The Day We Meet Again

‘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.’