And Shona muddies the waters.
Danger is too strong a word, but I’m on high alert around my friend and I can’t ignore it. She was always unpredictable and had the capacity to throw curveballs when you least expected them. But this is different. She’s different.
And, like the pebble sailing across her fingers on this beach, it’s mesmerising to watch.
* * *
Niven has been dropping hints lately about a ‘great idea’ that are about as subtle as the huge split rock on Fionnphort beach. Now, he tells us.
‘We could start a music club,’ he explains. ‘On the Island. Either after school or weekends, depending on what the take up is. I’m pretty sure my school would love it and there’s nothing like that for the kids right now. Between us we have guitar, fiddle, whistles, flute, drums, pretty much the whole thing covered. My pal Ruari can do pipes if there’s kids want to learn. Admit it, I am a genius!’
He’s talking at a million miles an hour, his eyes bright above his beard.
‘Hang on, slow down,’ I say. ‘It’s a great idea, but us teaching kids?’
‘I do it for a job. Shona teaches. The only reason you’ve not done it yet is you’ve not had the opportunity…’
‘Or the inclination?’
Niven groans. ‘Okay, fine. But think about how you started, eh? You’re always talking about Jonas. Think about how he changed your life. He wasn’t a music teacher, he was just a musician – but that was enough to get you playing.’
‘Where would we do it?’
‘I floated the idea with Archie from the Aros Hall and he’s well up for it. Come on, it’ll be fun.’
It’s the perfect solution: I can hang out with my friends without having time alone with Shona and worrying about my obvious attraction to her; and Niven can find an endeavour to scratch the itch that’s bothered him since Ruth left. Besides, it will be good to give something back, even if I’m out of my comfort zone surrounded by kids. Phoebe would tell me to go for it. And it’s something I can share with her from the beginning.
This challenge will give me a focus.
More importantly, it will keep me safe.
* * *
Things happen fast – with the venue secured, the school on board and a crowd of kids eager to sign up, we’re up and running in two weeks. Pretty quickly the music school becomes a regular part of my week – familiar without being overbearing and new enough to be exciting. I enjoy the comfort of the life I’m building on the Island and everything becomes calm.
Which is why, when the sea changes, it hits me head on.
The moment Ailish walks in, I sense a storm approaching.
‘Tea?’ I ask, as she bustles past me and dumps a shopping bag on the kitchen table.
She mutters something in reply but nods, so I take that as a yes. When I hand her a mug she accepts it, but her head is bowed as she walks into the living room. Should I follow? In my time here I’ve seen her tired, a little worse for wear after a bottle of wine occasionally, but never like this.
Simmering. Silent.
Ma called Ailish’s temper a well-caged lion, hidden for most of the time. The trip switch that unleashes it takes far longer to flip than it would do for most people. To my knowledge Ma only experienced it once, not long after she’d left the Island, when she admitted she was drinking again. The force of Ailish’s fury was enough to never invoke it again.
I steel myself for the inevitable.
‘You okay?’
Rain hammers against the glass as the storm swings direction from traversing the garden to hitting the house head-on.
‘No, Sam. I’m not.’
‘What’s up?’ I keep my voice steady.
The light in the room seems to dim.
Her sigh escapes her like the sea receding across a pebble beach. ‘I’ve said nothing, Sam. I’ve held my tongue because you needed time and I didn’t think it was right to push you. But I’m afraid I can’t do it any more.’
Whoa.
‘Ailish, if you want me to go…’
She was insistent when I arrived that I was to stay with her and wouldn’t hear of my suggestion that I accept Niven’s offer of accommodation or look to rent something in Tobermory. Has she changed her mind?
She looks at me and I see the tiger Ma warned me about. ‘No, I don’t want you to go. I want you to do what you came here for, Sam. I want you to stop hiding from it.’
‘I’m not hiding…’
‘Yes, you are. So you have the music lessons and the concerts with Niven and that’s all well and good. But you found out about Frank when you first got here and what have you done with that? Nothing!’
‘Now hang on…’
‘I don’t know what your ma would have said about you wanting to find him, God rest her soul, but I see that same pain in you that she could never deal with. Her whole life was wrecked by that man because she never got answers. You have the chance to find them. So what are you waiting for?’
How is this my fault? And whatever happened to, ‘do this at your own pace, Sam’?
‘You said you were going to ask around for me.’
‘Aye, when you were ready. But you’ve not mentioned it and as far as I can tell you weren’t planning to, either.’
‘I just haven’t had chance yet…’
‘Oh bollocks, Samuel!’
My mouth gapes. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, but that is utter bollocks.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘No, it isn’t. You have a whole year here to do whatever you want. You aren’t working most of the time. You have entire days when you could call that phone number, find out where he is. Or ask me to start talking to people. There are more folk on the Island than Morag Ross who knew your father. Some of them will have stayed in touch with him when he went to the mainland. If nothing else your father had friends, always. Thick as thieves most of them, which is what made it so hard for your poor mother. He had allies all over Mull. Nobody believed she wasn’t responsible in some way for him leaving.’
‘In that case, why should I want to talk to the people who made her life hell? Why should I give them the chance to feel better about their prejudice?’
‘Oh get over yourself!’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re as stubborn as she was. Don’t you think they might be useful now? It’s not about absolving them of responsibility. It’s about finding the truth, so Frank Mullins doesn’t screw up your life like he did your ma’s.’
‘He didn’t screw up my life! He’s irrelevant to it. He means nothing to me.’
I’m furious but she’s on her feet now. It’s a full-throttle attack and I am not ready for what she unleashes.
‘Oh really? You never stay in one place. You have a job that always gives you an excuse to not put down roots. You’ve met the girl of your dreams – someone who has real potential to make you happy for the rest of your life – and you get on a train in the opposite direction for a whole year!’
‘Phoebe and I agreed. We said…’
‘Aye, well perhaps your Phoebe is as terrified of getting hurt as you are.’
‘I’m not terrified!’
‘You’re not? When Laura left you, you fell apart. Not just because she cheated. Because you let her close enough to hurt you. You are terrified of loving anyone because they might walk out on you, like your dad did to your poor ma. And you saw what that did to her. What it made her become. Did she survive? Yes. Was she happy? No, never. She was still breathing but her spirit broke the night that man walked out of her life. You are scared of winding up like she did. Angry at the world, thinking so little of her own worth that she drank herself into an early grave. You see your brother headed the same way and it scares you.’
How dare she? She knows nothing about me, or Callum. ‘Leave Cal out of this.’
‘Why? He’s as scarred as you are by that man. But where he drinks, you run.’
‘You don’t know my brother. And you don’t know me.’
‘Oh don’t I?’
‘No. If I’m so scared, why did I come back?’
‘I’m starting to wonder. Why come back and not address what started all this? You get one lead and you scurry away inside your cave.’
Is she serious?
‘My cave?’
‘Well what would you call it?’
‘I’m not hiding in a cave. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe just being here is changing how I see my childhood, how I see myself. Is that not enough?’
‘I don’t know, Sam, is it?’
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I’ll let Ailish McRae get away with saying stuff nobody else can, but this is a line crossed. I feel like the room is crowding in on me. I have to get out.
‘Look, if it bothers you this much I’ll move out. Then you won’t have to worry,’ I say, reaching for my coat on the back of the sofa.
‘Yeah, that’s right, Sam. Run away. Just like your father!’
There is no coming back from that. I snatch my coat and head for the door.
‘Wait – Sam – I didn’t mean…’ she says, hurrying after me.
But it doesn’t matter what she meant: it’s said. And now I know where I stand, there’s no way I can stay here.
My head is a mess as I stalk away from the house. Rain drives at me and the wind lashes my hair around my face. But it can’t push me back. Ailish’s calls are stolen by the storm and I wouldn’t turn around even if they reached me. I need space. I need to work out what the hell just happened.
* * *
I head for Fionnphort beach with its huge split rock, where enormous waves are beating the silver shoreline.
I tell myself that the water blurring the view and tumbling down my face is a consequence of staring into the storm. But that’s a lie. Out here on the bleak, deserted beach I am 9 years old again, nursing fresh bruises from an emotional kick I never saw coming. This is no more my fault today than it was then. So why do I feel I’m to blame?
Ailish is wrong. She’s wrong about Frank and she’s wrong about Laura and she is so, so wrong about Phoebe. I am not running away from her. I am making sure we are in the best place to be together. Maybe I am protecting myself a little, but why shouldn’t I? I don’t want to have my heart broken and neither does Phoebe. We’re both working this out. If she were with me now I could say everything I don’t feel able to in texts and phone calls. Face to face I would find the words.
I close my eyes against the storm and the fury and imagine myself back in her embrace. Her lips warm and inviting. Her fingers holding my face. Her body tight against mine. I push past the pain in my chest and focus on the fierce heat generated by my heart. We might be apart, but she is as real and as present within me as if she were wrapped around me on this beach right now.
That is what matters: not some distant shadow from my past who couldn’t even be bothered to be part of his son’s life. I meant nothing to Frank Mullins. Why should he mean anything to me?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three, Phoebe
I hate leaving Rome. Giana has become a good friend and I will miss our pebble drops around the city. As a leaving gift she presents me with a beautiful little wooden paint box and brushes, to leave my own marks wherever I go. I will treasure it.
‘I’ll use it as often as I can,’ I promise. ‘And everywhere I go I’ll tell people your story.’
Giana smiles. ‘That’s sweet, Phoebe. You have the dearest heart. But don’t share my story: you have your own story to share.’
Giana makes me promise to visit her again and bring Sam next time. I hope if I return he’ll be with me, that these frustrating doubts will have been dealt with. So much of the distance between us will be solved by just being back in the same space, I think, breathing the same air.
If we make it that far.
It’s strange to see Rome slipping away as my train leaves but my destination is back towards Florence – the city of Siena – so it almost feels like heading home. This is where I’ll be staying with Noura and Stephan, a couple who run an organic cheese business. One of the reviews on the accommodation site caught my attention and made my choice academic. It looks like it’s been carved from the mountains and hidden in the clouds. Also, Stephan makes wine – beware!
After the heat of Rome a mountainside retreat sounds divine, and I might even get to see Osh while I’m there because he’s filming a commercial nearby for a few days. I’ve missed my friends so much. I still get snippets of updates from them occasionally but being able to hang out with Osh, even for a few hours, will be so good. I’ve missed his gossip and big loony smile.
I have a confession – one I won’t even tell Osh: I looked at Gabe’s Instagram last night. Instantly hated myself for doing it, of course, and I still don’t really know why. I saw the images of him, always smiling or laughing, in faraway places or hanging out with beautiful friends on beaches during rare summer weekends when nobody was busy. It looks like another world, one that revolves around him and his perennial smile.
I even found myself in one of the group shots – me and Osh, Meg and the gang with Gabe at our centre, a sentinel. We’re all laughing; we all look like life is a blast. What did Tobi call it? The beautiful ones in the beautiful life. Except I know Gabe was out of work then, had just had the biggest fall-out with his agent and had spent a whole week convinced his career was sinking. In desperation Osh dragged us all out to Brighton (he’d threatened to chuck Gabe off Brighton Pier if he didn’t smile). He’d filmed us that day and I remember the unreal feeling of us all watching it back in London, seeing filtered versions of ourselves dancing around in a parallel universe.
Funny how you forget the boredom, the frustration, the wishing to be somewhere else, when you’re outside looking in.
The Instagram Gabe is in final rehearsals for his play. He’s grinning for the camera, mucking about with daft videos, star-jumping off chairs in the rehearsal room, smouldering beneath street lights with a pint during Pride, posing shirtless and sweaty on his early morning run. Every image has four thousand likes, with hundreds of adoring comments, hopeful questions about his sexuality, proposals of marriage and desperate begging for him to notice them or follow them back. I don’t know if he ever even reads them. But he needs it: the reassurance of seeing the red hearts in his notifications. He’ll be in a panic right now, as he always is just before a production opens, convinced it’s a wrong move that will side-track his career. He’ll be seeking the affirmation from his followers more than ever, all the while playing the cool, fun-loving actor at the top of his game.
Is any of it real?
My own images tell of a carefree traveller, exploring Europe and following her heart. My few hundred followers post occasional messages of encouragement, a little shower of hearts and smiley faces dancing down the comments. But do they think I’ve got it all sorted, like they believe Gabe has the perfect life? Do they think I’m happy?
Has Gabe seen my squares while I’ve been away?
Has Sam?
I didn’t ask if Sam was on Instagram. I didn’t get his Twitter handle or FB profile. When I was with him what mattered was being with him. Not viewing him through a lens or trying to filter him into a perfect image of the moment. What mattered was his touch, his breath against my face, the way he’d held me.
I wish Sam were here. Maybe then we could sort everything. Perhaps it’s the niggling uncertainty that arrives whenever I think of Sam, but on the train I find myself composing a text to Gabe.
* * *
Hey G. I figured you’d be panicking about opening night. DON’T. You’ll be amazing. You always are. Sorry I won’t be there to see it, but I’ll raise a glass to you from the cheese farm (!) where I’m staying. Break a leg (please don’t really) P xx
* * *
I don’t expect him to see it – the last few weeks before a theatre production are fraught to say the least. It just feels good to know my message will be waiting on his phone
.
* * *
I reach Siena with an hour to kill. Noura and Stephan’s farm is near Montalcino, so they are going to meet me here and drive me up. Finding a café I order coffee and crisp pistachio cannoli and settle in to watch the world go by.
The café has free WiFi so I log in and check my email inbox. I’ve learned to do this when I find signal and not worry about it when there’s none. I have the best excuse to miss messages this year so I intend to use it whenever I can. And I mostly haven’t missed being contactable.
That’s odd. Three emails from the accommodation website, the most recent flagged with an urgent sticker. I open it – and my heart sinks:
* * *
Due to personal issues your booking has been cancelled. Your deposit has been refunded. STAYHERE.com apologises for any inconvenience.
* * *
There’s a personal note from Noura and Stephan added beneath the standard message:
* * *
Miss Jones, we are sorry to cancel at short notice. My mother was taken ill last night. She has been released from the hospital but will be staying in the guest accommodation so that we can care for her.
* * *
We offer our sincere apologies and hope you will visit us in future.
* * *
My heart hits the floor. What am I supposed to do now?
I can’t be angry with them for cancelling, but it leaves me in a city I hadn’t planned to stay in, with no idea of alternate accommodation. Even if I find somewhere to stay tonight, I’d planned to spend four weeks in Montalcino. How likely is it I’ll find accommodation for that amount of time at short notice?
Think, Phoebe!
I’ve become so used to all my accommodation bookings going without a hitch. It never occurred to me that they might fall through and I would need a contingency.
The Day We Meet Again Page 14