The Day We Meet Again

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.’