The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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