The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

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.

Chapter Nine

       Chapter Nine, Phoebe

      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!’

      I follow the sound of the voice and a group of commuters disperses to my right revealing a face that’s surprisingly familiar. Tobi is smiling and waving. And he has a sign with my name on it.

      I’m going to be okay.

      ‘Hi!’ I grin, accepting a very French double-kiss and a very un-French bear hug from my host.

      ‘The delay! The nightmare! My darling, are you okay? Meg told me they closed your station.’

      ‘They did, but I’m here now.’

      ‘Yes, you are. And now we celebrate your grande aventure.’ He throws an arm around my shoulders and takes my bag despite my protests. ‘First to home, then to wine!’

      Twenty minutes later we’re almost at his apartment in impossibly lovely Montmartre and my head is a tumble of streets and traffic, noise and colour. It’s lovely to be in the company of someone who lives in the city. We skirt roads, pass through tiny back streets and lush green parks. Dad was right: even the everyday sounds of traffic and footsteps are unfamiliar here. Once I get my bearings it will all become second nature, I know. Like it did when I arrived in London, fresh out of horticultural college in Worcestershire and feeling as if I’d run away from the first twenty-five years of my life. London was a whim that became part of me. Maybe Paris and the countries beyond will become the same.

      ‘Here we are!’ Tobi exclaims, holding the apartment building door open for me to walk in first. We climb a narrow staircase with metal banisters to the second floor. Tobi opens the door and I walk into my home for the first part of my year in Europe.

      It’s perfect. White walls and long white gauze curtains at the floor-to-ceiling windows; warm parquet flooring in diagonal chevrons across the open plan living room and kitchen; three large, low couches draped in jewel-bright Moroccan throws with more cushions than even Meg has in her room (which is saying something); and greenery everywhere, from large potted palms standing sentry-like in the corners of the room to the impressionist wash of green in the window boxes on the small balcony the other side of the windows.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ I smile as Tobi takes my coat. ‘C’est magnifique!’

      ‘Ah, bon. Don’t worry. We speak English here as much as French,’ he says, as if sensing the jolt of panic that hit me as soon as I tried out my rusty French. ‘Luc is from Canada so we switch between the two all the time. Often, we argue in both.’ I remember his smile now. It’s the kind of smile that instantly puts you at ease. ‘Let me show you your room and then we can relax.’

      Tobi strides down the short corridor that leads off from the living room and kitchen. Tucked away, between a compact but stylish bathroom and a larger room I imagine is his and Luc’s bedroom, is a smaller room with a futon and a large single window draped with soft yellow gauze.