The Day We Meet Again

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven, Phoebe

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

Chapter Twelve, Sam

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.’