I pass the concourse where we first kissed, the coffee concession where I fell in love with her, and approach the staircase we walked down together to begin this whole crazy journey. And as I take the stairs two at a time, the hands of the huge station clock above the first floor moving just past the hour, I see the Betjeman statue rising into view. His hat first, then the billowing mackintosh and, as I reach the top step, the bag he carries, the smart shoes and his words etched in slate that loop around his feet.
A group of tourists pose awkwardly in front of the statue, all forced-smiles and puffed-out chests. I wait until they are done and smile at them as they start to leave.
One minute past eleven. Not bad timekeeping considering my dash across the station. And hey, one thing Phoebe needs to know about me is that musicians and time management are not natural bedfellows.
One by one, the tourists mill away, until just Sir John and I remain.
Just me and the statue.
Just me.
… What?
Where is she?
I check my watch – is it fast? Its face matches the giant station clock.
I make a slow, 360-degree turn in case she’s heading over from the Eurostar platform and I just haven’t spotted her yet. I know her train has arrived: I saw it listed on the arrivals board as I ran here.
Sir John’s half-smile and upward-turned chin assures me all is well.
But if her train has arrived and it’s just turned 11 a.m., she should be here.
I look at my phone. No messages. When I call her number, it directs straight to voicemail. Perhaps it’s in her bag for when she got off the train, or still on silent from the journey?
Nerves building, I leave a message.
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m here. You know, just hanging out with sweet Johnny B…’ My laugh sounds forced. I swallow hard against a dry throat. ‘Are you…? Are you on your way? I can’t see you.’
Over by the top of the stairs a woman watches me. She has blue streaks in her pale blonde hair. Something about her expression unnerves me. I end the call and turn my back on her as I face the statue again.
And then, I see it.
Tucked between Betjeman’s shoulder and his neck is a single yellow rose. And from it, a brown luggage label hangs. I’m drawn to it even though it has nothing to do with me. People leave floral memorials all over this city – their own grief, their own reasons to commemorate someone. It’s fascinating, but none of my business.
It’s only when my fingers halt the slowly spinning label that I see my name:
My wonderful Sam –
I am so sorry.
It isn’t that I don’t love you. I do love you.
I hope one day you’ll forgive me.
All my love, Phoebe xx
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. She said she’d be here. She said she loved me.
I’ve been punched so hard in my core that my feet won’t hold me. I make it as far as the glass barrier at the edge of the walkway before I slump to the ground.
In my hands the rose is too yellow, too bright. Through aching eyes I scan the message again, looking for something, anything that I might have missed. The smallest detail on which I can hang my hope and prevent my heart shattering. But it’s too late. All of my hope for us, all of our promises, every word we’ve shared for twelve long months apart, broken irrevocably. Gone.
It isn’t even her handwriting. I know it from the letters and postcards she sent me. The messages I’ve carried like jewels everywhere I’ve travelled. I would know her writing in a heartbeat. Every loop, every flourish. This is like an ugly scar scratched carelessly over stone. This is nothing like Phoebe’s hand.
It isn’t the Phoebe I know. But then it hits me: I don’t know Phoebe Jones. I thought I did. I thought my heart did. But I never knew her at all.
I ran all the way home for this. She was supposed to be in my arms, right now, her kisses on my lips. All our promises fulfilled.
Did she ever intend to meet me again? Was any of it real? And if she isn’t by the Betjeman statue – where she’d promised she’d be – then where is she?
Phoebe lied.
Worse than her absence is that she couldn’t even be bothered to tell me in person. If she loved me, she’d be here.
I was a fool to believe she would be. She’s no better than Laura.
Why couldn’t she tell me and save me this pain? And where is she now?