The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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of crisps.
‘Right, lads. Beers.’
Those three words have heralded many an unwise imbibing of alcohol over the years and I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. But I have been looking forward to this for weeks. We grab a bottle each and handfuls of crisps, which turn out to be teddy bear-shaped snacks.
‘We ran out of the usual ones.’ Kate shrugs. ‘Don’t tell Lexie but I raided her packed lunch crisps.’
‘Very rock ’n’ roll,’ I laugh.
‘Robert Plant is a Pom-Bears fan,’ she says. I love the sparkle in her voice when she’s joking. I’ve missed it – and Donal’s hearty guffaw, too. ‘Probably. Dave Grohl too, when he isn’t drumming.’
‘So tell us about your studio, Sam. Is it going to rival Abbey Road?’
I grin at Donal. ‘One day maybe. It’s all set up now and we have bookings for the first four months.’
‘And Chris doesn’t mind you leaving, just when it’s all starting?’
‘He’s glad I’m not under his feet,’ I admit. It’s true: I was always going to be the one who funded things, while Chris was hands-on. ‘Truth is, neither of us expected to find premises as quickly as we did and by then my year out was already arranged.’
‘Like Kate and me,’ Donal says, draining his beer bottle and reaching for another. ‘She’s the brains, I’m the brawn.’
Kate bats him with the back of her hand but the way they snuggle together on the sofa warms my heart. It took long enough to get them together, but they’re inseparable now. Will Phoebe and I be like that?
My phone is on the coffee table where I left it and occasionally notifications illuminate the screen. I’m trying not to look, but each time it happens I wonder if it might be Phoebe. Is she thinking of me? I guess her first night with her hosts will call her attention from her phone more than mine. She mentioned she’s only met one of them before. That makes me glad I know the people I’m staying with.
‘Will you be seeing Niven while you’re on Mull?’ Donal asks.
‘Hope so, as often as I can. Have either of you heard from him lately? I tried calling a couple of times before I left but I couldn’t get hold of him.’
There’s a very definite look that passes between my friends. ‘He’s on some kind of training course for work, I think. He’ll be in touch soon as he’s able. You know Niven.’
I smile back but it makes me wonder what they know about him that I don’t. I know things have been up in the air since his fiancée moved out, but the last I heard he was dating again. Before I can ask any more, Kate pulls out a large bottle of single malt whisky from between the sagging sofa cushions.
‘Time for this baby, I think.’
Donal and I protest, but it’s useless. Kate only has to raise an eyebrow and suggest a girl might beat us in a drinking competition and we’re both in. Years have not taught us wisdom on this. Donal fetches glasses from the sideboard while I clear a space between the empty beer bottles covering the coffee table. It’s like being in our earliest days as friends: the whisky may be more expensive now, but the friendship is as strong as it’s ever been.
We settle into an easy silence as we take our first sip of peaty liquor and I glance at the clock. Midnight already. Will Phoebe be asleep now? Kate’s head is resting on Donal’s shoulder, his eyes closed as he enjoys his dram. I sneak my phone from the coffee table and jump as the screen illuminates.
PHOEBE – 1 MESSAGE
I look up at my friends but they haven’t moved. Heart racing, I open the message.
Hi ☺ Arrived in Paris and in my new temporary home. Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you. Speak soon and sleep well xx
That’s why she’s no Laura, I tell myself. Laura would only text if she wanted something, or to have a go at me. Phoebe misses me. So much that she broke her own rule of limited contact less than twenty-four hours into our year apart.
Shielding my mobile from view of my friends, I reply:
I miss you too. All good here apart from my arms being empty. Sweet dreams, beautiful xx
Kate raises her head and I pocket my phone before she notices. But I’m humming now. I can’t tell if it’s alcohol or lust… or love…? No, not love, not yet. But if I still feel like this in twelve months’ time I’ll fly faster than the train back to St Pancras and never let her go.
We talk, we laugh, we drink. My phone remains silent. But the thought that she might text again – the unpredictability of it – warms me more than any amount of single malt could.
I’ll text her when I leave here for Mull, I decide. If Phoebe can bend the rules, so can I.
Daylight brings colour into my room, closely followed by a wall of pain crashing against my skull, so an equally delicate Luc suggests we ease as gently as possible into our tour of his favourite bits of Paris with a visit to his beloved local café.
Soon we’re sitting by the window looking out across the street and it seems like the whole of Paris is parading past. Beyond the people with never-ending cigarettes and expertly folded copies of Le Figaro directly beyond the glass – who alone are fascinating enough – old and young pass by, a thousand different lives and stories walking along the street. I can see why writers have found inspiration here. You wouldn’t even need a story idea: sit here for long enough and the city would write it for you.
I glance at Luc – or rather the enormous pair of dark sunglasses he’s currently hiding behind. He picked up a newspaper from the seller on the corner of the street below the apartment but it’s still where he put it when we first sat down, folded under his hand on the polished wood table. ‘How’s the head?’
‘I think it hates me.’ Behind the lenses his eyes crinkle into a smile, quickly followed by a grimace as his hangover protests.
‘Listen, we don’t have to do this today. I’m quite happy to wander around by myself…’
‘No way! You are our guest and I promised you a tour of my neighbourhood. But every great tour of this city should begin with the best coffee. So,’ he spreads his hands wide like a magician at the big reveal, ‘voila!’
I raise my cup to salute him and Luc nods at a passing waiter to order two more. At this rate I’ll be carried around the streets of Paris by caffeine buzz alone. But at least my headache isn’t stabbing quite so ferociously.
Another hour and a half later, helped by the pastries that finally tempted us and yet more coffee, Luc and I emerge squinting in the strengthening sunlight. The chill that whistled round the streets first thing has relented and I can see Parisians shrugging off coats and jackets to brave the walk without them.
The Sacré-Cœur Basilica is only a short walk from the café, so we head there first. It’s set near parks, surrounded by cobbled streets and its white walls, tall towers and elegant domes are dazzling in the mid-morning sun. I’ve seen it in guidebooks and Meg’s told me about it so many times – she loves it more than Notre Dame and reckons it’s one of the most underrated buildings in Paris. But standing here is something else. The sounds of the city are a constant low hum but here birdsong joins the noise as their fleeting shapes pass between the ancient structures. We don’t venture inside, but I intend to do that on a day when I don’t have anywhere else to be. I plan to reconnoitre Paris