The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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.’
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