Читать книгу: «The Day We Meet Again»

‘Take chances, make mistakes.

That’s how you grow.’

Mary Tyler Moore

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

The Day We Met

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Day

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Acknowledgments

A few things that inspired Miranda when writing The Day We Meet Again

About the Publisher

The Day We Met

14^th June 2017

Chapter One

Chapter One, Phoebe

ALL TRAINS DELAYED, the sign reads.

No, no, no! This can’t be happening!

I stare up at the departure board in disbelief. Up until twenty minutes ago my train had been listed as ON TIME and I’d allowed myself a glass of champagne at St Pancras’ Eurostar bar, a little treat to steady my nerves before the biggest adventure of my life begins.

‘Looks like we aren’t going anywhere soon,’ the woman next to me says, gold chains tinkling on her wrist as she raises her hand for another glass. She doesn’t look in a hurry to go anywhere.

But I am.

I arrived at St Pancras two hours early this morning. The guys driving the cleaning trucks were pretty much the only people here when I walked in. They performed a slow, elegant dance around me as I dragged my heavy bag across the shiny station floor. I probably should have had a last lie-in, but my stomach has been a knot of nerves since last night, robbing me of sleep.

I’m not always early, but I was determined to be today to make sure I actually get on the train. I want this adventure more than anything else in my life, but doubts have crept in over the last two weeks, ever since all the tickets were booked and my credit card had taken the strain. Even last night – frustratingly wide awake and watching a film I didn’t really care about, after the farewell drinks in our favourite pub in Notting Hill when I was so certain I was doing the right thing – I found myself considering shelving the trip. Who jacks in everything and takes off for a year, anyway? Certainly not me: Phoebe Jones, 32 years old and most definitely not gap-year material.

It wasn’t just that thing Gabe said, either. Although it threw me when it happened. After all his bravado inside the pub – the You won’t go through with it, Phoebs, I know you speech that in his actor’s voice rose above the noise and look-at-me-I’m-so-important laughter from the tables around us – the change in him when he found me on the street outside was a shock.

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘You won’t, but thanks.’

And then that look – the one that got us into trouble once before, the one that has kept me wondering if it might again. ‘Then you don’t know me, Phoebs. London won’t be the same without you.’

Why did he have to launch that at me, the night before I leave for a whole year?

But the money is spent. The tickets are in my wallet. My bag is packed. And Gabe is wrong if he thinks I won’t go through with it. I know my friends privately think I’ll cave in and come home early. So I got up hours before I needed to this morning, took my bag, closed the door on my old life and posted my keys through the letterbox for my friends and former flatmates to find. And I’m here, where Gabe was so certain I wouldn’t be.

But now there’s a delay and that’s dangerous for me. Too much time to think better of my plan. Why is the universe conspiring against me today?

‘Having another?’ the woman next to me asks. Her new glass of champagne is already half empty. Perhaps she has the right idea. Maybe drinking your way through a delay is the best option.

‘I don’t think so, thanks,’ I reply. I can’t stay here, not until I know exactly what kind of delay I’m facing. ‘I’m going to find out what’s happening.’

The woman shrugs as I leave.

The whole of St Pancras station seems to have darkened, as though a storm cloud has blown in from the entrance and settled in the arcing blue-girdered roof. Beyond the glass the sun shines as brightly as before, the sky a brave blue. But I feel the crackle of tension like approaching thunder.

At the end of the upper concourse near the huge statue of a man and woman embracing, a crowd has gathered. Somewhere in the middle, a harassed station employee in an orange hi-vis gilet is doing his best to fend off the angry mob’s questions. And then, without warning, the crowd begins to move. I’m almost knocked over and stagger back to stop myself falling. Being trampled to death is definitely not in the plan today.

The mob swarms around the station employee as he makes for the stairs to the lower concourse. The forward motion of their bodies pushes me backwards until my spine meets something immovable. I gasp. Around me the angry commuters part, a splitting tide of bodies flooding either side of me, their feet stomping inches from mine. Once they pass me they continue their pursuit of their prey as the poor station official flees down the stairs.

I’m shaken, but then I remember: I hit something. Someone.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I rush, turning to see the poor unfortunate soul I’ve slammed into. But my eyes meet the kind, still expression of an iron man in trilby and suit, his billowing mackintosh frozen in time as he gazes up, as though checking the departure boards for his train.

The Betjeman statue.

I’d forgotten he was here. Compared with the huge iron lovers beneath the enormous station clock over the entrance, he’s diminutive. I’ve seen visitors double take when they find him. He’s just there, standing in the middle of the upper concourse, humble and friendly. The only thing marking him out as a statue and not another train passenger is the ring of slate around his feet, the words of one of his poems carved into it in beautifully elegant script. I’ve heard station announcements asking commuters to meet people by the Betjeman statue when I’ve been here before and thought nothing of it. But finding him here this morning, when everything has suddenly become so uncertain, is strangely comforting.

‘I don’t think he minds,’ a voice says.

I jump and peer around the statue. ‘Sorry?’

Over the statue’s right shoulder, a face grins at me. ‘Sir John. He won’t mind you bumped into him. He’s a pretty affable chap.’

Laughter dances in his voice, his green eyes sparkling beneath dark brows and a mess of dark curls. And I instantly feel I know him.

‘I can’t believe I just apologised to a statue.’

‘Happens to us all, sooner or later.’ His hand reaches around Sir John’s arm. ‘Hi, I’m Sam. Sam Mullins. Pleased to meet you.’

I hesitate. After all, this is London and my seven years in the city have taught me strangers are supposed to stay anonymous. But Sam’s smile is as warm and inviting as a newly opened doorway on a winter’s night and – suddenly – I’m accepting his handshake. His hand is warm around mine.

‘Phoebe Jones. Pleased to meet you, too.’

The concourse is eerily empty now; the raging commuters all disappeared to the lower floor chasing the poor man from the train company. It’s as if me and Sam-with-the-smiling-eyes-and-laugh-filled-voice are the only people in the world.

Apart from the statue, that is.

‘Did you get to hear what the bloke from the station was saying?’ I ask, suddenly aware I am still holding Sam’s warm hand, and quickly pulling mine away.

‘Most of it, before the mob closed in. They’ve stopped all trains in and out of the station. I haven’t heard the Inspector Sands announcement, so I’m guessing it isn’t a fire or a bomb threat.’

My stomach twists again. I’ve only heard the automated announcement used to alert station staff to a possible emergency like a fire or a bomb once before at Euston and I ran from the station like a startled hare then. Given my nerves about my journey, if I’d heard Inspector Sands being mentioned today I would already be halfway to Holborn. ‘Did he say how long it was expected to last?’

‘Well, I heard four hours, but there were so many people yelling around the chap by then I guess anyone could have said that.’

‘Four hours?’

‘Nightmare, huh? Trust me to pick today to make the longest train journey.’

I blink at him. ‘Me too.’

‘Oh? Where are you headed?’ His eyes widen and he holds up a hand. ‘Sorry, you don’t have to answer. That was rude of me.’

It’s sweet and it makes me smile. ‘Paris, actually. To begin with. You?’

‘Isle of Mull. Eventually.’

‘Oh. Wow. That is a journey.’

He shrugs. ‘Just a bit. Already had to change it because of the engineering works at Euston, so I’m going from here to Sheffield, then over to Manchester then changing again for Glasgow. Going to stay with two of my old university mates near there for a night or two, to break it up a bit. Then I’ll catch a train to Oban, take the ferry to Craignure and then it’s a long bus ride to Fionnphort, where I’m staying with a family friend.’ He gives a self-conscious laugh. ‘More than you wanted to know, probably.’

Although I’ll move on from Paris later, Sam’s journey sounds epic and exhausting by comparison. And it’s strange, but I don’t even consider that I’ve just met him, or question how he can share his entire travel itinerary with me when we don’t know each other. Like the heat from his hand that is still tingling on my skin, it feels like the most natural thing. So I forget my nerves, my shock at finding myself here beside the statue, and the looming delay. And instead, I just see Sam.

‘How long will all that take?’

‘The whole journey? Hours. Days, even.’ He laughs. ‘It’s okay. I have several books in my luggage and my music. I’ll be fine.’

Novels are one thing I do have, although they are safely packed at the bottom of my bag. Books are the reason I’m here, after all. The Grand Tours across Europe inspired my PhD and have underpinned all my dreams of seeing the places the authors wrote about for myself. My much-loved copy of A Room with a View is in my hand luggage and I’m more than happy to hang out with Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson for the thousandth time, but I’d much rather be on the train heading off already.

What if this delay is a sign? I hate the thought of Gabe being right, but the doubts from last night return, swirling around me, Sam and Sir John Betjeman like ragged ghosts. There are other ways of pursuing a great adventure, they call. You don’t have to spend a year away to prove you’re spontaneous… My room at the flat-share is already someone else’s but I could persuade one of my friends to let me stay at theirs until I can sort out a new place. I don’t really want to go home to Evesham, but I know my parents and brother Will would love having me to stay for a bit. Maybe I should be a bit less intrepid – Cornwall would be nice this time of year, or maybe the Cotswolds? Safer, closer, easier to come home from…

I don’t want to doubt this now, not when I’m so close to boarding the train, but I can feel panic rising.

But then, Sam Mullins smiles – and the ground beneath me shifts.

‘Look, if you’re not going anywhere for a while and neither am I, how about we find a coffee shop to wait in?’

Did I just say that? But in that moment, it feels right. Who says my new, spontaneous self can’t start until I board the train for France?

‘Yes,’ he says, so immediately that his answer dances with the end of my question. ‘Great idea.’

As we walk away from the statue of Sir John Betjeman, Sam’s fingers lightly brush against my back.

And that’s when I fall in love.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two, Sam

What am I doing?

I hate complications. As a musician I’ve done my level best over the years to avoid them wherever I can. When band politics have got too much, I’ve quit. When my brother stopped talking to me, I walked away. When relationships have become too demanding, I’ve backed out. Simple. Effective. Safe.

And I’ve been doing okay with that. Mostly. The last four years have been the happiest of my life professionally – playing my fiddle in studio sessions in the winter and spring and joining festival-bound bands in the summer; teaching where I’ve needed to make up shortfalls; even scoring studio time for my own new-folk project and producing a half-decent EP that, touch wood, will bring in a steady flow of cash on iTunes and Bandcamp. And my new studio venture with Chris that we launched last night finally gives us a chance to make real money. To be fair, I said I’d postpone this trip so close to the launch, but Chris said he wants to get it running smoothly and I’d just be getting in his way. So that complication has been ironed out, without me even trying. Why would I willingly volunteer for one to take its place?

She just looked so lost by the Betjeman statue.

And gorgeous…

I should have been annoyed by this unplanned delay to the journey I’ve promised myself for years. I’ve waited so long for the time to be right and then, suddenly, it was. Time to make the journey to find who I am. It was supposed to begin now, not in four hours, or whenever the train system deems it possible. Train delays are the worst, especially for a jobbing musician travelling to gigs across the country and particularly given the shenanigans I’ve already encountered changing stations for this journey. On any other day I would have been right in the thick of that angry commuter mob, baying for someone’s blood.

But I’m not.

And it’s all because of Phoebe Jones.

I glance at the large ironwork clock over the coffee concession counter and I’m surprised to see almost an hour has passed already. She was shy at first, but as soon as she suggested we come here she just – blossomed. Like watching a water lily unfurl on the other side of the bleached-wood table.

It’s beautiful to witness.

‘I know a year away is a big step. I mean enormous for me. But ever since I first read A Room with a View and Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, I’ve dreamed of doing this. Paris, Florence, Rome – seeing the places the authors and characters in their books saw. I’ve saved forever to do it. My parents gave me the last bit of the money I needed when I got my PhD last month.’

‘So you’re Dr Jones?’

I could bask in the way she beams for a long time.

‘That sounds so funny, doesn’t it? Dr Jones. I like it but it still feels like it should belong to somebody else.’

‘A PhD is a huge amount of work, though. You’ve earned it.’

‘I have.’ There’s a self-conscious laugh she does that’s like a flash of sunlight. Blink and you’ll miss it. ‘I loved every minute of it, though. It was such a surprise to find that from a piece of work.’

‘Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be doing.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, like for me, playing and gigging and the studio I’ve just set up with my friend – none of that’s easy. It’s all long hours and hard work’ – I nod at the concourse beyond the coffee concession window which is packed with stranded passengers – ‘and train delays… But I’m energised by it, you know? Because this is what I’m meant to do.’

Phoebe nods but she isn’t smiling. ‘I hear that all the time. My best friends all seem to have found what they’re meant to be doing. Meg’s the most amazing event organiser, Osh is a film director and Gabe is an actor. When they talk about what they do, it’s like they are describing a piece of themselves; like if you put them under a microscope their job titles would be imprinted on every cell. I haven’t found what I should be doing yet. But I think this year I might get closer to working out what I want.’

‘Do you write?’

A patter of pink traverses her cheekbones. ‘No – well, not unless you count my PhD dissertation. I mean, I love the idea of writing fiction, but I wouldn’t know where to begin. Gabe says I’m not personally tormented enough to be a writer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.’

She isn’t wearing a ring – I mean, of course I’ve checked. But she’s mentioned Gabe a few times already and I notice her right hand instinctively touches the finger on her left that would have worn one when she says his name. Who is he? A recent flame? An ex? An unrequited love?

‘He thinks I can’t do this. But I know I can.’

‘Why do you care about what he thinks? He sounds like a knob.’

She laughs. The sound is joyous. It surges up from her core, like champagne bubbles. ‘Maybe he is. But I’ve always talked to him about everything. We used to trade awful dating stories when both of us were between dates – it became a game we’d play to make ourselves feel better.’ She toys with the teaspoon in the saucer of her almost empty cup. ‘So, enough about me. What’s taking you to Scotland? Work?’

‘No. Well, maybe a little.’ I see a fine line form between her brows. That’s me sussed. ‘I’m going for personal reasons,’ I reply. And then, just because it feels like she’s the person to say it to, I say more than I have to anyone else. ‘I was born on the Island and then my father left home. He played fiddle, too, although he left before I discovered music for myself. I guess I’ve always wondered, you know? What happened to him.’ Suddenly aware I’ve said too much to be comfortable, I pull back. ‘But I plan to hook up with some friends from the circuit while I’m there, too. Relearn the trad stuff.’

‘You’re a folk musician?’

‘New-folk, I guess you’d call it. But I want my next project to be the old tunes I vaguely remember from being a kid on the Island.’

‘I thought you had a bit of a Scottish accent.’ She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, should that be Hebridean?’

It’s the most hesitantly British thing to say and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. ‘Scottish is fine.’

‘So you’re going home?’

Home. That’s a word I haven’t used for a while. With Ma gone and my brother Callum as good as dead, I don’t know what I call home any more. The flat I’ve been sharing with my drummer mate Syd is homely, but is it home? Is that what I’ll discover in Mull when I return?

‘I don’t know. Maybe. You?’

I’ve asked it before I can think better, but here in the too-warm crush of the coffee concession, I realise I want to know the answer. I expect her to sidestep the question, but to my utter surprise, she doesn’t.

‘Not a home to live in. I want to find out how to be at home with myself.’

Until that moment, everything Phoebe Jones has told me could just have been polite conversation. But this is something else. It’s a window, inviting me in. I lean closer, zoning out the clamour and conversation around our small table, not wanting to miss a thing.

‘Me too.’

Her eyes hold mine.

‘I haven’t said that to anyone before.’

‘Not even Gabe?’

‘Especially not him. He thinks I’m too serious.’

‘No!’

‘I know, right? I mean, look at us, Sam. We met – what – an hour ago? And all we’ve done is laugh.’

‘You’re a very funny lady.’

‘Well, thank you for noticing.’ Her eyes sparkle as she mirrors my grin. There is so much more going on behind those eyes than she’s allowing me to see. I sense it bubbling away, just out of view.

And that’s when I realise.

Sam Mullins, your timing stinks.

The more we talk, as the minutes become an hour and head towards two, the more the feeling deep within me builds. Phoebe Jones is perfect. And I know my own battered heart. I’d sworn I wouldn’t fall for anyone again, not after Laura. The pain and injustice I’ve battled most of the year and the bruises still stinging my soul have all been good enough reasons to avoid falling in love.

Could this be love?

No.

But what if it is?

By now we are wandering the concourse, passing crowds of stranded travellers. Every available bench has been commandeered and people are claiming the floor, too, perched on makeshift seats made from suitcases, holdalls and folded-up coats. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, displaced people caught in limbo, dazed by the experience. Some groups of travellers are even talking to each other. In London, that’s pretty close to a miracle.

I have to step to the side to avoid a small child who’s weaving in and out of the crowd – and when I do my hand brushes against Phoebe’s. Startled, she looks up and our eyes meet. The noise around us seems to dim, the pushing bodies becoming a blur as I sink into the deep darkness of Phoebe’s stare.

‘Do you believe in fate, Phoebe?’ The words tumble out before I can stop them.

‘I think I do,’ she breathes, as her fingers find mine. ‘Do you?’

I gaze at her, a hundred thoughts sparkling around us like spinning stars. And suddenly, all that matters is the truth.

‘I didn’t before today.’

Chapter Three

Chapter Three, Phoebe

He feels it, too. Whatever is happening between us is real.

The moment Sam’s fingers lace though mine, the air between us seems to shift. I don’t even think about pulling away.

We move at glacial pace through the crowded concourse until Sam spots a gap for a service door between the glass-fronted concessions and we sneak into it.

Now we’re standing within a breath of each other. It would be so easy to close the distance and kiss him…

What am I doing?

Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have considered kissing someone I hardly knew. But twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know Sam existed. Our hands are joined between us and we both look down as if seeing them for the first time. When Sam laughs, I feel the buzz of it through his skin.

‘Well, this is unexpected.’

‘It is.’

This is where my apologies and caveats would normally begin, my usual rush to backtrack on an impulse. But instead, calmness fills the space where those words would be. They’re not needed here.

I’ve only known Sam for a couple of hours. How can this be possible?

‘Reckon they can delay our trains for another four months or so?’ His whisper is warm velvet against my ear.

‘Only four months?’

I love his laugh. It shudders up from his chest to his shoulders, throwing his head back as it escapes into the air around us. It’s wild and unbridled, unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion. His laugh is who he is, as if his spirit shimmers out of him in that moment.

His fingers squeeze mine. ‘Oh well, excuse me. What I meant was four years. Forty-four years. Four centuries.’

‘Steady on…’

‘Even when we’re wrinkly and incontinent and basically breathing dustbags our love will burn as bright…’

I don’t know whether I’m breathless from laughter or just being here with Sam. He’s talking as if we’ve been together for years, but it doesn’t scare me like it should. I can imagine being loved by him, even though I’ve yet to kiss him. It’s a game that feels so much more than make-believe. And I’m happy to play along. ‘Thank you for your faith in us.’

‘My pleasure. This is surreal, isn’t it?’

‘Completely.’

‘There are a million things I want to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.’

‘Then let’s begin here…’ I dare to flatten my palm against his chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of his heart through the faded fabric of his T-shirt. This heart has been beating for years, I think, and I never knew.

For a while we stay like this, saying nothing, the only movement our breath and heartbeats, the familiar-unfamiliar sensation of closeness surrounding us.

Then without warning, I’m crying.

Mortified, I try to smother my sobs, jamming my eyelids shut to squeeze the tears back. But it’s too late. Sam breaks the embrace and lifts my chin with his hand.

‘Are you crying? Phoebe, why are you crying?’

‘I’m sorry…’ I rush, but speaking flicks a switch that releases more. I don’t want Sam to see, don’t want to break this perfect, wonderful moment. What will he think of me? I don’t even know what to think of myself.

I don’t cry much in front of other people – never in public and certainly not with someone I hardly know. But I do know Sam, crazy as it sounds. So despite every scrap of head-logic screaming at me to stop, my heart won’t listen. It feels wrong but it seems like I don’t have much choice.

‘Hey, hey… Let’s sit down, okay?’

‘There isn’t any room.’

‘Then we make room.’ He slips the strap of the violin case from his shoulder and places it on one side, his rucksack on the other. In the space between he concertinas his body down until he’s sitting cross-legged, reaching up for me. ‘Your seat, milady.’

I laugh despite the tears staining my cheeks. ‘I can’t sit on your lap.’

He shrugs and slides his rucksack beside one leg. ‘An alternative, then. Although, you’ll need somewhere to sit when we’re 400-year-old, hot-lovin’ dustbags. You could just get used to it now.’

That smile will be the death of every argument we ever have, I think.

‘Your rucksack will be perfect, thank you.’ I sit, my legs still shaking from my sudden tears.

‘Glad to help. Now, what’s happening?’

I’ve heard loved-up friends of mine say things like, ‘I see myself in his eyes’, and ‘when he looks at me it’s like he can see into my soul’ and always thought them ridiculous. I mean, I’ve dated guys with nice eyes before and I’m a fan of meaningful looks as much as the next person. But until this moment I thought it was the kind of clever phrase dreamed up by authors and screenwriters. Not anything you’d ever experience in real life. But when I lock eyes with Sam, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. And I can see my reflection in the moss green of his irises.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. To be so sure. I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I know hardly anything about you, about your life.’

He nods and I wonder if he feels it too. ‘Then we should start there. Even if there are other more interesting things we could be doing…’

He’s cheeky but I can’t help smiling. ‘Be serious.’

‘I’m trying. Believe it or not my friends think I’m the serious one. Okay. Best start with the basics, I guess. Full name: Samuel Hamish Mullins—’

‘Hamish?’

‘Mock that and you’re mocking my heritage, lady.’

I stuff my giggles away behind my hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a lovely name.’

‘Tsk, typical English sarcasm. I know your game.’ He grins. ‘So, what else? I’m thirty-two, although my ma always said I was born with an old soul so nobody ever believes me when I tell them my age. Like I said, I was born on Mull, but I grew up in Edinburgh and Carlisle and moved to London when I was eighteen. Been here for more years than I’m comfortable admitting and I play tunes for money. I’m just under six feet tall, but I’ll usually add an inch to feel better about it. Oh and I’m allergic to early mornings, although I’m quite glad I got up before eleven today. Done. You?’

It’s strange to be trading introductions now, after everything else we’ve shared, but I find it strangely comforting, too.

‘Phoebe Eilidh Jones, also thirty-two.’

‘Eilidh? That’s not a very English name.’

‘That’s because my great-granny was an Erskine from Paisley.’ I like this card when I play it. He clearly had me pegged as a dyed-in-the-wool Anglo Saxon. Shows what you know, Samuel Hamish Mullins. ‘She moved with my great-grandad to Evesham to take over a fruit farm with six children in tow.’

‘So, Caledonian heritage all round. Excellent. I don’t know any Eilidhs but I have an Auntie Ailish – she’s not a blood relation, but my ma’s best friend. I’m going to see her when I get to Mull.’ He chuckles. ‘So in another life we might have been Hamish and Eilidh. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘It does.’

‘Continue, Phoebe Eilidh Jones.’

I giggle. ‘Okay – I’m five feet six inches exactly and I’m quite happy with that. And I love early mornings. And late nights, actually. I don’t sleep much.’

‘How come?’

The truth is, I don’t know. I remember as a kid being concerned that I’d miss something important if I slept, although I don’t know where that fear originated. ‘I’ve just always been that way. Although every few weeks I’ll have a day when I just sleep a lot. Maybe it all evens out in the end.’ I grin at him. ‘So we’re the same age. When’s your birthday?’

‘March 2nd. You?’

‘May 4th. My life, I’m lusting after an older woman!’

I cuff his arm. ‘Oi, watch it!’

‘Hey, I’m not complaining. So what do you do for work – or rather, what did you do, considering you’re taking a year off?’

‘Oh all kinds of things. Most recently I’ve worked in a publicity office for a large West End company. It’s fun.’

‘But it’s not what you wanted to do?’

‘I like every job I’ve done. For a long time I thought I’d end up working in horticulture – I trained as a horticulturalist at college. And then I came to London to see my friend Meg and ended up staying. Then I did my PhD while working for Ebert and Soames Theatre Productions. But I do know that books will always be my first love. That’s why I’m going to Europe.’

The thought of the journey makes my heart drop to the floor. Because getting on that train, whenever the gods of Network Rail deign that to be, will mean leaving Sam. And this. And us.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four, Sam

We talk. About everything.

Well, everything we can think of, which in the grand scheme of things probably isn’t even scratching the surface. The urgency takes me by surprise. It’s as if we’re trying to conduct a whole relationship in a few hours. Packing everything in so we can justify what our hearts knew immediately.

She sparkles when she learns stuff about me; shines when she shares things about herself. Playing catch-up has never been so thrilling.

And she’s so close to me. On her rucksack perch, the length of one thigh is against mine and although I’m no longer holding her hand she keeps touching my arm as she talks. I feel like a kiss is in the air between us. One move from either of us could bring it into being.

It would be so easy to kiss her.

But I can’t let it happen yet.

When you’re always on tour – or always on call for a gig – you tend to make decisions quickly and regret them at leisure, but it’s like you’re in this loop. More times than I’ll admit, I’ve started a relationship, gone away and returned in time for us to both admit it wasn’t working. A weird way to conduct relationships, but then nothing about being a gigging musician is ever regular.

So much of what I’m learning talking to Phoebe is about myself. I even tell her about Laura – and though it’s been six months since she left me for an annoying Russian conductor and stamped all over my heart, I haven’t wanted to talk about her to anyone before.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Phoebe says and I’m struck by how genuine this is. Most people say sorry when what they really want you to do is change the subject.

‘It’s hard to make relationships work in my line of business. Always heading off in opposite directions, too many hours between meetings to stop doubts setting in.’ I realise how close this might be to Phoebe and my current situation. I push the thought away. ‘With Laura, I thought I could make it work. And it did. Until the other bloke appeared.’

‘Was Laura a musician, too?’

I nod. ‘She’s a session singer who also plays cello, violin and viola – and when string sections cost the earth to hire, she’s a good person to know. In a few hours she could record all the parts a string quartet would perform, for a fraction of the cost. Saving money appeals to studios and record companies, so she always had more than enough work to keep her in one place. And I liked that, in the beginning. It was good to know she was there, even if I was called away on tour for weeks at a time.’ The rawness returns to my gut. Time to move on. ‘Anyway, she chose someone else. I started working to make the studio happen with my mate Chris and here we are.’ I decide to hedge my bets. ‘So, Gabe. Is he an ex?’

Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she might be offended. Then her shoulders slump a little. ‘No. Not really. Once. But it was a mistake and we’re still friends.’

‘How long?’

‘One night.’ She pulls a face. ‘That sounds terrible out loud, but it’s the truth. One night, after drinking too much beer and both of us being dumped at the same time. I hardly remember anything and he was drunker than I was. Anyway, it was a mistake.’

A mistake I can deal with. But it makes me realise how little I know about her and how much I want to know. Even though Phoebe and I are cramming as much information as we can into the time we have together, it still feels like nowhere near enough. When she cried earlier, it shocked me. If I’d known her for a while longer I would have known how to be, but I’m flying blind with so much of this. My head is still trying to make sense of it all. My heart has no such confusion, which is confusing in itself.

I can’t think about this now. There will be plenty of time once I’m on the train.

But do I even want to get on the train any more?

I was serious when I mentioned a longer delay to Phoebe. What if meeting her was meant to stop me going back to Scotland? What if this is life dealing me a last-minute detour that I’m supposed to take?

It wouldn’t be the first time I delayed this trip.

I was supposed to visit Mull the year I turned 30 and was all set to go, but then I met Laura and put it back. I haven’t been able to escape the thought that maybe if I’d followed my heart instead of my – well, you know – I might have had an easier time.

Phoebe could be another Laura.

I don’t think I could bear that.

I check myself, refocus on the beautiful woman beside me. She is not Laura. She could well be the love of my life. So what do I do?

Phoebe has changed subject and is now talking about her childhood, growing up on a fruit farm in the Vale of Evesham.

‘That sounds idyllic.’ I catch her expression and hold up my hand. ‘I mean, I’m sure it was hard work. But working in fruit orchards, being surrounded by your family – that sounds great.’

‘I guess. When you’re a teenager dreaming of being anywhere else but Evesham it doesn’t seem like that.’

‘Sure. I mean my growing up was a world away. When we moved to the mainland we lived in a series of dreary council estates in Edinburgh and Carlisle. Not quite as picturesque as a Worcestershire fruit farm.’ I’m pretty certain Phoebe’s mother wasn’t a functioning alcoholic like mine, either, but I don’t say that. I loved my ma, but I know she was never happy after my father, Frank Mullins, disappeared. ‘Mind you, I have one of the places we lived in Edinburgh to thank for this.’ I pat my violin case.

‘How did that happen?’

‘We were living in Dumbiedykes and Ma was friendly with the landlord of our local pub. He’d put bottles by for her behind the bar and it was my job to go fetch them. So I was waiting by the bar one evening and there was a group of regulars who always sat in the corner nearest the fire with their instruments. While I was waiting they just started playing. The pub was practically empty, save for them and, I don’t know, I found it magical. To be so unworried by what anyone else thought and just be able to start playing like that. I shifted around the bar so I could be closer to them and then one of the old guys saw me watching and invited me to sit with them.’

‘And that made you want to play the violin?’

‘Yeah. A Polish guy called Jonas played the fiddle and I fell in love with how he made it sing. The way he played – it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. And I wanted to play like him. He offered to show me a few tunes and for the next two years he gave me free lessons after school in the pub. The landlord let me stay because he liked the music and I guess he worked out that life wasn’t the easiest at home. Funny how little bits of kindness like that can change your life.’

‘He sounds like an amazing man.’

‘He was. And more of a dad to me than mine ever was. But then my ma’s cousin offered us use of her tiny granny flat in Carlisle. I was distraught about leaving Jonas but on the day I said goodbye, he gave me his second-best fiddle to take to my new home. And he said, “You were born to play this. Promise me you’ll play every day.” So I did. Every day since.’

Phoebe’s eyes light up when she hears this. ‘And that’s why you’re a musician now?’

‘It is. I wanted to make Jonas proud of me.’

‘Did you keep in touch?’

‘For a while. But you know how things are. He moved, didn’t leave a forwarding address. Hopefully, he’s found a nice warm corner in a pub somewhere to play out his jigs and reels with a bunch of regulars. That’s how I’ll always picture him.’

‘I know what you mean about how people we meet can change our lives. I fell in love with words when a customer left their copy of Jane Eyre in my parents’ farm shop. It was the first grown-up novel I’d ever read. And, coincidentally, it led to the first lie I’d ever told, when the old lady who’d left it came back and I hid it under a stack of apple boxes beneath the counter.’

‘Phoebe Jones, master criminal! Now I’m learning the truth.’

She blushes – and it’s the most glorious sight.

Glorious, Sam? I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before. What is she doing to me?

And then, in the middle of her laughter, Phoebe’s smile vanishes. ‘I don’t want to get on the train, Sam.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think I can. And I can’t ask you to miss your train – that’s not what I’m saying… But how can we leave when this is happening? I’m scared if I go I’ll miss it.’

‘Like you feel about sleeping?’

She shifts position until she’s looking straight into my eyes. ‘It’s more than that. What if we were supposed to meet instead of getting on our trains today? Or what if we were meant to travel together? I—’ She exhales a breath, looks down. ‘Oh, stuff it. I am the most organised person but this is the most disorganised thing I’ve ever done in my life and it scares me. I’ve told everyone I’m totally fine with going away but the truth is I’ve been tempted to talk myself out of it so many times. What if I somehow knew this was going to happen? Meeting you. What if—?’

‘Phoebe – wait – stop.’

She clamps a hand to her mouth and her eyes glisten. I see fear bloom there and am acutely aware of my own. Slowly, I coax her hand away.

‘Right – just take a breath. And listen to me. This isn’t a no, okay? It’s not a no. I just think…’

But she’s shaking her head and I feel like I’m losing her already. Before we even get on the train. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it and…’

And then I’m kissing her. It happens so instinctively that we’re halfway into the kiss before I realise what I’ve done. It’s the wrong time and the perfect time at once; the most ill-advised act but the one thing our time together was missing.

Phoebe doesn’t pull away. As our kiss rises and falls she slides onto my lap and her tears dance down where her face touches mine. It isn’t an answer. But it’s what we both want.

I could stay there forever but eventually I move my head back. ‘I think we should test this.’

‘You’re right,’ she says. And suddenly it makes sense. ‘We have to make these journeys. I just wish we were going together.’

‘Me too. Maybe we could…?’

‘No, I think you’re right, Sam. Unless we test it, how will we know if this is what we both hope it is? I don’t want to get a year down the line and realise we rushed in too soon.’

I try to wrestle every racing thought to order in my mind. I want Phoebe in my life and I don’t want to wait for her. But we both have things to do – promises we’ve made to ourselves – and I know from experience with Laura that resentment always builds if you’ve put your own promises on hold. I don’t want to feel like that again. I don’t ever want Phoebe to feel that way about me.

Suddenly, a huge round of applause breaks like a hailstorm across the concourse, as loud as a dozen trains thundering into the station at once. We stand, our muscles stiff from sitting. Phoebe steps into the concourse and looks up at the Departures board.

‘The delay signs have gone,’ she says – and I see a battle in her face as she turns back to me. ‘My train leaves in forty minutes.’

I don’t want to look now. Because as soon as I do, everything changes. I want us to stay here, in our little square of station floor, just Phoebe and I. But she has a departure time, which means I do, too. Heart heavy, I raise my eyes.

‘Mine leaves in half an hour.’