendly with the landlord of our local pub. He’d put bottles by for her behind the bar and it was my job to go fetch them. So I was waiting by the bar one evening and there was a group of regulars who always sat in the corner nearest the fire with their instruments. While I was waiting they just started playing. The pub was practically empty, save for them and, I don’t know, I found it magical. To be so unworried by what anyone else thought and just be able to start playing like that. I shifted around the bar so I could be closer to them and then one of the old guys saw me watching and invited me to sit with them.’
‘And that made you want to play the violin?’
‘Yeah. A Polish guy called Jonas played the fiddle and I fell in love with how he made it sing. The way he played – it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. And I wanted to play like him. He offered to show me a few tunes and for the next two years he gave me free lessons after school in the pub. The landlord let me stay because he liked the music and I guess he worked out that life wasn’t the easiest at home. Funny how little bits of kindness like that can change your life.’
‘He sounds like an amazing man.’
‘He was. And more of a dad to me than mine ever was. But then my ma’s cousin offered us use of her tiny granny flat in Carlisle. I was distraught about leaving Jonas but on the day I said goodbye, he gave me his second-best fiddle to take to my new home. And he said, “You were born to play this. Promise me you’ll play every day.” So I did. Every day since.’
Phoebe’s eyes light up when she hears this. ‘And that’s why you’re a musician now?’
‘It is. I wanted to make Jonas proud of me.’
‘Did you keep in touch?’
‘For a while. But you know how things are. He moved, didn’t leave a forwarding address. Hopefully, he’s found a nice warm corner in a pub somewhere to play out his jigs and reels with a bunch of regulars. That’s how I’ll always picture him.’
‘I know what you mean about how people we meet can change our lives. I fell in love with words when a customer left their copy of Jane Eyre in my parents’ farm shop. It was the first grown-up novel I’d ever read. And, coincidentally, it led to the first lie I’d ever told, when the old lady who’d left it came back and I hid it under a stack of apple boxes beneath the counter.’
‘Phoebe Jones, master criminal! Now I’m learning the truth.’
She blushes – and it’s the most glorious sight.
Glorious, Sam? I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before. What is she doing to me?
And then, in the middle of her laughter, Phoebe’s smile vanishes. ‘I don’t want to get on the train, Sam.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think I can. And I can’t ask you to miss your train – that’s not what I’m saying… But how can we leave when this is happening? I’m scared if I go I’ll miss it.’
‘Like you feel about sleeping?’
She shifts position until she’s looking straight into my eyes. ‘It’s more than that. What if we were supposed to meet instead of getting on our trains today? Or what if we were meant to travel together? I—’ She exhales a breath, looks down. ‘Oh, stuff it. I am the most organised person but this is the most disorganised thing I’ve ever done in my life and it scares me. I’ve told everyone I’m totally fine with going away but the truth is I’ve been tempted to talk myself out of it so many times. What if I somehow knew this was going to happen? Meeting you. What if—?’
‘Phoebe – wait – stop.’
She clamps a hand to her mouth and her eyes glisten. I see fear bloom there and am acutely aware of my own. Slowly, I coax her hand away.
‘Right – just take a breath. And listen to me. This isn’t a no, okay? It’s not a no. I just think…’
But she’s shaking her head and I feel like I’m losing her already. Before we even get on the train. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it and…’
And then I’m kissing her. It happens so instinctively that we’re halfway into the kiss before I realise what I’ve done. It’s the wrong time and the perfect time at once; the most ill-advised act but the one thing our time together was missing.
Phoebe doesn’t pull away. As our kiss rises and falls she slides onto my lap and her tears dance down where her face touches mine. It isn’t an answer. But it’s what we both want.
I could stay there forever but eventually I move my head back. ‘I think we should test this.’
‘You’re right,’ she says. And suddenly it makes sense. ‘We have to make these journeys. I just wish we were going together.’
‘Me too. Maybe we could…?’
‘No, I think you’re right, Sam. Unless we test it, how will we know if this is what we both hope it is? I don’t want to get a year down the line and realise we rushed in too soon.’
I try to wrestle every racing thought to order in my mind. I want Phoebe in my life and I don’t want to wait for her. But we both have things to do – promises we’ve made to ourselves – and I know from experience with Laura that resentment always builds if you’ve put your own promises on hold. I don’t want to feel like that again. I don’t ever want Phoebe to feel that way about me.
Suddenly, a huge round of applause breaks like a hailstorm across the concourse, as loud as a dozen trains thundering into the station at once. We stand, our muscles stiff from sitting. Phoebe steps into the concourse and looks up at the Departures board.
‘The delay signs have gone,’ she says – and I see a battle in her face as she turns back to me. ‘My train leaves in forty minutes.’
I don’t want to look now. Because as soon as I do, everything changes. I want us to stay here, in our little square of station floor, just Phoebe and I. But she has a departure time, which means I do, too. Heart heavy, I raise my eyes.
‘Mine leaves in half an hour.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_a278d3f4-5bb2-5fd4-a11c-4339bdfdedb6)
Chapter Five, Phoebe (#ulink_a278d3f4-5bb2-5fd4-a11c-4339bdfdedb6)
It feels like the whole of London is queuing.
Gone is the bulldog spirit that brought so many stranded travellers together: abandoned like the takeaway-food wrappers and carrier bags littering the concourse floor like mounds of freshly fallen snow. Now it’s every person for themselves. The London attitude is back and you can almost feel the station itself breathe a relieved sigh at the return to normality. All anyone wants to do now is get on their trains and leave.
Except Sam and me.
But we need to leave, don’t we?
I hate the realisation that has hit us both, that this serendipitous magic we have discovered in St Pancras station is coming to a rapid end. In less than an hour we’ll be speeding as fast as possible in opposite directions, our own plans pushing us forward while our hearts gaze back at the widening gap between us.
That kiss. That kiss changed everything.
As we stand at the back of the queue for Sam’s train I risk a glance at him, jumping when I realise he’s already looking at me. The now familiar touch of his hand on mine is at once comforting and heartbreaking.
‘What are we going to do?’ I hate the fear in my question.
His eyes hold mine. They smile even though his lips don’t. Sam lifts his hand to stroke my cheek and I see the rise of his chest as he inhales.
‘We’ll meet back here – in a year. Exactly twelve months from now. When we’ve had our adventures and made our journeys. Come home and meet me by—’
‘—Betjeman,’ I say, as our words collide. ‘Where we first met.’
‘We are getting far too good at spooky,’ he grins, his arm pulling me close to him. ‘But we’ll only do it if we still feel the same. Things change. People change. You might find your heart lies elsewhere.’
‘I won’t.’ I mean it, too. But he’s shaking his head and I know he’s right. This can only work if we’re both certain. And a year is a long time to think about what we really want.
‘You might. I might. We have to be free to walk away if it isn’t what we want. So here’s the deal: if you feel the same about me in twelve months’ time, meet me by Betjeman’ – he checks his watch – ‘at eleven a.m. I’d say seven, when we actually met, but you know about me and early mornings.’
‘Can we keep in touch while we’re away? I don’t think I could go a year without hearing from you.’
Sam looks up as if he might find the answers pressed against the glass roof panels. ‘Absolutely. I’d lose my mind if we were silent for twelve months. But we need rules. We can’t work out how we feel if we’re always in contact. So – one phone call a month? I’d say video call but it depends on where we are.’
‘And email,’ I add. ‘But only in emergencies.’
‘Noted. Anything else?’
My brain feels rushed in the fast dwindling time we have together. If this is what my heart believes it is, we are at the beginning of the greatest love story of our lives. Emails and phone calls don’t seem significant enough. I imagine us telling the story when we’re old to our wide-eyed grandchildren: It was his emails that won my heart… No, it needs to be something – timeless.
‘Postcards,’ I say. ‘I won’t be travelling all the time; it sounds like you won’t be, either. So when we’re in one place for a while, we can send postcards.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I have rubbish handwriting.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s powerful to write something down. It means more than typing. You have to think about it. And if your handwriting is really bad then deciphering it will keep me busy until the next one arrives.’
He considers this. Ahead of us the queue starts to move. The barriers are now open, slowly admitting impatient passengers.
‘Okay, deal. But I can’t promise to send you sonnets.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t expect Shakespeare. Just Sam.’
‘I’m better with music than words.’
‘So send me songs. Via email. In emergencies.’
We pull out phones, exchange numbers and email addresses and then Sam puts his arm around me, drawing me close as he takes a photo of us. He does the same with my phone. This will be my constant companion for the year ahead. I take another as he’s looking over the heads of the queue – I want to remember Sam as I first saw him: an unguarded, non-posed moment that is just him. Secretly, I think I’ll look at this image more. Without me in the frame, I can make sure all I see is Sam. That way my heart can be certain.
And then the people in front of us surge forward. Another barrier has been opened and a tide of bodies is rushing towards the gap. Sam’s hand tightens around mine and my heartbeat quickens.
We’ve only just met. But time is running out on us already.
As we near the barrier, Sam steps to the side, gathering me into his arms. My lips find his first and our kiss says everything we no longer have time to express. I’m pulled tight against the warmth of his body, his jacket parting to let me lean against his chest. One arm holds me, the other hand brushes the side of my face. My fingers trace the line where his curls meet the soft skin at the back of his neck. It’s startlingly new, but familiar all at once. I let myself melt into this moment, my thoughts of everything that lies ahead momentarily gone.
All that matters is this.
Us.
Sam and me.
And then we have no more time. The guy checking tickets at the barrier clears his throat and Sam takes one last look at me before shouldering his rucksack and swinging his violin case over the other shoulder.
‘Phoebe, meet me by Betjeman, a year from today. If we’re meant to be together, we’ll both be there. If we’re not, it was never meant to be.’
‘I’ll be there, Sam.’
He pauses for one moment longer, his smile sad and joyful, full of hope and promise.
Then he walks away.
I am on my own again. Lost in the sea of bodies dashing for their train. Except, as I hurry in the opposite direction to the upper concourse where my Eurostar train awaits me, I don’t feel alone any more.
When I reach the top of the steps I see the statue of Sir John. As people jostle past me I pause beside him to pat the iron man’s shoulder. His kind half-smile gives me hope, and his eyes are raised to the sky as if watching the future. My future.
No matter what happens this year, Sam, I will be waiting here for you.
I blow the statue a kiss and run for my train.
Chapter Six (#ulink_7b583634-848e-545a-bb73-d468c6ed7d9b)
Chapter Six, Sam (#ulink_7b583634-848e-545a-bb73-d468c6ed7d9b)
I’m on the train.
I grab the things I need for the journey – the thick novel I probably won’t read, my mobile, charger and the bag of fizzy cola bottle sweets my best friends DeeDee and Kim insisted on packing for me like I’m five years old. Then I stash my rucksack in the luggage section, place my violin case next to me and settle into my seat.
Who am I kidding? I can’t settle.
I can’t settle because of you.
That’s another thing: why am I talking to you in my mind like you’re still here? You’re headed to a train that will be halfway under the Channel in less than an hour. Probably. Geography never was my strong point. Nor was timing.
I glance at my watch. Almost 1 p.m.
Six hours, Phoebe. Six hours since you changed my world.
And now I’m talking like a nutter on the night bus. Can today get any weirder?
The old mariner on the battered cover of my paperback eyes me suspiciously. I don’t blame him. If I could have seen last night what six hours in the company of Phoebe Jones would do to me today, I would have been horrified.
Well, Sam Mullins, you are officially a sap. How does it feel?
I take a deep breath, stretch my hands across the table, blocking the old mariner’s eyes, just in case he’s in the mood for more judgement.
It feels…
… like my world just exploded into colour.
My heart is kicking out a double-time beat against my chest, a bass boom to my breath. My skin hums, like a low string section. I feel alive. Real. For the first time since I can’t remember when. And it’s because of you – her. I can’t keep talking to you like it’s you. That would just be weird.
My sigh fogs the window glass. I’m losing the plot.
I watch my fellow passengers hustling onto the train and notice how irritated they all look. That could have been me, if there’d been no delay this morning, no Phoebe Jones looking lost and wonderful by the Betjeman statue. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything.
She made me feel… Phoebe, you made me feel. Like I do when I play, only you made the music flooding my soul.
And now I’m lyrical. Bloody hell, Sam.
But maybe lyrical is who I want to be.
The glow inside remains as I take a breath and pick up my phone. My world might have altered but I still have a journey to make.
I wrote a list last night, at home, all packed with nothing else to occupy me. Laura had rocked up to the studio launch earlier, and though DeeDee and Kim saw her off, I was still rattled by it. The empty hours before bed were dangerous territory for my head. I know I don’t love Laura any more but the bruise of her still remains on me. Even after meeting Phoebe.
I pull up the list on my phone now – names and telephone numbers, half-recalled places, old friends I hope still remember me. First things first: uni friends.
I didn’t attend university in Scotland, having moved to London the day I turned 18. But as my not-really-auntie Ailish says, Caledonian hearts find one another. My closest friends on my music degree course all hailed from north of the border. Maybe it was the comfort of finding people who spoke like me. I guess wherever we go in life we look for people who speak our language. It began with an accent; now music is the language I share with my closest friends.
We were a party of five Scots in a sea of southerners, and while now we mainly stay in touch via emails and Christmas cards, they are still closer than many of the people I see every day. Donal – forever known as D-Man because all of the other nicknames he accrued during our three years at King’s College London aren’t suitable for public utterance; Shona, religiously called Shania by every English student we encountered (but call her that at your peril); Kate – self-appointed agony aunt to us all and the loveliest person you could ever hope to have rooting for you; and Niven, fellow violinist and sadly destined to remain a frustrated musician working as a teacher on the island on which we were both born. I won’t see Shona in Glasgow – last I heard she was touring Scottish schools with a Gaelic language show. Niven’s on Mull, so I’ll look him up when I get there. It will be good to hang out with him again.
Donal and Kate finally admitted what the rest of us had long known and are now happily married with three kids. It’s their home I’m headed to first. Although I’ve already promised myself I won’t tell anyone about Phoebe yet, I might make an exception if I get a moment alone with Kate. Of all my university pals I’m confident she’ll understand. Depends on how much we drink, of course. Pretty sure Kate can still drink all of us under the table.
Thinking about my friends makes me feel better about pulling out of the station, knowing Phoebe will be boarding her train to Paris now. Maybe, if it all works out and she’s waiting for me next year, I’ll take her to meet the old crew. I think they’d like her.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_187b82a1-8f7e-5349-aae1-05428dbaf0e7)
Chapter Seven, Phoebe (#ulink_187b82a1-8f7e-5349-aae1-05428dbaf0e7)
I’m going the wrong way.
I shouldn’t be going to France. I should be going with you.
And I know we talked about it, and I accepted everything we said about being true to ourselves first, about testing how we feel to be sure. But I wish I hadn’t agreed now.
I was so certain this was what I wanted, but… Then you happened.
Sam. My Sam.
I watch the blur of fields and green sidings passing the window and can’t hide my smile. How did my life change in just one morning?
And that kiss. I don’t think I’ve ever been floored by a kiss before.
I feel like we’ve shared an entire relationship in a few short hours. How is that even possible?
Last night, when my nerves were tumultuous as a storm, threatening to break over my head and sweep me away completely, I felt like I was teetering on the edge of the world. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as alone as I did at 2 a.m. when I was close to calling the whole thing off.
I don’t feel alone now.
Because even though we are fast moving away from one another in opposite directions, you’re with me, Sam. I have the memory of you all over me. The whisper of your kiss still playing on my lips, the shiver of your touch still tingling on my skin. And this year will pass because every second is one closer to the day we meet again. When all our hurried promises will find space and time to be fulfilled. When I can feel your skin on mine and never let you go…
My phone buzzes on the table in front of me and I see my best friend Meg’s grin illuminating the screen. Packing my thoughts of Sam away, I answer the call.
‘Phee, hey! Are you okay? I just saw on the news about them closing St Pancras and King’s Cross.’
‘It’s okay. I’m on the train. Not sure how good reception’s going to be so don’t worry if I disappear.’
‘Do you have WiFi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hang up and I’ll call you back on Skype.’
Thirty seconds later her image appears again and I accept the call. ‘So what happened?’
‘I still don’t know. But I’m moving now, so that’s all that matters.’ I suddenly remember the arrangement I’d made for the end of my journey today. In the whirlwind of Sam it was lost. ‘Oh, Meg, Tobi doesn’t know! I’m so sorry! In all the confusion I forgot to call him.’ I didn’t look at my phone, that is. Not once. Another startling change in my life I can thank Sam for.
‘Relax, I just spoke to him. He says he’ll come and meet you at Gare du Nord when you get in.’
‘But the delay – he’ll end up having wasted his entire day waiting for me. I can’t ask him to do that. I’ll just get a cab or walk when I get there.’
Meg’s chuckle is bright and familiar and suddenly I’m homesick. ‘Then you don’t know him yet. He insisted. Luc might be with him, too.’
I first met Tobi when we hung out after one of Gabe’s press screenings for Southside, the hit primetime crime drama he had a supporting role in. Tobi had the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard. He was sweet, though, and Meg adores him, which is the best recommendation you can get. He was the first to suggest I stay with him in Paris when Meg told him of my travel plan, which was the kindest gesture anyone’s made for me. Meg visits him several times a year and was best woman when he and Luc married last spring at an achingly gorgeous turreted chateau in the Pyrenees. I haven’t met Luc yet, but he sounds lovely, too.
‘I’m due into Paris at three-twenty p.m., I think.’
‘He’ll be waiting for you by the barrier. He’s making a sign, bless him, in case you don’t remember what he looks like.’
‘That’s sweet.’
There’s a pause, then: ‘Phoebe, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay. It’s just, you sound… different.’
Do I?
‘I’m on a train, so…’
‘It isn’t that.’
‘Oh.’ Do I tell her about Sam? Meg is my closest, dearest friend and she would understand. No – it feels too soon. I like him being just mine for now. Maybe I’ll tell her later.
‘Don’t worry. Probably just me being over-protective. We’re all a bit lost without you here. Gabe found your key on the doormat this morning and went off in a total grump. He’ll get over it, though. We all will. Have a safe journey and call me when you’re settled in, okay?’
I sit back and gaze out of the window, waiting for the tunnel that will spirit me away from England for twelve months. Well, good if they’re missing me. They didn’t think I’d go through with this – and despite all the odds, here I am.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_9226d1ea-0087-581d-899e-9977889e76f2)
Chapter Eight, Sam (#ulink_9226d1ea-0087-581d-899e-9977889e76f2)
Settled onto the Glasgow train after two quick changes at Sheffield and Manchester, I must have dozed off because I jump when my mobile rings, cracking my forehead against the carriage window in the process. The woman in the seat opposite is kind enough to hide her amusement behind her magazine.
Smooth, Sam. Very smooth.
The sight of my two best friends pouting at me from the screen makes me smile regardless of the injury their call has caused.
‘Hey,’ I say, resting back into my seat. Beyond the window a landscape of purple-crowned Cumbrian peaks stretches out beneath lead grey clouds.
‘What happened?’ DeeDee demands. ‘Kim and me saw the news. Was it a bomb?’
‘No idea. Nobody seemed that bothered so I’m guessing not.’
I can hear Kim in the background and picture her, hands on hips, barking questions at DeeDee. ‘I’m asking him… Kim wants to know if you got a train.’
‘On it now. Just heading through the Lakes. Tell Kim it looks like rain here.’
Another off-speaker discussion ensues, followed by an angst-heavy sigh. ‘Okay, look, why don’t you just tell him yourself, hmm? Sam, putting you on speaker so Miss Kim can yell at you instead.’
‘Hi, Kim.’ I can’t hide my smile. They are such a double-act and always appear to be three words away from a row, but it’s all love as far as they’re concerned. They aren’t related but they’ve sung together in bands for so long they might as well be family. It’s spine-tingling stuff when DeeDee and Kim sing, like they’ve developed a magical symbiosis that they just couldn’t recreate with anyone else. But not so much when they’re arguing.
‘Samuel. We heard it was a terror alert.’
‘I don’t think so. They would have evacuated the station if it had been. Anyway, I’m fine. I’m on the train now.’
‘Do your friends know?’
‘Not yet. I’ll text them when I’m nearer Glasgow, just in case there are any other delays ahead. Anyway, they’ll just expect me to rock up when I’m there, so it’ll be no problem.’
There’s a pause and I can hear another barked exchange, this time in urgent whispers because, of course, I’m on speakerphone and can’t hear them.
‘Something I should know?’ I ask.
I hear a loud tut from DeeDee. ‘We weren’t going to tell you…’
‘Laura came,’ Kim finishes.
I stare out at the blur of moorland grass streaking past on the sidings. ‘When?’
‘About an hour after you left. She had a suitcase with her.’
‘Kim!’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t have to tell him that! I thought we discussed this…’
‘Hang on, what?’
I wait for DeeDee and Kim’s debate to stop, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. I don’t feel angry, or hurt – just weary. I felt weary most of the time I was with Laura and during the six months since we broke up.
‘The Russian kicked her scrawny butt out, didn’t he? And who can blame him?’ DeeDee’s tone is heavy with disgust. Part of me would love to have been there to witness her reaction when Laura turned up. But mostly I’m just relieved I wasn’t. ‘She was all poorlittle-rich-girl, with her red eyes and privileged whining. Like we’d just agree you should take her back. Like she was entitled to that.’
‘Why did she come to yours?’
‘She’d been to Syd’s first and assumed you’d be here.’
‘Was she trying to move in?’
‘She wanted to go with you.’ Kim’s laugh is bitter. ‘Can you believe it? Syd refused to tell her where you were going and what time your train was, so she came to us. Like we were ever going to help her!’
Well, today is certainly the day for revelations. It doesn’t surprise me that Laura and Artem didn’t last – especially as I know how many times she’d tried to get back with me (and the three times I’m ashamed to admit that I gave in). And yeah, maybe I’m a little bit glad. It feels like a justification for my mistrust. She wasn’t worth the pain I’ve endured in her name. Not that I’m the kind of person who revels in someone else’s misfortune, but Laura had it coming.
I thought last night’s appearance at the studio launch was a one-off. More fool me, eh?
She’d managed to press so obviously against me as DeeDee took a photo of everyone in the studio. The designer off-the-shoulder sweater she wore pulled just a little too far down, the obvious lack of a bra. I knew exactly what she wanted me – and every other bloke in the room, available or otherwise – to be looking at. Subtlety is a foreign language to my ex. I’d walked away as soon as the photo was done, but in the crush of the studio with so many friends, colleagues and hangers-on gathered for the launch party, it was impossible to avoid her. Before I knew it, she was back – alone: her Russian boyfriend nowhere to be seen.
She’d performed one of her famous sighs, the kind that used to summon me to her side, desperate to make her happy. Only now it just made her look ridiculous. ‘Oh Sam. Why can’t you just be happy for me?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Artem wanted to come.’
‘Oh, Artem wanted to be in the same tiny room as your glowering ex? I’m sorry, I find that hard to believe.’
‘Well, he did. Despite everything, he respects you.’
I didn’t want to shout, or give her the satisfaction of making a scene at my launch party. I took a breath, hauling back my anger. ‘Look, I didn’t invite you.’
‘I heard you were leaving,’ she blurted out, casting a careful glance about her to make sure no one else heard. ‘And I wanted to know why.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’ Her hand was on my arm and there were too many bodies around us for me to shake it off. I went cold at her touch.
‘No. Because not everything in my life is about you.’
‘Wait – Sam – this isn’t over with us. I know you!’ she’d called after me, but by then I was pushing through the studio party guests towards the exit. And I didn’t look back.
‘She honestly thought you’d want to be with her,’ DeeDee continued. ‘Honest, babes, we told her where to go.’
‘Thanks. Sorry you both had to deal with that.’
‘Don’t worry. It was amusing. Kim tore a strip off the woman.’
I wince at that. I love my friends but I don’t ever want to not be on their side. One is terrifying enough; having both of them taking issue with you could likely stop your heart. ‘Ah. Thanks – I think.’
‘We told her you were going to Aberdeen.’ I can hear the smile in Kim’s voice. ‘So good luck to her if she thinks she can track you down.’
When the call is over, I take a deep breath and watch the world pass by. I never told Laura about my father, or where I grew up. She only met my university friends once when they came down to London for a gig I was playing at the Royal Albert Hall with a band of new-folk artists. Beyond that, she never asked about where I’d come from.
Which is odd, because Phoebe Jones asked within the first hour of meeting me.
I pull up the photo I took of us just before I left her at the barrier. She is beautiful, of course. But then my gaze slides to me. I look different. I think of all the selfies with me that Laura posted on Instagram – countless squares of a picture-perfect couple all taken at an identical angle for maximum effect. I never smiled in any of those images like I do in this single, hurriedly snapped photo with my arm around Phoebe.
Have I ever smiled like that before?
I stroke Phoebe’s face on the screen, remembering the warmth of her against me, the scent of her perfume and the touch of her hand on my arm. That’s what matters now. Not the past – or anyone from it trying to get back in. And I’m going to hold on to this feeling until I see Phoebe again.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_c4fc299a-0630-5a1d-aaa7-1b4a04b21949)
Chapter Nine, Phoebe (#ulink_c4fc299a-0630-5a1d-aaa7-1b4a04b21949)
Paris Gare du Nord breaks through in an explosion of light and colour and noise as the train door opens. I take a breath.
Bonjour, Paris.
It’s just a station platform: grey concrete, the smell of oil, pools of light filtering through the run of glass skylights high above. It could be anywhere. Except it feels different. Dad said that the first time he took Mum to Europe in their early twenties even the echo of his own footsteps sounded ‘continental’. I don’t have to see the platform signs and illuminated advertising boards to know I’m not in London any more.
Then I am through the barrier and looking around for a man I’ve only met once before who may or may not be holding a sign. It takes a minute to get my bearings, head dizzy with light and sound and movement. I make myself breathe, summoning up a memory of being in Sam’s arms in our little space of concourse at St Pancras. It calms me.
I can do this.
Sam only just met me and he believes in me. I’ve known me for a lot longer, so maybe I should believe in myself more.
Sometimes the way to prove you’re capable of something is just to do it.
‘Phoebe!’
I follow the sound of the voice and a group of commuters disperses to my right revealing a face that’s surprisingly familiar. Tobi is smiling and waving. And he has a sign with my name on it.
I’m going to be okay.
‘Hi!’ I grin, accepting a very French double-kiss and a very un-French bear hug from my host.
‘The delay! The nightmare! My darling, are you okay? Meg told me they closed your station.’
‘They did, but I’m here now.’
‘Yes, you are. And now we celebrate your grande aventure.’ He throws an arm around my shoulders and takes my bag despite my protests. ‘First to home, then to wine!’
Twenty minutes later we’re almost at his apartment in impossibly lovely Montmartre and my head is a tumble of streets and traffic, noise and colour. It’s lovely to be in the company of someone who lives in the city. We skirt roads, pass through tiny back streets and lush green parks. Dad was right: even the everyday sounds of traffic and footsteps are unfamiliar here. Once I get my bearings it will all become second nature, I know. Like it did when I arrived in London, fresh out of horticultural college in Worcestershire and feeling as if I’d run away from the first twenty-five years of my life. London was a whim that became part of me. Maybe Paris and the countries beyond will become the same.
‘Here we are!’ Tobi exclaims, holding the apartment building door open for me to walk in first. We climb a narrow staircase with metal banisters to the second floor. Tobi opens the door and I walk into my home for the first part of my year in Europe.
It’s perfect. White walls and long white gauze curtains at the floor-to-ceiling windows; warm parquet flooring in diagonal chevrons across the open plan living room and kitchen; three large, low couches draped in jewel-bright Moroccan throws with more cushions than even Meg has in her room (which is saying something); and greenery everywhere, from large potted palms standing sentry-like in the corners of the room to the impressionist wash of green in the window boxes on the small balcony the other side of the windows.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I smile as Tobi takes my coat. ‘C’est magnifique!’
‘Ah, bon. Don’t worry. We speak English here as much as French,’ he says, as if sensing the jolt of panic that hit me as soon as I tried out my rusty French. ‘Luc is from Canada so we switch between the two all the time. Often, we argue in both.’ I remember his smile now. It’s the kind of smile that instantly puts you at ease. ‘Let me show you your room and then we can relax.’
Tobi strides down the short corridor that leads off from the living room and kitchen. Tucked away, between a compact but stylish bathroom and a larger room I imagine is his and Luc’s bedroom, is a smaller room with a futon and a large single window draped with soft yellow gauze. It’s facing the rear of the building and when I peer out I can see it overlooks a tiny courtyard. Ivy spills down from the walls to a cluster of pots on the paved floor, so it looks like a secret garden. The faded blue and terracotta pots have been planted with red and white flowers.
‘Who owns the courtyard?’ I ask, as Tobi sets my bag beside the bed and hangs my coat on a hook on the back of the door.
‘It belongs to the building and we all pay maintenance, so I guess we all own it. A few of the residents keep it looking good. Later I’ll show you how to get down there, if you like. I don’t use it much but Luc sometimes paints there in the summer.’
‘I’d like that.’
It’s such a luxury to have any kind of green space and to be honest it’s the only thing I missed about home when I moved in with Meg, Osh and Gabe. There are parks everywhere in London, of course, but having a bit of green you can call your own is special. I think the courtyard and I might become well acquainted. I love the idea of snuggling up with a book in a little hidden square of Paris.
Turning back into the room I see that the entire wall behind the head of the bed is covered with white bookshelves. The spines provide a blast of higgledy-piggledy colour like the cushions on the living room couches and are lovely to look at. The sight of them makes me feel at home.
‘Meg said you would be happy here,’ Tobi grins, nodding at the wall of books. ‘Many of them are in English – I rearranged them at the weekend so you have a whole section to choose from. I know you’re a book lover.’
My heart swells. His thoughtfulness sends the last of my concerns about being in a new place floating away like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Now, make yourself at home and I will fetch the wine. Are you hungry?’
Right on cue, my stomach growls and we both laugh.
An hour later, Tobi and I are relaxing in the living room, a bottle of wine almost drunk between us, catching up on the gang’s news. We’ve just started talking about Gabe’s new play when the door swings open and Tobi’s husband Luc strides in. His bag, coat and scarf are dropped in a pile in the middle of the parquet floor and I’m suddenly airborne, lifted into his hug.
‘Phoebe! You made it! Welcome!’
Luc embraces me like a long-lost friend.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I laugh, as he sets me down.
‘You too. And you’re as gorgeous as Meg said.’ His Canadian accent is unmistakable and his laugh rivals Tobi’s for volume and enthusiasm.
‘I rescued her from the station.’ Tobi heads into the kitchen for more wine, pausing to kiss his husband. I see the sparkle between them and it’s the loveliest sight.
My mum and dad sparkle like that, even now – almost forty years since they got married. My brother and I pretend we’re embarrassed by their enthusiastic PDAs whenever we’re out together, but really we’re proud. Being as daft with each other as you were in the first flush of love is rare.
Will Sam and I still be as besotted forty years from now?
When we’re basically four-hundred-year-old breathing dustbags…
‘Tobi has been reviving me with wine,’ I say.
‘Excellent plan! I’ll join you.’ Luc kicks his things behind the largest couch and accepts a huge wine glass from Tobi. ‘Sit, sit, Phoebe Jones! Tell me everything.’
So as Tobi makes dinner Luc and I talk about the journey here and the year ahead of me. Being in Paris, talking about my plans, makes them feel startlingly real. I’m here – and my adventure has already begun.
‘Tomorrow I don’t have work so I can take you on a tour, if you like? I mean, I know you know some of Paris, but I can show you all the cool bits we love.’
‘That would be great, thanks. But I don’t expect you both to take me everywhere. I know how busy you are.’
‘Luc likes to think he’s a Paris expert,’ Tobi laughs in the kitchen, releasing a cloud of fragranced steam when he lifts the lid of the pan on the hob. ‘Five years as a Parisian and he knows this place better than me.’
Seeing the city from a resident’s perspective would be good, I think. I have a list of places I’d like to see – standard tourist stuff from the guidebook I’ve marked with so many sticky-note strips its pages resemble a rainbow. But I also want to experience life here as a local; I want to discover my own special place.
Meg believes that if a city wants you to love it, it will reveal a place that’s special, just for you. In London I discovered mine in the heart of Notting Hill, in a small private park Gabe blagged us admittance into, late one night. Back then he was in a crime drama that had the nation gripped and was discovering all the good things that a single, well-placed mention of Southside could bring him. Sneaking around the darkened garden in the moonlight was when the city came alive for me and I’ve loved it ever since. Gabe’s special place is just outside the Almeida Theatre, where he made his first professional stage debut; for Meg it’s Golden Square in Soho; for Osh the centre of the Millennium Bridge at dusk, gazing out at the lights of London appearing either side of the Thames.
‘All cities have the potential,’ Meg assured me during one of my late-night wobbles in the weeks before I travelled. ‘You just have to turn off the guidebook in your head and feel the city in your heart.’ I hope she’s right.
Tobi serves dinner and we work our way through two more bottles of wine. My head will hate me in the morning but tonight I don’t care. I’m celebrating.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_03b4f663-7780-50ac-a288-b656da97bc5a)
Chapter Ten, Sam (#ulink_03b4f663-7780-50ac-a288-b656da97bc5a)
Ah Glasgow. Hello, old friend.
I’m aching and tired from the journey, but the sight of Glasgow Central’s vast, glass vaulted ceiling fires my body back into action. I take my time collecting my things and stepping down from the train, the need to hurry gone. My fellow passengers have mellowed somewhat, too, many of them lulled to sleep for part of the journey creating a symphony of snores around me, which amused me no end. I swear a couple of them even managed harmony at one point. Even so, when they disembark I see their steps quicken as our merry company disbands to our own adventures once more.
I reckon I slept too, a few half-hour snoozes at most, although my memory of the journey has already passed into a sludge of sameness. One thing’s for certain: I’ll sleep tonight. Especially if there’s alcohol involved.
I managed to get a message to Donal before reception deserted my phone completely and the reply I received was typical him:
Nae bother, pal. BEERS tonight!
Man, I’ve missed that guy.
I thought about Phoebe a lot, as the towns and cities passed into green and the hills rose to become mountains. It rained almost solidly from Lancashire onwards but as soon as we crossed the border the rainbows began. I can’t remember the last time I saw a rainbow, but on this journey I’ve seen seven. I’d forgotten that about this train journey. But now I remember travelling south from Edinburgh to Carlisle as a kid: me and my brother with our snotty noses pressed against the train glass, spotting rainbow shards illuminating passing glens and moorland.
Does Phoebe like rainbows? I didn’t ask, but I’m guessing she does. They’re bright and unexpected, completely spontaneous and elusive, and I kind of think that would appeal to the woman who’s just stolen my heart.
But a year apart from her…
I know what we said before we left London, but it struck me as I was travelling here just how much of a challenge we’ve set ourselves. Emails and postcards and once-monthly chats are all very well, but twelve months without her in my arms is suddenly a towering wall of a task. Can I do it? Can she?
I have stuff to do this year and I owe it to myself to focus on that as I planned. But I’m going to need strategies to keep perspective. At the end of this, I have to know for certain Phoebe is what I want. I owe it to both of us to be sure.
Leaving the station I ease back into Glasgow time like slipping on a favourite old pair of boots. It feels like home, even though I’ve never actually lived here. Weekends and Hogmanays and occasional weeks spent here with Donal and Kate over the years have endeared this city to my heart. As I walk its streets now, I don’t feel like a visitor. The dry humour, the unapologetic moxie of the people around me and the rise and fall of the accent welcomes me like a long-lost son.
I’ve missed this.
Don’t get me wrong, I love London. It’s my home, my place of business: my stomping ground. But I miss the humanity sometimes. The humour. The way you’re in the middle of a conversation before you know it; how every other person on the street beside you is one joke away from being a pal for life. It can be suffocating when you’re in it, but when you’re not it’s the thing you miss.
Home. Phoebe asked if I was going home and it’s only now, as I jump on a bus that will take me out north of the city to the town where my friends live, that I realise I already feel more at home in the forty minutes I’ve been here than I’ve done in London since Laura left me.
And when I get to Mull? Will that feel like home, too?
I push the concern away, along with the ghosts from my past, stuffing them all into a cupboard marked ‘LATER’. That stuff can wait. I watch the city slouching past the window, not minding the slow progress of the traffic-slowed bus to Port Glasgow. At long last, I have time. To think or not. To just be. That’s a luxury I haven’t had for years.
My stop is at the bottom of a hill that overlooks the River Clyde, the road rising steeply ahead. Though the water is some distance away, the shimmer of early evening sun on the dark river framed by purple hills on its far shore seems close enough to touch as I walk up the hill to Donal and Kate’s place. Their house is almost at the top, just where the road curves for its final ascent. The sight of Donal’s ancient yellow Mini parked on the drive makes me smile. How it’s still roadworthy is a mystery to everyone but he loves that rusting heap almost more than life itself. I have many fond and not-so-fond memories of cramming equipment into its interior and praying it up hills as we travelled to gigs across Scotland.
Donal misses the band and I get the impression he doesn’t play as many gigs locally now as he’d like. He’s one of the most gifted guitarists I know and it’s a shame more people can’t hear him play. But he’s also Dad to three of the most awesome kids on the planet, so that audience rightly gets first dibs on his time.
The front door whips open before I even set foot on the drive and I’m almost knocked off my feet by an excited clan of Cattenachs. The last time I saw the kids they were tiny; now the twins Addie and Ivor are almost level with my shoulder, and their not-so-baby sister Lexie can reach my waist when she hugs me. I’ve seen the kids in our Skype chats a couple of times a year, but being with them in person brings home to me how much they’ve grown. Somewhere in the middle of the giggling horde is Donal; Kate follows behind, her smile as bright as the sunlight dancing on the Clyde.
‘Let your poor uncle Sam get some air,’ she laughs, giving in when she’s ignored and joining the hug instead.
When they finally let me go, my sides are hurting from laughter and over-enthusiastic embraces. ‘Where the heck did you lot come from? What’s your mother been feeding you? Great big towering giants!’
‘Maybe you’ve shrunk, Sam,’ Lexie giggles, her father’s wit clearly inherited.
‘Aye, maybe I have. It’ll be all that incessant English rain falling on me, eh? I’ve shrunk in the wash!’ It’s an old joke, but like the house and the kids and the sunshine yellow Mini beside us, it’s familiar and warm and wonderful.
We pile inside the house, everyone talking at a million miles an hour, words and laughter crashing together, a joyous cacophony of noise that wraps around us. I’ve been here less than five minutes and it already feels like home. The last time I visited was almost six years ago and I’m shocked by how much has changed. I see it most in the kids, of course, but the house is different, too. Donal started the renovations they’d talked about for years just after he lost his mum eighteen months ago. His way of dealing with it, I think. When my ma passed, I wrote songs and jumped on any tour I could for a year. Syd spent six months in Ghana after his mum died, finally meeting the family she’d talked about but never visited. Losing someone puts brakes on everything else; changes how you see your priorities.
I only met Donal’s mum a handful of times, but I think Taral Cattenach would have approved of her son’s handiwork. She was an artist in India when Donal’s dad met her on an exchange visit from the company he worked for in the early 1980s, and the home they made together back in Glasgow was filled with her vivid oil paintings.
A hand slaps my shoulder and Donal grins at me. He still looks as young as he did the first day of university, the only hint at the years that have passed the first peppering of silver in the splendid jet beard that’s become his trademark.
‘One of your ma’s?’ I nod at the painting above the fireplace. A white lotus flower, its petals edged with gold, on an azure blue pool, delicate Henna-style patterns picked out in bright ochre framing the canvas.
His blue eyes glisten. It was the first thing I noticed about him when we met in the registration line in Freshers’ Week – that and the Glaswegian accent, which I’m ashamed now to say I didn’t expect, either. ‘Aye. I reckon she’d be happy to see it there.’
‘Place looks great, man.’
Donal nods. ‘Cheers. Didn’t think we’d get there but the kids helped me finish it off.’
I glance at Addie, Ivor and Lexie, still giggling with their mum. ‘I bet they’re all artistic.’
‘They’re annoyingly talented at everything,’ he chuckles. ‘No idea where they get it from. Kate and I were lucky to graduate. Addie’s taught himself so many instruments I’ve lost count, Ivor’s studying piano at the conservatoire on Saturdays and Lexi’s pretty much fluent in Gaelic, singing and playing guitar with a trad band at school.’
I love the pride with which Donal speaks about his kids, but I think he’s selling himself short. ‘I hope you’re planning on getting that guitar of yours out while I’m here.’
‘Show him the lair, Donal,’ Kate grins, and instantly the clan are dragging their father out of the patio doors into the garden. He protests, but it’s nowhere near convincing.
A large wooden building sits at the end of the garden, more a pine lodge than a shed. When we step inside, it’s a tiny studio, complete with a square vocal booth and a rack of amps and processors my studio partner Chris would be envious of.
‘Dad’s doing an EP,’ Lexie says, looping her arm through mine. ‘Mum’s singing on it, too.’
‘You kept that quiet,’ I smile at my friend who beams back.
‘Well, it’s only a bit of messing around, you know. I just figured it was time I sorted it out and rescued my guitars from the attic.’
Kate joins her daughter beside me. ‘Don’t believe him, Sam. He’s been gigging most weekends this year and he’s already working on album projects for a couple of local bands.’
‘Then it’s a business?’
Donal shrugs, but his eyes sparkle. ‘Could be. Part-time for now, but if I can get a good number of clients, who knows?’
I’m proud of my friend but also sad that I’ve only learned this now. I retreated after Laura, more concerned with my own studio venture. This year will be different, I promise myself. This year my friends come first.
After dinner the kids are grudgingly coaxed up to bed and Donal and I finally collapse in the living room at 9 p.m. I have no idea how my friends function at their frenetic pace. Their kids rock but, man, they are full-on. Kate seems to thrive on it – a fact confirmed when she appears, fresh-faced and smiling, her arms laden with beer bottles and a large bowl of crisps.
‘Right, lads. Beers.’
Those three words have heralded many an unwise imbibing of alcohol over the years and I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. But I have been looking forward to this for weeks. We grab a bottle each and handfuls of crisps, which turn out to be teddy bear-shaped snacks.
‘We ran out of the usual ones.’ Kate shrugs. ‘Don’t tell Lexie but I raided her packed lunch crisps.’
‘Very rock ’n’ roll,’ I laugh.
‘Robert Plant is a Pom-Bears fan,’ she says. I love the sparkle in her voice when she’s joking. I’ve missed it – and Donal’s hearty guffaw, too. ‘Probably. Dave Grohl too, when he isn’t drumming.’
‘So tell us about your studio, Sam. Is it going to rival Abbey Road?’
I grin at Donal. ‘One day maybe. It’s all set up now and we have bookings for the first four months.’
‘And Chris doesn’t mind you leaving, just when it’s all starting?’
‘He’s glad I’m not under his feet,’ I admit. It’s true: I was always going to be the one who funded things, while Chris was hands-on. ‘Truth is, neither of us expected to find premises as quickly as we did and by then my year out was already arranged.’
‘Like Kate and me,’ Donal says, draining his beer bottle and reaching for another. ‘She’s the brains, I’m the brawn.’
Kate bats him with the back of her hand but the way they snuggle together on the sofa warms my heart. It took long enough to get them together, but they’re inseparable now. Will Phoebe and I be like that?
My phone is on the coffee table where I left it and occasionally notifications illuminate the screen. I’m trying not to look, but each time it happens I wonder if it might be Phoebe. Is she thinking of me? I guess her first night with her hosts will call her attention from her phone more than mine. She mentioned she’s only met one of them before. That makes me glad I know the people I’m staying with.
‘Will you be seeing Niven while you’re on Mull?’ Donal asks.
‘Hope so, as often as I can. Have either of you heard from him lately? I tried calling a couple of times before I left but I couldn’t get hold of him.’
There’s a very definite look that passes between my friends. ‘He’s on some kind of training course for work, I think. He’ll be in touch soon as he’s able. You know Niven.’
I smile back but it makes me wonder what they know about him that I don’t. I know things have been up in the air since his fiancée moved out, but the last I heard he was dating again. Before I can ask any more, Kate pulls out a large bottle of single malt whisky from between the sagging sofa cushions.
‘Time for this baby, I think.’
Donal and I protest, but it’s useless. Kate only has to raise an eyebrow and suggest a girl might beat us in a drinking competition and we’re both in. Years have not taught us wisdom on this. Donal fetches glasses from the sideboard while I clear a space between the empty beer bottles covering the coffee table. It’s like being in our earliest days as friends: the whisky may be more expensive now, but the friendship is as strong as it’s ever been.
We settle into an easy silence as we take our first sip of peaty liquor and I glance at the clock. Midnight already. Will Phoebe be asleep now? Kate’s head is resting on Donal’s shoulder, his eyes closed as he enjoys his dram. I sneak my phone from the coffee table and jump as the screen illuminates.
PHOEBE – 1 MESSAGE
I look up at my friends but they haven’t moved. Heart racing, I open the message.
Hi ☺ Arrived in Paris and in my new temporary home. Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you. Speak soon and sleep well xx
That’s why she’s no Laura, I tell myself. Laura would only text if she wanted something, or to have a go at me. Phoebe misses me. So much that she broke her own rule of limited contact less than twenty-four hours into our year apart.
Shielding my mobile from view of my friends, I reply:
I miss you too. All good here apart from my arms being empty. Sweet dreams, beautiful xx
Kate raises her head and I pocket my phone before she notices. But I’m humming now. I can’t tell if it’s alcohol or lust… or love…? No, not love, not yet. But if I still feel like this in twelve months’ time I’ll fly faster than the train back to St Pancras and never let her go.
We talk, we laugh, we drink. My phone remains silent. But the thought that she might text again – the unpredictability of it – warms me more than any amount of single malt could.
I’ll text her when I leave here for Mull, I decide. If Phoebe can bend the rules, so can I.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_d69905da-872b-5c43-a8f3-b50d29f67ed5)
Chapter Eleven, Phoebe (#ulink_d69905da-872b-5c43-a8f3-b50d29f67ed5)
Daylight brings colour into my room, closely followed by a wall of pain crashing against my skull, so an equally delicate Luc suggests we ease as gently as possible into our tour of his favourite bits of Paris with a visit to his beloved local café.
Soon we’re sitting by the window looking out across the street and it seems like the whole of Paris is parading past. Beyond the people with never-ending cigarettes and expertly folded copies of Le Figaro directly beyond the glass – who alone are fascinating enough – old and young pass by, a thousand different lives and stories walking along the street. I can see why writers have found inspiration here. You wouldn’t even need a story idea: sit here for long enough and the city would write it for you.
I glance at Luc – or rather the enormous pair of dark sunglasses he’s currently hiding behind. He picked up a newspaper from the seller on the corner of the street below the apartment but it’s still where he put it when we first sat down, folded under his hand on the polished wood table. ‘How’s the head?’
‘I think it hates me.’ Behind the lenses his eyes crinkle into a smile, quickly followed by a grimace as his hangover protests.
‘Listen, we don’t have to do this today. I’m quite happy to wander around by myself…’
‘No way! You are our guest and I promised you a tour of my neighbourhood. But every great tour of this city should begin with the best coffee. So,’ he spreads his hands wide like a magician at the big reveal, ‘voila!’
I raise my cup to salute him and Luc nods at a passing waiter to order two more. At this rate I’ll be carried around the streets of Paris by caffeine buzz alone. But at least my headache isn’t stabbing quite so ferociously.
Another hour and a half later, helped by the pastries that finally tempted us and yet more coffee, Luc and I emerge squinting in the strengthening sunlight. The chill that whistled round the streets first thing has relented and I can see Parisians shrugging off coats and jackets to brave the walk without them.
The Sacré-Cœur Basilica is only a short walk from the café, so we head there first. It’s set near parks, surrounded by cobbled streets and its white walls, tall towers and elegant domes are dazzling in the mid-morning sun. I’ve seen it in guidebooks and Meg’s told me about it so many times – she loves it more than Notre Dame and reckons it’s one of the most underrated buildings in Paris. But standing here is something else. The sounds of the city are a constant low hum but here birdsong joins the noise as their fleeting shapes pass between the ancient structures. We don’t venture inside, but I intend to do that on a day when I don’t have anywhere else to be. I plan to reconnoitre Paris landmarks and locations during my first week, and then return to the ones that I like best over the remainder of my stay.
The first time I visited Paris I was at primary school. We stayed in a grim bed and breakfast place in Normandy in November, and were granted one day in Paris, which wasn’t enough time to see much of anything. We spent most of that day stuck on the coach in traffic around the Arc de Triomphe and on the most mind-numbing river cruise up and down the Seine (all the bridges from one side, then all the bridges from the other). My eleven-year-old heart sank as Notre Dame passed like a ghost, frustratingly out of reach. We did climb the Eiffel Tower, though – only to the second level, as it was a windy day, but climbing the steps instead of taking the lift – and standing on the famous tower gazing out across the neat squares of the city was the moment Paris stole my heart.
Despite his poor head Luc is a great guide, pointing out places only a local would know. With it, I’m getting the history of him and Tobi: where he proposed, where they first told the other they loved them, and how they first met in the famous bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, when they both reached for the same copy of Candide byVoltaire.
‘Like Serendipity only with a better taste in books,’ he jokes as we wander into a gorgeous sunlit park. We find a bench and sit.
‘That’s so romantic.’
He laughs. ‘Yeah, it would have been if I hadn’t been so annoyed with him for getting the book before me. I stormed out – the full flounce, you know – and that could have been that. Except that when I stopped by the Seine to catch my breath, I looked down and there was the book beside me. He’d bought it, followed me from the store and was standing there with this great big loon grin on his face.’
Instantly, I think of Sam. ‘I met someone yesterday,’ I say, the words dancing out before I can stop them. I hardly know Luc and I’d said I wouldn’t tell anyone. But in the soothing green of the small park, overlooking a colonnade swathed with flowering blue wisteria and the white dome of Sacré-Cœur rising behind, it feels right. ‘I think he could be someone really special.’
Could I have imagined myself saying this two days ago? Or a year ago? Already I feel so different and I like how the change sits in me.
Luc peers at me over his sunglasses. ‘Tell me more, mademoiselle.’
‘I met him when our trains were delayed.’ I find Sam’s photo on my phone and show Luc. ‘That’s Sam.’
‘Cute. And you left him there?’
I laugh and hope it disguises the dip my heart just took. ‘He was travelling to Scotland. For a year.’
‘Okay.’
The sun sparkles on the crazy silver-glitter laces Osh gave me for my turquoise Converse. Suddenly I’m self-conscious. ‘We’ve promised to meet up in twelve months if we still feel the same.’
He is quiet for a while and I wonder how sensible it was to share something so personal with someone I hardly know. I’m about to stuff a different, safer subject into the gap when Luc turns to face me.
‘Y’know, Phoebe, a year is good. Test the theory. I’m all for spontaneity but you’ve got to give your head chance to catch up with your heart. I mean, I tell the story of T and me like the moment he gave me that book all my dreams came true, but it wasn’t like that at all. The moment was spontaneous; the working out how the hell it was all going to happen took a long time. Over a year, actually.’
‘It did?’
‘Mm-hmm. I was a visitor here when we met, on a three-week vacation. Tobi had never been to Canada. We knew nothing about one another, other than the chemistry and the fact we both wanted to read Voltaire on the same day. We both had careers, owned property, had lives in our countries we couldn’t just pack up and leave. Then there was all the legal stuff – visas, applications. Where we’d live. The boring reality that inevitably follows after your heart’s run away with a notion. I don’t regret a thing, but I wish I’d seen all those frustrating delays as important time for laying foundations. If we’d rushed it, who knows if we’d be together now? The details can derail you, if you’re not prepared.’
We watch the world pass our bench in our tiny patch of Paris. I haven’t looked beyond returning to Sam in a year’s time. It seems far too early to think about that stuff, but when would the right time be? A month from now? Six months? Just before I go home?
I’m nervous about thinking too far ahead but Luc is right about making the most of our time apart to really think things through. I remember his text last night:
I miss you too.
That’s what I need to focus on. Everything else is just logistics.
Luc is decidedly less delicate by 2 p.m. so we venture a little further afield and spend a few hours wandering around tiny art shops, artisan food stores and a farmers’ market he tells me is Tobi’s favourite. We buy bits of cheese, bread and cured meats, enjoying the samples offered by every stallholder.
One stall is covered in tiny watercolour paintings – some no bigger than a postage stamp, some two inches square and some the size of postcards. I choose a beautiful one of a Parisian street with cherry blossom trees and tiny window boxes at every window. It’s the perfect first postcard to send to Sam, who emailed me the address of his friends in Glasgow earlier today.
Luc goes to buy some envelopes for me and coffee for us both. I sit on a bench opposite the market to write my card to Sam. I don’t know when he is going to be leaving his friends’ house and travelling to Mull, so I hope the card will arrive in time.
Dear Sam,
Surprise! I wasn’t sure how long you would be in Glasgow so I hope this reaches you before you leave for Mull.
I’m writing this by the side of a farmers’ market. Luc has been giving me a personal tour of his favourite Parisian haunts and we’ve just eaten half our bodyweight in free food samples. The sun is shining, it’s warm and it’s about as perfect as days in Paris get. The artist who painted this postcard is called Mme Comtois and she started painting at night after working on the dairy farm she owns with her husband all day. She told us she paints to keep her heart smiling – how lovely is that? I think we should always do things that bring smiles to our hearts.
I miss you. I hope you’re happy. And I can’t wait to see you again.
All my love, Phoebe xxx
When we return from our day wandering around Montmartre, Luc shows me how to get into the tiny courtyard. There’s a service staircase at the back of the building and a door at the bottom that opens into the small green space. I’m sitting there now, looking up at the square of sky framed by the ivy-covered walls of the building. It feels like a secret space and it’s so quiet. It’s a perfect place to read – maybe even write.
Sitting in the café made me think of the authors I love who chronicled their adventures across Europe. Maybe I can do what Mark Twain and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe did: note down what I see, what I experience. My first full day in Paris has been so wonderful I want to remember it all. Maybe one day I can show Sam, too.
When I switch my phone on Sam is smiling at me from the screen. It’s as if he knew I was thinking about him. I resist the urge to squeal as I open his message.
Hey you. My turn to break the rules. I’m leaving for Mull tomorrow, so here’s the address. Just if you happened to be passing a postcard shop in Paris or anything. Email me yours and I’ll send you a tartan-emblazoned one when I land on Mull (prepare yourself…) By the way, I miss you xx
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_ae9bba57-2524-5c84-b9ae-db62dedbb017)
Chapter Twelve, Sam (#ulink_ae9bba57-2524-5c84-b9ae-db62dedbb017)
Far too many beers.
Not the most profound thought to begin the first proper day of my adventure with, but at least it’s honest. Honesty is something I’ve promised myself for this year, too. No more stuffing the past away, no more pretending it didn’t happen.
Right now, though, my head wants to leave me.
Nobody’s up when I stumble into Donal and Kate’s kitchen. A painful squint at my phone reveals it isn’t even six yet. Great. Although maybe if I can neck a pint or two of water with some paracetamol I might be able to crash out for a couple more hours. That’s a comforting thought.
I find a glass, fill it to the brim with cold water and am about to begin my cupboard search for painkillers when I remember Phoebe’s message.
Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you.
I stop fighting the urge to reply and type a message, with my address in Mull. That’s just important information, right? Admin, you could say. So it’s necessary.
‘So, are you going to tell me who she is?’
I jump and a slosh of water escapes my glass, splashing across the tiled floor and my bare feet.
Kate laughs and leans over the sink to tear off a strip of kitchen roll, ducking to mop my feet and the floor like I’m one of her kids. It’s endearing and mortifying at once.
‘Cheers, Ma,’ I say.
‘Oi, seven months younger than you, thank you very much.’ She flicks the paper in the bin and grabs the kettle. ‘You’re busted though, Mr Mullins. I demand all the details.’ She’s annoyingly fresh, considering she matched Donal and me dram for dram last night. ‘Can your poor head stand coffee yet?’
‘I’ll risk it,’ I grin, pulling out a pine chair by the table. Sitting is definitely safer than standing this morning.
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Who is she?’
I lay my phone carefully on the table. ‘You should work for MI6.’
‘They tried to recruit me. Too badass for them.’ Her damp auburn curls dance across the collar of her towelling robe when she laughs. It’s not the red it was, threaded with strands of gold now, but it’s still like watching fire. ‘You don’t have to tell me. But whoever she is, I’m glad she makes you happy.’
This might be the only chance I get to talk to Kate about Phoebe, before the thunder of remaining Cattenachs descends upon us and the moment is lost.
‘Her name is Phoebe Jones,’ I say, my chest swelling as her name plays on my lips. ‘You’re going to think I’m nuts, but I think she’s perfect for me. As in long-term perfect.’
Kate’s mirth softens and she sits next to me, anticipating the story that will follow.
Once I begin, it all comes out. And despite the hammering in my head, I can’t stop my smile. I fall over my words, somewhere between confession and breathless laughter. And the whole time, Kate watches, a strange half-grin resting on her face.
When it’s all said, she sits back, the boiled kettle long forgotten between us. ‘I’ve never seen you happy like this, Sam.’
‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy before.’ It’s strange spoken out loud, but it’s the truth.
‘Do you have her picture?’
If it were anyone else in the world asking, I’d refuse. But this is Kate Cattenach, long-time confidante in matters of my heart. I find the image of Phoebe and me together by the platform barrier and slide the phone across the washed pine table for Kate to see.
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She is.’
‘And you only met her… yesterday?’
I know where this is going. ‘I did.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know how it sounds, but…’
‘No, Sam, really, you don’t have to explain. Sometimes you just know, I guess. Not that it was like that for your man and me. I reckon Donal and I have the slowest love-at-first-sight story on the planet.’
‘Yeah, but we all knew.’
She laughs. ‘So I’ve been told. By every single one of yous.’ She hands the phone back. ‘Phoebe – the radiant, shining one. Pretty apt name.’
Name meanings have always been Kate’s thing. Within a day of us all meeting she’d told us what our names meant: Kate – pure (we always added ‘alcohol’ to the meaning as a nod to her incredible drinking prowess); Donal – ruler of the world (which, trust me, he still brags about); Niven – saint (jury’s still out on that one); Shona – happy (which is what we all hope she might be one day); and Sam – heard by God, which I always thought was a bit odd until Kate said that being a musician made it the perfect name for me. Who wouldn’t want God as an audience? God or Aly Bain in my case – I’d be happy with either. I don’t know how much I believe in name meanings, but finding out Phoebe means shining and radiant makes me smile even more.
‘That’s how she seemed to me. Her laugh – it’s like sunshine.’
Kate pulls a face. ‘You’ve got it so bad. Bless you. She must be special.’
‘I think she is.’
‘But – you still came away? And let her go, too?’
Said like that, it doesn’t sound good. ‘We both have things to do. Promises we’ve made ourselves. I don’t want to jump into another relationship unless I’m certain it’s right. Not after Laura.’
Kate nods. ‘I get that. But are you sure you’re not…?’ She exhales and peers through her curls at me. I know what that look means. We’ve been here countless times before. I can rely on her to speak her mind – even if this morning I don’t want to hear it. ‘Tell me where to get off if you like, but are you sure you haven’t agreed to a year apart as a way of not committing?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Am I? I was yesterday…
‘Because it’s okay if you’re scared, Sam. We all get scared. And Laura damn near destroyed you.’
I wish she didn’t know that about me. And yes, I know the urge to head for the hills at the first sign of trouble is strong in my bones. But Phoebe’s not like Laura. She’s worth me being different for, or at least trying to be. ‘It’s a test, being apart. We should test how we feel, if it’s what we both hope it could be. Don’t you think?’
‘A year is one hell of a test.’
‘Maybe.’
She smiles and reaches across to squeeze my hand. ‘Then, good for you. She’d better be worthy of your faith, mind. Tell her if she messes you around she’ll have me to contend with.’
‘Okay.’ I might not pass that message on just yet. The thought of Kate gunning for anyone is terrifying.
Within an hour everyone is up, including the family’s ancient corgi 007, mostly known as Bond these days, although whenever they take him to the vet they use the former. It’s a never-ending source of embarrassment to Donal when the vet calls ‘007 Cattenach’ into the packed waiting room.
In the middle of the noisy whirr of laughter, breakfast-making and conversation, the doorbell rings. Lexie beats her brothers to answer it and I hear excited squeals from the hall. A moment later, a familiar smile moons around the kitchen door.
‘Am I too early for beers?’
Niven McNish’s laugh rumbles beneath the crush of hugs that follows and it’s a welcome sound.
‘Okay, okay, put your uncle Niven down,’ Donal says, reaching in between us to rescue our friend. ‘Good to see you, man. Can we get you breakfast?’
‘Aye, you can. Sam! Surprise!’ He holds his arms open, chuckling away.
‘I didn’t know the McNish-Meister was gracing us with his presence,’ I say, slapping him on the back, as the family resumes their vociferous assault on toast and eggs around the table. ‘I heard they didn’t let you leave the Island these days. Being the national treasure you are.’
My friend shrugs off his leather jacket and grabs toast from the fresh stack Donal has delivered. ‘I snuck out. I’m officially a fugitive.’ He downs a mug of tea as if it’s the first he’s had for weeks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I can imagine him as a Viking invader, downing beer after a conquest. Tea isn’t exactly warrior fare, but the image still suits him. Especially with that hair and wayward straggle of a beard. Has that man ever had a decent haircut? Not in all the time I’ve known him.
‘Is there a reward for your capture?’ I ask. ‘I could do with some cash right now.’
‘Probably not much, knowing the Island. So, how are you? And how dare you not have aged since the last time I saw you?’
‘Get away. I found a grey hair the other day.’
‘Yeah, right. It’s those musician genes of yours, keeping time at bay.’
‘Are they the tight ones?’ Lexie asks earnestly, frowning when we all descend into giggles.
Niven ruffles her hair. ‘Different kind of genes, Lex. But I reckon Sam has musician jeans, too. Probably far too tight for a man of his years.’
‘Hey!’
He shrugs. ‘Say it as I see it. Fiddle players – right posey bastards.’ He holds up a hand in apology when Addie, Ivor and Lexie giggle and Kate shushes him. ‘Kids, you didn’t hear that, okay? Sorry, Kate. So, Mullins, when are you heading off?’
‘Tomorrow.’ I offer a sympathetic grin as the children protest. ‘But you’ve got me all day today, guys.’
‘You never stay long enough,’ Ivor complains.
Donal and Kate’s house is cosy, but accommodating three adults, three children and an elderly corgi is stretching its capabilities. Where they’re going to put Niven tonight is anyone’s guess.
‘When I’m on my way back to London, I’ll come and stay again for a night. How’s that?’ I look over to Donal and Kate, who nod happily. ‘And of course you’re all welcome to visit when I’m settled on Mull.’
‘I’ve plenty of room at mine for the lot of yous.’ Niven grins and instantly the kids are placated. He has that ability to be oil on troubled waters – always has. Where Kate was the mum of the group, and Donal the dreamer, Niven was our peacemaker. Maybe that’s why he’s been so successful as a teacher. Island kids face all kind of issues mainland children don’t get and behaviour can be a problem when frustrations rear up. With Mr McNish in charge, the kids have the best chance of navigating it.
‘What brings you here, anyway?’ I ask, my question answered when I see Niven exchange a glance with Kate. ‘Ah.’
‘Now don’t be mad at Kate. I’ve been on a residential course in Glasgow for a fortnight so I was on my way back anyway. The timing was just – providential.’
Providential my ass. Knowing this lot they will have cooked up the whole thing between them. ‘Right. And I don’t suppose you were planning to travel back to Mull tomorrow by any chance?’
Niven’s grin could charm swallows out of the sky. Man, I’ve missed my friends.
I’d always envisioned making my way to Mull alone, but secretly I’m glad of my surprise travelling companion. Going home is never simple – Kate and the gang understand that. At university there were Christmases and Easter breaks and summer holidays where everyone else piled off to their families and I just didn’t. My friends clocked this early and so I always ended up with invitations to stay from across the UK and Ireland. I’ll forever be grateful that they noticed and didn’t let me wallow alone.
There’s so much stuff wrapped around the Island and me. It’s where I was born, where two generations of my family lived before me, so it’s in my blood. But it’s complicated. My father made that happen. I’m going home because I want to understand that: who I am and where I came from, but also why Dad walked away. I have a year with no commitments, barring meeting Phoebe at the end of it. I might never have this luxury again.
We spend the day hanging out and chatting, moving between the house and Donal’s studio, until the inevitable happens and Addie, Ivor and Lexie beg us to play something. Niven doesn’t have his fiddle, so he borrows Lexie’s while I fetch mine; Donal and Kate grab guitars from the impressive selection hanging on hooks across one wooden wall of the studio; Ivor sits at the keyboard, Lexie chooses a tin whistle and Addie produces a bodhrán drum.
I love the moment when musicians gather. The shuffle and tuning, the moving of chairs and sharing of smiles. It’s all part of it, before a single note plays. There’s a peace that settles between musicians before the music begins, a silence that’s both comforting and energising. Because before it is preparation and after it is music – an adventure shared between likeminded souls. I remember a professor of ours saying there’s no way to describe music without expressing how it makes you feel. And it’s true. You can know everything about the theory and the mechanics of music, but it all means nothing without experiencing it.
When we play, it’s messy and unrehearsed and we laugh as we miss chords and hit bum notes, but it’s still magical. And for me, it’s family. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed the immediacy of it: you sit down, you play. No agonising beforehand, no getting mired in plans and strategies. When I play, I’m not thinking about anything but the music.
The last time I felt like that was… with Phoebe.
When I get to Mull, I’m going to call her. Screw the rules. I reckon we’ll figure it out as we go. Besides, I need to hear her voice.
Next day, I am staring at a stack of garish tourist postcards, turning the white wire carousel slowly to find one that won’t make Phoebe reconsider me on the spot. I wasn’t the biggest fan of her idea to send cards to one another. But receiving hers this morning as I prepared to leave for Mull was the loveliest thing. Like she’d just snuck into Kate and Donal’s hall to smile at me.
So my first postcard back to her has to be right.
On reflection, the ferry terminal at Oban was maybe not the best place to do this. We didn’t have time to buy anything at Glasgow Queen Street because Niven and I missed the first bus back to the city from Donal and Kate’s, so we entered the station like a pair of crazy rucksack-toting sprinters and only just caught the train.
Ironically, I now have several hours to make my choice from the slim pickings here. The weather’s closed in since we arrived and the last two ferries were cancelled. Is this entire year going to be one long delay?
‘Are these supposed to make people stay away from Scotland?’ Niven reaches past me and picks one with a psychedelic tartan piper on it, who appears to be striding up the middle of a B-road in the Highlands. His hair is an unnatural shade of satsuma and his swinging kilt so scarlet it practically jumps off the card and slaps your face. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet that fella on a deserted road. Or receive this image in the post when I’ve a hangover.’
He has a point. In the end I opt for a too-green Highland landscape, its tartan border only slightly less offensive than the others on offer, and take it to the gravel-faced assistant behind the counter to pay.
‘Were you hoping for a crossing?’ he asks.
‘Yep.’
He makes a sucking sound with his teeth like the noise of water draining down an almost-blocked sink. ‘You’ll be lucky to get across this side of dark,’ he says. Ah, the cheery banter of the ferry port. I’d forgotten the joys. ‘You two lads on a jolly over there?’
‘Seeing family,’ I say, hiding my smile when he gawps at me. Clearly he’d pegged me as a tourist.
‘Ach, well. Not a good day for that either, I reckon.’
Like I said, cheery.
‘He thought you were English,’ Niven mocks as we head for the dubious-looking snack concession at the far edge of the car park, the only food provider brave (or daft) enough to be open in this weather. The food kiosk in the ferry terminal was already locked and shuttered when we arrived.
‘No he didn’t.’
‘Face it: you’ve been away too long, Mullins. Swallowed up by that great big London place. Your people have forgotten you.’
‘Shut up.’ I smile, but my stomach shifts.
I know Ailish will be glad to see me, but does anyone else from my early life remember me? My family didn’t exactly leave with a farewell parade. I still remember the shock of being woken before the sun, Ma stuffing just what she could carry into holdalls and bin bags, dragging Callum and me away from the only other home we’d known: Grandma’s house.
My maternal grandmother is long gone and I don’t miss her. She made Ma’s life hell after our pre-dawn escape from her home on Mull and I don’t think she ever forgave her, spitting out her bile and fury at us long distance in phone calls my mother felt obliged to endure. Grandma loved my father, you see. Thought he could do no wrong. Ma was a failure for not being enough of a woman to keep him.
I shouldn’t be glad someone is dead, but in her case I am. I’m pretty sure Grandma’s hateful attitude to Ma added to her self-loathing, hastening her own death from years of alcohol and hurt. It’s part of why us returning to Mull as a family was never an option. Ailish was here, of course, Niven too – although I don’t remember him much as a kid because we moved away so early. The coincidence of meeting him again over five hundred miles away at university in London felt like a gift of providence. Still does.
We brave a coffee and a bacon roll each and scurry back to the shelter of the ferry terminal.
‘Don’t take the lid off your coffee,’ Niven says when we’re squeezed onto bright-blue rigid plastic chairs in the departure lounge.
‘Why?’
‘It’s not pretty. I didn’t know coffee came in grey.’
‘It’s warm and it’s wet. That’s all I care about.’ I roll my eyes as Niven chokes on his sub-standard coffee. ‘You haven’t changed.’
‘Apart from being AWOL from the Island,’ he says, wiping coffee from his chin.
‘What’s going on there?’
My friend slumps in his unforgiving seat. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘How?’
‘Can’t really explain. My mates at home reckon it’s a premature midlife crisis. It’s just – nothing seems as fulfilling as it did before.’
‘Before Ruth?’ I’m careful not to look at him when I say it.
‘Not just that. Lots of things, really. Ruth was the start of it, I think.’
‘The teaching?’
I see his boots tapping together. A sure sign he feels uncomfortable. It isn’t that he can’t take confrontation, more that he’d rather work it out himself than by committee.
‘I love the kids. I’ll always love working with them. But since Ruth, everything’s come up for renewal. When we were together I was looking to a future where a safe job on the Island was necessary. But now… now I just don’t know.’
When I’ve pictured returning to Mull, Niven in his teaching job was as sure and immovable a feature as Duart Castle or the peak of Ben More. I hadn’t realised how much the break-up could shake him. But that’s the point – I haven’t noticed because I haven’t been involved in my friends’ lives for so long.
This year, I will be a better friend to them all.
Almost two hours later, our luck takes a turn for the better. Against all odds the leaden skies break and the wind drops. The sunshine that appears is the weakest, weediest excuse for sun, but we’re delighted to see it. Twenty minutes later, an announcement comes over the tannoy to inform the thirty or so of us noble pilgrims who’ve stuck out the wait that a ferry will be heading to the Island in an hour.
It’s almost 4 p.m. when we reach Craignure. I’ve missed several buses and the next one won’t run for another hour and a half. More waiting. I think of transport back in London, how I consider anything over a twenty-minute wait to be unreasonable. This year will teach me patience, if nothing else.
‘Hey, don’t go waiting for a ride to Fionnphort,’ Niven says when I start to head for the bus stop. ‘I’ll drive you over.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that. It’s miles out of your way.’
‘You haven’t asked. I’ve offered. I’ve a friend here who lets me park on his drive when I go to the mainland. I can’t stand the bus. I always meet some ancient local who knows my mum and has embarrassing stories about me they’ll happily share with every other passenger. Come on. Accept a lift from a dodgy local, eh? Start living dangerously.’
It isn’t an offer I’m likely to pass up. ‘Sure, why not? I’ll make sure Ailish pays you in cake.’
‘Deal. And you can buy the first round when we go drinking.’ He grins as we set off. ‘Because we will be drinking many times, Sam.’
Single-track roads are a feature of the Island and something I’d forgotten the thrill of navigating. I’m usually a dreadful passenger but right now I’m glad Niven’s driving. To take my mind off the scarily narrow road ahead I look out at the landscape, the sight of the sea and moorland, hills and mountains summoning so many memories.
We’ve been driving for a while when I’m struck by the strongest need to be out in the wild, open beauty of my birthplace.
‘Wait – can we stop for a second?’
‘Er, sure, hang on.’ Niven frowns but he doesn’t question my request.
We pull into a small muddy passing place beside a hummock of wild grass, looking out across miles of empty moor. I open the door and jump out, shaking the stiffness from my legs.
Out here the wind blows unabated from sea to land, across dramatic craggy moorland peppered with pink granite, the vivid swathes of green bracken dancing with the first flush of purple heather. I plant my feet on the soft peaty earth, my body braced against the buffeting breeze.
Suddenly, everything returns. The scent of salt and heather on the air, the light from my earliest memories of life, the colours… For a moment, I can’t move; scared it will all vanish if I do. I want to capture everything just as it is now. I’ve forgotten it once: I don’t ever want to do that again.
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