* * *
An hour and a half later, I’m at the studio. I reckon Chris must have worked a late one, judging by the teetering tower of takeaway containers spilling out of the bin in the kitchen. He’s by the control desk, lost in the depths of a drum mix, when I clamp a hand on his shoulder and almost give him heart failure.
‘Bloody hell, Sam, where did you spring from?’ He laughs and gives me a heavy back-slap that passes for a hug.
‘I got back yesterday. I brought you brunch.’
‘Legend!’ Chris accepts the large takeaway coffee and bag of doughnuts from me like I’ve just given him a sack of gold. ‘I was here till three a.m. and ended up kipping in the live room.’
I peer through the glass and see the pile of floor cushions and an old travel rug. ‘Cosy.’
‘It wasn’t bad. Stays warm in there. I’ll spray the air freshener around a bit before the string section comes in later this afternoon, though. Not sure my overnight odour will enhance their performance.’
‘How’s it going?’ I ask. ‘We busy?’
‘Manic, dude. Glad you’re back. We’re going to be under it for a few weeks. Three of the big labels have blocked out time for albums. We even had a waiting list last month.’
That’s the best news. To be busy is a blessing. And creating music is the best way to claw back some power when everything else is uncertain. In the studio I can lose myself. I’m going to be spending a lot of time doing that, I think.
When I call Syd a few hours later, he mentions his brother has a flat I can rent for what I paid on our place, in pretty much the same area. Tomorrow I’ll go and have a look at it, then arrange to bring my stuff out of storage and move in next weekend, if it all goes to plan.
Practical stuff is no compensation for a broken heart, but at least it will keep me busy and make me feel not so out of control. I put off calling Niven until I’ve seen Syd’s brother’s place. He won’t mind. As far as he knows, I’m too busy being reunited with the love of my life.
I swallow the ball of emotion the thought raises and move into the live room to help the newly arrived string quintet set up.
This is what matters now. This is my life.
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Three, Phoebe
Luc insists we go for a last walk around Montmartre before I pack to come home. I don’t want to say yes, but staring at four walls going over and over what happened is less appealing.
I think we’re just wandering as we did the first day Luc showed me around, until we turn a corner and it all becomes horribly clear.
The Wall of Love mural. The one I’d sent a photo of to Sam. One thousand I love you messages, each one mocking the words I’d said to him. Because how could I have told him I loved him and then broken his heart?
‘I don’t want to see this,’ I say, making to leave. But Luc catches my arm.
‘No Phoebe, there is something you haven’t seen yet.’
‘One thousand I love you messages? Yes, I see them. And I don’t want to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me back to face the wall. ‘Look harder. Between the words.’
I can’t see anything else, just the dark blue tiles and the white writing. ‘There isn’t anything else to see. Please, let’s go.’
‘Non, mon amie. Look at these…’
I follow the jut of his index finger to the corner of one of the tiles. A red blob. When I step back, they are everywhere, right across the mural. ‘What are they for?’
His fingers squeeze my shoulders. ‘They are pieces. Broken pieces of a heart. And if you were to collect them all and fit them together, you would fix that heart.’
Tears well up in my eyes, the letters and the red heart shards dancing in my view. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘All you see is love. You don’t notice these small pieces. I know your heart is broken, but there is enough love surrounding you to fix it. Because where love is, hope is there, too.’
Maybe when it doesn’t hurt so much, when I’ve forgiven my mistake, I’ll start to search for the pieces of my heart. But I’m not ready yet.
* * *
Arriving back in London is a bittersweet event.
I’m here. But the time is wrong.
It’s too late.
Too late to keep a promise I should have kept.
Meg and Osh had offered to meet me but I just want to get off the train and leave St Pancras as quickly as I can, alone. Head down, not looking at the giant lovers or the huge station-clock confirming my lateness. And definitely not passing the Betjeman statue: where Sam was waiting for me, but not any more.
After a year away, doing what I’d promised myself I’d do – and so much more besides – returning to St Pancras should be a celebration. I did it. Followed my heart for twelve months, all by myself. Except that, when it mattered most, I failed to listen to what it told me.
Around me my fellow passengers are already on their feet, collecting coats and cases, bags and belongings before the train has even begun to enter the station. A queue is forming by the doors, mobile phones pressed to ears as we pass railway sidings and the red and yellow brick signal box that mirrors St Pancras’ design in miniature. The passengers know where they’re going. Nobody else will doubt their place in the capital when they leave this train.
Except me.
When I step onto the platform, I will have no job, no plan, no onward journey. And no Sam.
My heart drags as the train brakes engage. The glow of late-afternoon sun paints the famous brick building red-gold as we enter the station, the blue girders cool against the famous walls. At the end of this line the bright pink neon Tracey Emin sign hangs: I WANT MY TIME WITH YOU.
I’ve loved it since it was unveiled but I don’t want to see it today. It’s my deepest, most painful thought suspended from the roof for the world to see. And the only person I’d want to see it isn’t here.
Where is Sam now? Is he still in London, in the studio he owns with his friend? If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d consider looking him up. He never told me the name of his studio but it can’t be hard to find. I could Google the address and just go. I could do it tomorrow. But what do you say to someone whose heart you’ve broken?
In the shadow of the station I catch sight of my eyes reflected in the train window. They’re swollen and soulless. I am so tired of hurting. But at least I’m home. I might have nothing, but I can build from here. Staring into a face I hardly recognise I make another promise – this time just to myself:
When I leave this train, I’m only looking forward.
I have cried enough. What matters now are the first steps I take from this train. I allow myself one moment in my seat to steady my breath. Then I rise, collect my luggage and join the end of the line waiting to leave.
Warm London air fills the carriage as the door opens and we shuffle out. Long shadows stretch beneath the blue girders and red brick as the sun continues its dip. It feels like home, my feet on the platform making the past twelve months concertina together, almost as if I’d never left. It’s strange how quickly you slot back into life after a journey. It’s the longest one I’ve ever made, so I’d wondered if it might take more time to readjust, but instantly everything is familiar and as I left it. Everything physical, at least.
I don’t want to linger on this level, with Sir John and the lovers and every thought of what might have been. So I duck my head and follow the stream of passengers down the stairwell to the lower concourse. From there I can head straight for the anonymity of the tube and decide where to go next.
Meg called this morning as I was saying goodbye to Tobi and Luc, and told me their lodger moved out, so my room is free if I want it. I have enough for two months’ rent, thanks to the little gift Lisabeta insisted I take for my work in the villa’s library – and the thought of being back in my room, surrounded by my friends who I’ve missed so much, is instantly appealing.
That’s where I’m going,
although I need to decompress first. It’s getting late but there’ll be somewhere I can grab a drink, maybe even something to eat, and be quiet for a while before Meg, Gabe and Osh descend on me. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for work – or maybe the day after. Wait and see how I am once I’m home and this journey is finally over.
We emerge from the corridor through large stainless-steel doors into the lower concourse and instantly my heart contracts. I might have avoided the Betjeman statue and the neon pink words, but I’d forgotten where I’d end up – just metres away from where Sam and I took refuge together, where we kissed for the first time, where everything began. And worse still, hugging, kissing couples and families suddenly surround me, reunited from their journeys. I breathe hard against the pain as I slowly weave my way around them, utterly alone in a space filled with love and joy. There are so many and it seems to take a lifetime to navigate a safe path between them. Every step hurts. I’m such an idiot. So much for only looking forwards. Not even five minutes since I arrived and that promise is already broken.
I don’t want to cry here. I won’t cry here.
‘Phoebe.’
At first I ignore it, assuming the voice is aimed at someone else. I’m pretty certain I am not the only Phoebe in St Pancras station.
‘Hey, Phoebe.’
And then I see him.
I can’t believe it. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
But he is – and the sight of him is so impossibly lovely I drop my bags, run into his arms, and cling to him like a lifebuoy in a storm.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ I sob against his shoulder. I can’t bottle my tears any longer. From the way he holds me I don’t think he minds. He smells of warm spice and welcome, and I just want to stay there.
‘Of course I am. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’
Around us people hurry and meet and chatter but I don’t move, the safety and warmth of being held by him too wonderful to let go. I spent the entire journey from Paris braced for a lonely return, imagining nothing but coldness and anonymity awaiting my arrival. For the first time since the day I was meant to meet Sam again, I feel safe. And completely not alone.
It’s a long time before I break the embrace. He doesn’t try to pull away until I do. When I see his face, his smile is wide and his dark eyes are full of me.
‘Welcome back, Phoebe Jones,’ Gabe says, taking my hand. ‘Shall we go home?’
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Four, Sam
I thought I’d be prepared for the phone call from Ellie about Frank. I knew his death was imminent, but the shock of recent weeks distracted me.
‘He went in his sleep,’ Ellie tells me. It’s little comfort. I can hear she’s in tears and they mirror my own.
‘Were you there?’
‘We’d just left. I missed him by five minutes.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But actually, Sam, I think he knew. He wouldn’t have wanted a fuss. I reckon he waited till we’d gone and then gave himself permission to go. I mean, that was Pa all over, wasn’t it? Running away on his own terms, not minding anyone else. Except, I think he knew what he was doing this time. I think knowing we had met and you’d sought him out was a load off his mind. He must have lived most of his life scared we’d all find out about each other.’
It will only be a brief funeral and I am invited. But I won’t go. I’d rather draw a line under it all. I’m staying in touch with Ellie, of course. But my story as far as Frank Mullins is concerned is done.
Besides, life is a bit tough right now. I’m beginning to struggle, and I never struggle where music is concerned. Work is long and hard at the studio and I just can’t seem to find my excitement for it. Every day drags. Chris is at his wits’ end with me, I know. I feel bad for not pulling my weight.
And then, my friends step in.
I thought we were just going out for dinner but as soon as DeeDee, Kim, Chris, Syd and me are seated at the table it’s clear they have an agenda.
‘Sam. You’re miserable,’ DeeDee says.
‘A nightmare, let’s be honest,’ Kim agrees. ‘You need to snap out of it.’
‘Pardon me for having a crisis,’ I begin, but one look from the girls silences me.
Chris leans in. ‘Mate, it’s good having you at the studio, but you’re doing my head in. Everyone’s noticed. I don’t want us to lose business because you’re depressing our clients.’
I stare at him. He’s never the sort to voice his opinions unless you’re debating the merits of microphones and compressors. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Find a tour,’ Syd says. ‘Any tour. Get yourself on it, get out of London for a while, clear your head. You ain’t no use to us here, right now.’
‘But the studio…?’
‘We’ll manage. We’re good, Sam, just take some time for yourself, yeah?’
‘Maybe call Phoebe and sort that out,’ Kim begins but DeeDee shushes her. Unrepentant, she shrugs.
DeeDee reaches her hand across the table to me. ‘You need to find your happy, babe. It ain’t here.’
I’m furious they dragged me out to stage a public intervention, but more annoyed that I know they’re right.
I need to get out for a while.
It isn’t running away. Is it?
So when Niven contacts me a few days later to say he’s taken a six-week sabbatical from his job at the school and is putting a band together for a month-long tour, it’s the break I’m looking for. He’s asked Shona, too, so it will be like old times. It’s exactly what I need. Everyone around me breathes a collective sigh of relief. And as we prepare for the tour that will take me away from London and thoughts of Phoebe, I begin to feel happier. It’s only a temporary fix, but it will buy me time to work out what I really want.
* * *
I travel to Leeds to meet Niven and the guys to rehearse for a few days. His pal is managing the whole thing while Niv’s in charge of the band. If our rehearsals are anything to go by, this tour is going to be a corker.
Shona is there, with two lads from the pub sessions in Tobermory who are taking a year out from university to play music. It’s a good set-up: the calibre of band where you aren’t fretting over charts because everyone’s played the songs a hundred times before.
Then our tour begins – and what a tour crammed into four weeks. Leeds, Sheffield, Manchester, Cheshire, North Wales, Lincolnshire, Bristol, Coventry before heading to Bromsgrove, Stratford-upon-Avon and ending up at the Eden Music and Arts Festival for the big finale.
It’s the freedom I want at the time I need it most. Great to be with Niven again and Shona, too, who is still the most outrageous flirt on the planet. Secretly, I like it. If Shona knows she doesn’t care. Her humour and sense of fun is infectious. Niven has to take us aside at one of the earlier gigs because we give each other raucous giggles during what should be a heartfelt ballad.
The rhythm of touring again draws me in – load the van, on to the next venue, unload, play, load again, drive… From one county to the next, one set of toe-tapping, approval-nodding audience members to the next. People are great and I’m impressed by the renewed enthusiasm for live folk-music I see. Even five years ago these venues we’re playing would be half full. I keep thinking of the Mull music club’s young musicians and how much brighter their prospects for live gigs are now compared with when I started out.
With every song played, every set completed and every bow taken, I feel I’m coming back from wherever I’d let myself disappear to.
Music takes me by the hand and gently saves me again. And the future doesn’t look as cold or empty.
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Five, Phoebe
I’m not really aware of the days passing. They all seem to merge into one. I tried phoning Sam a few times, but each attempt went straight to voicemail. I haven’t left any messages. He’ll see that I’ve called. The longer it goes without him responding, the stronger his sile
nt answer. And I’m starting to wonder if Gabe saw something in Sam’s behaviour that I didn’t. How serious could he have been if he wouldn’t even give me a chance to put things right?
In the end, I have to move on.
Gabe has been amazing. I couldn’t have got through it all without him. I’ve never seen him step up like this before, and neither have our friends. Meg told me she’d seen the change long before he rescued me from St Pancras.
‘As soon as he came back from the commercial shoot with Osh he was different. I thought he’d met someone out there, it was such a change. But Osh said the only person he met out there was you.’
I like this Gabe. Since he met me at the station he’s been there for me every day. Not fussing, just there. That means more than anything. It helps that he’s in between jobs and still waiting for his feature film to get a definite release date. We’ve talked about anything and everything, like we did in the beginning when we became housemates. If I’ve wanted to talk about Sam, he’s listened without judgement; if I haven’t, he hasn’t tried to address it. Lately I’ve noticed I’ve talked about Sam less and less.
Summer has mostly consisted of rain but then the sun remembers the season and for a week it bathes the city in gorgeous light. I love London at this time of year. Most summers here I’ve been stuck in an office working, but as I’m still figuring out what to do for a job, I hang out with Gabe instead. We go sightseeing, merging with the tourist blur around London’s famous landmarks. It’s almost like being back on my Grand Tour, except that this time I have a friend beside me to share it with. A friend whose current calmness is startling.
I tell him this when we’re stretched out on a picnic blanket on Primrose Hill. The city seems to rise from a haze, making it appear like a mythical kingdom stretched out in the distance. All around us people are enjoying the day, the usual conventions of London life discarded in favour of relaxing in the sun.
The Day We Meet Again Page 23