Practical stuff is no compensation for a broken heart, but at least it will keep me busy and make me feel not so out of control. I put off calling Niven until I’ve seen Syd’s brother’s place. He won’t mind. As far as he knows, I’m too busy being reunited with the love of my life.
I swallow the ball of emotion the thought raises and move into the live room to help the newly arrived string quintet set up.
This is what matters now. This is my life.
Chapter Forty-Three
Phoebe
Luc insists we go for a last walk around Montmartre before I pack to come home. I don’t want to say yes, but staring at four walls going over and over what happened is less appealing.
I think we’re just wandering as we did the first day Luc showed me around, until we turn a corner and it all becomes horribly clear.
The Wall of Love mural. The one I’d sent a photo of to Sam. One thousand I love you messages, each one mocking the words I’d said to him. Because how could I have told him I loved him and then broken his heart?
‘I don’t want to see this,’ I say, making to leave. But Luc catches my arm.
‘No Phoebe, there is something you haven’t seen yet.’
‘One thousand I love you messages? Yes, I see them. And I don’t want to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me back to face the wall. ‘Look harder. Between the words.’
I can’t see anything else, just the dark blue tiles and the white writing. ‘There isn’t anything else to see. Please, let’s go.’
‘Non, mon amie. Look at these…’
I follow the jut of his index finger to the corner of one of the tiles. A red blob. When I step back, they are everywhere, right across the mural. ‘What are they for?’
His fingers squeeze my shoulders. ‘They are pieces. Broken pieces of a heart. And if you were to collect them all and fit them together, you would fix that heart.’
Tears well up in my eyes, the letters and the red heart shards dancing in my view. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘All you see is love. You don’t notice these small pieces. I know your heart is broken, but there is enough love surrounding you to fix it. Because where love is, hope is there, too.’
Maybe when it doesn’t hurt so much, when I’ve forgiven my mistake, I’ll start to search for the pieces of my heart. But I’m not ready yet.
* * *
Arriving back in London is a bittersweet event.
I’m here. But the time is wrong.
It’s too late.
Too late to keep a promise I should have kept.
Meg and Osh had offered to meet me but I just want to get off the train and leave St Pancras as quickly as I can, alone. Head down, not looking at the giant lovers or the huge station-clock confirming my lateness. And definitely not passing the Betjeman statue: where Sam was waiting for me, but not any more.
After a year away, doing what I’d promised myself I’d do – and so much more besides – returning to St Pancras should be a celebration. I did it. Followed my heart for twelve months, all by myself. Except that, when it mattered most, I failed to listen to what it told me.
Around me my fellow passengers are already on their feet, collecting coats and cases, bags and belongings before the train has even begun to enter the station. A queue is forming by the doors, mobile phones pressed to ears as we pass railway sidings and the red and yellow brick signal box that mirrors St Pancras’ design in miniature. The passengers know where they’re going. Nobody else will doubt their place in the capital when they leave this train.
Except me.
When I step onto the platform, I will have no job, no plan, no onward journey. And no Sam.
My heart drags as the train brakes engage. The glow of late-afternoon sun paints the famous brick building red-gold as we enter the station, the blue girders cool against the famous walls. At the end of this line the bright pink neon Tracey Emin sign hangs: I WANT MY TIME WITH YOU.
I’ve loved it since it was unveiled but I don’t want to see it today. It’s my deepest, most painful thought suspended from the roof for the world to see. And the only person I’d want to see it isn’t here.
Where is Sam now? Is he still in London, in the studio he owns with his friend? If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d consider looking him up. He never told me the name of his studio but it can’t be hard to find. I could Google the address and just go. I could do it tomorrow. But what do you say to someone whose heart you’ve broken?
In the shadow of the station I catch sight of my eyes reflected in the train window. They’re swollen and soulless. I am so tired of hurting. But at least I’m home. I might have nothing, but I can build from here. Staring into a face I hardly recognise I make another promise – this time just to myself:
When I leave this train, I’m only looking forward.
I have cried enough. What matters now are the first steps I take from this train. I allow myself one moment in my seat to steady my breath. Then I rise, collect my luggage and join the end of the line waiting to leave.
Warm London air fills the carriage as the door opens and we shuffle out. Long shadows stretch beneath the blue girders and red brick as the sun continues its dip. It feels like home, my feet on the platform making the past twelve months concertina together, almost as if I’d never left. It’s strange how quickly you slot back into life after a journey. It’s the longest one I’ve ever made, so I’d wondered if it might take more time to readjust, but instantly everything is familiar and as I left it. Everything physical, at least.
I don’t want to linger on this level, with Sir John and the lovers and every thought of what might have been. So I duck my head and follow the stream of passengers down the stairwell to the lower concourse. From there I can head straight for the anonymity of the tube and decide where to go next.
Meg called this morning as I was saying goodbye to Tobi and Luc, and told me their lodger moved out, so my room is free if I want it. I have enough for two months’ rent, thanks to the little gift Lisabeta insisted I take for my work in the villa’s library – and the thought of being back in my room, surrounded by my friends who I’ve missed so much, is instantly appealing.
That’s where I’m going, although I need to decompress first. It’s getting late but there’ll be somewhere I can grab a drink, maybe even something to eat, and be quiet for a while before Meg, Gabe and Osh descend on me. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for work – or maybe the day after. Wait and see how I am once I’m home and this journey is finally over.
We emerge from the corridor through large stainless-steel doors into the lower concourse and instantly my heart contracts. I might have avoided the Betjeman statue and the neon pink words, but I’d forgotten where I’d end up – just metres away from where Sam and I took refuge together, where we kissed for the first time, where everything began. And worse still, hugging, kissing couples and families suddenly surround me, reunited from their journeys. I breathe hard against the pain as I slowly weave my way around them, utterly alone in a space filled with love and joy. There are so many and it seems to take a lifetime to navigate a safe path between them. Every step hurts. I’m such an idiot. So much for only looking forwards. Not even five minutes since I arrived and that promise is already broken.