The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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.’
It feels like the whole of London is queuing.
Gone is the bulldog spirit that brought so many stranded travellers together: abandoned like the takeaway-food wrappers and carrier bags littering the concourse floor like mounds of freshly fallen snow. Now it’s every person for themselves. The London attitude is back and you can almost feel the station itself breathe a relieved sigh at the return to normality. All anyone wants to do now is get on their trains and leave.
Except Sam and me.
But we need to leave, don’t we?
I hate the realisation that has hit us both, that this serendipitous magic we have discovered in St Pancras station is coming to a rapid end. In less than an hour we’ll be speeding as fast as possible in opposite directions, our own plans pushing us forward while our hearts gaze back at the widening gap between us.
That kiss. That kiss changed everything.
As we stand at the back of the queue for Sam’s train I risk a glance at him, jumping when I realise he’s already looking at me. The now familiar touch of his hand on mine is at once comforting and heartbreaking.
‘What are we going to do?’ I hate the fear in my question.
His eyes hold mine. They smile even though his lips don’t. Sam lifts his hand to stroke my cheek and I see the rise of his chest as he inhales.
‘We’ll meet back here – in a year. Exactly twelve months from now. When we’ve had our adventures and made our journeys. Come home and meet me by—’
‘—Betjeman,’ I say, as our words collide. ‘Where we first met.’
‘We are getting far too good at spooky,’ he grins, his arm pulling me close to him. ‘But we’ll only do it if we still feel the same. Things change. People change. You might find your heart lies elsewhere.’
‘I won’t.’ I mean it, too. But he’s shaking his head and I know he’s right. This can only work if we’re both certain. And a year is a long time to think about what we really want.
‘You might. I might. We have to be free to walk away if it isn’t what we want. So here’s the deal: if you feel the same about me in twelve months’ time, meet me by Betjeman’ – he checks his watch – ‘at eleven a.m. I’d say seven, when we actually met, but you know about me and early mornings.’
‘Can we keep in touch while we’re away? I don’t think I could go a year without hearing from you.’
Sam looks up as if he might find the answers pressed against the glass roof panels. ‘Absolutely. I’d lose my mind if we were silent for twelve months. But we need rules. We can’t work out how we feel if we’re always in contact. So – one phone call a month? I’d say video call but it depends on where we are.’
‘And email,’ I add. ‘But only in emergencies.’
‘Noted. Anything else?’
My brain feels rushed in the fast dwindling time we have together. If this is what my heart believes it is, we are at the beginning of the greatest love story of our lives. Emails and phone calls don’t seem significant enough. I imagine us telling the story when we’re old to our wide-eyed grandchildren: It was his emails that won my heart… No, it needs to be something – timeless.
‘Postcards,’ I say. ‘I won’t be travelling all the time; it sounds like you won’t be, either. So when we’re in one place for a while, we can send postcards.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I have rubbish handwriting.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s powerful to write something down. It means more than typing. You have to think about it. And if your handwriting is really bad then deciphering it will keep me busy until the next one arrives.’
He considers this. Ahead of us the queue starts to move. The barriers are now open, slowly