Gabriel Marley.
Gabe.
‘I mean, look at the man. Sex on a stick. They just had the film premiere in London and it was all over Twitter and Instagram. Full-on Hollywood glam – the works. And Gabriel looks divine. Let me find the photo gallery…’
‘Give us a look,’ I say, hoping they won’t question my sudden interest in film gossip.
Shona leaves her seat, gazing happily at the screen, as she makes her way to me.
‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed in the morning. Beautiful man. And look – check out that lucky hen on his arm. Looks like the cat that got the entire Sainsbury’s cream fridge. And who can blame her?’
Niven’s face falls and he makes a bid for the iPad, but Shona’s already handed it to me.
Gabriel Marley is smouldering for the cameras, all dark eyes and perfectly styled hair. And pulled tight against his designer suit is a woman in a stunning blue-green velvet dress.
Not just any woman.
‘He doesn’t want to see that,’ Niven says, trying to take it from me.
But it’s too late. I see Phoebe’s bright smile, her hair tumbling in glossy waves over her naked shoulders – and everything makes sense.
She isn’t waiting for me to contact her again.
She’s having the time of her life with the guy she couldn’t stop talking about since we met.
So that’s why she missed the train.
I don’t know whether to feel angry, devastated or just really stupid for not seeing what was happening. Was she using me – and the year away – to make Gabe miss her? If she was, it clearly worked. One thing I do know is that I am going to start drinking now and carry on back at the motel when the gig is over. Getting drunk is the absolute best option because it turns out I never knew Phoebe Jones and I don’t want to feel anything about her ever again.
I almost called her today. I’ve had a lucky escape.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Phoebe
We hardly talk after the premiere. Gabe tells Meg and Osh it’s because he’s been so busy with the never-ending promotion for his film. I’ve said the same. But we’re both lying.
The day it happens, we’ve managed to grab an hour to have breakfast in the little Italian deli down the street from home. A car is due to collect him soon to take him to the BBC for an interview with film critic James King and then I’m unlikely to see him until the weekend. We’re both pretending this is a normal breakfast meeting, like we do this every day. In reality, it’s the first time since the film promotion began.
Across the table, between the basket of bomboloni doughnuts, cafétières of coffee and crockery, Gabe’s spread the newspaper and magazine press clippings of the premiere. He’s giving them to his agent when they meet at White City. I’m fiddling with my phone to avoid looking at them. My finger slips against the screen, the photo app opening instead of the Instagram button. Suddenly, I’m face to face with a version of myself I hardly recognise. Standing beside Amanda surrounded by stacks of old books in Villa Speranza’s library. The Phoebe Jones in the photograph is tanned and happy, grinning wide for the camera, her hair threaded with gold from the Puglian sun.
My heart aches.
Gabe is talking on his phone, eyes roving the press clippings as they pass beneath his fingers.
I can’t stop myself looking for another version of Phoebe Jones. The one standing by a train barrier on 14th June last year, her head pressed against the chest of a smiling man with a violin case slung on one shoulder. I can see the Phoebe Jones of the premiere over the top of the screen – and while she wears an incredible gown and jewels sparkle at her wrist, her smile is empty.
‘I can’t do this,’ I say.
Gabe stares at me. But I already see it in his eyes.
He’s been waiting for me to say it.
He ends the call and places his phone beside the press clippings. A slow, deliberate move that makes my insides contract.
‘Breakfast, or us?’
He isn’t smiling. I wish he were.
‘It isn’t you…’
‘Please. Don’t roll that one out. Just say it, Phoebe.’
And then I have no choice. ‘I can’t be with you. We’re so different and I feel like I’m losing myself… I don’t want to make you unhappy and if we stay together that’s what will happen.’
‘What about what I want?’
‘Gabe – can you be there for me if I need you? Would you drop everything and race back to be with me?’
‘That’s unfair. This is my job…’
‘It is. And it should be your main concern.’
‘This is about Sam, isn’t it?’
The punch knocks the air from me. ‘No. This is about me calling this off before we lose every scrap of love we have for each other.’
His eyes are still when they meet mine. ‘Phoebe. It’s about Sam. He can’t make you happy, but it appears neither can I.’
‘We’d end up hating each other. I don’t want that. Do you?’
He’s angry. He’s hurt. But he honestly doesn’t look heartbroken.
And that’s my answer.
* * *
Gabe leaves early for New York next morning after a night of brutal truths and confessions and a few hours’ sleep in separate beds. I’m bruised and aching but I’ve done the right thing.
So when Meg and Osh wake to find me red-eyed and exhausted in the living room nursing a mug of tea that lost its heat hours before, I’m able to assure them that I’m okay. And the telling thing is that neither of them looks completely surprised. I think they’ve known longer than I have – or longer than I was ready to admit I knew.
For a few days I drift from one thing to the next, aware that I need to sort out permanent work and start to set down roots in London again. The temp agency has been great, but it’s time to find what I want to do. What will happen when Gabe returns from the States? Right now we aren’t speaking and if that continues, sharing a home with him will be unimaginably difficult.
* * *
And then, life hands me a stroke of serendipity.
Out of the blue, Amanda calls. I haven’t spoken to her since we said goodbye at Lisabeta’s farm, although we’ve chatted occasionally on social media.
‘This might not be what you’re looking for, so feel free to say no, but I’m leading a literature-in-the-community initiative with a team of my students. We’ve been asked to build a Story Garden at the Eden Project. They’ve had storytelling and theatre groups there for years, but this will create a permanent space where Cornish novels and poetry can be celebrated in an environment accessible to everyone. It’s only a six-week project, but I wondered if I could tempt you down here to help me? It would be so good to hang out again and the students would love to meet you.’
It was serendipity that brought me to Villa Speranza, where I found a friend in Amanda. This is too good an opportunity to miss. And so I’m on another train today, this time heading south-west to Cornwall.
Working with my library-rebuilding cohort again appeals to me. Many times as we catalogued and shelved vintage volumes together we talked about the magic of books and how often people miss it because they don’t realise they can access them. Had it not been for the customer at my parents’ farm shop leaving Jane Eyre I might never have read it. Some of the pebbles we painted for Villa Speranza’s terrace garden carried quotes from our favourite books – tiny treasures for strangers to find. The project in Cornwall sounds perfect.