Miranda Dickinson - The Day We Meet Again

Which is odd, because Phoebe Jones asked within the first hour of meeting me.

I pull up the photo I took of us just before I left her at the barrier. She is beautiful, of course. But then my gaze slides to me. I look different. I think of all the selfies with me that Laura posted on Instagram – countless squares of a picture-perfect couple all taken at an identical angle for maximum effect. I never smiled in any of those images like I do in this single, hurriedly snapped photo with my arm around Phoebe.

Have I ever smiled like that before?

I stroke Phoebe’s face on the screen, remembering the warmth of her against me, the scent of her perfume and the touch of her hand on my arm. That’s what matters now. Not the past – or anyone from it trying to get back in. And I’m going to hold on to this feeling until I see Phoebe again.

Chapter Nine

Paris Gare du Nord breaks through in an explosion of light and colour and noise as the train door opens. I take a breath.

Bonjour , Paris.

It’s just a station platform: grey concrete, the smell of oil, pools of light filtering through the run of glass skylights high above. It could be anywhere. Except it feels different. Dad said that the first time he took Mum to Europe in their early twenties even the echo of his own footsteps sounded ‘continental’. I don’t have to see the platform signs and illuminated advertising boards to know I’m not in London any more.

Then I am through the barrier and looking around for a man I’ve only met once before who may or may not be holding a sign. It takes a minute to get my bearings, head dizzy with light and sound and movement. I make myself breathe, summoning up a memory of being in Sam’s arms in our little space of concourse at St Pancras. It calms me.

I can do this.

Sam only just met me and he believes in me. I’ve known me for a lot longer, so maybe I should believe in myself more.

Sometimes the way to prove you’re capable of something is just to do it.

‘Phoebe!’

I follow the sound of the voice and a group of commuters disperses to my right revealing a face that’s surprisingly familiar. Tobi is smiling and waving. And he has a sign with my name on it.

I’m going to be okay.

‘Hi!’ I grin, accepting a very French double-kiss and a very un-French bear hug from my host.

‘The delay! The nightmare! My darling, are you okay? Meg told me they closed your station.’

‘They did, but I’m here now.’

‘Yes, you are. And now we celebrate your grande aventure .’ He throws an arm around my shoulders and takes my bag despite my protests. ‘First to home, then to wine!’

Twenty minutes later we’re almost at his apartment in impossibly lovely Montmartre and my head is a tumble of streets and traffic, noise and colour. It’s lovely to be in the company of someone who lives in the city. We skirt roads, pass through tiny back streets and lush green parks. Dad was right: even the everyday sounds of traffic and footsteps are unfamiliar here. Once I get my bearings it will all become second nature, I know. Like it did when I arrived in London, fresh out of horticultural college in Worcestershire and feeling as if I’d run away from the first twenty-five years of my life. London was a whim that became part of me. Maybe Paris and the countries beyond will become the same.

‘Here we are!’ Tobi exclaims, holding the apartment building door open for me to walk in first. We climb a narrow staircase with metal banisters to the second floor. Tobi opens the door and I walk into my home for the first part of my year in Europe.

It’s perfect. White walls and long white gauze curtains at the floor-to-ceiling windows; warm parquet flooring in diagonal chevrons across the open plan living room and kitchen; three large, low couches draped in jewel-bright Moroccan throws with more cushions than even Meg has in her room (which is saying something); and greenery everywhere, from large potted palms standing sentry-like in the corners of the room to the impressionist wash of green in the window boxes on the small balcony the other side of the windows.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I smile as Tobi takes my coat. ‘ C’est magnifique! ’

‘Ah, bon . Don’t worry. We speak English here as much as French,’ he says, as if sensing the jolt of panic that hit me as soon as I tried out my rusty French. ‘Luc is from Canada so we switch between the two all the time. Often, we argue in both.’ I remember his smile now. It’s the kind of smile that instantly puts you at ease. ‘Let me show you your room and then we can relax.’

Tobi strides down the short corridor that leads off from the living room and kitchen. Tucked away, between a compact but stylish bathroom and a larger room I imagine is his and Luc’s bedroom, is a smaller room with a futon and a large single window draped with soft yellow gauze. It’s facing the rear of the building and when I peer out I can see it overlooks a tiny courtyard. Ivy spills down from the walls to a cluster of pots on the paved floor, so it looks like a secret garden. The faded blue and terracotta pots have been planted with red and white flowers.

‘Who owns the courtyard?’ I ask, as Tobi sets my bag beside the bed and hangs my coat on a hook on the back of the door.

‘It belongs to the building and we all pay maintenance, so I guess we all own it. A few of the residents keep it looking good. Later I’ll show you how to get down there, if you like. I don’t use it much but Luc sometimes paints there in the summer.’

‘I’d like that.’

It’s such a luxury to have any kind of green space and to be honest it’s the only thing I missed about home when I moved in with Meg, Osh and Gabe. There are parks everywhere in London, of course, but having a bit of green you can call your own is special. I think the courtyard and I might become well acquainted. I love the idea of snuggling up with a book in a little hidden square of Paris.

Turning back into the room I see that the entire wall behind the head of the bed is covered with white bookshelves. The spines provide a blast of higgledy-piggledy colour like the cushions on the living room couches and are lovely to look at. The sight of them makes me feel at home.

‘Meg said you would be happy here,’ Tobi grins, nodding at the wall of books. ‘Many of them are in English – I rearranged them at the weekend so you have a whole section to choose from. I know you’re a book lover.’

My heart swells. His thoughtfulness sends the last of my concerns about being in a new place floating away like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. Now, make yourself at home and I will fetch the wine. Are you hungry?’

Right on cue, my stomach growls and we both laugh.

An hour later, Tobi and I are relaxing in the living room, a bottle of wine almost drunk between us, catching up on the gang’s news. We’ve just started talking about Gabe’s new play when the door swings open and Tobi’s husband Luc strides in. His bag, coat and scarf are dropped in a pile in the middle of the parquet floor and I’m suddenly airborne, lifted into his hug.

‘Phoebe! You made it! Welcome!’

Luc embraces me like a long-lost friend.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I laugh, as he sets me down.

‘You too. And you’re as gorgeous as Meg said.’ His Canadian accent is unmistakable and his laugh rivals Tobi’s for volume and enthusiasm.

‘I rescued her from the station.’ Tobi heads into the kitchen for more wine, pausing to kiss his husband. I see the sparkle between them and it’s the loveliest sight.

My mum and dad sparkle like that, even now – almost forty years since they got married. My brother and I pretend we’re embarrassed by their enthusiastic PDAs whenever we’re out together, but really we’re proud. Being as daft with each other as you were in the first flush of love is rare.