* * *
Ailish McRae’s voice was a feature of my childhood, thanks to the weekly phone calls my brother and I fought to answer.
‘Hello, petal. It’s Auntie Ailish. Is your ma there?’
She is the one and only person in the world to ever have the right to call me petal. Even Phoebe can’t use that one.
Ailish’s home nestles on the side of a small hill not far from the beach, overlooking the Fionnphort ferry crossing to Iona. The house is whiter than I remember, its windows beginning to glow gold in the late-afternoon sun. As the car rumbles over the rough track from the main road towards it, I see the pale blue front door fly open and there she is. Her hair has turned from auburn to white-blonde but is still swept up on the top of her head as she’s always worn it. Callum and I used to think her hair was magic – in the highest of winds and worst weather it never moved from where she’d pinned it. Ma thought she was magic, too, having turned up in her life when she most needed a friend. I feel lucky to be surrounded by friends I’m pretty certain will still be there at the end of my life.
We park on the sweep of gravel at the front of the building, Ailish grinning on her door step, her feet dancing on the slate flagstone like an excited child.
‘Oh bairn! There you are!’
I’m gathered into the biggest, happiest bear hug and when Niven steps out of the car she beckons him into it, too. He squashes in beside me, turning red as we’re squeezed together.
‘What a happy day this is!’ When she releases us, tears fill her eyes. ‘I wish your ma could see this, Sam. Her poor heart…’
The last time I saw Ailish was in the grey churchyard on the outskirts of the village where Ma spent the last year of her life, on the day we said goodbye to her. Not even 60 and vanished from the earth. At the end, I hardly recognised my mother. Alcohol is brutal – Ailish understands that more than most. Both her parents died before their time, cursed by the demands of drink.
‘I reckon she’s watching,’ I say, disguising the lump in my throat with a cough.
‘If I know her, she will be.’ Ailish chuckles and wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. ‘Now, enough of this! Come in, both of you. I’ve the kettle on and cake made.’
Niven tries to make his apologies but Ailish is having none of it. Not that he protests too strongly, knowing cake is imminent. I grab my rucksack and violin case from the back of Niven’s car and we follow my honorary auntie inside.
Chapter Thirteen
Phoebe
I don’t want to go out today, but reading isn’t occupying my mind enough. I wander around the apartment trying to find something to distract me. Tobi and Luc have left a stack of DVDs and magazines on the coffee table – I sort through them but nothing appeals. I’m restless, as though there’s something I ought to be doing but I haven’t worked out what yet.
Two weeks into my Grand Adventure and I’m having an off-day. I’ve been to all the places on my list and have found some new ones, too. I can’t understand it. I have one of the most amazing cities in the world on my doorstep but today I don’t feel like exploring at all.
Of course, what I should be doing is firming up details for the next leg of my journey. Thing is, I can’t decide whether to go to Rome first or Florence. I’ve found Airbnbs in both and narrowed my list down to three in each city. They’re all within my budget and perfectly acceptable but – I don’t know – there’s something missing. It’s probably the idea of staying somewhere alone, or with hosts I don’t know. Which is daft, considering I didn’t know Luc and barely knew Tobi when I arrived in Paris. They’ve just become such good friends and the rhythm of life here suits me – striking out on my own during the day and returning to Tobi’s cooking and Luc’s funny stories about his workplace in the evening. Large parts of this year will be going from one unfamiliar place to the next and I’m okay with that but I’ll miss the friendship.
Today isn’t the day to decide, though. Not while I’m in this mood.
When I’d pictured this year I never expected to have boring or indecisive days. The Phoebe Jones of my imagination left all of that stuff in London and marched confidently though every one of her 365 European days. But you can’t leave yourself behind. All of the doubts and insecurities and ridiculous hang-ups that characterised me at home are still with me.
And anyway, I know what the real problem is: I miss Sam.
Neither of us is sticking to the rules we agreed for communication. One of us should be sensible, but it gives me hope because he isn’t in a hurry to forget me, or parcel me into neat boxes of time. The flipside of this is that every bit of communication makes me long for him more.
I jump as my mobile buzzes. It’s happened a few times lately: just when my heart has been longing for him he’s appeared on my phone. What was it he called it back at St Pancras? Spooky.
On the wide love seat by the window I sit and open the message. It’s a photo of Sam on a hillside with the sea in the distance. His dark curls are being whipped up at the front by the wind and he’s wearing a sweater and coat, despite it being July. I’m in a T-shirt today and although all of the windows are open, the apartment is stuffy with heat. Another reason I’ve chosen not to go out today.
Feeling the now familiar rush of adrenalin, I type a message back.
* * *
Where are you? xx
* * *
The dancing dots underneath the bubble of my message jig in time with my heart. And then his reply appears:
* * *
On the hill behind Ailish’s house. I can see the Iona ferry from here xx
* * *
You look amazing – sorry, IT looks amazing xx
* * *
Cheeky xx
* * *
Sorry xx
* * *
I wait while he types the next message. I can’t hide my smile.
* * *
Firstly, I don’t believe you are sorry. Secondly, carry on xx
* * *
That laugh of his dances through his words.
* * *
You look cold xx
* * *
Probably because it’s freezing here. Niven’s right, too many years living in the South have made me a wuss. He’s swanning around in a T-shirt today. Not even a goosebump on him. I’m a disgrace to my Caledonian race xx
* * *
He’s mentioned so many names in our conversations. Kate, Donal, Ailish, Lexie, Addie, Ivor – he talked about a Niven but I can’t remember the context. I can’t bluff my way out of this.
* * *
Who’s Niven again? (Sorry!) xx
* * *
Old university friend. Another musician. You’d like him. You’d probably fancy him. He’s a proper heartbreaker xx