‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘But it hurts that he’s shutting you out.’
Meg knows she’s hit the nail on the head by my silence.
‘Phee, give him space. Give yourself some space, too.’
‘I know you’re right.’
‘Hey, I’m a hugely important person trying to pretend I’m an important TV writer. Of course I’m right.’
Talking to Meg soothes some of my concerns, but I still wonder what Sam’s doing. Is he in Edinburgh already? I don’t know whether to wish he finds his father or not. It’s another reminder that I don’t know him as well as my heart thinks it does.
* * *
My mobile rings later that evening. I grab it, pausing when I see the caller’s name.
‘Phoebs! How are you? Where are you?’
‘Hello, Gabe. I’m good and I’m writing my journal in my room. How are you? And why are you calling?’
I hear his laugh and instantly feel mean. ‘Oh well, that’s charming.’
‘Sorry, what I meant was—’
‘Relax, it’s fine. Meg mentioned she spoke to you today so I thought I’d give you a call. Also, I have a question: when are you heading back to Paris?’
‘In a few weeks. I’m coming back to London on 14th June.’
‘Right. Now the play is over I’m taking a couple of months off. We’re still waiting for the damn release date on the feature film so I don’t want to commit to anything else until it comes through. And I’m knackered. I fancy a break. So, how about I pop over to Paris when you’re there?’
Even though he can’t see me, I freeze. ‘I—’
‘You know, we could spend a couple of days wafting around, walking pink poodles, reading Proust?’
‘I’m… not sure when I’m likely to be there. And there’s Tobi and Luc: they want me to stay with them before I come home and they’ve been so good to me sorting out all the places to stay.’
I don’t want Gabe to be in Paris. When I return to Tobi and Luc’s I only want to be thinking about Sam. About what he means to me. About everything we could be.
‘You hate the idea.’
‘I don’t hate it. I just – er…’
Have I offended him? I hear his chuckle and imagine the half-frown he has when someone mocks him. ‘No problem. Just thought I’d ask. Are you still loving villa life?’
‘Yes, it’s going to be a wrench to leave it,’ I reply, relieved the conversation has veered off its worrying course.
‘I think what you’ve done there is wonderful. Saving a library? I can’t imagine a more perfect job for you. Send me photos when it’s done, yeah? I want to see your handiwork.’
‘I will. Sorry, Gabe. About the Paris thing.’
‘Hey, don’t sweat it. Your loss! Anyway, it will be good to have you back in June.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Go back to your scribbling.’
I stare at my darkened phone when his image fades to black. I’m not sure how to feel. The Gabe I left in London had been doing his best to tell me I wouldn’t be able to manage a year away. The Gabe I met in Tuscany could see the change in me. And the Gabe who just called acknowledged I’d found my calling in Puglia.
The change is remarkable. And it’s raised a question I never thought I’d have to consider: if Gabe had been like this the day before I left, would I have gone?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sam
Abbeyhill has changed from the place in my memory. It helps that it’s a sunny day today. Everything looks brighter, more hopeful with a wash of sunlight.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
In my hotel room last night I lay awake going over everything. I wish I could say that when I planned to find out about Frank I actually imagined meeting the guy. I just expected to find out more than I’d known before, like learning the history of an ancient monument you’d grown up by.
If he’s there, what will I say to him?
What do you say to the guy who cared so little about his son that he removed himself from his life? To him I’m as good as dead, anyway.
If it was me, I’d want to know.
I remember the stillness of Phoebe’s eyes when she said that to me, how it contrasted with the wild dance of her hair as the breeze whipped it around her face. Until she said it, I don’t think I would have considered doing anything with the information Doug had given me.
But I’m here because of her words.
I don’t know what time Frank’s likely to be at home – if it’s even still his home – so I opt for mid-morning first. If there’s no answer, I’ll try again around 6 p.m. and again at 9 p.m. In between I’ll head back to the hotel and try my hardest not to get drunk. I haven’t had any alcohol since I arrived yesterday but I can’t guarantee what happens today won’t send me seeking solace in a bottle.
I’ve told Ailish I’ll ring her as soon as I find anything. She knows to respect that and won’t try to call me before. She still feels bad about our fight but no matter how in control of your life you are, sometimes you just need someone who loves you enough to give you a great big push.
What would Ma have made of me being here? Never mind the irony that her absent husband was likely living in the same city as us for at least some of our time in Edinburgh. Would she be angry with me? The kid in me who never wanted to make his mother cry worries a little now. I hope she’d understand, even if I suspect she wouldn’t.
The taxi drops me off a few streets away, a deliberate move on my part to give me a chance to get myself together. I walk past houses in various states of repair, most of them proudly cared for but the odd one here and there with broken fences and cars parked across gardens, as if they’ve been dumped in a hurry. Most are semi-detached houses now; back in the day they would all have been council flats. Some of the buildings still have the flight of concrete steps outside rising to the first floor from the driveway. There are lines of spring flowers standing sentry-like along some of the garden paths. Black wheelie bins, pink plastic bottle boxes and green and blue recycling bags edge the pavement. Each one is a glimpse into the lives of the residents – beer bottles and folded pizza boxes in one set, bags of brightly coloured wrapping paper and children’s toy packaging in the next.
I don’t get stage fright before a gig but right now every nerve within me is on high alert.
The streets are empty, but I feel as if the world is watching.
It strikes me that this is one of those moments in life that can’t be anything but monumental. My story as Frank’s son will be forever altered the moment that door opens. Even if he’s long gone, or dead after all, my life has already changed just by being here.
There it is: the junction with Airdrie Road and the small sign that marks its beginning. He’s already closer than he has been for twenty-three years.
I follow the houses on the odd-numbered side of the road. Each one is divided into two flats. Which would Frank choose, ground floor or first? Head in the clouds or best placed for a speedy exit? I wonder…