‘I think that woman could do this, conduct four conversations and juggle all at once and never even break a sweat,’ DeeDee grins. ‘We need her as road manager on the next big tour – she’d be awesome. So nice try, Samuel.’
It’s a clear night as we walk outside. A few brave stars are breaking through London’s light pollution and I can see our breath. Another reason to be thankful we’re packing down in the morning – trying to negotiate frosted ground with heavy cases and speakers after a long gig is never fun.
‘I hope Niven’s laying off the booze,’ I say, keen to change the subject.
But my friend isn’t done with me yet. ‘Let me tell you what I think.’
‘Can we just not do this now, please?’
‘Too late. I’m speaking. This is what I think: you accepted this gig because you thought Meg would invite Phoebe. It was a link. You two haven’t spoken since you saw her in Cornwall; you’ve made no attempt to talk to her since. Then you get this gig and it’s the chance you wanted.’
‘I haven’t…’ I begin, but I am silenced by the look DeeDee gives me.
‘What? You haven’t known what to say to her? Haven’t wanted to try? Haven’t been in the same room as her maybe? Look where we are, Sam. Look who invited you.’
‘Meg just wanted a band. We’re both professionals just doing our jobs.’
‘So, you get here and you have the chance to at least ask about the girl, but you bottle it. Why? Because you’re scared, honey.’
‘Enough, okay? I love you, but you’re wrong. So wrong. And anyway, Phoebe isn’t here, is she?’
‘How do you know? Have you looked?’
I jab a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the venue. ‘I’ve been kinda busy in there.’
‘You ain’t now.’ She punches her hands on her hips. Now I’m in for it. ‘Two hours at least to kill. Go. Walk the room. Prove she’s not there.’
‘And what if I just want to rest before the next set? What if the last thing I want to do is skulk around someone else’s party looking for somebody I have nothing to say to any more?’
My sharp intake of breath hides the unexpected kick of pain in my chest.
DeeDee gives a loud tut and shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to upset you, babe. You just have to be honest with yourself. Stop running from this. Because at some point you have to listen to your heart.’ She pats my chest. ‘Even if your heart is a bolshie bastard.’
I watch her walk across the car park to the artist cabins that line its perimeter. And suddenly, I’m afraid.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Phoebe
‘Are you staying here all night?’ Osh asks, glancing at me. ‘I mean, it’s cool with me but it’s a lot more interesting down there.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. But I’m not. I haven’t been fine since Sam Mullins took to the stage. He’s gone now, the band’s first set over and the DJ now performing. But I’m still shaking.
He played so beautifully – the first time I’ve really heard him. At Eden I’d long since fled by the time he was on the stage, but tonight I couldn’t move. I’m not sure my legs are ready to carry me yet. Before the rest of the band joined him – when Osh was down there and I was in the lighting booth – Sam looked directly up here. Did he see me?
My phone buzzes for the third time.
‘You going to answer that?’
‘It’ll just be people getting their Happy New Year texts in before the networks get too busy,’ I say, hoping it covers my nerves. Wishing I believed it.
It’s probably Meg, trying to find me. But what if it’s Sam?
‘That violinist is a bit handy, isn’t he?’ When I stare at Osh, he’s still looking out at the venue.
‘Meg’s told you, hasn’t she?’
He pulls a face. ‘Yeah. Sorry, Phee.’
‘Does everyone at this party know about us?’
‘Pretty sure the DJ’s none the wiser. Look, you still care about him. And he accepted the gig, knowing you’re Meg’s friend. It’s at least two hours till he has to play again. And while I love seeing you, I don’t think you really want to be here.’ He nods at the window. ‘And there’s your chance.’
I look down at the stage and see Sam, hands in pockets, looking over the heads of the dancing guests, as if he’s trying to locate someone.
It isn’t me, I tell myself. He isn’t looking for me.
But my heart is slamming against my ribcage.
‘Phoebe. Go down there.’
I meet his kind gaze. ‘If this was in a script you’d cut it for being cheesy.’
His eyes roll. ‘If this was in a script Warner Bros would have paid me already. Go. Before Meg comes up here and drags you out.’
I don’t know what I’m doing. Or what I’ll say. I think of the last time we spoke and imagine this could go the same way. But he’s here. And so am I. And maybe at New Year you allow yourself to act differently. Or dare to dream of better. Even if it’s just a gesture as the old year dies and another begins.
* * *
Nobody else knows this, but I painted a pebble this morning. Before Meg invited me to the party or I’d spoken to Gabe in Hollywood. I slipped out of the house just after six a.m. and headed to the little park nearby. It’s only a small place, with a duck pond in the middle and a kids’ playground on one side, but I’ve always loved the light there. In summers past it was where I’d escape with a book, dreaming of all the places I might one day visit. Places I can now say I lived in for a while.
On one side of the pond, there’s a bench that is different from all the others dotted across the park. It’s painted in rainbow stripes, faded now but still lovely. At weekends I see people hurrying to claim it and children running right across the park to touch its colours. It bears a plaque I think must have been in place years before it received its multi-hued makeover:
* * *
For the wanderers and the dreamers,
The weary and the worried.
Rest a while here, friend.
* * *
Unlike the other bench dedications in the park there is no name, no commemoration of a life lived. But the sentiment has always struck me. It’s a tiny bit of welcome in a city whose people are used to being ignored.
That’s where I left my pebble – my way of marking the year. This morning I didn’t think I’d be at the party, so this was going to be my goodbye – to the year, to the city I’ll soon be leaving and to the life I’ve known before.
I painted a scene from a photo Sam sent me of Calgary Bay on the Isle of Mull – a wild mountainside overlooking the sea, the low-lying plain between land and shore peppered with tiny dots of colour in every shade in my paint box. The machair Sam told me about. And in the centre of the carpet of flowers, one phrase in sweeps of silver paint:
* * *
gu bràth
Forever.
* * *