The Day We Meet Again

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘This isn’t about Sam. Gabe was there for me when I needed him. And yes, it didn’t work out, but I didn’t know that was going to happen.’

  ‘Osh and I did. Anyone could have told you that relationship was never going to work.’

  That was the fuse lit. ‘Well if it was so bloody obvious, thanks for telling me, best friend. Because it wasn’t obvious to me.’

  ‘Don’t turn this on me. You’re the one skipping away from relationships when you get scared, leaving all of us to clean up the mess.’

  ‘I am not listening to this,’ I said, yanking my suitcase off the sofa. ‘And nobody asked you to have to deal with my mess, Meg. You chose to get involved.’

  ‘You were going to leave Sam alone at the station with no explanation. What else was I going to do?’

  ‘I would have called him. I would have tried to explain.’

  ‘What, like you’ve done since you got back?’

  ‘Get stuffed!’

  ‘And there she goes again, scurrying away when she can’t handle things.’

  ‘She? Who’s she? Tomorrow I’ll be out of your hair and you won’t have to bail me out again. I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden, Meg.’

  I intended to slam my bedroom door but she had already followed me into my room. ‘I have never said that, Phoebe. But do you seriously expect me to believe that if Sam had wanted to talk you would have heard what he had to say?’

  A rush of icy water doused my fury then. ‘If he’d given me the chance to see him again, I would have jumped at it. But he never did. If we’d been in the same room again, I would have tried to explain.’

  The memory of that moment sits uncomfortably with me now. I wish Meg and I hadn’t parted on bad terms. I don’t know what I would say to Sam if I ever saw him again. Not that he was going to give me the chance. He drew a line under us the day I failed to meet him and I was powerless to do anything about it.

  Wasn’t I?

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty, Sam

  I’m still reeling from seeing the photos of Phoebe and her actor boyfriend days later, when we’re loading gear in the warm September sun into Coventry’s Big Comfy Bookshop. I have to pull myself together. This gig is important.

  The independent bookshop in Fargo Village is the coolest venue with an enviable reputation for hosting the best artists and bands on the folk circuit. Michael, the owner, has hinted that if he likes our set this evening he’ll invite us back, possibly to feature in his famous acoustic sessions that have a huge following on YouTube. I would love that.

  Several people have arrived already, enjoying cake and coffee and browsing the shelves. It doesn’t bother me to have an audience as we set up our gear.

  I’ve almost finished running mic leads when I see her.

  At first, it’s just one of those feelings that a person is vaguely familiar but you probably don’t know them. I get that a lot, largely because I see a lot of people in my line of work. And I’m often useless with names, so chances are if I have met you I won’t remember what you’re called until you remind me.

  But it’s more than a déjà vu with this woman – because I’m quite certain there aren’t many people I’ve encountered who look like her.

  Blonde hair streaked with dark blue. Eyes that seem to peel away the layers of your skin until she can see your soul.

  I would know her anywhere.

  She waits until the end of the first set before she approaches, but my discomfort has been steadily building all evening and my eyes have kept being drawn to her, trying to gauge her emotions and decipher her motive.

  ‘Sam,’ she says, her voice betraying the slightest quiver of nerves.

  ‘You were at the station. St Pancras. 14th June.’

  She nods, the soul-stripping gaze lowered for now. ‘I left the rose. For my best friend.’

  ‘Phoebe.’

  ‘Yes. I’m Meg.’ She withdraws her hand when I don’t accept it. ‘I didn’t know you were playing tonight. I’m visiting old university mates.’ She looks over to the table where two women smile and nod back. ‘Sam, Phoebe made a mistake…’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘She missed the train and she knew you’d be waiting. But she was a mess, Sam, truly a wreck. I don’t think she could have phoned you then, even if she’d been brave enough. The rose was the next best thing.’

  ‘So, what, she asked you to buy that rose and write the label and leave it?’

  She nods. ‘If it helps, I was furious with her. I thought she should have followed her heart. Because she loves you, Sam.’

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me? Tell me what the hell was happening? Because I was completely alone there. And I expected to see your friend – the woman I was in love with? Not some poxy rose and cryptic message.’

  ‘If you still wanted to talk to her, she’d listen.’ Meg apologises as Shona shoulders her way to the stage a little too firmly. ‘She’s devastated.’

  ‘Now she knows how I feel. I’m sorry, I have a set to play.’

  ‘I have a New Year event I want to book you for,’ she blurts, shoving a thick, glossy business card at me.

  MEG GÓRECKA

  – SENIOR EVENT MANAGER

  LONDINIUM EVENTS

  AWARD-WINNING CORPORATE AND

  MEDIA EVENT COMPANY

  ‘Where?’ I ask slowly.

  ‘Central London location, two-day load-in, load-out. Corporate gig at New Year, so name your price and they’ll go for it.’

  ‘We’re in,’ Niven grins, coming in on the last part of the conversation, oblivious to the rest. ‘Is your number on there, Meg? I’m Niven McNish and this is my band.’

  ‘Right, call me on that mobile number.’ Her gaze flicks to me. ‘It would be good to talk.’

  The set passes in an autopilot blur. Too much to consider, too many questions, too much emotion. I can’t process it yet.

  * * *

  Hours later we’re at the hotel and whisky is my best friend. Whisky and Shona. She’s matching me drink for drink and has gradually moved from the seats across the table to perch on the arm of my chair, her body just close enough to be within touching distance of mine. She smells amazing and I can feel the heat from her skin.

  When our bandmates call it quits and head for their rooms she drops into my lap, her arms finding my neck. It’s too easy to meet her kiss; too easy to accept the invitation to her room.

  I don’t want to think about anything but finding her in the dark, giving in to the impulse that’s been building since she arrived on Mull last year.

  She isn’t Phoebe. But she’s willing to take her place.

  She isn’t Phoebe. But she wants me.

  She isn’t…

  Wait.

  ‘No,’ I say, hating that I’m pushing her away. But this is no better than refusing to talk to the woman I thought I loved for a year.

  ‘You’re joking?’ Shona says, struggling upright and snapping on the light. ‘I want you, Sam. It’s blatantly obvious you feel the same about me. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, picking up my jacket and making for the door. ‘I can’t do this, Shona.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shake my head and slip out into the hideously striped hotel corridor, powering away from the mistake I almost made.

  Because you aren’t Phoebe, I reply in my mind.

  I hate that I love her. But I have to be honest with myself.

  And this is the right thing to do.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-One, Phoebe

  Phoebe, call Sam. Just do it. Mx

  * * *

  I was angry when Meg’s text arrived. How dare she tell me what to do? No apology for what she said before I left London, not even a hint of remorse. But the worst of it is, I know Meg is right.

  The bones of the garden at the Eden Project are in place now and the storytelling spaces are rising up from the earth. At the moment, there is litt
le for me to do except paint pebbles with book quotes. Nothing to sufficiently occupy my mind.

  Meg’s text won’t go away.

  Sam.

  Maybe I should try…

  I find his entry on my phone contacts list but hesitate. What will I say? Will he even answer when he sees who’s calling? I’m freefalling: only he will determine where I land.

  I hit ‘call’. It rings twice, connects.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Hello?’

  A woman’s voice. Why is a woman answering Sam’s phone? I make to speak but the words vanish.

  ‘Hello… Hello?’

  ‘Sam…’ I manage. ‘Can I speak to Sam, please?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘It’s Phoebe.’ When silence greets my name, I press on. ‘He’ll know who I am.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s busy.’

  ‘I think he’ll want to talk to me.’

  ‘He’s setting up the stage right now.’

  ‘Can I talk to him, please?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, hen, do you?’

  ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘Shona,’ she says. ‘And Sam’s busy.’

  The line dies.

  Shona. I don’t remember him mentioning her. She’s Scottish – could he have met her while he was on Mull? My breath is ragged when I inhale the September air. It doesn’t matter where he met her. She answered his phone. There is only one reason she would do that: he has someone else. I’m too late.

  Great timing, Phoebe.

  * * *

  As the weeks pass, I throw myself into the project. It’s good to reconnect with Amanda again and we’re just as we were at Villa Speranza. The Eden Project is an amazing place to be and it feels like an oasis in every sense. The team of students are wonderful and I’ve discovered I enjoy discussing my doctorate studies with them. Amanda reckons with my PhD I should consider a career in academia. I’ve never thought of that as an option. But if Professor Amanda thinks I have something to offer that’s a considerable endorsement.

  I find time to write every day, making myself go out after work and at weekends, exploring this lovely part of the world. Everywhere I go I try to capture the experience with my words – and like I first found in Paris, I’m proud of what appears on the pages of my journal. I spend weekends on the beach in Padstow and Sennen, or staying nearer home by exploring the beautiful Lost Gardens of Heligan. Amanda and I sometimes take boat trips on the Helford River, enjoying the gentler pace of life. I know this can’t last, but it’s a lovely time and I feel like I’m healing. Time to breathe after too long without air.

  As summer draws to a close, the highlight of our calendar arrives: the Eden Arts and Music Festival – the official launch of the Storytelling Garden. It’s a work in progress and there will be more to do afterwards, but the first section is ready with magical woven withy bothies and a Cornish literature trail inspired by the novels of Daphne du Maurier.

  Around the festival site the team and I leave special painted story pebbles for festivalgoers to find: pictures on one side and invitations to the Story Garden on the reverse. Management loves the idea and is making a big deal of the hidden pebbles on Eden’s website and media channels. While my colleagues set to work decorating and hiding stones, I sneak Giana’s paint box from my rented car and paint a special pebble, hiding it in the maze of canvas tents that have sprung up behind the stage. I have to let everything with Sam go and this is my way of saying goodbye to a chapter of my life I wish had ended better. Sam’s moved on. It’s time I did the same.

  * * *

  The heavens open the weekend of the festival. After a long, dry summer it’s a shock, not least to those who had planned the festival in the hope of good weather. Chaos ensues. Bands and artists turn up with equipment and do their best to unload in torrential rain, queues of vehicles backing up across the site. Pretty soon all the available roads resemble mudslides. It’s all hands to the pump to get everything safely unpacked and taken into the canvas tent village for shelter. The Story Garden team and I dash to help along with everyone else at Eden, grabbing whatever box or case is shoved into our hands from the unloading vans.

  The caterer’s lorry is stranded by the entrance to the backstage area so we empty it first. The priority is to get the perishable foodstuffs safe and dry and then, when everyone has unloaded, all of us will attempt to push the vehicle out of the quagmire.

  We’re soaked and covered in mud, but it’s become hilarious due to the sheer grimness of our situation.

  ‘Non-stop glamour, this,’ Amanda yells at me over the hammering of rain and the constant burr of van engines ticking over.

  ‘I can’t handle the pressure,’ I laugh back, taking another box of food from the stranded caterer lorry.

  As I turn to trudge through the mud, I freeze.

  Sam Mullins is waiting by a hire van, jacket hood pulled up to fend off the rain. He doesn’t see me. But it’s unmistakably him.

  Dark hair plastered to his cheeks, the beard he grew over the winter gone.

  He’s here.

  As fast as I can, I turn and hurry back the way I’ve come.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Two, Sam

  We arrived at the Eden Project early for our last gig of the tour. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.

  It’s filthy weather and there’s a huge queue of vans, cars and minibuses stranded in the quagmire of the festival site, but it feels like a celebration. Tomorrow Niven and I will drive the hire van back to London, returning our borrowed sound gear to the studio, while the rest of the band heads home. Niven is going to stay at mine for a few days, so at least it doesn’t just end after this evening.

  Shona is hardly talking to me. I can’t blame her. She made some cryptic comment last week about the ghost of Phoebe Jones haunting me but apart from that she’s just got on with the job. I’ll be relieved when she goes home, to be honest. Our friendship will survive this, but distance will definitely help.

  ‘Oi, Mullins! Stop looking pretty and grab the amps from the van!’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr McNish, sir!’ I throw Niven a mock salute, unlock the van and start unloading. I’m dragging out a foldback speaker when a flash of vivid colour on the ground catches my attention. Sliding the speaker back into the van, I crouch down to investigate.

  It’s tucked under the edge of the marquee currently serving as an artist registration tent. If I hadn’t glanced down I wouldn’t have seen it. I reach beneath the canvas and lift it out.

  It’s a small pebble, its smooth surface painted with a rainbow. When I look closer, the rainbow arcs between two blue painted mountains that could be a Scottish glen, framed by a square. It could be the view from a train window passing through sunshine and shadows. But when I turn the pebble over in my palm, the artist mark almost makes me drop it:

  * * *

  ~ Phoebe ~

  * * *

  No. That’s a coincidence, I tell myself. It has to be. And anyway, there could be any number of Phoebes painting pebbles and dropping them for other people to find. Since my Phoebe mentioned it, I’ve seen countless stone-painting groups popping up on Facebook.

  My Phoebe. Like she was ever mine.

  ‘Sam, there’s a tree down over the route to the stage,’ Niven yells, coming out of artist registration where he’s just been receiving alternate directions for navigating the festival site. ‘We’ve got to go via the Story Garden.’

  ‘Where?’ I ask, pocketing the pebble and lifting the speaker fully out of the van.

  ‘Follow me.’

  We follow a narrow path made to look like a mountain pass and negotiate the narrow natural corridor of shrubs towards a bank of garden terraces filled with scented Alpines and herbs. Tiny white lights in the bushes do battle with the relentless rain and structures made of woven willow branches hide at each twist and turn of the path. Lovely to look at but
a pain to steer very square, very heavy bits of kit around. My foot slips and hits something hard – and when I look down, I stop walking. Marking the edge of the path is line after line of painted pebbles – each about the same size but every one unique in its decoration.

  And then, hurrying the other way and stopping dead when they see me – the very last person I expected to see today. She’s carrying a caterer’s box and is soaked with rain and mud.

  Phoebe stares at me and I can’t move. The person I wanted to see more than any living soul back in June – horribly late, but here.

  ‘Phoebe…’ I begin, not knowing which words will appear; scared I’ll say the wrong thing.

  But then she slowly turns and runs from me.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Three, Phoebe

  He’s here, at Eden. And now he knows I’m here, too.

  I don’t know how to handle this.

  Added to the problems mounting today, it’s taken so long to dislodge the truck that the gig has begun, so my way around the front of the stage is fenced off. To get back to my hire car there’s only one option: skirt the backstage area.

  The festival is in full swing, so perhaps now is the time to risk it. Sam will be busy with his band and I can dash through unnoticed. Running as fast as I can in my mud-caked, rain-drenched jeans, I hurry around the perimeter fence, my heart in my mouth. The rain has stopped at least but anyone with any sense will be in the tents and dressing areas where warm fan heaters have been blasting all afternoon.

  There’s nobody here. Sam isn’t here.

  I have almost reached the gate that leads to the staff car park when the last tent flips open. And Sam walks out. He’s standing by the line of large black flight cases behind the stage, hands by his side. Waiting.