Her image freezes – a frown I wish I hadn’t caused.
‘Phoebe? Are you still there?’
It’s a while before she answers and the picture begins to pixelate.
‘Yes…’ Burrs and clicks steal her voice.
‘Phoebe? I think I’m losing you…’
‘You’re breaking up, too. Can you still hear me?’
‘I can.’
‘Sam, if it was me, I’d want to know.’ Her image is almost unrecognisable now and panic rises in my gut.
The screen goes blank.
PHOEBE – VIDEO CALL. CONNECTION LOST
I walk to my car, Phoebe’s words fresh in my memory.
If it was me, I’d want to know.
I’m scared and I still don’t know if I’m ready. But Phoebe’s right. There’s only one way to resolve this.
I’m going to Edinburgh.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven, Phoebe
The sun is so bright today.
Amanda and I slip on sunglasses as we sit on the terrace with mugs of strong Swedish coffee from Lisabeta’s stovetop pot. It’s good to be in the fresh air after the dust and heavy scent of ancient print in the library. The last of the students from Lecce are finishing off the terrace and although many of the plants will mature over the coming year, it looks incredible. Swathes of lavender and rosemary line the gently curling path like scented clouds. Butterflies dance and bees hum around the blooms.
‘Can you believe how good the library looks?’ Amanda asks. ‘Almost finished after all those hours of unpacking. The completed shelves look like rows of jewels.’
‘That’ll be the guidance of a great literature professor.’
‘That’ll be a bloody hardworking Doctor of Literature.’
We share grins. The library is perfect. And we made it happen.
‘Lis says she has a couple interested in saying their vows here already.’
‘I’m single but I’d consider marriage if I could do it surrounded by those beautiful books.’ Amanda nudges my elbow. ‘Maybe you and Sam might do your vows here?’
My smile vanishes once it’s inside my mug. Marriage might as well be the moon. I know Sam is going to look for his father. And I think he heard me tell him to go for it before our video call gave up the ghost. But if he’s serious about being with me, why cut me off like he did? I’ve told him everything, in calls and messages and texts and emails.
A bee passes inches from my mug, bumbling along to the lavender at the edge of the terrace.
Okay, I haven’t told him everything.
I said Osh and his film crew came to my rescue in Tuscany. I may have mentioned Gabe in the list of crew names. But I didn’t say it was Gabe Gabe. And I didn’t tell Sam what we spoke about that night.
I didn’t write it in my journal, either. That’s what concerns me most. I’ve documented every detail of my time at Villa Speranza, good and bad. The days we’ve seen real progress, like when we shelved the last book in the first section. And the days when nothing has gone to plan: like the time when the pipes burst in the hallway next to the library and we spent three days bailing the water, building dams of sacking to save the floor. Or when I’ve felt alone here, in the quiet dark before sunrise, when communication with Sam was thin on the ground and doubt raised its head.
But I didn’t write about the night at the vineyard.
When Amanda goes inside, I check the signal and call Meg. It’s a long shot, but I need to talk to someone. I wait while it rings and when Meg’s voice dances onto the line it’s the loveliest sound.
‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
Her laugh is as warm as the Puglian sun today. ‘Not at all. I’m working in the members’ lounge at the Royal Festival Hall. It’s full of TV writers having loud conversations about how successful they want everyone to think they are. Trust me, your call is making me look important.’
‘How does Lady Thames look today?’
‘Beautiful, in a brooding fog-covered way. How is gorgeous Italy?’
‘Gorgeous. Warm and sunny and the lavender smells incredible.’
‘I’ll bet, you jammy git. Next time you head off on your travels I’m packing myself in your rucksack, okay? I’d kill for some Italian sun today. So what’s happening?’
I might have known Meg would clock my mood. ‘Sam.’
‘Good or bad?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone to look for his dad – I think. He knows where he might be at least.’
‘But he hasn’t told you what he’s doing?’
‘Not really. No, he hasn’t. And I know I shouldn’t feel left out but I do.’
I hear the click-click-click of her ballpoint pen, a thing Meg does when she’s debating what to say. ‘Phee, he’s doing a huge thing…’
‘I know. He probably can’t think of anything but that.’
‘But it makes you feel like you aren’t enough?’
I rub my forehead. Spoken aloud it sounds worse. ‘Yeah.’
‘Mm. Are you having second thoughts, hun?’
‘No!’
‘Because it’s okay if you are. You’ve championed it for nine months. That might make you think you can’t change your mind because you’ve been so sure, but you can.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘But it hurts that he’s shutting you out.’
Meg knows she’s hit the nail on the head by my silence.
‘Phee, give him space. Give yourself some space, too.’
‘I know you’re right.’
‘Hey, I’m a hugely important person trying to pretend I’m an important TV writer. Of course I’m right.’
Talking to Meg soothes some of my concerns, but I still wonder what Sam’s doing. Is he in Edinburgh already? I don’t know whether to wish he finds his father or not. It’s another reminder that I don’t know him as well as my heart thinks it does.
* * *
My mobile rings later that evening. I grab it, pausing when I see the caller’s name.
‘Phoebs! How are you? Where are you?’
‘Hello, Gabe. I’m good and I’m writing my journal in my room. How are you? And why are you calling?’
I hear his laugh and instantly feel mean. ‘Oh well, that’s charming.’
‘Sorry, what I meant was—’
‘Relax, it’s fine. Meg mentioned she spoke to you today so I thought I’d give you a call. Also, I have a question: when are you heading back to Paris?’
‘In a few weeks. I’m coming back to London on 14th June.’
‘Right. Now the play is over I’m taking a couple of months off. We’re still waiting for the damn release date on the feature film so I don’t want to commit to anything else until it comes through. And I’m knackered. I fancy a break. So, how about I pop over to Paris when you’re there?’
Even though he can’t see me, I freeze. ‘I—’
‘You know, we could spend a couple of days wafting around, walking pink poodles, reading Proust?’
‘I’m… not sure when I’m likely to be there. And there’s Tobi and Luc: they want me to stay with them before I come home and they’ve been so good to me sorting out all the places to stay.’
I don’t want Gabe to be in Paris. When I return to Tobi and Luc’s I only want to be thinking about Sam. About what he means to me. About everything we could be.
‘You hate the idea.’
‘I don’t hate it. I just – er…’
Have I offended him? I hear his chuckle and imagine the half-frown he has when someone mocks him. ‘No problem. Just thought I’d ask. Are you still loving villa life?’
‘Yes, it’s going to be a wrench to leave it,’ I reply, relieved the conversation has veered off its worrying course.
‘I think what you’ve done there is wonderful. Saving a library? I can’t imagine a more perfect job for you. Send me photos when it’s done, yeah? I want to see your handiwork.’
‘I will. Sorry,
Gabe. About the Paris thing.’
‘Hey, don’t sweat it. Your loss! Anyway, it will be good to have you back in June.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Go back to your scribbling.’
I stare at my darkened phone when his image fades to black. I’m not sure how to feel. The Gabe I left in London had been doing his best to tell me I wouldn’t be able to manage a year away. The Gabe I met in Tuscany could see the change in me. And the Gabe who just called acknowledged I’d found my calling in Puglia.
The change is remarkable. And it’s raised a question I never thought I’d have to consider: if Gabe had been like this the day before I left, would I have gone?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight, Sam
Abbeyhill has changed from the place in my memory. It helps that it’s a sunny day today. Everything looks brighter, more hopeful with a wash of sunlight.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
In my hotel room last night I lay awake going over everything. I wish I could say that when I planned to find out about Frank I actually imagined meeting the guy. I just expected to find out more than I’d known before, like learning the history of an ancient monument you’d grown up by.
If he’s there, what will I say to him?
What do you say to the guy who cared so little about his son that he removed himself from his life? To him I’m as good as dead, anyway.
If it was me, I’d want to know.
I remember the stillness of Phoebe’s eyes when she said that to me, how it contrasted with the wild dance of her hair as the breeze whipped it around her face. Until she said it, I don’t think I would have considered doing anything with the information Doug had given me.
But I’m here because of her words.
I don’t know what time Frank’s likely to be at home – if it’s even still his home – so I opt for mid-morning first. If there’s no answer, I’ll try again around 6 p.m. and again at 9 p.m. In between I’ll head back to the hotel and try my hardest not to get drunk. I haven’t had any alcohol since I arrived yesterday but I can’t guarantee what happens today won’t send me seeking solace in a bottle.
I’ve told Ailish I’ll ring her as soon as I find anything. She knows to respect that and won’t try to call me before. She still feels bad about our fight but no matter how in control of your life you are, sometimes you just need someone who loves you enough to give you a great big push.
What would Ma have made of me being here? Never mind the irony that her absent husband was likely living in the same city as us for at least some of our time in Edinburgh. Would she be angry with me? The kid in me who never wanted to make his mother cry worries a little now. I hope she’d understand, even if I suspect she wouldn’t.
The taxi drops me off a few streets away, a deliberate move on my part to give me a chance to get myself together. I walk past houses in various states of repair, most of them proudly cared for but the odd one here and there with broken fences and cars parked across gardens, as if they’ve been dumped in a hurry. Most are semi-detached houses now; back in the day they would all have been council flats. Some of the buildings still have the flight of concrete steps outside rising to the first floor from the driveway. There are lines of spring flowers standing sentry-like along some of the garden paths. Black wheelie bins, pink plastic bottle boxes and green and blue recycling bags edge the pavement. Each one is a glimpse into the lives of the residents – beer bottles and folded pizza boxes in one set, bags of brightly coloured wrapping paper and children’s toy packaging in the next.
I don’t get stage fright before a gig but right now every nerve within me is on high alert.
The streets are empty, but I feel as if the world is watching.
It strikes me that this is one of those moments in life that can’t be anything but monumental. My story as Frank’s son will be forever altered the moment that door opens. Even if he’s long gone, or dead after all, my life has already changed just by being here.
There it is: the junction with Airdrie Road and the small sign that marks its beginning. He’s already closer than he has been for twenty-three years.
I follow the houses on the odd-numbered side of the road. Each one is divided into two flats. Which would Frank choose, ground floor or first? Head in the clouds or best placed for a speedy exit? I wonder…
151… 153… 157… 159…
I slow beside the house next door to the address I’m looking for and glance away from the well-kept garden to the edge of the pavement. There are two black bins and four recycling bags outside 161. And painted in hasty white strokes on the bins: 161A and 161B.
My heart skids to a halt. I wrench breath into my body.
Doug said his colleagues had tried to get an answer from 161B on four occasions but failed. It was a neighbour who’d confirmed Frank lived there, although they hadn’t seen him for a while. But he has to be here now because the bin and recycling bags have been put out. By Frank, or someone who knows him.
The latch on the gate opens with a creak and flakes of old green paint stick to my hands when I push it open. Brushing them away, I walk up the path to 161B. Ground floor: ready to run. Figures. My fist shakes as I raise it to the dirty white uPVC door and knock.
Please be in. Please be home.
I wait, listening to my breath and the distant hum of traffic. The whoosh of a bicycle passes on the pavement beyond the gate and somewhere a woman laughs.
Nothing.
My heart sinks. I knock again, louder this time, staring at the closed door for longer than is comfortable. Nobody’s home. I knew this was a possibility and there are still two more opportunities to visit before I have to return to Mull.
It isn’t over, I tell myself. It’s just the first strike.
So I’ll come back at teatime – and, if necessary, at 9 p.m. as well.
I retrace my steps down the cracked flagstone path and reach for the gate.
‘Can I help you?’
The door has opened and a young woman is standing on the step, a baby wriggling against her shoulder. She has dark hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail and looks as if she hasn’t slept for weeks.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Frank Mullins?’
‘Who?’
I approach her carefully, pulling the crumpled photograph of my father from my back pocket and holding it out. ‘Frank Mullins. Originally from the Isle of Mull? I was told he lived here?’
She glances at the photo but hardly long enough to make out Frank’s blurry image. ‘No, sorry.’
‘Oh.’
They got it wrong. Or maybe he did live here, defaulted on the rent and the landlord moved this lady in instead. I can better believe that of Frank from what I’ve discovered about him.
‘Can I ask how long you’ve lived here?’
She doesn’t return my smile. ‘Three years.’
How can the police have made such a mistake? There must have been an error with the council tax record. Maybe they wrote the number down wrong? A hundred possibilities race through my mind. But the bottom line remains: this isn’t where Frank lives now. My search is over.
‘I see. Sorry. I’m his son, by the way. Not that it matters to you, or should matter to you. I haven’t seen him since I was nine. And – I just wanted to see if I could talk to him.’ I realise I’m rambling to a complete stranger who doesn’t know or care about Frank Mullins. I raise my hand in apology. ‘Anyway, sorry to disturb you. Have a nice day.’
A flush of indignation and embarrassment claims my face as I hurry back to the gate. I need to get out of here now. The last thing this poor woman needs is a nutter sobbing in her garden.
‘You have his eyes.’
I daren’t turn back. My feet are frozen to the spot, my hand resting on the green gate, my heart in my mouth.
‘What?’
‘And the colour of his hair. He frowns like you do, too.’
I look a
t her, not quite believing I heard her speak at all.
‘What did you say your name was?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t. It’s Sam.’
‘I’m Elspeth. Ellie, to everyone’ – the baby gurgles loudly and she gives a nervous laugh – ‘except this one. This is Barney, my son.’
Is Frank the kid’s father? My stomach twists as I walk back to the young woman. There’s nothing to stop him fathering more children, I guess. He’d be – what – in his sixties now? It’s biologically possible; even if morally, practically and emotionally inadvisable, given his past record.
‘Is Frank…?’ I nod at the baby.
Ellie’s eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth. ‘Hell, no! Oh my gosh.’
‘I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know…’
When she takes her hand away, she’s laughing. ‘You’re fine. Wow. That would be something. No, Sam, Frank’s not my partner.’
‘Right.’
Her smile softens. ‘He’s my dad.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine, Phoebe
‘Hi, this is Sam. I can’t come to the phone right now so please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’
I end the call and kick the ground, a shower of pebbles marking my frustration.
‘Phoebe? Everything okay?’ Lisabeta looks over the terrace wall and instantly I feel ridiculous. I didn’t even know she was there. My face flushes as she navigates her way over the flowerbed and hops down onto the path.
‘Sorry, Lis.’
She nods at my phone. ‘Bad news?’
‘No. It might be.’
‘Like that, huh?’ My host takes off her work gloves and claps them together. A cloud of terracotta dust swirls into the air. ‘I’m popping to town to run some errands. You want to come? Coffee’s on me.’
‘You don’t like the coffee in town.’
The Day We Meet Again Page 18