Читать книгу The Day We Meet Again - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 15
ОглавлениеWe talk. About everything.
Well, everything we can think of, which in the grand scheme of things probably isn’t even scratching the surface. The urgency takes me by surprise. It’s as if we’re trying to conduct a whole relationship in a few hours. Packing everything in so we can justify what our hearts knew immediately.
She sparkles when she learns stuff about me; shines when she shares things about herself. Playing catch-up has never been so thrilling.
And she’s so close to me. On her rucksack perch, the length of one thigh is against mine and although I’m no longer holding her hand she keeps touching my arm as she talks. I feel like a kiss is in the air between us. One move from either of us could bring it into being.
It would be so easy to kiss her.
But I can’t let it happen yet.
When you’re always on tour – or always on call for a gig – you tend to make decisions quickly and regret them at leisure, but it’s like you’re in this loop. More times than I’ll admit, I’ve started a relationship, gone away and returned in time for us to both admit it wasn’t working. A weird way to conduct relationships, but then nothing about being a gigging musician is ever regular.
So much of what I’m learning talking to Phoebe is about myself. I even tell her about Laura – and though it’s been six months since she left me for an annoying Russian conductor and stamped all over my heart, I haven’t wanted to talk about her to anyone before.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Phoebe says and I’m struck by how genuine this is. Most people say sorry when what they really want you to do is change the subject.
‘It’s hard to make relationships work in my line of business. Always heading off in opposite directions, too many hours between meetings to stop doubts setting in.’ I realise how close this might be to Phoebe and my current situation. I push the thought away. ‘With Laura, I thought I could make it work. And it did. Until the other bloke appeared.’
‘Was Laura a musician, too?’
I nod. ‘She’s a session singer who also plays cello, violin and viola – and when string sections cost the earth to hire, she’s a good person to know. In a few hours she could record all the parts a string quartet would perform, for a fraction of the cost. Saving money appeals to studios and record companies, so she always had more than enough work to keep her in one place. And I liked that, in the beginning. It was good to know she was there, even if I was called away on tour for weeks at a time.’ The rawness returns to my gut. Time to move on. ‘Anyway, she chose someone else. I started working to make the studio happen with my mate Chris and here we are.’ I decide to hedge my bets. ‘So, Gabe. Is he an ex?’
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she might be offended. Then her shoulders slump a little. ‘No. Not really. Once. But it was a mistake and we’re still friends.’
‘How long?’
‘One night.’ She pulls a face. ‘That sounds terrible out loud, but it’s the truth. One night, after drinking too much beer and both of us being dumped at the same time. I hardly remember anything and he was drunker than I was. Anyway, it was a mistake.’
A mistake I can deal with. But it makes me realise how little I know about her and how much I want to know. Even though Phoebe and I are cramming as much information as we can into the time we have together, it still feels like nowhere near enough. When she cried earlier, it shocked me. If I’d known her for a while longer I would have known how to be, but I’m flying blind with so much of this. My head is still trying to make sense of it all. My heart has no such confusion, which is confusing in itself.
I can’t think about this now. There will be plenty of time once I’m on the train.
But do I even want to get on the train any more?
I was serious when I mentioned a longer delay to Phoebe. What if meeting her was meant to stop me going back to Scotland? What if this is life dealing me a last-minute detour that I’m supposed to take?
It wouldn’t be the first time I delayed this trip.
I was supposed to visit Mull the year I turned 30 and was all set to go, but then I met Laura and put it back. I haven’t been able to escape the thought that maybe if I’d followed my heart instead of my – well, you know – I might have had an easier time.
Phoebe could be another Laura.
I don’t think I could bear that.
I check myself, refocus on the beautiful woman beside me. She is not Laura. She could well be the love of my life. So what do I do?
Phoebe has changed subject and is now talking about her childhood, growing up on a fruit farm in the Vale of Evesham.
‘That sounds idyllic.’ I catch her expression and hold up my hand. ‘I mean, I’m sure it was hard work. But working in fruit orchards, being surrounded by your family – that sounds great.’
‘I guess. When you’re a teenager dreaming of being anywhere else but Evesham it doesn’t seem like that.’
‘Sure. I mean my growing up was a world away. When we moved to the mainland we lived in a series of dreary council estates in Edinburgh and Carlisle. Not quite as picturesque as a Worcestershire fruit farm.’ I’m pretty certain Phoebe’s mother wasn’t a functioning alcoholic like mine, either, but I don’t say that. I loved my ma, but I know she was never happy after my father, Frank Mullins, disappeared. ‘Mind you, I have one of the places we lived in Edinburgh to thank for this.’ I pat my violin case.
‘How did that happen?’
‘We were living in Dumbiedykes and Ma was friendly with the landlord of our local pub. He’d put bottles by for her behind the bar and it was my job to go fetch them. So I was waiting by the bar one evening and there was a group of regulars who always sat in the corner nearest the fire with their instruments. While I was waiting they just started playing. The pub was practically empty, save for them and, I don’t know, I found it magical. To be so unworried by what anyone else thought and just be able to start playing like that. I shifted around the bar so I could be closer to them and then one of the old guys saw me watching and invited me to sit with them.’
‘And that made you want to play the violin?’
‘Yeah. A Polish guy called Jonas played the fiddle and I fell in love with how he made it sing. The way he played – it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. And I wanted to play like him. He offered to show me a few tunes and for the next two years he gave me free lessons after school in the pub. The landlord let me stay because he liked the music and I guess he worked out that life wasn’t the easiest at home. Funny how little bits of kindness like that can change your life.’
‘He sounds like an amazing man.’
‘He was. And more of a dad to me than mine ever was. But then my ma’s cousin offered us use of her tiny granny flat in Carlisle. I was distraught about leaving Jonas but on the day I said goodbye, he gave me his second-best fiddle to take to my new home. And he said, “You were born to play this. Promise me you’ll play every day.” So I did. Every day since.’
Phoebe’s eyes light up when she hears this. ‘And that’s why you’re a musician now?’
‘It is. I wanted to make Jonas proud of me.’
‘Did you keep in touch?’
‘For a while. But you know how things are. He moved, didn’t leave a forwarding address. Hopefully, he’s found a nice warm corner in a pub somewhere to play out his jigs and reels with a bunch of regulars. That’s how I’ll always picture him.’
‘I know what you mean about how people we meet can change our lives. I fell in love with words when a customer left their copy of Jane Eyre in my parents’ farm shop. It was the first grown-up novel I’d ever read. And, coincidentally, it led to the first lie I’d ever told, when the old lady who’d left it came back and I hid it under a stack of apple boxes beneath the counter.’
‘Phoebe Jones, master criminal! Now I’m learning the truth.’
She blushes – and it’s the most glorious sight.
Glorious, Sam? I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before. What is she doing to me?
And then, in the middle of her laughter, Phoebe’s smile vanishes. ‘I don’t want to get on the train, Sam.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think I can. And I can’t ask you to miss your train – that’s not what I’m saying… But how can we leave when this is happening? I’m scared if I go I’ll miss it.’
‘Like you feel about sleeping?’
She shifts position until she’s looking straight into my eyes. ‘It’s more than that. What if we were supposed to meet instead of getting on our trains today? Or what if we were meant to travel together? I—’ She exhales a breath, looks down. ‘Oh, stuff it. I am the most organised person but this is the most disorganised thing I’ve ever done in my life and it scares me. I’ve told everyone I’m totally fine with going away but the truth is I’ve been tempted to talk myself out of it so many times. What if I somehow knew this was going to happen? Meeting you. What if—?’
‘Phoebe – wait – stop.’
She clamps a hand to her mouth and her eyes glisten. I see fear bloom there and am acutely aware of my own. Slowly, I coax her hand away.
‘Right – just take a breath. And listen to me. This isn’t a no, okay? It’s not a no. I just think…’
But she’s shaking her head and I feel like I’m losing her already. Before we even get on the train. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it and…’
And then I’m kissing her. It happens so instinctively that we’re halfway into the kiss before I realise what I’ve done. It’s the wrong time and the perfect time at once; the most ill-advised act but the one thing our time together was missing.
Phoebe doesn’t pull away. As our kiss rises and falls she slides onto my lap and her tears dance down where her face touches mine. It isn’t an answer. But it’s what we both want.
I could stay there forever but eventually I move my head back. ‘I think we should test this.’
‘You’re right,’ she says. And suddenly it makes sense. ‘We have to make these journeys. I just wish we were going together.’
‘Me too. Maybe we could…?’
‘No, I think you’re right, Sam. Unless we test it, how will we know if this is what we both hope it is? I don’t want to get a year down the line and realise we rushed in too soon.’
I try to wrestle every racing thought to order in my mind. I want Phoebe in my life and I don’t want to wait for her. But we both have things to do – promises we’ve made to ourselves – and I know from experience with Laura that resentment always builds if you’ve put your own promises on hold. I don’t want to feel like that again. I don’t ever want Phoebe to feel that way about me.
Suddenly, a huge round of applause breaks like a hailstorm across the concourse, as loud as a dozen trains thundering into the station at once. We stand, our muscles stiff from sitting. Phoebe steps into the concourse and looks up at the Departures board.
‘The delay signs have gone,’ she says – and I see a battle in her face as she turns back to me. ‘My train leaves in forty minutes.’
I don’t want to look now. Because as soon as I do, everything changes. I want us to stay here, in our little square of station floor, just Phoebe and I. But she has a departure time, which means I do, too. Heart heavy, I raise my eyes.
‘Mine leaves in half an hour.’
