The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

I realise I want to know the answer. I expect her to sidestep the question, but to my utter surprise, she doesn’t.

      ‘Not a home to live in. I want to find out how to be at home with myself.’

      Until that moment, everything Phoebe Jones has told me could just have been polite conversation. But this is something else. It’s a window, inviting me in. I lean closer, zoning out the clamour and conversation around our small table, not wanting to miss a thing.

      ‘Me too.’

      Her eyes hold mine.

      ‘I haven’t said that to anyone before.’

      ‘Not even Gabe?’

      ‘Especially not him. He thinks I’m too serious.’

      ‘No!’

      ‘I know, right? I mean, look at us, Sam. We met – what – an hour ago? And all we’ve done is laugh.’

      ‘You’re a very funny lady.’

      ‘Well, thank you for noticing.’ Her eyes sparkle as she mirrors my grin. There is so much more going on behind those eyes than she’s allowing me to see. I sense it bubbling away, just out of view.

      And that’s when I realise.

      Sam Mullins, your timing stinks.

      The more we talk, as the minutes become an hour and head towards two, the more the feeling deep within me builds. Phoebe Jones is perfect. And I know my own battered heart. I’d sworn I wouldn’t fall for anyone again, not after Laura. The pain and injustice I’ve battled most of the year and the bruises still stinging my soul have all been good enough reasons to avoid falling in love.

      Could this be love?

       No.

      But what if it is?

      By now we are wandering the concourse, passing crowds of stranded travellers. Every available bench has been commandeered and people are claiming the floor, too, perched on makeshift seats made from suitcases, holdalls and folded-up coats. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie, displaced people caught in limbo, dazed by the experience. Some groups of travellers are even talking to each other. In London, that’s pretty close to a miracle.

      I have to step to the side to avoid a small child who’s weaving in and out of the crowd – and when I do my hand brushes against Phoebe’s. Startled, she looks up and our eyes meet. The noise around us seems to dim, the pushing bodies becoming a blur as I sink into the deep darkness of Phoebe’s stare.

      ‘Do you believe in fate, Phoebe?’ The words tumble out before I can stop them.

      ‘I think I do,’ she breathes, as her fingers find mine. ‘Do you?’

      I gaze at her, a hundred thoughts sparkling around us like spinning stars. And suddenly, all that matters is the truth.

      ‘I didn’t before today.’

Chapter Three

       Chapter Three, Phoebe

      He feels it, too. Whatever is happening between us is real.

      The moment Sam’s fingers lace though mine, the air between us seems to shift. I don’t even think about pulling away.

      We move at glacial pace through the crowded concourse until Sam spots a gap for a service door between the glass-fronted concessions and we sneak into it.

      Now we’re standing within a breath of each other. It would be so easy to close the distance and kiss him…

      What am I doing?

      Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have considered kissing someone I hardly knew. But twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know Sam existed. Our hands are joined between us and we both look down as if seeing them for the first time. When Sam laughs, I feel the buzz of it through his skin.

      ‘Well, this is unexpected.’

      ‘It is.’

      This is where my apologies and caveats would normally begin, my usual rush to backtrack on an impulse. But instead, calmness fills the space where those words would be. They’re not needed here.

      I’ve only known Sam for a couple of hours. How can this be possible?

      ‘Reckon they can delay our trains for another four months or so?’ His whisper is warm velvet against my ear.

      ‘Only four months?’

      I love his laugh. It shudders up from his chest to his shoulders, throwing his head back as it escapes into the air around us. It’s wild and unbridled, unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion. His laugh is who he is, as if his spirit shimmers out of him in that moment.

      His fingers squeeze mine. ‘Oh well, excuse me. What I meant was four years. Forty-four years. Four centuries.’

      ‘Steady on…’

      ‘Even when we’re wrinkly and incontinent and basically breathing dustbags our love will burn as bright…’

      I don’t know whether I’m breathless from laughter or just being here with Sam. He’s talking as if we’ve been together for years, but it doesn’t scare me like it should. I can imagine being loved by him, even though I’ve yet to kiss him. It’s a game that feels so much more than make-believe. And I’m happy to play along. ‘Thank you for your faith in us.’

      ‘My pleasure. This is surreal, isn’t it?’

      ‘Completely.’

      ‘There are a million things I want to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.’

      ‘Then let’s begin here…’ I dare to flatten my palm against his chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of his heart through the faded fabric of his T-shirt. This heart has been beating for years, I think, and I never knew.

      For a while we stay like this, saying nothing, the only movement our breath and heartbeats, the familiar-unfamiliar sensation of closeness surrounding us.

      Then without warning, I’m crying.

      Mortified, I try to smother my sobs, jamming my eyelids shut to squeeze the tears back. But it’s too late. Sam breaks the embrace and lifts my chin with his hand.

      ‘Are you crying? Phoebe, why are you crying?’

      ‘I’m sorry…’ I rush, but speaking flicks a switch that releases more. I don’t want Sam to see, don’t want to break this perfect, wonderful moment. What will he think of me? I don’t even know what to think of myself.

      I don’t cry much in front of other people – never in public and certainly not with someone I hardly know. But I do know Sam, crazy as it sounds. So despite every scrap of head-logic screaming at me to stop, my heart won’t listen. It feels wrong but it seems like I don’t have much choice.

      ‘Hey, hey… Let’s sit down, okay?’

      ‘There isn’t any room.’

      ‘Then we make room.’ He slips the strap of the violin case from his shoulder and places it on one side, his rucksack on the other. In the space between he concertinas his body down until he’s sitting cross-legged, reaching up for me. ‘Your seat, milady.’

      I laugh despite the tears staining my cheeks. ‘I can’t sit on your lap.’

      He shrugs and slides his rucksack beside one leg. ‘An alternative, then. Although, you’ll need somewhere to sit when we’re 400-year-old, hot-lovin’ dustbags. You could just get