Will he be tired from his journey? Does Sam get grumpy when he’s tired? Or is he like Osh, who just becomes cute and sleepy? Or Meg, who suddenly disappears to bed without saying a word? I know Sam isn’t an early bird, but is he bright when he does wake? Gabe isn’t the best at getting up, but once he decides to face the day he’s completely committed to it. The full megawatt smile and one hundred per cent energy switches on and that’s him for the rest of the day. All of these tiny, everyday details I don’t know about Sam yet. A million and one unknown things that make up the man I’m in love with. What does his face look like when he’s sleeping? When the first rays of daylight pass over his skin? What would it feel like to wake beside him? What would I see if Sam were my first sight in the morning?
I know that I love him. But in so many ways he’s still a stranger. He’s made decisions I didn’t understand and I’ve said things he couldn’t deal with. All the certainties wait by the Betjeman statue. Nothing will be the same after today.
I glance at my watch.
10.50 a.m.
By the time the train halts it will be 10.55 a.m. Five minutes till the time we agreed to meet.
And then…?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sam
‘We are now arriving at London King’s Cross, where this service terminates. Please ensure you take all your personal belongings with you. Thank you for travelling with us today.’
This is it.
It’s almost 11 a.m. I have a dash across the road from here to St Pancras where Phoebe will be waiting. My hands are shaking as I stuff my book, water bottle and jumper into my rucksack. I’m suddenly aware of the staleness of the air in this carriage that we’ve all been breathing for the past five hours. My stomach swims with nerves and anticipation, the same kind of knotted tension that appears in the minutes before I take the stage. Only today my audience is just one person.
I can’t wait to hold her. Kiss her. Replace the dimming memories I have of those sensations with the real thing. Suddenly the twelve months since I left become no more than a single thought: the past. All that matters now is getting to the Betjeman statue and beginning my life with Phoebe Jones.
I join the line of shuffling, impatient passengers moving down the carriage and time seems to stretch for an eternity until the beep-beep-beep of the opening door locks makes my heartbeat spike.
Get me off this train now. She’s waiting for me.
And then my feet step down onto station platform concrete and adrenalin powers through my body. I don’t even try to play it cool: the moment I leave the train, I’m running…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Phoebe
The air is still beside the Betjeman statue.
Sir John’s tilted face catches the mid-morning sunlight beaming down on him through the glass roof high above his head, pooling around his feet. I don’t see the commuters hurrying past, or the pockets of tourists posing with the famous poet’s memorial. Here the station noise is muted: I can hear my breath, feel the urgent pulse of blood at my wrists and hear the quickening thrum of my heart louder than any other sound.
11 a.m., 14th June.
One year exactly from the day we met.
Where I promised I’d be.
Sam’s train was due in before mine, but it will take him a while to get across from King’s Cross and up to the first floor of St Pancras. He’ll come running up the stairs any moment now, the distance between us finally closed like two hands meeting, two halves of a heart joining.
What will he do when he gets here?
What will he say?
I close my eyes. Mark the moment before everything changes forever.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sam
I pass the concourse where we first kissed, the coffee concession where I fell in love with her, and approach the staircase we walked down together to begin this whole crazy journey. And as I take the stairs two at a time, the hands of the huge station clock above the first floor moving just past the hour, I see the Betjeman statue rising into view. His hat first, then the billowing mackintosh and, as I reach the top step, the bag he carries, the smart shoes and his words etched in slate that loop around his feet.
A group of tourists pose awkwardly in front of the statue, all forced-smiles and puffed-out chests. I wait until they are done and smile at them as they start to leave.
One minute past eleven. Not bad timekeeping considering my dash across the station. And hey, one thing Phoebe needs to know about me is that musicians and time management are not natural bedfellows.
One by one, the tourists mill away, until just Sir John and I remain.
Just me and the statue.
Just me.
… What?
Where is she?
I check my watch – is it fast? Its face matches the giant station clock.
I make a slow, 360-degree turn in case she’s heading over from the Eurostar platform and I just haven’t spotted her yet. I know her train has arrived: I saw it listed on the arrivals board as I ran here.
Sir John’s half-smile and upward-turned chin assures me all is well.
But if her train has arrived and it’s just turned 11 a.m., she should be here.
I look at my phone. No messages. When I call her number, it directs straight to voicemail. Perhaps it’s in her bag for when she got off the train, or still on silent from the journey?
Nerves building, I leave a message.
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m here. You know, just hanging out with sweet Johnny B…’ My laugh sounds forced. I swallow hard against a dry throat. ‘Are you…? Are you on your way? I can’t see you.’
Over by the top of the stairs a woman watches me. She has blue streaks in her pale blonde hair. Something about her expression unnerves me. I end the call and turn my back on her as I face the statue again.
And then, I see it.
Tucked between Betjeman’s shoulder and his neck is a single yellow rose. And from it, a brown luggage label hangs. I’m drawn to it even though it has nothing to do with me. People leave floral memorials all over this city – their own grief, their own reasons to commemorate someone. It’s fascinating, but none of my business.
It’s only when my fingers halt the slowly spinning label that I see my name:
* * *
My wonderful Sam –
I am so sorry.
It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do love you.
I hope one day you’ll forgive me.
All my love, Phoebe xx
* * *
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. She said she’d be here. She said she loved me.
I’ve been punched so hard in my core that my feet won’t hold me. I make it as far as the glass barrier at the edge of the walkway before I slump to the ground.
In my hands the rose is too yellow, too bright. Through aching eyes I scan the message again, looking for something, anything that I might have missed. The smallest detail on which I can hang my hope and prevent my heart shattering. But it’s too late. All of my hope for us, all of our promises, every word we’ve shared for twelve long months apart, broken irrevocably. Gone.