The Day We Meet Again Read online

  Praise for Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Family secrets, forgiveness, unlikely friendships and learning to love again … a story that touched my heart’

  Cathy Bramley

  ‘A sparky feel-good story that hits all the right buttons’

  Fanny Blake

  ‘Original and hilarious and life-affirming, and full of magical moments’

  Cressida McLaughlin

  ‘Full of charm, warmth, wit and wonder’

  Rowan Coleman

  ‘Sparkling, romantic, feel-good’

  Julie Cohen

  ‘Fun and life-affirming’

  Fabulous magazine

  ‘A sweet story perfect for a rainy afternoon!’

  Bella

  ‘Romance, written with a light-hearted touch; I was hooked’

  Woman & Home

  ‘Enchanting and captivating’

  The Sun

  ‘A heart-warming delight’

  Good Housekeeping

  MIRANDA is the author of ten books, including six Sunday Times bestsellers. Her books have been translated into seven languages and have made the bestseller charts in four countries. She has been shortlisted twice for the RNA awards (for Novel of the Year in 2010 with Fairytale of New York and again in 2012 for Contemporary Novel of the Year for It Started With a Kiss). She has now sold over a million copies of her books worldwide.

  Also by Miranda Dickinson

  Somewhere Beyond the Sea

  Searching for a Silver Lining

  A Parcel for Anna Browne

  I’ll Take New York

  Take a Look at Me Now

  When I Fall in Love

  It Started With a Kiss

  Welcome to My World

  Fairytale of New York

  The Day We Meet Again

  Miranda Dickinson

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2019

  Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 978-0-008-32322-6

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323219

  For Bob and Flo –

  my two curly-headed serendipities and proof that

  life is endlessly surprising. I love you to the moon

  and back and twice around the stars xx

  ‘Take chances, make mistakes.

  That’s how you grow.’

  Mary Tyler Moore

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Day We Met

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Day

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  A few things that inspired Miranda when writing The Day We Meet Again

  About the Publisher

  The Day We Met

  14th June 2017

  Chapter One

  Chapter One, Phoebe

  ALL TRAINS DELAYED, the sign reads.

  No, no, no! This can’t be happening!

  I stare up at the departure board in disbelief. Up until twenty minutes ago my train had been listed as ON TIME and I’d allowed myself a glass of champagne at St Pancras’ Eurostar bar, a little treat to steady my nerves before the biggest adventure of my life begins.

  ‘Looks like we aren’t going anywhere soon,’ the woman next to me says, gold chains tinkling on her wrist as she raises her hand for another glass. She doesn’t look in a hurry to go anywhere.

  But I am.

  I arrived at St Pancras two hours early this morning. The guys driving the cleaning trucks were pretty much the only people here when I walked in. They performed a slow, elegant dance around me as I dragged my heavy bag across the shiny station floor. I probably should have had a last lie-in, but my stomach has been a knot of nerves since last night, robbing me of sleep.

  I’m not always early, but I was determined to be today to make sure I actually get on the train. I want this adventure more than anything els
e in my life, but doubts have crept in over the last two weeks, ever since all the tickets were booked and my credit card had taken the strain. Even last night – frustratingly wide awake and watching a film I didn’t really care about, after the farewell drinks in our favourite pub in Notting Hill when I was so certain I was doing the right thing – I found myself considering shelving the trip. Who jacks in everything and takes off for a year, anyway? Certainly not me: Phoebe Jones, 32 years old and most definitely not gap-year material.

  It wasn’t just that thing Gabe said, either. Although it threw me when it happened. After all his bravado inside the pub – the You won’t go through with it, Phoebs, I know you speech that in his actor’s voice rose above the noise and look-at-me-I’m-so-important laughter from the tables around us – the change in him when he found me on the street outside was a shock.

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘You won’t, but thanks.’

  And then that look – the one that got us into trouble once before, the one that has kept me wondering if it might again. ‘Then you don’t know me, Phoebs. London won’t be the same without you.’

  Why did he have to launch that at me, the night before I leave for a whole year?

  But the money is spent. The tickets are in my wallet. My bag is packed. And Gabe is wrong if he thinks I won’t go through with it. I know my friends privately think I’ll cave in and come home early. So I got up hours before I needed to this morning, took my bag, closed the door on my old life and posted my keys through the letterbox for my friends and former flatmates to find. And I’m here, where Gabe was so certain I wouldn’t be.

  But now there’s a delay and that’s dangerous for me. Too much time to think better of my plan. Why is the universe conspiring against me today?

  ‘Having another?’ the woman next to me asks. Her new glass of champagne is already half empty. Perhaps she has the right idea. Maybe drinking your way through a delay is the best option.

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I reply. I can’t stay here, not until I know exactly what kind of delay I’m facing. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening.’

  The woman shrugs as I leave.

  The whole of St Pancras station seems to have darkened, as though a storm cloud has blown in from the entrance and settled in the arcing blue-girdered roof. Beyond the glass the sun shines as brightly as before, the sky a brave blue. But I feel the crackle of tension like approaching thunder.

  At the end of the upper concourse near the huge statue of a man and woman embracing, a crowd has gathered. Somewhere in the middle, a harassed station employee in an orange hi-vis gilet is doing his best to fend off the angry mob’s questions. And then, without warning, the crowd begins to move. I’m almost knocked over and stagger back to stop myself falling. Being trampled to death is definitely not in the plan today.

  The mob swarms around the station employee as he makes for the stairs to the lower concourse. The forward motion of their bodies pushes me backwards until my spine meets something immovable. I gasp. Around me the angry commuters part, a splitting tide of bodies flooding either side of me, their feet stomping inches from mine. Once they pass me they continue their pursuit of their prey as the poor station official flees down the stairs.

  I’m shaken, but then I remember: I hit something. Someone.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I rush, turning to see the poor unfortunate soul I’ve slammed into. But my eyes meet the kind, still expression of an iron man in trilby and suit, his billowing mackintosh frozen in time as he gazes up, as though checking the departure boards for his train.

  The Betjeman statue.

  I’d forgotten he was here. Compared with the huge iron lovers beneath the enormous station clock over the entrance, he’s diminutive. I’ve seen visitors double take when they find him. He’s just there, standing in the middle of the upper concourse, humble and friendly. The only thing marking him out as a statue and not another train passenger is the ring of slate around his feet, the words of one of his poems carved into it in beautifully elegant script. I’ve heard station announcements asking commuters to meet people by the Betjeman statue when I’ve been here before and thought nothing of it. But finding him here this morning, when everything has suddenly become so uncertain, is strangely comforting.

  ‘I don’t think he minds,’ a voice says.

  I jump and peer around the statue. ‘Sorry?’

  Over the statue’s right shoulder, a face grins at me. ‘Sir John. He won’t mind you bumped into him. He’s a pretty affable chap.’

  Laughter dances in his voice, his green eyes sparkling beneath dark brows and a mess of dark curls. And I instantly feel I know him.

  ‘I can’t believe I just apologised to a statue.’

  ‘Happens to us all, sooner or later.’ His hand reaches around Sir John’s arm. ‘Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Mullins. Pleased to meet you.’

  I hesitate. After all, this is London and my seven years in the city have taught me strangers are supposed to stay anonymous. But Sam’s smile is as warm and inviting as a newly opened doorway on a winter’s night and – suddenly – I’m accepting his handshake. His hand is warm around mine.

  ‘Phoebe Jones. Pleased to meet you, too.’

  The concourse is eerily empty now; the raging commuters all disappeared to the lower floor chasing the poor man from the train company. It’s as if me and Sam-with-the-smiling-eyes-and-laugh-filled-voice are the only people in the world.

  Apart from the statue, that is.

  ‘Did you get to hear what the bloke from the station was saying?’ I ask, suddenly aware I am still holding Sam’s warm hand, and quickly pulling mine away.

  ‘Most of it, before the mob closed in. They’ve stopped all trains in and out of the station. I haven’t heard the Inspector Sands announcement, so I’m guessing it isn’t a fire or a bomb threat.’

  My stomach twists again. I’ve only heard the automated announcement used to alert station staff to a possible emergency like a fire or a bomb once before at Euston and I ran from the station like a startled hare then. Given my nerves about my journey, if I’d heard Inspector Sands being mentioned today I would already be halfway to Holborn. ‘Did he say how long it was expected to last?’

  ‘Well, I heard four hours, but there were so many people yelling around the chap by then I guess anyone could have said that.’

  ‘Four hours?’

  ‘Nightmare, huh? Trust me to pick today to make the longest train journey.’

  I blink at him. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Oh? Where are you headed?’ His eyes widen and he holds up a hand. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer. That was rude of me.’

  It’s sweet and it makes me smile. ‘Paris, actually. To begin with. You?’

  ‘Isle of Mull. Eventually.’

  ‘Oh. Wow. That is a journey.’

  He shrugs. ‘Just a bit. Already had to change it because of the engineering works at Euston, so I’m going from here to Sheffield, then over to Manchester then changing again for Glasgow. Going to stay with two of my old university mates near there for a night or two, to break it up a bit. Then I’ll catch a train to Oban, take the ferry to Craignure and then it’s a long bus ride to Fionnphort, where I’m staying with a family friend.’ He gives a self-conscious laugh. ‘More than you wanted to know, probably.’

  Although I’ll move on from Paris later, Sam’s journey sounds epic and exhausting by comparison. And it’s strange, but I don’t even consider that I’ve just met him, or question how he can share his entire travel itinerary with me when we don’t know each other. Like the heat from his hand that is still tingling on my skin, it feels like the most natural thing. So I forget my nerves, my shock at finding myself here beside the statue, and the looming delay. And instead, I just see Sam.

  ‘How long will all that take?’

  ‘The whole journey? Hours. Days, even.’ He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I have several books in my luggage and my music. I’ll be fine.’

  Novels are
one thing I do have, although they are safely packed at the bottom of my bag. Books are the reason I’m here, after all. The Grand Tours across Europe inspired my PhD and have underpinned all my dreams of seeing the places the authors wrote about for myself. My much-loved copy of A Room with a View is in my hand luggage and I’m more than happy to hang out with Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson for the thousandth time, but I’d much rather be on the train heading off already.

  What if this delay is a sign? I hate the thought of Gabe being right, but the doubts from last night return, swirling around me, Sam and Sir John Betjeman like ragged ghosts. There are other ways of pursuing a great adventure, they call. You don’t have to spend a year away to prove you’re spontaneous… My room at the flat-share is already someone else’s but I could persuade one of my friends to let me stay at theirs until I can sort out a new place. I don’t really want to go home to Evesham, but I know my parents and brother Will would love having me to stay for a bit. Maybe I should be a bit less intrepid – Cornwall would be nice this time of year, or maybe the Cotswolds? Safer, closer, easier to come home from…

  I don’t want to doubt this now, not when I’m so close to boarding the train, but I can feel panic rising.

  But then, Sam Mullins smiles – and the ground beneath me shifts.

  ‘Look, if you’re not going anywhere for a while and neither am I, how about we find a coffee shop to wait in?’

  Did I just say that? But in that moment, it feels right. Who says my new, spontaneous self can’t start until I board the train for France?

  ‘Yes,’ he says, so immediately that his answer dances with the end of my question. ‘Great idea.’

  As we walk away from the statue of Sir John Betjeman, Sam’s fingers lightly brush against my back.

  And that’s when I fall in love.

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Two, Sam

  What am I doing?

  I hate complications. As a musician I’ve done my level best over the years to avoid them wherever I can. When band politics have got too much, I’ve quit. When my brother stopped talking to me, I walked away. When relationships have become too demanding, I’ve backed out. Simple. Effective. Safe.