The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

      I shrug. ‘I don’t expect Shakespeare. Just Sam.’

      ‘I’m better with music than words.’

      ‘So send me songs. Via email. In emergencies.’

      We pull out phones, exchange numbers and email addresses and then Sam puts his arm around me, drawing me close as he takes a photo of us. He does the same with my phone. This will be my constant companion for the year ahead. I take another as he’s looking over the heads of the queue – I want to remember Sam as I first saw him: an unguarded, non-posed moment that is just him. Secretly, I think I’ll look at this image more. Without me in the frame, I can make sure all I see is Sam. That way my heart can be certain.

      And then the people in front of us surge forward. Another barrier has been opened and a tide of bodies is rushing towards the gap. Sam’s hand tightens around mine and my heartbeat quickens.

      We’ve only just met. But time is running out on us already.

      As we near the barrier, Sam steps to the side, gathering me into his arms. My lips find his first and our kiss says everything we no longer have time to express. I’m pulled tight against the warmth of his body, his jacket parting to let me lean against his chest. One arm holds me, the other hand brushes the side of my face. My fingers trace the line where his curls meet the soft skin at the back of his neck. It’s startlingly new, but familiar all at once. I let myself melt into this moment, my thoughts of everything that lies ahead momentarily gone.

      All that matters is this.

      Us.

      Sam and me.

      And then we have no more time. The guy checking tickets at the barrier clears his throat and Sam takes one last look at me before shouldering his rucksack and swinging his violin case over the other shoulder.

      ‘Phoebe, meet me by Betjeman, a year from today. If we’re meant to be together, we’ll both be there. If we’re not, it was never meant to be.’

      ‘I’ll be there, Sam.’

      He pauses for one moment longer, his smile sad and joyful, full of hope and promise.

      Then he walks away.

      I am on my own again. Lost in the sea of bodies dashing for their train. Except, as I hurry in the opposite direction to the upper concourse where my Eurostar train awaits me, I don’t feel alone any more.

      When I reach the top of the steps I see the statue of Sir John. As people jostle past me I pause beside him to pat the iron man’s shoulder. His kind half-smile gives me hope, and his eyes are raised to the sky as if watching the future. My future.

       No matter what happens this year, Sam, I will be waiting here for you.

      I blow the statue a kiss and run for my train.

Chapter Six

       Chapter Six, Sam

      I’m on the train.

      I grab the things I need for the journey – the thick novel I probably won’t read, my mobile, charger and the bag of fizzy cola bottle sweets my best friends DeeDee and Kim insisted on packing for me like I’m five years old. Then I stash my rucksack in the luggage section, place my violin case next to me and settle into my seat.

      Who am I kidding? I can’t settle.

      I can’t settle because of you.

      That’s another thing: why am I talking to you in my mind like you’re still here? You’re headed to a train that will be halfway under the Channel in less than an hour. Probably. Geography never was my strong point. Nor was timing.

      I glance at my watch. Almost 1 p.m.

      Six hours, Phoebe. Six hours since you changed my world.

      And now I’m talking like a nutter on the night bus. Can today get any weirder?

      The old mariner on the battered cover of my paperback eyes me suspiciously. I don’t blame him. If I could have seen last night what six hours in the company of Phoebe Jones would do to me today, I would have been horrified.

      Well, Sam Mullins, you are officially a sap. How does it feel?

      I take a deep breath, stretch my hands across the table, blocking the old mariner’s eyes, just in case he’s in the mood for more judgement.

      It feels…

      … like my world just exploded into colour.

      My heart is kicking out a double-time beat against my chest, a bass boom to my breath. My skin hums, like a low string section. I feel alive. Real. For the first time since I can’t remember when. And it’s because of you – her. I can’t keep talking to you like it’s you. That would just be weird.

      My sigh fogs the window glass. I’m losing the plot.

      I watch my fellow passengers hustling onto the train and notice how irritated they all look. That could have been me, if there’d been no delay this morning, no Phoebe Jones looking lost and wonderful by the Betjeman statue. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything.

      She made me feel… Phoebe, you made me feel. Like I do when I play, only you made the music flooding my soul.

      And now I’m lyrical. Bloody hell, Sam.

      But maybe lyrical is who I want to be.

      The glow inside remains as I take a breath and pick up my phone. My world might have altered but I still have a journey to make.

      I wrote a list last night, at home, all packed with nothing else to occupy me. Laura had rocked up to the studio launch earlier, and though DeeDee and Kim saw her off, I was still rattled by it. The empty hours before bed were dangerous territory for my head. I know I don’t love Laura any more but the bruise of her still remains on me. Even after meeting Phoebe.

      I pull up the list on my phone now – names and telephone numbers, half-recalled places, old friends I hope still remember me. First things first: uni friends.

      I didn’t attend university in Scotland, having moved to London the day I turned 18. But as my not-really-auntie Ailish says, Caledonian hearts find one another. My closest friends on my music degree course all hailed from north of the border. Maybe it was the comfort of finding people who spoke like me. I guess wherever we go in life we look for people who speak our language. It began with an accent; now music is the language I share with my closest friends.

      We were a party of five Scots in a sea of southerners, and while now we mainly stay in touch via emails and Christmas cards, they are still closer than many of the people I see every day. Donal – forever known as D-Man because all of the other nicknames he accrued during our three years at King’s College London aren’t suitable for public utterance; Shona, religiously called Shania by every English student we encountered (but call her that at your peril); Kate – self-appointed agony aunt to us all and the loveliest person you could ever hope to have rooting for you; and Niven, fellow violinist and sadly destined to remain a frustrated musician working as a teacher on the island on which we were both born. I won’t see Shona in Glasgow – last I heard she was touring Scottish schools with a Gaelic language show. Niven’s on Mull, so I’ll look him up when I get there. It will be good to hang out with him again.

      Donal and Kate finally admitted what the rest of us had long known and are now happily married with three kids. It’s their home I’m headed to first. Although I’ve already promised myself I won’t tell anyone about Phoebe yet, I might make an exception if I get a moment alone with Kate. Of all my university pals I’m confident she’ll understand.