The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

or maybe the Cotswolds? Safer, closer, easier to come home from…

      I don’t want to doubt this now, not when I’m so close to boarding the train, but I can feel panic rising.

      But then, Sam Mullins smiles – and the ground beneath me shifts.

      ‘Look, if you’re not going anywhere for a while and neither am I, how about we find a coffee shop to wait in?’

      Did I just say that? But in that moment, it feels right. Who says my new, spontaneous self can’t start until I board the train for France?

      ‘Yes,’ he says, so immediately that his answer dances with the end of my question. ‘Great idea.’

      As we walk away from the statue of Sir John Betjeman, Sam’s fingers lightly brush against my back.

      And that’s when I fall in love.

Chapter Two

       Chapter Two, Sam

      What am I doing?

      I hate complications. As a musician I’ve done my level best over the years to avoid them wherever I can. When band politics have got too much, I’ve quit. When my brother stopped talking to me, I walked away. When relationships have become too demanding, I’ve backed out. Simple. Effective. Safe.

      And I’ve been doing okay with that. Mostly. The last four years have been the happiest of my life professionally – playing my fiddle in studio sessions in the winter and spring and joining festival-bound bands in the summer; teaching where I’ve needed to make up shortfalls; even scoring studio time for my own new-folk project and producing a half-decent EP that, touch wood, will bring in a steady flow of cash on iTunes and Bandcamp. And my new studio venture with Chris that we launched last night finally gives us a chance to make real money. To be fair, I said I’d postpone this trip so close to the launch, but Chris said he wants to get it running smoothly and I’d just be getting in his way. So that complication has been ironed out, without me even trying. Why would I willingly volunteer for one to take its place?

      She just looked so lost by the Betjeman statue.

      And gorgeous…

      I should have been annoyed by this unplanned delay to the journey I’ve promised myself for years. I’ve waited so long for the time to be right and then, suddenly, it was. Time to make the journey to find who I am. It was supposed to begin now, not in four hours, or whenever the train system deems it possible. Train delays are the worst, especially for a jobbing musician travelling to gigs across the country and particularly given the shenanigans I’ve already encountered changing stations for this journey. On any other day I would have been right in the thick of that angry commuter mob, baying for someone’s blood.

      But I’m not.

      And it’s all because of Phoebe Jones.

      I glance at the large ironwork clock over the coffee concession counter and I’m surprised to see almost an hour has passed already. She was shy at first, but as soon as she suggested we come here she just – blossomed. Like watching a water lily unfurl on the other side of the bleached-wood table.

      It’s beautiful to witness.

      ‘I know a year away is a big step. I mean enormous for me. But ever since I first read A Room with a View and Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, I’ve dreamed of doing this. Paris, Florence, Rome – seeing the places the authors and characters in their books saw. I’ve saved forever to do it. My parents gave me the last bit of the money I needed when I got my PhD last month.’

      ‘So you’re Dr Jones?’

      I could bask in the way she beams for a long time.

      ‘That sounds so funny, doesn’t it? Dr Jones. I like it but it still feels like it should belong to somebody else.’

      ‘A PhD is a huge amount of work, though. You’ve earned it.’

      ‘I have.’ There’s a self-conscious laugh she does that’s like a flash of sunlight. Blink and you’ll miss it. ‘I loved every minute of it, though. It was such a surprise to find that from a piece of work.’

      ‘Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to be doing.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Well, like for me, playing and gigging and the studio I’ve just set up with my friend – none of that’s easy. It’s all long hours and hard work’ – I nod at the concourse beyond the coffee concession window which is packed with stranded passengers – ‘and train delays… But I’m energised by it, you know? Because this is what I’m meant to do.’

      Phoebe nods but she isn’t smiling. ‘I hear that all the time. My best friends all seem to have found what they’re meant to be doing. Meg’s the most amazing event organiser, Osh is a film director and Gabe is an actor. When they talk about what they do, it’s like they are describing a piece of themselves; like if you put them under a microscope their job titles would be imprinted on every cell. I haven’t 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