The Day We Meet Again Read online

  And I’ve been doing okay with that. Mostly. The last four years have been the happiest of my life professionally – playing my fiddle in studio sessions in the winter and spring and joining festival-bound bands in the summer; teaching where I’ve needed to make up shortfalls; even scoring studio time for my own new-folk project and producing a half-decent EP that, touch wood, will bring in a steady flow of cash on iTunes and Bandcamp. And my new studio venture with Chris that we launched last night finally gives us a chance to make real money. To be fair, I said I’d postpone this trip so close to the launch, but Chris said he wants to get it running smoothly and I’d just be getting in his way. So that complication has been ironed out, without me even trying. Why would I willingly volunteer for one to take its place?

  She just looked so lost by the Betjeman statue.

  And gorgeous…

  I should have been annoyed by this unplanned delay to the journey I’ve promised myself for years. I’ve waited so long for the time to be right and then, suddenly, it was. Time to make the journey to find who I am. It was supposed to begin now, not in four hours, or whenever the train system deems it possible. Train delays are the worst, especially for a jobbing musician travelling to gigs across the country and particularly given the shenanigans I’ve already encountered changing stations for this journey. On any other day I would have been right in the thick of that angry commuter mob, baying for someone’s blood.

  But I’m not.

  And it’s all because of Phoebe Jones.

  I glance at the large ironwork clock over the coffee concession counter and I’m surprised to see almost an hour has passed already. She was shy at first, but as soon as she suggested we come here she just – blossomed. Like watching a water lily unfurl on the other side of the bleached-wood table.

  It’s beautiful to witness.

  ‘I know a year away is a big step. I mean enormous for me. But ever since I first read A Room with a View and Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, I’ve dreamed of doing this. Paris, Florence, Rome – seeing the places the authors and characters in their books saw. I’ve saved forever to do it. My parents gave me the last bit of the money I needed when I got my PhD last month.’

  ‘So you’re Dr Jones?’

  I could bask in the way she beams for a long time.

  ‘That sounds so funny, doesn’t it? Dr Jones. I like it but it still feels like it should belong to somebody else.’

  ‘A PhD is a huge amount of work, though. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘I have.’ There’s a self-conscious laugh she does that’s like a flash of sunlight. Blink and you’ll miss it. ‘I loved every minute of it, though. It was such a surprise to find that from a piece of work.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be doing.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, like for me, playing and gigging and the studio I’ve just set up with my friend – none of that’s easy. It’s all long hours and hard work’ – I nod at the concourse beyond the coffee concession window which is packed with stranded passengers – ‘and train delays… But I’m energised by it, you know? Because this is what I’m meant to do.’

  Phoebe nods but she isn’t smiling. ‘I hear that all the time. My best friends all seem to have found what they’re meant to be doing. Meg’s the most amazing event organiser, Osh is a film director and Gabe is an actor. When they talk about what they do, it’s like they are describing a piece of themselves; like if you put them under a microscope their job titles would be imprinted on every cell. I haven’t found what I should be doing yet. But I think this year I might get closer to working out what I want.’

  ‘Do you write?’

  A patter of pink traverses her cheekbones. ‘No – well, not unless you count my PhD dissertation. I mean, I love the idea of writing fiction, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. Gabe says I’m not personally tormented enough to be a writer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.’

  She isn’t wearing a ring – I mean, of course I’ve checked. But she’s mentioned Gabe a few times already and I notice her right hand instinctively touches the finger on her left that would have worn one when she says his name. Who is he? A recent flame? An ex? An unrequited love?

  ‘He thinks I can’t do this. But I know I can.’

  ‘Why do you care about what he thinks? He sounds like a knob.’

  She laughs. The sound is joyous. It surges up from her core, like champagne bubbles. ‘Maybe he is. But I’ve always talked to him about everything. We used to trade awful dating stories when both of us were between dates – it became a game we’d play to make ourselves feel better.’ She toys with the teaspoon in the saucer of her almost empty cup. ‘So, enough about me. What’s taking you to Scotland? Work?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe a little.’ I see a fine line form between her brows. That’s me sussed. ‘I’m going for personal reasons,’ I reply. And then, just because it feels like she’s the person to say it to, I say more than I have to anyone else. ‘I was born on the Island and then my father left home. He played fiddle, too, although he left before I discovered music for myself. I guess I’ve always wondered, you know? What happened to him.’ Suddenly aware I’ve said too much to be comfortable, I pull back. ‘But I plan to hook up with some friends from the circuit while I’m there, too. Relearn the trad stuff.’

  ‘You’re a folk musician?’

  ‘New-folk, I guess you’d call it. But I want my next project to be the old tunes I vaguely remember from being a kid on the Island.’

  ‘I thought you had a bit of a Scottish accent.’ She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, should that be Hebridean?’

  It’s the most hesitantly British thing to say and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. ‘Scottish is fine.’

  ‘So you’re going home?’

  Home. That’s a word I haven’t used for a while. With Ma gone and my brother Callum as good as dead, I don’t know what I call home any more. The flat I’ve been sharing with my drummer mate Syd is homely, but is it home? Is that what I’ll discover in Mull when I return?

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. You?’

  I’ve asked it before I can think better, but here in the too-warm crush of the coffee concession, I realise I want to know the answer. I expect her to sidestep the question, but to my utter surprise, she doesn’t.

  ‘Not a home to live in. I want to find out how to be at home with myself.’

  Until that moment, everything Phoebe Jones has told me could just have been polite conversation. But this is something else. It’s a window, inviting me in. I lean closer, zoning out the clamour and conversation around our small table, not wanting to miss a thing.

  ‘Me too.’

  Her eyes hold mine.

  ‘I haven’t said that to anyone before.’

  ‘Not even Gabe?’

  ‘Especially not him. He thinks I’m too serious.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I know, right? I mean, look at us, Sam. We met – what – an hour ago? And all we’ve done is laugh.’

  ‘You’re a very funny lady.’

  ‘Well, thank you for noticing.’ Her eyes sparkle as she mirrors my grin. There is so much more going on behind those eyes than she’s allowing me to see. I sense it bubbling away, just out of view.

  And that’s when I realise.

  Sam Mullins, your timing stinks.

  The more we talk, as the minutes become an hour and head towards two, the more the feeling deep within me builds. Phoebe Jones is perfect. And I know my own battered heart. I’d sworn I wouldn’t fall for anyone again, not after Laura. The pain and injustice I’ve battled most of the year and the bruises still stinging my soul have all been good enough reasons to avoid falling in love.

  Could this be love?

  No.

  But what if it is?

  By now we are wandering the concourse, passing crowds of stranded travellers. Every available bench has been commandeered and people are claiming the floor, too, perched on make
shift seats made from suitcases, holdalls and folded-up coats. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, displaced people caught in limbo, dazed by the experience. Some groups of travellers are even talking to each other. In London, that’s pretty close to a miracle.

  I have to step to the side to avoid a small child who’s weaving in and out of the crowd – and when I do my hand brushes against Phoebe’s. Startled, she looks up and our eyes meet. The noise around us seems to dim, the pushing bodies becoming a blur as I sink into the deep darkness of Phoebe’s stare.

  ‘Do you believe in fate, Phoebe?’ The words tumble out before I can stop them.

  ‘I think I do,’ she breathes, as her fingers find mine. ‘Do you?’

  I gaze at her, a hundred thoughts sparkling around us like spinning stars. And suddenly, all that matters is the truth.

  ‘I didn’t before today.’

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Three, Phoebe

  He feels it, too. Whatever is happening between us is real.

  The moment Sam’s fingers lace though mine, the air between us seems to shift. I don’t even think about pulling away.

  We move at glacial pace through the crowded concourse until Sam spots a gap for a service door between the glass-fronted concessions and we sneak into it.

  Now we’re standing within a breath of each other. It would be so easy to close the distance and kiss him…

  What am I doing?

  Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have considered kissing someone I hardly knew. But twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know Sam existed. Our hands are joined between us and we both look down as if seeing them for the first time. When Sam laughs, I feel the buzz of it through his skin.

  ‘Well, this is unexpected.’

  ‘It is.’

  This is where my apologies and caveats would normally begin, my usual rush to backtrack on an impulse. But instead, calmness fills the space where those words would be. They’re not needed here.

  I’ve only known Sam for a couple of hours. How can this be possible?

  ‘Reckon they can delay our trains for another four months or so?’ His whisper is warm velvet against my ear.

  ‘Only four months?’

  I love his laugh. It shudders up from his chest to his shoulders, throwing his head back as it escapes into the air around us. It’s wild and unbridled, unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion. His laugh is who he is, as if his spirit shimmers out of him in that moment.

  His fingers squeeze mine. ‘Oh well, excuse me. What I meant was four years. Forty-four years. Four centuries.’

  ‘Steady on…’

  ‘Even when we’re wrinkly and incontinent and basically breathing dustbags our love will burn as bright…’

  I don’t know whether I’m breathless from laughter or just being here with Sam. He’s talking as if we’ve been together for years, but it doesn’t scare me like it should. I can imagine being loved by him, even though I’ve yet to kiss him. It’s a game that feels so much more than make-believe. And I’m happy to play along. ‘Thank you for your faith in us.’

  ‘My pleasure. This is surreal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘There are a million things I want to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.’

  ‘Then let’s begin here…’ I dare to flatten my palm against his chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of his heart through the faded fabric of his T-shirt. This heart has been beating for years, I think, and I never knew.

  For a while we stay like this, saying nothing, the only movement our breath and heartbeats, the familiar-unfamiliar sensation of closeness surrounding us.

  Then without warning, I’m crying.

  Mortified, I try to smother my sobs, jamming my eyelids shut to squeeze the tears back. But it’s too late. Sam breaks the embrace and lifts my chin with his hand.

  ‘Are you crying? Phoebe, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ I rush, but speaking flicks a switch that releases more. I don’t want Sam to see, don’t want to break this perfect, wonderful moment. What will he think of me? I don’t even know what to think of myself.

  I don’t cry much in front of other people – never in public and certainly not with someone I hardly know. But I do know Sam, crazy as it sounds. So despite every scrap of head-logic screaming at me to stop, my heart won’t listen. It feels wrong but it seems like I don’t have much choice.

  ‘Hey, hey… Let’s sit down, okay?’

  ‘There isn’t any room.’

  ‘Then we make room.’ He slips the strap of the violin case from his shoulder and places it on one side, his rucksack on the other. In the space between he concertinas his body down until he’s sitting cross-legged, reaching up for me. ‘Your seat, milady.’

  I laugh despite the tears staining my cheeks. ‘I can’t sit on your lap.’

  He shrugs and slides his rucksack beside one leg. ‘An alternative, then. Although, you’ll need somewhere to sit when we’re 400-year-old, hot-lovin’ dustbags. You could just get used to it now.’

  That smile will be the death of every argument we ever have, I think.

  ‘Your rucksack will be perfect, thank you.’ I sit, my legs still shaking from my sudden tears.

  ‘Glad to help. Now, what’s happening?’

  I’ve heard loved-up friends of mine say things like, ‘I see myself in his eyes’, and ‘when he looks at me it’s like he can see into my soul’ and always thought them ridiculous. I mean, I’ve dated guys with nice eyes before and I’m a fan of meaningful looks as much as the next person. But until this moment I thought it was the kind of clever phrase dreamed up by authors and screenwriters. Not anything you’d ever experience in real life. But when I lock eyes with Sam, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. And I can see my reflection in the moss green of his irises.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. To be so sure. I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I know hardly anything about you, about your life.’

  He nods and I wonder if he feels it too. ‘Then we should start there. Even if there are other more interesting things we could be doing…’

  He’s cheeky but I can’t help smiling. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘I’m trying. Believe it or not my friends think I’m the serious one. Okay. Best start with the basics, I guess. Full name: Samuel Hamish Mullins—’

  ‘Hamish?’

  ‘Mock that and you’re mocking my heritage, lady.’

  I stuff my giggles away behind my hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a lovely name.’

  ‘Tsk, typical English sarcasm. I know your game.’ He grins. ‘So, what else? I’m thirty-two, although my ma always said I was born with an old soul so nobody ever believes me when I tell them my age. Like I said, I was born on Mull, but I grew up in Edinburgh and Carlisle and moved to London when I was eighteen. Been here for more years than I’m comfortable admitting and I play tunes for money. I’m just under six feet tall, but I’ll usually add an inch to feel better about it. Oh and I’m allergic to early mornings, although I’m quite glad I got up before eleven today. Done. You?’

  It’s strange to be trading introductions now, after everything else we’ve shared, but I find it strangely comforting, too.

  ‘Phoebe Eilidh Jones, also thirty-two.’

  ‘Eilidh? That’s not a very English name.’

  ‘That’s because my great-granny was an Erskine from Paisley.’ I like this card when I play it. He clearly had me pegged as a dyed-in-the-wool Anglo Saxon. Shows what you know, Samuel Hamish Mullins. ‘She moved with my great-grandad to Evesham to take over a fruit farm with six children in tow.’

  ‘So, Caledonian heritage all round. Excellent. I don’t know any Eilidhs but I have an Auntie Ailish – she’s not a blood relation, but my ma’s best friend. I’m going to see her when I get to Mull.’ He chuckles. ‘So in another life we might have been Hamish and Eilidh. It has a ring to it, don’t you t
hink?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Continue, Phoebe Eilidh Jones.’

  I giggle. ‘Okay – I’m five feet six inches exactly and I’m quite happy with that. And I love early mornings. And late nights, actually. I don’t sleep much.’

  ‘How come?’

  The truth is, I don’t know. I remember as a kid being concerned that I’d miss something important if I slept, although I don’t know where that fear originated. ‘I’ve just always been that way. Although every few weeks I’ll have a day when I just sleep a lot. Maybe it all evens out in the end.’ I grin at him. ‘So we’re the same age. When’s your birthday?’

  ‘March 2nd. You?’

  ‘May 4th. My life, I’m lusting after an older woman!’

  I cuff his arm. ‘Oi, watch it!’

  ‘Hey, I’m not complaining. So what do you do for work – or rather, what did you do, considering you’re taking a year off?’

  ‘Oh all kinds of things. Most recently I’ve worked in a publicity office for a large West End company. It’s fun.’

  ‘But it’s not what you wanted to do?’

  ‘I like every job I’ve done. For a long time I thought I’d end up working in horticulture – I trained as a horticulturalist at college. And then I came to London to see my friend Meg and ended up staying. Then I did my PhD while working for Ebert and Soames Theatre Productions. But I do know that books will always be my first love. That’s why I’m going to Europe.’

  The thought of the journey makes my heart drop to the floor. Because getting on that train, whenever the gods of Network Rail deign that to be, will mean leaving Sam. And this. And us.

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Four, Sam

  We talk. About everything.

  Well, everything we can think of, which in the grand scheme of things probably isn’t even scratching the surface. The urgency takes me by surprise. It’s as if we’re trying to conduct a whole relationship in a few hours. Packing everything in so we can justify what our hearts knew immediately.