‘That’s great, Niv. And if you want some summer stuff in London, give us a shout, okay?’
He grins. ‘You might regret offering that. But aye, that’d be good.’
* * *
On the bus to Port Glasgow, I think about Phoebe. I am so close to seeing her again and I just want the journey to be over. I hope I didn’t shock her with my phone call. I had to say it before tomorrow, so she is in no doubt about how I feel. There’s one last night with Donal, Kate and the kids and then it will be the day we’ve promised each other. There are so many things in my life I have little clarity on, but I know that I love her. She isn’t Laura. She won’t bail on me or break my heart. She gave me the push I needed to find Frank. And unlike my father, when I am finally reunited with Phoebe, I won’t go anywhere. No more running. No more letting fear win. I am in, for as long as she’ll have me.
Tomorrow, I’ll show her that.
The Day
14th June 2018
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three, Phoebe
Gare du Nord is packed, the early morning commuters as crammed into the space and impatient as they are in Euston or St Pancras or Victoria. Except that they still manage to look French and unhurried, effortlessly elegant and nonplussed, all at the same time.
My heart is so full of everything. Leaving Paris, saying goodbye to Tobi and Luc and the knowledge that Sam loves me and will be waiting at the end of my journey. At least, I hope he will be.
I have some time before my train is called, so I manage to find an empty seat and sip the coffee I picked up from Luc’s favourite neighbourhood café. Around me people buzz about their day, sure of their destinations. How many of them are on their way to fulfil a promise, I wonder? There’s no way to tell. If I’ve learned one thing this year it’s that you never know what anyone else is facing.
I’m excited, but I have so many questions. Where will I live? Where will I work? What do I want my life to look like with Sam in it? From the moment we meet again by Sir John Betjeman’s statue, our lives will change. They’ll have to. Two complete lives dovetailing together. Even when it’s what we want, it’s going to require work and compromises. He didn’t share all of his journey to find Frank with me. That still stings. If we have a hope of lasting, he has to trust me more than he has this year. I have to trust myself, too. But I should have prepared more for when I get home. Why am I only considering this now?
I make myself inhale long and slow.
Calm down, Phoebe.
He loves me and I love him. We can work out the rest.
I have imagined this moment so many times and now it’s racing towards me instead of me heading towards it. In less than five hours, Sam and I will be in the same space. The distance closed. The decision made.
A couple pass by, their arms linked together as if some force will imminently pull them apart. I remember that feeling as we waited by the barrier for Sam’s platform, that urgency and the bittersweet rush of love and longing as time slipped away. We’re doing this in reverse now. Apart for not much longer, then nothing left to separate us again.
I close my eyes and mark the moment. Like Giana would do. ‘Good or bad, mark it in your mind. It’s a touch point for the future. One day you might need to remember how this was for you.’
Nearly there, Sam. So nearly there…
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four, Sam
Eight rainbows. That’s broken the journey up. In the brave early light they are magical. It has to be a sign.
I never looked for signs before I met her.
This year has changed how I see myself so much. Where I’m from. Who I am. What drives me. What scares me. I’m from Mull and Frank Mullins is my father, but I am not Frank Mullins. Or Jean Mullins, who he left behind. I’m Sam Mullins, musician, studio co-owner, son, brother and soon to be lover of the most wonderful woman in the world.
There was one more missing piece to fit. Something I never thought I’d do. Last night, in the stillness of Donal’s garden studio, I called my brother.
‘Sam?’
‘Hey, Cal.’
‘What is it?’
‘I found Da.’
I don’t know if Cal expected this call to happen one day, but his response was immediate and shocking. I haven’t heard my brother cry for twenty years.
When he was able to speak again, we talked for an hour. He’s not in a good place – off sick again from his job with anxiety and stress, still reeling from his second divorce. The more we spoke, the more I could see the damage done to his self-esteem, the little boy who never recovered from losing his father. I thought he didn’t care. I was wrong.
‘I can’t believe he was living so close to us all that time.’
‘I know.’
‘I thought – I always thought I wasn’t enough to make him stay.’
‘Me too. But the truth is, he wasn’t enough. Deep down he couldn’t be the man we needed. He wasn’t running from us, Cal, he was running from himself.’
‘I run. That’s my problem. I run and hide in a bottle. I’m the worst bits of Ma and Da.’
It broke my heart to hear it, but given what I now know, it wasn’t a surprise. ‘You don’t have to any more. You’re not Frank Mullins, kid. Neither am I. He ruined the best part of our lives: let’s not let him take any more. Leave Frank to his own demons and deal with your own.’
I never thought I’d say that to him, but I could feel walls being chipped away as we spoke. I offered to send him details of the hospice, but Cal refused. I hope he’ll contact Ellie when he’s ready.
‘Let’s chat more, yeah?’ he said, before he hung up. ‘Soon. I’d like that, Sam. You’re all I have.’
It wasn’t an easy truce, but it was a start.
I follow the rainbow until it slips from view. New beginnings. Putting right the past. That’s what I’ll take from this year. Discovering I can be whoever I want to be. Finding my feet.
And at the heart of it all is Phoebe Jones.
I love her. And in a few hours, I will be back with her.
I haven’t a clue what happens next. How we will actually do this. Should I be concerned? Who knows? None of it scares me, though. Not like it used to. It’s the sweetest freefall from the highest altitude and every atom of me hums with the audacity of it.
We did it, Phoebe: we tested this thing for a year and it’s real. The closer I travel to my destination, the more I feel it. I’ve never been in love like this.
I just hope she can forgive me for not sharing stuff when I should have.
After my call with Cal, Kate and Donal joined me. Their excitement for me – and for the woman they’ve never met who stole my heart – meant the world. Still does.
‘I’ll admit, I was worried in the beginning,’ Kate said, handing out another round of beers. ‘But she’s proved herself this year. And you’re happier than I’ve ever seen. So, I take back what I said: a year away has been good for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh look, he’s blushing!’
‘Ach Kate, leave the poor beggar alone! Ignore my wife, Sam. We couldn’t be happier for you. As soon as you can, get both your backsides up here to see us, okay?’ Donal said.
And of course I agreed, because I can’t think of any better place to bring Phoebe. All these things we’ve talked about – my friends, her friends, her family, the studio – we’re finally going to be able to share it all with each other.
I can’t wait.
My life will start over when we meet today. Everything will now include Phoebe. It’s going to take some getting used to, but I am up for the challenge.
I’m counting the hours…
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five, Phoebe
It’s almost time.
My train is minutes away from St Pancras. I don’t know if it will be busy, but it doesn’t matter. None of my questions do. The only thing I care about is that Sam will be waiti
ng for me.
My Sam.
I’ve thought about what I’ll say when I see him. Like the postcards we sent, I feel like the words I greet him with should be memorable. I want him to remember me as the person he fell in love with and then spent a year getting to know. I hope it will always be a memory that warms his heart.
My heart feels like it might not last the journey. What will Sam think? What will his reaction be?
I hope his journey back to London is a good one. I know he’s changing trains twice on the way and praying he makes both connections. Between us I think we’ve had enough delays to last us a lifetime. Although maybe we should be grateful: a delay is responsible for us even having this date to meet.
Will he be tired from his journey? Does Sam get grumpy when he’s tired? Or is he like Osh, who just becomes cute and sleepy? Or Meg, who suddenly disappears to bed without saying a word? I know Sam isn’t an early bird, but is he bright when he does wake? Gabe isn’t the best at getting up, but once he decides to face the day he’s completely committed to it. The full megawatt smile and one hundred per cent energy switches on and that’s him for the rest of the day. All of these tiny, everyday details I don’t know about Sam yet. A million and one unknown things that make up the man I’m in love with. What does his face look like when he’s sleeping? When the first rays of daylight pass over his skin? What would it feel like to wake beside him? What would I see if Sam were my first sight in the morning?
I know that I love him. But in so many ways he’s still a stranger. He’s made decisions I didn’t understand and I’ve said things he couldn’t deal with. All the certainties wait by the Betjeman statue. Nothing will be the same after today.
I glance at my watch.
10.50 a.m.
By the time the train halts it will be 10.55 a.m. Five minutes till the time we agreed to meet.
And then…?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six, Sam
‘We are now arriving at London King’s Cross, where this service terminates. Please ensure you take all your personal belongings with you. Thank you for travelling with us today.’
This is it.
It’s almost 11 a.m. I have a dash across the road from here to St Pancras where Phoebe will be waiting. My hands are shaking as I stuff my book, water bottle and jumper into my rucksack. I’m suddenly aware of the staleness of the air in this carriage that we’ve all been breathing for the past five hours. My stomach swims with nerves and anticipation, the same kind of knotted tension that appears in the minutes before I take the stage. Only today my audience is just one person.
I can’t wait to hold her. Kiss her. Replace the dimming memories I have of those sensations with the real thing. Suddenly the twelve months since I left become no more than a single thought: the past. All that matters now is getting to the Betjeman statue and beginning my life with Phoebe Jones.
I join the line of shuffling, impatient passengers moving down the carriage and time seems to stretch for an eternity until the beep-beep-beep of the opening door locks makes my heartbeat spike.
Get me off this train now. She’s waiting for me.
And then my feet step down onto station platform concrete and adrenalin powers through my body. I don’t even try to play it cool: the moment I leave the train, I’m running…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven, Phoebe
The air is still beside the Betjeman statue.
Sir John’s tilted face catches the mid-morning sunlight beaming down on him through the glass roof high above his head, pooling around his feet. I don’t see the commuters hurrying past, or the pockets of tourists posing with the famous poet’s memorial. Here the station noise is muted: I can hear my breath, feel the urgent pulse of blood at my wrists and hear the quickening thrum of my heart louder than any other sound.
11 a.m., 14th June.
One year exactly from the day we met.
Where I promised I’d be.
Sam’s train was due in before mine, but it will take him a while to get across from King’s Cross and up to the first floor of St Pancras. He’ll come running up the stairs any moment now, the distance between us finally closed like two hands meeting, two halves of a heart joining.
What will he do when he gets here?
What will he say?
I close my eyes. Mark the moment before everything changes forever.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Eight, Sam
I pass the concourse where we first kissed, the coffee concession where I fell in love with her, and approach the staircase we walked down together to begin this whole crazy journey. And as I take the stairs two at a time, the hands of the huge station clock above the first floor moving just past the hour, I see the Betjeman statue rising into view. His hat first, then the billowing mackintosh and, as I reach the top step, the bag he carries, the smart shoes and his words etched in slate that loop around his feet.
A group of tourists pose awkwardly in front of the statue, all forced-smiles and puffed-out chests. I wait until they are done and smile at them as they start to leave.
One minute past eleven. Not bad timekeeping considering my dash across the station. And hey, one thing Phoebe needs to know about me is that musicians and time management are not natural bedfellows.
One by one, the tourists mill away, until just Sir John and I remain.
Just me and the statue.
Just me.
… What?
Where is she?
I check my watch – is it fast? Its face matches the giant station clock.
I make a slow, 360-degree turn in case she’s heading over from the Eurostar platform and I just haven’t spotted her yet. I know her train has arrived: I saw it listed on the arrivals board as I ran here.
Sir John’s half-smile and upward-turned chin assures me all is well.
But if her train has arrived and it’s just turned 11 a.m., she should be here.
I look at my phone. No messages. When I call her number, it directs straight to voicemail. Perhaps it’s in her bag for when she got off the train, or still on silent from the journey?
Nerves building, I leave a message.
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m here. You know, just hanging out with sweet Johnny B…’ My laugh sounds forced. I swallow hard against a dry throat. ‘Are you…? Are you on your way? I can’t see you.’
Over by the top of the stairs a woman watches me. She has blue streaks in her pale blonde hair. Something about her expression unnerves me. I end the call and turn my back on her as I face the statue again.
And then, I see it.
Tucked between Betjeman’s shoulder and his neck is a single yellow rose. And from it, a brown luggage label hangs. I’m drawn to it even though it has nothing to do with me. People leave floral memorials all over this city – their own grief, their own reasons to commemorate someone. It’s fascinating, but none of my business.
It’s only when my fingers halt the slowly spinning label that I see my name:
* * *
My wonderful Sam –
I am so sorry.
It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do love you.
I hope one day you’ll forgive me.
All my love, Phoebe xx
* * *
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. She said she’d be here. She said she loved me.
I’ve been punched so hard in my core that my feet won’t hold me. I make it as far as the glass barrier at the edge of the walkway before I slump to the ground.
In my hands the rose is too yellow, too bright. Through aching eyes I scan the message again, looking for something, anything that I might have missed. The smallest detail on which I can hang my hope and prevent my heart shattering. But it’s too late. All of my hope for us, all of our promises, every word we’ve shared for twelve long months apart, broken irrevocably. Gone.
&nb
sp; It isn’t even her handwriting. I know it from the letters and postcards she sent me. The messages I’ve carried like jewels everywhere I’ve travelled. I would know her writing in a heartbeat. Every loop, every flourish. This is like an ugly scar scratched carelessly over stone. This is nothing like Phoebe’s hand.
It isn’t the Phoebe I know. But then it hits me: I don’t know Phoebe Jones. I thought I did. I thought my heart did. But I never knew her at all.
I ran all the way home for this. She was supposed to be in my arms, right now, her kisses on my lips. All our promises fulfilled.
Did she ever intend to meet me again? Was any of it real? And if she isn’t by the Betjeman statue – where she’d promised she’d be – then where is she?
Phoebe lied.
Worse than her absence is that she couldn’t even be bothered to tell me in person. If she loved me, she’d be here.
I was a fool to believe she would be. She’s no better than Laura.
Why couldn’t she tell me and save me this pain? And where is she now?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-Nine, Phoebe
I open my eyes.
Around me the station noise continues its clamour while faceless commuters hurry to their destinations. Except that it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Wrong decision, wrong country, wrong station. Paris Gare du Nord isn’t where I should still be.
My hand aches from gripping my phone. When I release my fingers there’s an ugly red line carved into my palm where the edge of it has bitten into the skin. The screen is filled with notifications that accuse me:
The Day We Meet Again Page 21
