The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

Sam. I don’t know when he is going to be leaving his friends’ house and travelling to Mull, so I hope the card will arrive in time.

      Dear Sam,

      Surprise! I wasn’t sure how long you would be in Glasgow so I hope this reaches you before you leave for Mull.

      I’m writing this by the side of a farmers’ market. Luc has been giving me a personal tour of his favourite Parisian haunts and we’ve just eaten half our bodyweight in free food samples. The sun is shining, it’s warm and it’s about as perfect as days in Paris get. The artist who painted this postcard is called Mme Comtois and she started painting at night after working on the dairy farm she owns with her husband all day. She told us she paints to keep her heart smiling – how lovely is that? I think we should always do things that bring smiles to our hearts.

      I miss you. I hope you’re happy. And I can’t wait to see you again.

      All my love, Phoebe xxx

      When we return from our day wandering around Montmartre, Luc shows me how to get into the tiny courtyard. There’s a service staircase at the back of the building and a door at the bottom that opens into the small green space. I’m sitting there now, looking up at the square of sky framed by the ivy-covered walls of the building. It feels like a secret space and it’s so quiet. It’s a perfect place to read – maybe even write.

      Sitting in the café made me think of the authors I love who chronicled their adventures across Europe. Maybe I can do what Mark Twain and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe did: note down what I see, what I experience. My first full day in Paris has been so wonderful I want to remember it all. Maybe one day I can show Sam, too.

      When I switch my phone on Sam is smiling at me from the screen. It’s as if he knew I was thinking about him. I resist the urge to squeal as I open his message.

      Hey you. My turn to break the rules. I’m leaving for Mull tomorrow, so here’s the address. Just if you happened to be passing a postcard shop in Paris or anything. Email me yours and I’ll send you a tartan-emblazoned one when I land on Mull (prepare yourself…) By the way, I miss you xx

Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Twelve, Sam

      Far too many beers.

      Not the most profound thought to begin the first proper day of my adventure with, but at least it’s honest. Honesty is something I’ve promised myself for this year, too. No more stuffing the past away, no more pretending it didn’t happen.

      Right now, though, my head wants to leave me.

      Nobody’s up when I stumble into Donal and Kate’s kitchen. A painful squint at my phone reveals it isn’t even six yet. Great. Although maybe if I can neck a pint or two of water with some paracetamol I might be able to crash out for a couple more hours. That’s a comforting thought.

      I find a glass, fill it to the brim with cold water and am about to begin my cupboard search for painkillers when I remember Phoebe’s message.

      Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you.

      I stop fighting the urge to reply and type a message, with my address in Mull. That’s just important information, right? Admin, you could say. So it’s necessary.

      ‘So, are you going to tell me who she is?’

      I jump and a slosh of water escapes my glass, splashing across the tiled floor and my bare feet.

      Kate laughs and leans over the sink to tear off a strip of kitchen roll, ducking to mop my feet and the floor like I’m one of her kids. It’s endearing and mortifying at once.

      ‘Cheers, Ma,’ I say.

      ‘Oi, seven months younger than you, thank you very much.’ She flicks the paper in the bin and grabs the kettle. ‘You’re busted though, Mr Mullins. I demand all the details.’ She’s annoyingly fresh, considering she matched Donal and me dram for dram last night. ‘Can your poor head stand coffee yet?’

      ‘I’ll risk it,’ I grin, pulling out a pine chair by the table. Sitting is definitely safer than standing this morning.

      ‘So?’

      ‘So what?’

      ‘Who is she?’

      I lay my phone carefully on the table. ‘You should work for MI6.’

      ‘They tried to recruit me. Too badass for them.’ Her damp auburn curls dance across the collar of her towelling robe when she laughs. It’s not the red it was, threaded with strands of gold now, but it’s still like watching fire. ‘You don’t have to tell me. But whoever she is, I’m glad she makes you happy.’

      This might be the only chance I get to talk to Kate about Phoebe, before the thunder of remaining Cattenachs descends upon us and the moment is lost.

      ‘Her name is Phoebe Jones,’ I say, my chest swelling as her name plays on my lips. ‘You’re going to think I’m nuts, but I think she’s perfect for me. As in long-term perfect.’

      Kate’s mirth softens and she sits next to me, anticipating the story that will follow.

      Once I begin, it all comes out. And despite the hammering in my head, I can’t stop my smile. I fall over my words, somewhere between confession and breathless laughter. And the whole time, Kate watches, a strange half-grin resting on her face.

      When it’s all said, she sits back, the boiled kettle long forgotten between us. ‘I’ve never seen you happy like this, Sam.’

      ‘I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy before.’ It’s strange spoken out loud, but it’s the truth.

      ‘Do you have her picture?’

      If it were anyone else in the world asking, I’d refuse. But this is Kate Cattenach, long-time confidante in matters of my heart. I find the image of Phoebe and me together by the platform barrier and slide the phone across the washed pine table for Kate to see.

      ‘She’s beautiful.’

      ‘She is.’

      ‘And you only met her… yesterday?’

      I know where this is going. ‘I did.’

      ‘Wow.’

      ‘I know how it sounds, but…’

      ‘No, Sam, really, you don’t have to explain. Sometimes you just know, I guess. Not that it was like that for your man and me. I reckon Donal and I have the slowest love-at-first-sight story on the planet.’

      ‘Yeah, but we all knew.’

      She laughs. ‘So I’ve been told. By every single one of yous.’ She hands the phone back. ‘Phoebe – the radiant, shining one. Pretty apt name.’

      Name meanings have always been Kate’s thing. Within a day of us all meeting she’d told us what our names meant: Kate – pure (we always added ‘alcohol’ to the meaning as a nod to her incredible drinking prowess); Donal – ruler of the world (which, trust me, he still brags about); Niven – saint (jury’s still out on that one); Shona – happy (which is what we all hope she might be one day); and Sam – heard by God, which I always thought was a bit odd until Kate said that being a musician made it the perfect name for me. Who wouldn’t want God as an audience? God or Aly Bain in my case – I’d be happy with either. I don’t know how much I believe in name meanings, but finding out Phoebe means shining and radiant makes me smile even more.

      ‘That’s how she seemed to me. Her laugh – it’s like sunshine.’