The Day We Meet Again

Chapter Five

Chapter Five, Phoebe

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

Chapter Six, Sam

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

Chapter Seven, Phoebe

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

Chapter Eight, Sam

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.’