The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
There’s a pause and I can hear another barked exchange, this time in urgent whispers because, of course, I’m on speakerphone and can’t hear them.
‘Something I should know?’ I ask.
I hear a loud tut from DeeDee. ‘We weren’t going to tell you…’
‘Laura came,’ Kim finishes.
I stare out at the blur of moorland grass streaking past on the sidings. ‘When?’
‘About an hour after you left. She had a suitcase with her.’
‘Kim!’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t have to tell him that! I thought we discussed this…’
‘Hang on, what?’
I wait for DeeDee and Kim’s debate to stop, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. I don’t feel angry, or hurt – just weary. I felt weary most of the time I was with Laura and during the six months since we broke up.
‘The Russian kicked her scrawny butt out, didn’t he? And who can blame him?’ DeeDee’s tone is heavy with disgust. Part of me would love to have been there to witness her reaction when Laura turned up. But mostly I’m just relieved I wasn’t. ‘She was all poorlittle-rich-girl, with her red eyes and privileged whining. Like we’d just agree you should take her back. Like she was entitled to that.’
‘Why did she come to yours?’
‘She’d been to Syd’s first and assumed you’d be here.’
‘Was she trying to move in?’
‘She wanted to go with you.’ Kim’s laugh is bitter. ‘Can you believe it? Syd refused to tell her where you were going and what time your train was, so she came to us. Like we were ever going to help her!’
Well, today is certainly the day for revelations. It doesn’t surprise me that Laura and Artem didn’t last – especially as I know how many times she’d tried to get back with me (and the three times I’m ashamed to admit that I gave in). And yeah, maybe I’m a little bit glad. It feels like a justification for my mistrust. She wasn’t worth the pain I’ve endured in her name. Not that I’m the kind of person who revels in someone else’s misfortune, but Laura had it coming.
I thought last night’s appearance at the studio launch was a one-off. More fool me, eh?
She’d managed to press so obviously against me as DeeDee took a photo of everyone in the studio. The designer off-the-shoulder sweater she wore pulled just a little too far down, the obvious lack of a bra. I knew exactly what she wanted me – and every other bloke in the room, available or otherwise – to be looking at. Subtlety is a foreign language to my ex. I’d walked away as soon as the photo was done, but in the crush of the studio with so many friends, colleagues and hangers-on gathered for the launch party, it was impossible to avoid her. Before I knew it, she was back – alone: her Russian boyfriend nowhere to be seen.
She’d performed one of her famous sighs, the kind that used to summon me to her side, desperate to make her happy. Only now it just made her look ridiculous. ‘Oh Sam. Why can’t you just be happy for me?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘Artem wanted to come.’
‘Oh, Artem wanted to be in the same tiny room as your glowering ex? I’m sorry, I find that hard to believe.’
‘Well, he did. Despite everything, he respects you.’
I didn’t want to shout, or give her the satisfaction of making a scene at my launch party. I took a breath, hauling back my anger. ‘Look, I didn’t invite you.’
‘I heard you were leaving,’ she blurted out, casting a careful glance about her to make sure no one else heard. ‘And I wanted to know why.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It’s because of me, isn’t it?’ Her hand was on my arm and there were too many bodies around us for me to shake it off. I went cold at her touch.
‘No. Because not everything in my life is about you.’
‘Wait – Sam – this isn’t over with us. I know you!’ she’d called after me, but by then I was pushing through the studio party guests towards the exit. And I didn’t look back.
‘She honestly thought you’d want to be with her,’ DeeDee continued. ‘Honest, babes, we told her where to go.’
‘Thanks. Sorry you both had to deal with that.’
‘Don’t worry. It was amusing. Kim tore a strip off the woman.’
I wince at that. I love my friends but I don’t ever want to not be on their side. One is terrifying enough; having both of them taking issue with you could likely stop your heart. ‘Ah. Thanks – I think.’
‘We told her you were going to Aberdeen.’ I can hear the smile in Kim’s voice. ‘So good luck to her if she thinks she can track you down.’
When the call is over, I take a deep breath and watch the world pass by. I never told Laura about my father, or where I grew up. She only met my university friends once when they came down to London for a gig I was playing at the Royal Albert Hall with a band of new-folk artists. Beyond that, she never asked about where I’d come from.
Which is odd, because Phoebe Jones asked within the first hour of meeting me.
I pull up the photo I took of us just before I left her at the barrier. She is beautiful, of course. But then my gaze slides to me. I look different. I think of all the selfies with me that Laura posted on Instagram – countless squares of a picture-perfect couple all taken at an identical angle for maximum effect. I never smiled in any of those images like I do in this single, hurriedly snapped photo with my arm around Phoebe.
Have I ever smiled like that before?
I stroke Phoebe’s face on the screen, remembering the warmth of her against me, the scent of her perfume and the touch of her hand on my arm. That’s what matters now. Not the past – or anyone from it trying to get back in. And I’m going to hold on to this feeling until I see Phoebe again.
Paris Gare du Nord breaks through in an explosion of light and colour and noise as the train door opens. I take a breath.
Bonjour, Paris.
It’s just a station platform: grey concrete, the smell of oil, pools of light filtering through the run of glass skylights high above. It could be anywhere. Except it feels different. Dad said that the first time he took Mum to Europe in their early twenties even the echo of his own footsteps sounded ‘continental’. I don’t have to see the platform signs and illuminated advertising boards to know I’m not in London any more.
Then I am through the barrier and looking around for a man I’ve only met once before who may or may not be holding a sign. It takes a minute to get my bearings, head dizzy with light and sound and movement. I make myself breathe, summoning up a memory of being in Sam’s arms in our little space of concourse at St Pancras. It calms me.
I can do this.
Sam only just met me and he believes in me. I’ve known me for a lot longer, so maybe I should believe in myself more.
Sometimes the way to prove you’re capable of something is just to do it.
‘Phoebe!’