We’re soaked and covered in mud, but it’s become hilarious due to the sheer grimness of our situation.
‘Non-stop glamour, this,’ Amanda yells at me over the hammering of rain and the constant burr of van engines ticking over.
‘I can’t handle the pressure,’ I laugh back, taking another box of food from the stranded caterer lorry.
As I turn to trudge through the mud, I freeze.
Sam Mullins is waiting by a hire van, jacket hood pulled up to fend off the rain. He doesn’t see me. But it’s unmistakably him.
Dark hair plastered to his cheeks, the beard he grew over the winter gone.
He’s here.
As fast as I can, I turn and hurry back the way I’ve come.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sam
We arrived at the Eden Project early for our last gig of the tour. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.
It’s filthy weather and there’s a huge queue of vans, cars and minibuses stranded in the quagmire of the festival site, but it feels like a celebration. Tomorrow Niven and I will drive the hire van back to London, returning our borrowed sound gear to the studio, while the rest of the band heads home. Niven is going to stay at mine for a few days, so at least it doesn’t just end after this evening.
Shona is hardly talking to me. I can’t blame her. She made some cryptic comment last week about the ghost of Phoebe Jones haunting me but apart from that she’s just got on with the job. I’ll be relieved when she goes home, to be honest. Our friendship will survive this, but distance will definitely help.
‘Oi, Mullins! Stop looking pretty and grab the amps from the van!’
‘Yes, sir, Mr McNish, sir!’ I throw Niven a mock salute, unlock the van and start unloading. I’m dragging out a foldback speaker when a flash of vivid colour on the ground catches my attention. Sliding the speaker back into the van, I crouch down to investigate.
It’s tucked under the edge of the marquee currently serving as an artist registration tent. If I hadn’t glanced down I wouldn’t have seen it. I reach beneath the canvas and lift it out.
It’s a small pebble, its smooth surface painted with a rainbow. When I look closer, the rainbow arcs between two blue painted mountains that could be a Scottish glen, framed by a square. It could be the view from a train window passing through sunshine and shadows. But when I turn the pebble over in my palm, the artist mark almost makes me drop it:
* * *
~ Phoebe ~
* * *
No. That’s a coincidence, I tell myself. It has to be. And anyway, there could be any number of Phoebes painting pebbles and dropping them for other people to find. Since my Phoebe mentioned it, I’ve seen countless stone-painting groups popping up on Facebook.
My Phoebe. Like she was ever mine.
‘Sam, there’s a tree down over the route to the stage,’ Niven yells, coming out of artist registration where he’s just been receiving alternate directions for navigating the festival site. ‘We’ve got to go via the Story Garden.’
‘Where?’ I ask, pocketing the pebble and lifting the speaker fully out of the van.
‘Follow me.’
We follow a narrow path made to look like a mountain pass and negotiate the narrow natural corridor of shrubs towards a bank of garden terraces filled with scented Alpines and herbs. Tiny white lights in the bushes do battle with the relentless rain and structures made of woven willow branches hide at each twist and turn of the path. Lovely to look at but a pain to steer very square, very heavy bits of kit around. My foot slips and hits something hard – and when I look down, I stop walking. Marking the edge of the path is line after line of painted pebbles – each about the same size but every one unique in its decoration.
And then, hurrying the other way and stopping dead when they see me – the very last person I expected to see today. She’s carrying a caterer’s box and is soaked with rain and mud.
Phoebe stares at me and I can’t move. The person I wanted to see more than any living soul back in June – horribly late, but here.
‘Phoebe…’ I begin, not knowing which words will appear; scared I’ll say the wrong thing.
But then she slowly turns and runs from me.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Phoebe
He’s here, at Eden. And now he knows I’m here, too.
I don’t know how to handle this.
Added to the problems mounting today, it’s taken so long to dislodge the truck that the gig has begun, so my way around the front of the stage is fenced off. To get back to my hire car there’s only one option: skirt the backstage area.
The festival is in full swing, so perhaps now is the time to risk it. Sam will be busy with his band and I can dash through unnoticed. Running as fast as I can in my mud-caked, rain-drenched jeans, I hurry around the perimeter fence, my heart in my mouth. The rain has stopped at least but anyone with any sense will be in the tents and dressing areas where warm fan heaters have been blasting all afternoon.
There’s nobody here. Sam isn’t here.
I have almost reached the gate that leads to the staff car park when the last tent flips open. And Sam walks out. He’s standing by the line of large black flight cases behind the stage, hands by his side. Waiting.
I could run. But he’s seen me and I owe him an explanation. So I force myself forwards, pulling the sleeves of my crew hoodie over my hands. I feel cold, but it’s not because of the weather.
‘I didn’t think you’d still be here,’ he says. He isn’t smiling.
My heart might as well have lead weights tied to it. I feel it drop to my boots. ‘We all volunteered to help free the catering truck.’ The thick splatters of mud are slowly drying on my jeans, but I’m suddenly embarrassed by the state of me. I must look like I’ve been dragged through a peat bog.
‘I guess it worked, huh?’
‘Hope so. I’m not intending to add, “truck rescue” to my CV any time soon.’
He doesn’t laugh, or smile, or do anything that resembles the Sam I’ve carried in my head and my heart this year. He could be anyone tonight. I don’t know him. I swallow hard, emotion gagging my throat.
‘Sam, I want to explain.’
He looks away, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. ‘There’s nothing to say, Phoebe.’
‘Maybe. But I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and now I have. So if I don’t say this now, I never will. And I’ll always wonder.’
Sam glances behind at the line of flight cases. ‘Then let’s sit down.’
At least it’s an invitation.
Words twist and fly in my mind. Trying to tether them is like attempting to catch the tail of a hurricane. I made a huge mistake. I threw away my chance to be with you…
‘I’m sorry.’ The words don’t even come close to what I want to say. I take a breath, try again. ‘I’m so sorry – for abandoning you, for not being brave enough to own my mistake.’
‘And not contacting me since.’
I hang my head. ‘I tried…’