‘I am calmer,’ he says, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair as he gazes at the city. ‘I don’t know, Phoebs, it just doesn’t seem as important as it used to. I mean, I know there’s work coming and when the film gets its release date the craziness will start again. And Eric, my new agent, is great, you know. I don’t ever have to chase him. I don’t feel I’m having to manage my career as well as working. That’s such a load off my mind.’
He downs the last of his beer and pulls another two bottles from the bag we brought with us. I accept it because today feels close to perfect and I’m in the mood to celebrate. We bought bits at Borough Market, laughed and joked as we caught buses and hopped on and off tube trains. Gabe decided we should have an epic dessert for our picnic so we made a ridiculous detour across town to Peggy Porschen for cakes. And finally – finally – I feel like I’m coming back to myself. The Phoebe I was when I hid pebbles around the streets of Rome with Giana, or restoring the library with Amanda in Lisabeta’s villa. I should have been able to celebrate my amazing year in Europe instead of feeling like what happened with Sam rendered it all void. Now I feel I can make a start.
I write this in my journal as the London sun gilds its pages. At first, I didn’t bring it anywhere with me but a few days ago I dared to read some to Gabe and he insisted I write while we’re out, capturing the moments when they happen.
‘Make sure you mention me,’ Gabe says beside me, tapping my notebook with the neck of his beer bottle. ‘Magnificent would probably work well in that context.’
‘Good idea. Not sure magnificent is the right word, though. How do you spell knob?’
‘Ha ha. You’re hilarious.’
I nudge his leg with my knee. ‘Thank you for this,’ I say.
Gabe looks at me. ‘For what?’
‘Being here, now.’
He laughs. ‘Slouching around on Primrose Hill, eating all the food? My pleasure.’
‘Not just the picnic. Since I got back from Paris you’ve been amazing.’
‘Well, you’re pretty amazing. So that makes two of us.’ He winks and it makes me laugh. He’s cheeky as anything and knows it, but I love his confidence.
‘We should get matching capes or something,’ I say. ‘Own our amazingness.’
‘Good plan. You’d look good in spandex.’
‘Cheers. Although I reckon your Instagram posse would go off the chart if they saw you in a superhero costume.’
He admonishes me with a grin. ‘Don’t pretend you aren’t one of them, Phoebs.’
‘Busted. I’m a fully paid-up member of – what is it they call themselves?’
Gabe rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘Marley’s Army.’
‘Brilliant.’ Gabriel Marley doesn’t embarrass easily but when he does it’s one of the greatest sights on earth. I give his cheek a playful pat. ‘Aw, Mr Marley, you go so red.’
‘Get off!’ He wraps his fingers over my hand and pulls it away from his face. And he doesn’t let go. He’s smiling when he looks at me, but in that moment I’m aware of the warm breeze, the sun on my skin, the distant dance of laughter on the afternoon air. ‘I do think you’re amazing.’
‘That’s because I am.’
‘You are. And my life has been so much brighter since you came home.’
Nerves skip through my voice when I laugh. ‘You are joking? All I’ve done is cry all over you and talk your ears off.’
‘And I love it.’ The pulse of his fingers pads through mine where they meet. ‘I was a dick before you left last year. No, I was. It wasn’t because I didn’t think you’d go through with it; I was scared you would. And then you left and I missed you. Every day.’
‘You don’t have to say that. It’s okay.’
‘And then when I saw you in Tuscany, you were – radiant. Don’t pull a face, you were. You are. Even after all the Sam stuff.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘Phoebs, I like this. Being with you.’
‘I like being with you, too.’
And just like that, the air changes.
It’s subtle and sweet and the sun has warmed Gabe’s skin when I touch it, and the birds are singing.
And then we’re kissing. And it’s good.
So I don’t pull away because why would I? We melt into each other with the city at our feet and I realise I’m not scared. I’m not debating or obsessing. And I’m not thinking of Sam.
I’m just here, with Gabe. And I don’t want to think any more.
* * *
‘You need a celeb couple name now,’ Osh quips as he hands me a fresh bottle of cider. ‘Especially when Mr Marley’s film gets its release date. What shall we call you? GabePhee? Gabee? PhoeGab?’
‘Stick to directing, Osh,’ Gabe says, flopping down on the grass. ‘You and words were never meant to be.’
‘Unlike our resident Couple of the Month,’ Meg grins.
The sun catches the dome of Brighton Pavilion and the sky is the kind of impossible blue you only get in summer. It’s so good to be here. I watch my friends larking around and lean into Gabe’s warm chest.
‘Happy?’ he murmurs, stroking my hair.
I nod and lift my lips to meet his.
‘Ugh! Get a room!’ Osh protests.
Meg chuckles. ‘They have a room. Problem is, we have to share it with them.’
I offer an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry.’
She shrugs. ‘No skin off my nose. I have noise-cancelling headphones.’ She ducks as Gabe chucks a paper cup at her.
‘Smile for Marley’s Army,’ Osh says, grabbing his camera.
‘You’d better be joking.’
‘Why? They have a right to know.’
‘They do not!’
He shakes his head, laughing. ‘Relax, Phee, your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Your poetry’s improving, at least.’ Gabe scrambles to his feet, brandishing a tennis ball and a cricket bat he bought from the beach stall on Brighton Pier. ‘Let’s see how your bowling reflexes are.’
I watch them dash off to play like the big kids they are. It’s so long since we all came out to Brighton on an away day. It’s just like old times: chilly dashes into the sea, ice cream from the crazy Fifties’-themed ice cream parlour on Gardner Street, relaxing in the Pavilion Gardens. I’ve been nervous about how things would be in our gang now Gabe and I are together, but I needn’t have been. This is as close to perfect as it can be.
‘Look at them. Children.’ Meg smiles as she sits next to me. ‘So, how are you?’
The cider is sweet on my tongue as I drink. ‘Good. You?’
‘Same as always. Has Gabe had any word on the release of his film?’
‘Not yet.’ I watch him mocking Osh as they take it in turns to bat and bowl. I know this calm can’t last forever. ‘His agent is talking to the film distributor today. Hopefully we’ll have some news soon.’
Meg’s eyes narrow. ‘Hopefully?’
She knows me too well. ‘Okay, maybe not hopefully for me. I like him not being busy. Having him to myself.’
‘Because the moment that film comes out, he’s everybody’s again?’
I nod. I’ve tried not to think too far ahead, but I’m not looking forward to his schedule filling up again. I like him just being mine, as he is today.
‘Don’t worry. He’ll be going into it as your boyfriend this time, not a singleton the film company can work to death. It’ll be fine.’
‘Hope so.’
‘I know so. It’s taken you two long enough to get together – he isn’t going to do anything to spoil that. He’s in for the long haul.’
I wrap my arms round my best friend. I know she wasn’t sure when Gabe and I got together, so it means a lot that she supports us now. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Stop worrying and enjoy your whirlwind romance.’
Can you call it a whirlwind if you’ve known each other forever? The next few weeks feel like a whirlwind, as if we’ve just discovered each othe
r and the Phoebe-Gabe script is being hastily rewritten. He’s tender and attentive, loving and fun to be with. He makes me feel good. Our friends give knowing nods because of course this was always going to happen eventually. I feel part of London again, but this time its heart beats through Gabe and me.
* * *
And then, it begins to change.
The date for Gabe’s feature film release is finally revealed and suddenly we’re caught up in a hurricane of organisation, press junkets and a planned European press-tour. We don’t have time to catch breath, let alone spend time together. We both knew this was coming, but it arrives jealous and rude, dragging us both into its flow.
A date is set for the London premiere and publicity is hastily arranged in the week leading up to it. Gabe has a flurry of TV and radio interviews, magazine and press features and random Skype interviews with US media outlets, meaning he’s often getting ready to talk to people in the early hours of the morning when the rest of us are going to bed.
I accompany him for some of the interviews – he’s keen for me to see this part of what he does and I’m proud of him. But I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.
The people we meet are lovely and very pleasant but it’s the way they look at me. The comments that feel too intrusive; the PR lady – who seems to bleed energy – just a little too keen to get me in front of the cameras. I hang back, but I see her watching me. Planning me into her next headline.
And then the invitation to the premiere arrives and with it the briefing. It’s a transatlantic celebration of culture so the dress code is designer eveningwear exclusively from British or US fashion designers. I’d assumed it only applied to the actors, director and producers of the film, but with a week to go I discover they expect it from everyone.
‘I don’t have any designer clothes,’ I protest, bristling when I see the look Gabe gives me. Until now we’ve been a united front and I don’t like how this feels.
‘We can sort it.’
‘And I can’t afford to buy anything.’
‘I’ll pay for it.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I offered.’ I see the knots of tension in his shoulders as he turns away. ‘It will be fine. You’ll look amazing. Don’t worry.’
Did he just patronise me? ‘I haven’t done this before, Gabe, I’m going to worry.’
‘Whatever. You do you.’
Now I’m annoyed. How can he not see how out of my depth I am? Doesn’t he care? ‘Maybe it’s better if I don’t go.’
It’s out before I can think better of it. And I wish I couldn’t see the hurt in his expression when he rounds on me. ‘You have to go, Phoebs! It’s a huge deal and the biggest event of my career. I want you by my side.’
‘I’ll go,’ Osh offers, munching toast at the kitchen breakfast bar as we argue around him. It’s classic Oisin timing and makes me laugh despite the building storm.
‘See? Osh wants to go. Take him.’
‘I don’t want to take Osh because I want to take my girlfriend,’ Gabe returns, holding a hand up to our housemate. ‘No offence, mate.’
‘None taken,’ he sniffs. ‘I’d only outshine you.’
‘Besides, I can’t turn up with a guy. Not this time. Eric wants to play down the gay angle since that Insta pic went viral.’ He says it like it’s absolutely fine and that infuriates me more. I should let it go like I have in the past but I don’t feel like giving him a free pass on this today.
‘The posed photo you did on purpose to promote your last play?’
‘Hey, you have to play to the crowd.’
‘By deliberately being vague about your sexuality, like it’s something you just pop on to get an audience?’
He groans. ‘Everyone does it, Phoebs.’
‘I don’t care. You should be better. It’s dishonest and misleading to your fans.’
‘Firstly, it’s none of their business what I do in my personal life. And secondly, what’s the difference between a fake homosexual relationship and a fake heterosexual one?’
I cannot believe I’m hearing this. ‘There’s no difference. They’re both wrong!’
‘Are you sure you guys are in love?’ Osh asks, squeezing between us to get to the sink. ‘Because right now I feel like a spectator at a grudge match.’
That pulls us up. I shove my hands in my pockets and Gabe stares at the ceiling.
It isn’t about finding a dress or being in front of the cameras, although neither fills me with much excitement. This has been building for a while. I care about Gabe, so much. I can’t say love yet, but neither of us is ready to approach that territory. When we’re together – when it’s just him and me, when it’s our sole focus – it’s good. But we pull in opposite directions when a schedule appears. This is his job and I’m proud of him, but the Gabe I love being with is retreating. The age-old frustrations I used to feel before I left for Europe flood back.
What’s worse is that I suspect it has nothing to do with who Gabriel Marley is. I think all of this is because of who Gabe is not.
I have to turn it around. I can’t risk losing him or alienating my friends just because I have doubts. Stupid doubts: doubts I don’t need to harbour.
‘Where would I get a dress?’ I ask, offering a smile as Gabe looks at me.
‘I don’t know. But if you’re serious about coming with me we will figure it out together.’
‘I might know someone,’ Osh says, without looking up from his phone screen.
We stare at him.
‘Oh, just casually chuck that in,’ Gabe says. ‘Phoebs and I have been arguing for ages about this, didn’t you hear?’
‘Half of the city heard. And for the record, nobody asked me.’ He pockets his phone and heads for the door. ‘Let me make a call.’
Alone in the kitchen, Gabe and I look at each other. This is ridiculous. We’re meant to be in the first flush of a new relationship, not arguing like we’ve been married for twenty years.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, walking into his outstretched arms.
I feel the weight of his sigh as he holds me. ‘No, I am. It’s my job, not yours. This is a lot to put on you.’
‘I’ll be there. And I’ll be proud of you.’
‘Thank you.’ He kisses me but it doesn’t seem convincing somehow.
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Six, Sam
I have never been more grateful for a band’s acrimonious split than I am for the poor guys who left Niven’s mate in the lurch and led to us getting this tour. It’s fantastic. The gigs we play most nights are in excellent venues and while each has been small the reaction of the crowds is disproportionately loud. Slowly, we are traversing the country, moving from town to city to rural working-men’s clubs and pubs.
The days become weeks and we slip into our sets easier and faster each time. Our playing becomes tighter, the little bits of jamming we muck about with during sound checks cheekily sneak into the gigs as polished little gems. We’re having fun instead of ploughing through not-yet-familiar songs, and the magic I felt I’d lost returns.
As often happens with tours, the venues don’t follow a lineal geographical pattern, so we’ll play a gig in Bristol then be up in Sunderland next day. Consequently there’s a lot of time spent on the road between gigs. We take it in turns to drive the hire van with the equipment and the hired minibus with the rest of us. When I have to drive, my thoughts increasingly turn to Phoebe. I wish I’d tried to contact her when the dust settled. Moving around has made me remember our year of journeys.
Nobody knows this, but tucked away in the zipped pocket of my violin case I have a stack of the postcards Phoebe sent me. They represent the unfinished business between us. She made mistakes, I made them too, but it should never have ended the way it did. The more I think about that and about what Phoebe meant to me, the more convinced I become that I should seek her out when this tour is over.
I ended up talking to Shona about
her last night. I didn’t intend it to happen, but she asked me and I didn’t have a good enough reason not to reply.
‘What happened, Sam? You were so sure of her before.’
‘That kind of ended when she didn’t show.’
Shona nodded, playing with the silver necklaces at her throat. I watched her fingers looping in and out of the delicate links, lifting the chains from the soft skin of her neck. ‘And she never explained why she didn’t meet you?’
‘She tried to. I mean, she called but…’
‘You were hurt.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And angry, too.’
‘I couldn’t see past what she’d done. She had her reasons, but I wasn’t ready to hear them.’
‘I’m not surprised. Leading you on for a year then kicking you in the nuts.’
I wouldn’t have termed it like that, but Shona’s description tempted a naughty smile from my lips. ‘Anyway, it’s ancient history.’
And that’s when she hit me with it.
‘I wouldn’t lead you on, Sam. If you wanted me I’d be there like a shot. And I’d flag down a train to get to you.’
Just like that. She dropped it like a grenade in the middle of our innocent friend-chat and then just walked away.
BOOM.
I still have no idea how it happened. Or what to do next.
I’m thinking about it as I drive the equipment van behind the band minibus on our four-hour journey along the M6. I can see Shona on the back seat, her arms folded behind her head, trusty leather jacket giving her shoulders a familiar silhouette. I used to sit behind her in lectures and I remember thinking how slender her neck was, with its line of tiny curls along the nape beneath the bob of her hastily tied ponytail. Her hair is loose today, but every now and again she scoops it up as if she’s considering tying it.
‘Blink, pal.’
‘What?’
‘You haven’t blinked for a minute. I timed you.’
The Day We Meet Again Page 24