The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘You’re strange, Niv.’

  Niven crosses his feet on the dashboard. ‘Aye. But at least I’m not perving over my friend.’

  I glance at him. ‘Who’s perving?’

  ‘Right. Well, either you have a particularly odd fascination with the rear of Volkswagen Transporter minibuses or just the occupant of the back seat of that one.’ He gives a snort and shakes his head. ‘You’re rubbish, Mullins. I see you staring at her.’

  ‘Would you prefer I didn’t look at the road ahead?’

  ‘I would prefer you didn’t drive quite so close to the minibus. Stopping distance, Sam. Did you skive your theory test? If they brake, Shona Delaney will be in your lap.’ He folds his arms. ‘Or maybe that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘I saw the two of yous all cosy after the gig last night.’

  ‘We were just talking.’

  ‘Oh, talking is it? Hard to do I would think when your tongue’s hanging out.’

  ‘Niv. Leave it.’

  He holds up his hands. ‘None of my business, pal. But if you wanted to move on, that’s your golden opportunity right there.’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Look, after Ruth I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else, but I knew that if I didn’t get back in the saddle I’d talk myself out of it altogether. So I had a two-week thing with a teaching assistant at school. She’d just split from her fella and wanted a bit of fun. So did I. We’re still mates. But it helped.’

  Does he know what Shona said to me last night? I daren’t ask. ‘I couldn’t. She’s a friend. I couldn’t do that to her.’

  ‘Didn’t look like she was about to complain last night. Shona doesn’t want a big relationship, not yet. The dust is still settling from her last one. Maybe you’d be good for each other.’ He shrugs. ‘None of my business, mind.’

  Could I go there? I’m not sure.

  Either way, it’s spiced up the four-hour M6 journey nicely.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Seven, Phoebe

  Thank goodness for my friends.

  It turns out that Olivia, the person Osh called about my dress, is a costume supervisor he worked with on an advert a few years ago. As well as designing clothes for film and TV productions she also makes a few of her own pieces that she sells privately. When I meet her in the Aladdin’s cave of fabric she calls her workshop near Elstree studios, she tells me she has the perfect dress.

  It’s a repurposed garment: the original a part of a set of gowns she’d made for a magazine photo-shoot that was supposed to be a modern reimagining of Versailles. When I first try it on it’s covered with drapes of pearls and has extra material wrapped in heavy folds around the hips to mimic the opulent wide dresses popular in King Louis XVI’s court.

  ‘Don’t worry about this stuff, I’ll whip it all off,’ she says with a mouthful of pins as she circles me, pinning parts of the dress in place. ‘As long as the basic garment fits, I can sort the rest.’

  ‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ I say, a little dizzy from watching her.

  ‘Total pleasure. Always wanted to loan a film premiere dress.’ Olivia pauses as she’s pinning the top of the bodice. ‘I take it this is your first? Premiere, I mean.’

  ‘First one I’ve had to walk a red carpet for,’ I say, my stomach somersaulting at the prospect.

  ‘Bit scary, huh?’

  ‘Terrifying.’

  She smiles and resumes her alterations. ‘It’s a load of bollocks, that’s what you have to tell yourself. Lots of people trying to get a picture and lots of people trying to get in one. Don’t worry. This dress will do all the hard work for you. Just enjoy wearing it.’

  * * *

  When Olivia’s completed creation arrives at our house three days later I can’t believe the transformation. The peacock-blue velvet has been gently draped where the extra pieces once were and wearing it feels like being held in the gentlest embrace. It makes the most amazing sound when I walk, too. I’m still terrified of being in the spotlight but being able to wear this dress will be a great compensation.

  Gabe is preoccupied all day. By the time we’re getting ready we’re snapping at each other. We hardly talk in the car over to the cinema where the film is premiering. I glance at him, feeling exposed with my off-the-shoulder dress and borrowed heels. Meg did my make-up and hair and Osh found another friend to lend me some costume jewellery. When I peered in the mirror before we left the house, I didn’t recognise the woman looking back. Despite her beautiful dress she didn’t seem happy. She didn’t look like she was living the dream.

  Tomorrow Gabe flies to New York for the US premiere, then on to LA to spend time with his American agent and meet people. The machine has cranked into gear around him and he’s being swept up in a rush of schedules, meetings and opportunities. I’m thrilled for him, of course. But I feel like he’s pulling away from me.

  Or maybe I’m pulling away from him.

  ‘Relax, you look fine,’ he says, but he sounds irritated and instantly I am, too.

  ‘I know I do.’

  He stares at me. ‘Phoebs, I didn’t mean… You look stunning, obviously.’

  Obviously?

  I watch London moving at dreamlike pace past the passenger door window. Gabe glares at his phone.

  This is horrible. How did we get here? Until the film job kicked in we were so happy. I’m shocked by how quickly it all changed. It’s like I don’t know where we fit into this new world of flashbulbs and interviews.

  I want to drag it back, find a sliver of us before the pantomime cranks into action again. I return to him, my heart hammering hard.

  ‘Gabe, I think we—’

  ‘Here we are,’ the driver chirps, swinging into line behind a queue of identical people-carriers. ‘Just need to wait our turn, but you’ll be good to go in a few moments.’

  I grip my bag and the wrap that weighs uncomfortably around my arms and wait. Gabe is adjusting his suit, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t look like my Gabe at all.

  The door is being opened and he’s out as flashbulbs fire like angry lightning. For a moment I think he might have abandoned me, but then his hand reaches back into the car. It’s warm when I take it, one tiny scrap of reassurance I cling to.

  The flashes of light imprint on my eyes and I can’t see where I’m walking. Disoriented, I find myself being pulled from one place to the next; a few steps and then a pose; a few more and a smile. At every stop, Gabe’s hand rests at the small of my back and sometimes he pulls me into him. I look up and there’s Gabriel Marley, the performer, the consummate professional, working every angle and lapping up the adulation. This is his world and he is as at home here as I am surrounded by books.

  But this isn’t my world.

  I do everything I am expected to do, reminding myself that I’m here for him not me. I’m smiling but I’m drowning in a sea of dread, gasping for air and terrified I’m going under. It isn’t a panic attack: it’s a portent. If this film takes off as the buzz around it suggests, this will be the first of many premieres. The higher Gabe’s star rises, the more scrutiny anyone in his world will face.

  If I want to be with him, this becomes my life, too.

  It’s far more terrifying than facing a sea of yelling photographers on a red carpet in London, wearing a dress that isn’t mine and a smile that doesn’t fit.

  By the time we reach the entrance and hurry inside, I know what I have to do.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Eight, Sam

  In Bristol, we get early access to the venue so we’re all set up by midday. Blessed with an afternoon to kill before we play we predictably end up in a pub. We haven’t had a decent blowout for a week and as we’re staying locally tonight we can drink a little more than usual and enjoy ourselves.

  Since her bombshell Shona hasn’t said any more, but I watch her all the same. I can’t quite believe she meant what s
he said although I can find no other, safer explanation for it. This afternoon she is mocking Niven for his near encyclopaedic celebrity knowledge – admittedly not the most obvious skill you would expect Mr McNish to possess – and for a film he wants to see that she thinks is lame. Their banter is endlessly entertaining as they check a film news website. Then Shona snatches Niven’s iPad from his hands and scrolls down the movie-news page he’s been reading.

  ‘Now, this will definitely be worth your time. Everyone is talking about this one.’

  ‘Volozhin 82? What do you care about Russian spy thrillers?’ Niven asks.

  ‘I care a lot when Gabriel Marley’s in it,’ she says.

  My smile freezes. I haven’t heard that name for a while.

  Gabriel Marley.

  Gabe.

  ‘I mean, look at the man. Sex on a stick. They just had the film premiere in London and it was all over Twitter and Instagram. Full-on Hollywood glam – the works. And Gabriel looks divine. Let me find the photo gallery…’

  ‘Give us a look,’ I say, hoping they won’t question my sudden interest in film gossip.

  Shona leaves her seat, gazing happily at the screen, as she makes her way to me.

  ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed in the morning. Beautiful man. And look – check out that lucky hen on his arm. Looks like the cat that got the entire Sainsbury’s cream fridge. And who can blame her?’

  Niven’s face falls and he makes a bid for the iPad, but Shona’s already handed it to me.

  Gabriel Marley is smouldering for the cameras, all dark eyes and perfectly styled hair. And pulled tight against his designer suit is a woman in a stunning blue-green velvet dress.

  Not just any woman.

  ‘He doesn’t want to see that,’ Niven says, trying to take it from me.

  But it’s too late. I see Phoebe’s bright smile, her hair tumbling in glossy waves over her naked shoulders – and everything makes sense.

  She isn’t waiting for me to contact her again.

  She’s having the time of her life with the guy she couldn’t stop talking about since we met.

  So that’s why she missed the train.

  I don’t know whether to feel angry, devastated or just really stupid for not seeing what was happening. Was she using me – and the year away – to make Gabe miss her? If she was, it clearly worked. One thing I do know is that I am going to start drinking now and carry on back at the motel when the gig is over. Getting drunk is the absolute best option because it turns out I never knew Phoebe Jones and I don’t want to feel anything about her ever again.

  I almost called her today. I’ve had a lucky escape.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Forty-Nine, Phoebe

  We hardly talk after the premiere. Gabe tells Meg and Osh it’s because he’s been so busy with the never-ending promotion for his film. I’ve said the same. But we’re both lying.

  The day it happens, we’ve managed to grab an hour to have breakfast in the little Italian deli down the street from home. A car is due to collect him soon to take him to the BBC for an interview with film critic James King and then I’m unlikely to see him until the weekend. We’re both pretending this is a normal breakfast meeting, like we do this every day. In reality, it’s the first time since the film promotion began.

  Across the table, between the basket of bomboloni doughnuts, cafétières of coffee and crockery, Gabe’s spread the newspaper and magazine press clippings of the premiere. He’s giving them to his agent when they meet at White City. I’m fiddling with my phone to avoid looking at them. My finger slips against the screen, the photo app opening instead of the Instagram button. Suddenly, I’m face to face with a version of myself I hardly recognise. Standing beside Amanda surrounded by stacks of old books in Villa Speranza’s library. The Phoebe Jones in the photograph is tanned and happy, grinning wide for the camera, her hair threaded with gold from the Puglian sun.

  My heart aches.

  Gabe is talking on his phone, eyes roving the press clippings as they pass beneath his fingers.

  I can’t stop myself looking for another version of Phoebe Jones. The one standing by a train barrier on 14th June last year, her head pressed against the chest of a smiling man with a violin case slung on one shoulder. I can see the Phoebe Jones of the premiere over the top of the screen – and while she wears an incredible gown and jewels sparkle at her wrist, her smile is empty.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I say.

  Gabe stares at me. But I already see it in his eyes.

  He’s been waiting for me to say it.

  He ends the call and places his phone beside the press clippings. A slow, deliberate move that makes my insides contract.

  ‘Breakfast, or us?’

  He isn’t smiling. I wish he were.

  ‘It isn’t you…’

  ‘Please. Don’t roll that one out. Just say it, Phoebe.’

  And then I have no choice. ‘I can’t be with you. We’re so different and I feel like I’m losing myself… I don’t want to make you unhappy and if we stay together that’s what will happen.’

  ‘What about what I want?’

  ‘Gabe – can you be there for me if I need you? Would you drop everything and race back to be with me?’

  ‘That’s unfair. This is my job…’

  ‘It is. And it should be your main concern.’

  ‘This is about Sam, isn’t it?’

  The punch knocks the air from me. ‘No. This is about me calling this off before we lose every scrap of love we have for each other.’

  His eyes are still when they meet mine. ‘Phoebe. It’s about Sam. He can’t make you happy, but it appears neither can I.’

  ‘We’d end up hating each other. I don’t want that. Do you?’

  He’s angry. He’s hurt. But he honestly doesn’t look heartbroken.

  And that’s my answer.

  * * *

  Gabe leaves early for New York next morning after a night of brutal truths and confessions and a few hours’ sleep in separate beds. I’m bruised and aching but I’ve done the right thing.

  So when Meg and Osh wake to find me red-eyed and exhausted in the living room nursing a mug of tea that lost its heat hours before, I’m able to assure them that I’m okay. And the telling thing is that neither of them looks completely surprised. I think they’ve known longer than I have – or longer than I was ready to admit I knew.

  For a few days I drift from one thing to the next, aware that I need to sort out permanent work and start to set down roots in London again. The temp agency has been great, but it’s time to find what I want to do. What will happen when Gabe returns from the States? Right now we aren’t speaking and if that continues, sharing a home with him will be unimaginably difficult.

  * * *

  And then, life hands me a stroke of serendipity.

  Out of the blue, Amanda calls. I haven’t spoken to her since we said goodbye at Lisabeta’s farm, although we’ve chatted occasionally on social media.

  ‘This might not be what you’re looking for, so feel free to say no, but I’m leading a literature-in-the-community initiative with a team of my students. We’ve been asked to build a Story Garden at the Eden Project. They’ve had storytelling and theatre groups there for years, but this will create a permanent space where Cornish novels and poetry can be celebrated in an environment accessible to everyone. It’s only a six-week project, but I wondered if I could tempt you down here to help me? It would be so good to hang out again and the students would love to meet you.’

  It was serendipity that brought me to Villa Speranza, where I found a friend in Amanda. This is too good an opportunity to miss. And so I’m on another train today, this time heading south-west to Cornwall.

  Working with my library-rebuilding cohort again appeals to me. Many times as we catalogued and shelved vintage volumes together we talked about the magic of books and how often people miss it because they don’t realise they can access them. Had it not been f
or the customer at my parents’ farm shop leaving Jane Eyre I might never have read it. Some of the pebbles we painted for Villa Speranza’s terrace garden carried quotes from our favourite books – tiny treasures for strangers to find. The project in Cornwall sounds perfect.

  When I told Mum and Dad about Amanda’s project, they were thrilled.

  ‘You have to do it,’ Dad said and I could hear his broad grin as he spoke. ‘We’ll come down and ask you awkward questions on a tour.’

  I smile as I watch the lush countryside of the West Country flood the train with colour and light. I only half-believe Dad was joking. It’s the kind of thing he’d love to do, revealing to everyone around him that I was his Phoebe.

  I wish his Phoebe believed in herself as much as her father does.

  It doesn’t help that my best friend doesn’t agree with me taking this job. She refused to say goodbye this morning as I dragged my rucksack out of the house. I’m not running away, whatever Meg thinks.

  She took me to task about it last night. We were both packing – she’s off to Coventry for a week for her cousin’s wedding and meeting up with old school friends. With our cases side by side on the sofa it began as a nice evening, talking about our plans. But I could tell she was carefully sidestepping what she really wanted to say. And then, when the cases were packed, out it came.

  ‘It’s a great opportunity. I just think you could have waited till Gabe got home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s another situation where you haven’t tied the loose ends up before moving on. First Sam, now Gabe.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘That’s unfair. I tried to address things with Sam. He didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Once. You tried once, Phoebs. Then you came home and suddenly you were with Gabe, so you didn’t try to contact Sam again. Which is why things didn’t work with Gabe, because Sam was still here.’ She tapped her temple with her finger.