I watch him give a thumbs up to the glass control-booth on the mezzanine floor above us, then hop down from the stage and make his away towards the steel and glass staircase. I look up at the booth, curious to see if his co-workers have been forced into the same woeful velvet monstrosity – because I can’t believe anybody would wear a suit like that out of choice. But the darkened glass just reflects the lights from the room. Even when I shield my eyes and focus harder I can only make out shadows inside it. At least our only request regarding dress code was to wear all black. Judging by that poor bloke, we got off lightly.
* * *
When I return to the dressing room my friends have been enjoying the free hospitality a little too much and have started singing. I’d better keep an eye on them or else the guests may well get a show they aren’t prepared for.
‘Hey, hold off the beers a bit now.’
‘Aw, Sam Mullins, Party Pooper!’ Niven yells.
‘Whatever. Just think of how much you’re being paid for this gig. If you drink too much you can kiss that goodbye.’
That works more effectively than a vat of coffee.
* * *
The first set runs like a dream. DeeDee receives a warm round of applause for her Ella Fitzgerald medley and turns back to us all wearing a look of pure shock. It hardly ever happens at events like these, especially not during the opening set. To quote Niven, the crowd aren’t usually reekin’ enough to enter into the spirit at that point but by the time the third set begins just after Big Ben’s chimes (always with ‘Auld Lang Syne’, of course), the crowd are normally so inebriated that they’ll dance to pretty much anything.
When I’m playing, I can forget everything else. This is what I know: it never lets me down or abandons me. I’m not usually one for sentimentality at New Year (usually because I’m too busy with a gig) but this one is significant. This year began with so much hope and promise but now I feel its weight dragging me down. I’m determined to mark what I have achieved, though. I’ve learned things about myself this year that I never expected to. Even the lessons that bruised me – Frank, Phoebe – have been important. I won’t be looking to repeat that kind of lesson next year, mind. I have learned more than enough about Sam Mullins.
Tonight we’re playing two sets with the DJ taking the stage in between, so we have two and a half hours to kill until our next. I suggest to the others that now might be a good time to enjoy the complimentary food rather than the beer. They head back to the dressing room yelling, ‘Yes, Dad!’ and I smile as I watch them go. DeeDee hangs back and when I finish checking my fiddle she’s waiting for me.
‘Samuel. Walk with me.’
She loops her arm through mine and we follow our designated route out of the building, skirting the catering area behind an enormous star curtain and passing stacks of boxes and flight cases on our way to the warehouse doors.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she says.
‘Don’t be. I’m good.’
‘So you say. So you’ve kept saying ever since we loaded in this morning. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now.’
I stop walking and look at her. She’s wearing that expression she always adopts when a lecture is imminent – where she manages to raise her eyebrows and frown at the same time.
‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t need to hear it, Dee.’
‘Babe, you do. Why didn’t you ask Meg about your girl?’
It’s a kick I wasn’t braced for. ‘Phoebe is not my girl.’
‘Maybe not now but she was. No way that woman hired you out of all the bands she could’ve had for this gig unless she had a plan. No offence, but you don’t even have an events band. I mean, we’re here and we’re rocking it, but this isn’t what we do. We’re tours and studio sessions and live sets, and if we’re not doing our own stuff we’re doing someone else’s. We ain’t weddings, New Years and Bar Mitzvahs, babe.’
I have to laugh at that. ‘Okay, fair enough. Meg didn’t have the chance to chat, even if I’d wanted to. I mean look at this gig – you reckon she even has time to think, keeping all this going?’
‘I think that woman could do this, conduct four conversations and juggle all at once and never even break a sweat,’ DeeDee grins. ‘We need her as road manager on the next big tour – she’d be awesome. So nice try, Samuel.’
It’s a clear night as we walk outside. A few brave stars are breaking through London’s light pollution and I can see our breath. Another reason to be thankful we’re packing down in the morning – trying to negotiate frosted ground with heavy cases and speakers after a long gig is never fun.
‘I hope Niven’s laying off the booze,’ I say, keen to change the subject.
But my friend isn’t done with me yet. ‘Let me tell you what I think.’
‘Can we just not do this now, please?’
‘Too late. I’m speaking. This is what I think: you accepted this gig because you thought Meg would invite Phoebe. It was a link. You two haven’t spoken since you saw her in Cornwall; you’ve made no attempt to talk to her since. Then you get this gig and it’s the chance you wanted.’
‘I haven’t…’ I begin, but I am silenced by the look DeeDee gives me.
‘What? You haven’t known what to say to her? Haven’t wanted to try? Haven’t been in the same room as her maybe? Look where we are, Sam. Look who invited you.’
‘Meg just wanted a band. We’re both professionals just doing our jobs.’
‘So, you get here and you have the chance to at least ask about the girl, but you bottle it. Why? Because you’re scared, honey.’
‘Enough, okay? I love you, but you’re wrong. So wrong. And anyway, Phoebe isn’t here, is she?’
‘How do you know? Have you looked?’
I jab a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the venue. ‘I’ve been kinda busy in there.’
‘You ain’t now.’ She punches her hands on her hips. Now I’m in for it. ‘Two hours at least to kill. Go. Walk the room. Prove she’s not there.’
‘And what if I just want to rest before the next set? What if the last thing I want to do is skulk around someone else’s party looking for somebody I have nothing to say to any more?’
My sharp intake of breath hides the unexpected kick of pain in my chest.
DeeDee gives a loud tut and shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to upset you, babe. You just have to be honest with yourself. Stop running from this. Because at some point you have to listen to your heart.’ She pats my chest. ‘Even if your heart is a bolshie bastard.’
I watch her walk across the car park to the artist cabins that line its perimeter. And suddenly, I’m afraid.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Three, Phoebe
‘Are you staying here all night?’ Osh asks, glancing at me. ‘I mean, it’s cool with me but it’s a lot more interesting down there.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. But I’m not. I haven’t been fine since Sam Mullins took to the stage. He’s gone now, the band’s first set over and the DJ now performing. But I’m still shaking.
He played so beautifully – the first time I’ve really heard him. At Eden I’d long since fled by the time he was on the stage, but tonight I couldn’t move. I’m not sure my legs are ready to carry me yet. Before the rest of the band joined him – when Osh was down there and I was in the lighting booth – Sam looked directly up here. Did he see me?
My phone buzzes for the third time.
‘You going to answer that?’
‘It’ll just be people getting their Happy New Year texts in before the networks get too busy,’ I say, hoping it covers my nerves. Wishing I believed it.
It’s probably Meg, trying to find me. But what if it’s Sam?
‘That violinist is a bit handy, isn’t he?’ When I stare at Osh, he’s still looking out at the venue.
‘Meg’s told you, hasn’t she?’
He pulls a face. ‘Yeah. Sorry, Phee.’
‘Does e
veryone at this party know about us?’
‘Pretty sure the DJ’s none the wiser. Look, you still care about him. And he accepted the gig, knowing you’re Meg’s friend. It’s at least two hours till he has to play again. And while I love seeing you, I don’t think you really want to be here.’ He nods at the window. ‘And there’s your chance.’
I look down at the stage and see Sam, hands in pockets, looking over the heads of the dancing guests, as if he’s trying to locate someone.
It isn’t me, I tell myself. He isn’t looking for me.
But my heart is slamming against my ribcage.
‘Phoebe. Go down there.’
I meet his kind gaze. ‘If this was in a script you’d cut it for being cheesy.’
His eyes roll. ‘If this was in a script Warner Bros would have paid me already. Go. Before Meg comes up here and drags you out.’
I don’t know what I’m doing. Or what I’ll say. I think of the last time we spoke and imagine this could go the same way. But he’s here. And so am I. And maybe at New Year you allow yourself to act differently. Or dare to dream of better. Even if it’s just a gesture as the old year dies and another begins.
* * *
Nobody else knows this, but I painted a pebble this morning. Before Meg invited me to the party or I’d spoken to Gabe in Hollywood. I slipped out of the house just after six a.m. and headed to the little park nearby. It’s only a small place, with a duck pond in the middle and a kids’ playground on one side, but I’ve always loved the light there. In summers past it was where I’d escape with a book, dreaming of all the places I might one day visit. Places I can now say I lived in for a while.
On one side of the pond, there’s a bench that is different from all the others dotted across the park. It’s painted in rainbow stripes, faded now but still lovely. At weekends I see people hurrying to claim it and children running right across the park to touch its colours. It bears a plaque I think must have been in place years before it received its multi-hued makeover:
* * *
For the wanderers and the dreamers,
The weary and the worried.
Rest a while here, friend.
* * *
Unlike the other bench dedications in the park there is no name, no commemoration of a life lived. But the sentiment has always struck me. It’s a tiny bit of welcome in a city whose people are used to being ignored.
That’s where I left my pebble – my way of marking the year. This morning I didn’t think I’d be at the party, so this was going to be my goodbye – to the year, to the city I’ll soon be leaving and to the life I’ve known before.
I painted a scene from a photo Sam sent me of Calgary Bay on the Isle of Mull – a wild mountainside overlooking the sea, the low-lying plain between land and shore peppered with tiny dots of colour in every shade in my paint box. The machair Sam told me about. And in the centre of the carpet of flowers, one phrase in sweeps of silver paint:
* * *
gu bràth
Forever.
* * *
I looked it up online. I wanted to honour the language of the land that birthed Sam.
When I start to descend the stairs I look out over the party. I can’t see Sam. He was by the stage a moment ago, so he must be close by. But where?
The dance floor is packed with enthusiastic bodies, drinks held aloft, jostling for space as they dance and yell at each other. Trying to move through them is like navigating a crushing, sharp-edged tide. I lose count of the elbows that jab into me, the feet stamping too close to my own. The ground shakes with an insistent beat and booms with sub-bass notes that reverberate through my body. It’s dizzying, making thought difficult and movement almost impossible.
I finally emerge at the edge of the stage where I last saw him, but he isn’t there. Looking out over the bobbing sea of green, silver and black-clad people I scan across for a glimpse of dark curls. For what feels like an age I search until I think I see him, over by the bar that looks like it’s been carved from ice. Bracing myself, I push, squeeze and weave my way through the mass of guests until I reach the other side of the dance floor. Out of breath, I emerge into a small pocket of air between the dancers and the banqueting table.
It is Sam.
At that moment, he turns towards me.
My heart constricts. My breath becomes shallow. And all I can see is him.
Like it did when we kissed in the packed concourse of St Pancras station eighteen months ago, the sound around us dims. The movement and the noise, the light and the activity become secondary as my feet take me shakily to him. It’s not the day we were supposed to meet again. It’s not the moment we met again by chance in a Cornish late summer festival. Yet here we are.
I raise my hand.
He does the same.
Neither of us are smiling. Not yet.
We begin to close the gap between us, oblivious to the guests jostling past. I don’t know what I’ll say; only that this is my very last chance to tell Sam I love him. That I never stopped loving him. And to thank him for changing me – for changing how I see myself. Through his eyes I saw what I never realised I could be. I think he felt the same.
We’ve almost reached each other now. I can see his chest rising, his hand reaching out. My hand reaches, too. I don’t care if it will end with a hug or a handshake. I just want us to touch.
And then a body steps between us. A woman. Her long blonde hair trails down her bare back, an emerald green silk dress draped around the rest of her body. I move to the side, but she isn’t walking past us. She’s going up to Sam.
Numb, I watch as her arms slide up around his neck and her lips close on his. His hands lift to frame her waist and… I don’t want to see any more.
The noise of the party crashes back around me. The room is too hot, too loud, too short of air. I have to get out.
He wasn’t looking at me. His hand wasn’t reaching for mine. I am an idiot. Of course he didn’t see me. I became invisible to him the moment I missed the train to London.
I hurry to the cloakroom, the assistant taking too long to find my coat. And then I throw it on, turn my back on the party and my friends and the woman in the green dress and Sam bloody Mullins.
And I run.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Four, Sam
It was only a moment. It happened so fast. By the time I’ve pushed Laura away, Phoebe has gone.
I was going to tell her I love her.
‘I can’t do this now. I have to go.’
Laura is all coy smiles and flicking hair, her body dancing a little in green silk that is somehow managing to cling to her skin. She’s working through every move that once caught my attention, confident that one of them still has power. But she’s wasting her time. I’m not the man I was when we were together. I can’t ever be that person again.
‘Aw, Sam, don’t be like that. It’s New Year’s Eve. One little kiss is allowed.’
‘Please, just let me go.’
‘Thing is, I came with a date. But he’s boring the hell out of me.’ The same choreographed emotion, the slight pout and downturn of the lips. Head bowed a little, eyes peering up at me. ‘And then you took the stage. I think that’s what they call fate, Sam.’
I look over her head. Phoebe’s gone. And Laura won’t move out of my way. I don’t want to shove past her but if she doesn’t take the hint soon… ‘There’s someone I have to see.’
Her hand is back on my arm, her fingernails painted bright green. I hate that colour. ‘So speak to them later. They’ll still be here. Nobody worth bothering with leaves a New Year’s party early.’
I shrug her hand off me. ‘They’ve gone now. Cheers.’
She pops out her bottom lip in an infantile attempt to pacify me. ‘Problem solved, then. Now we have time to talk.’
It’s like I’m back where I started. I remember Laura’s feeble attempt to get back in my life the night before I left. I didn’t want her then; I sure as
hell don’t want her now. She’s made me miss the one person I really wanted to see. Because DeeDee is right. And Niven. And Ailish. I’ve tried running from this, but I can’t escape Phoebe.
‘No, Laura, I don’t want to talk to you. Ever. I need you to understand, I am not interested. I won’t ever be interested. So you can take your act and go and find some other poor sap who’ll fall for it. We are done.’
She laughs but tears well in her eyes. ‘We will always have this, Sam. You’re in love with me.’
‘Not any more. I’m in love with someone else.’
But I’ve lost my chance to tell her.
It’s almost time for our second set. The DJ is building up to playing Big Ben’s chimes that he’s cued up on the decks and I have to be on stage, ready to play, by the twelfth chime. There’s no time to go after Phoebe.
Laura lifts her head, her tears on show for everyone close enough to see. Then she slaps her palm across my cheek, the sound so loud it summons an audience. I say nothing. As the room begins to buzz with anticipation of the New Year, I leave my ex sobbing by the bar and hurry back to the stage.
‘Okay people, it’s almost time. Let’s have a countdown. Ten… nine… eight…’
Out of time. Out of chances…
‘Seven… six…’
My cheek stings. I deserved that, but not for Laura’s sake…
‘Five… four… three…’
The Day We Meet Again Page 30