I open my eyes.
Around me the station noise continues its clamour while faceless commuters hurry to their destinations. Except that it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Wrong decision, wrong country, wrong station. Paris Gare du Nord isn’t where I should still be.
My hand aches from gripping my phone. When I release my fingers there’s an ugly red line carved into my palm where the edge of it has bitten into the skin. The screen is filled with notifications that accuse me:
MEG – 3 MISSED CALLS
MEG – 1 NEW MESSAGE
SAM – 4 MISSED CALLS
SAM – 3 NEW VOICEMAILS
TOBI – 1 MISSED CALL
But it’s the time displayed on the screen that delivers the biggest blow:
1.39 p.m.
What have I done?
I daren’t listen to the voicemails from Sam. I know what I’ll hear and it might end me. I know what the message from Meg will be, too. She’s disgusted with me. I could tell by the tone of her voice when I called her in tears and asked her to leave a rose on the statue for Sam. It’s testament to the wonderful person she is that she even agreed to do it. But will she ever forgive me?
Can I ever forgive myself?
I hug my arms around my body, trying to soothe the ache in my chest. But I can’t even feel solidarity with myself. I can’t believe I got as far as this seat in the station and missed the train I’d dreamed of boarding. The train taking me back to Sam.
I don’t know what happened.
I heard the call for my train. My hand reached for the ticket in my pocket, the other taking the handles of my bag. Ready to lift. Ready to leave. And then… I couldn’t move.
I just couldn’t stand or leave my seat. I remained where I was as a flood of people raged past. Like I was half-buried in sand watching waves sweep away across a bay. For twenty minutes I fought with myself, hearing the continued calls for passengers and the final boarding announcement as loud and as close as if they were screams directly in my face.
What are you doing?
Get on the train! It’s about to leave!
Get up! Sam is waiting!
RUN!
But I couldn’t do it.
Fear won. And I let it happen.
So instead of running for my train, I sat firm in the prison of my seat, and played out the whole journey in my mind. My penance for utterly failing the man I’m supposed to love. I made myself relive every stage in real time; every moment – the Eurostar journey, St Pancras Station and Betjeman statue of my imagination identical to the ones I’d experienced when Sam and I parted last year. Except that when 11 a.m. arrived there was no Sam Mullins grinning by the statue. No hope for us. My mind’s facsimile of where we should have met was revealed for what it truly was: a cold and empty wasteland where love couldn’t survive.
I am furious. Why fall at the final hurdle? I love Sam. I’ve spent all year waiting to see him again. And last night he told me he loved me. What did everything I’ve learned this year mean if it didn’t change me at the very moment it mattered?
I just kept thinking about what Gabe said, that night in Tuscany: If you’re sure of Sam, if you know you can be everything you want to be to each other… And the time he called me at the villa – his inference that Sam wasn’t as serious as I was, the implication that I might be fooling myself, too. That I should be with someone who didn’t wait almost a year to say he loves me. That I deserved to be certain. I remembered what Mum said about being happy, and what Meg had said about taking space to make sure we both made the right decision. I laid them all out like fragments of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit – Sam’s eleventh-hour declaration of love only confusing the picture more.
But I know I love him. And, as of yesterday, I know he loves me too.
So why did I hesitate?
I should have been on that train. Or the next. I could still find one today, scrape the money together, risk it on my credit card – anything to get me back to London. Perhaps if I call Sam, explain the reason for my panic and promise him I’m on my way right now I can still save this? Us?
He was alone by the statue. I abandoned him. What must he think of me?
My phone rings and I see my best friend’s smiling face on the caller ID. At least it isn’t Sam. Tears flood my eyes as I accept the call.
‘Phoebe, where are you?’
I open my mouth to reply but a loud sob shoulders into the space where words should be.
‘Phee. Are you safe? Tell me where you are.’
‘I-I’m…’ The words won’t come. A loud French station announcement echoes around the space, interrupting my attempt.
‘Are you still at the station?’
‘Yes.’
She swears. There’s a pause and I think she might slam the phone down. Then: ‘Right. Stay where you are, okay? Tobi and Luc will come and get you.’
‘No, I—’
‘Shut up. They’re on their way.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I rush, slapping tears away from my cheeks. ‘I panicked…’
‘Just don’t – I don’t need to hear it now. You’ve been there for hours, Phee, you need to be somewhere safe. Stay there. Don’t move. We will – I don’t know what we’ll do, but we’ll find a way to get you home.’
She doesn’t yell, when she has every right to tear strips off me. But her weariness and disappointment stings more. Meg’s always told me I can achieve more than I think I’m capable of. Well, I’ve blown that belief to the sky, haven’t I? I wouldn’t blame her if she wanted rid of our friendship altogether after this.
I throw my phone in my bag and cover my eyes. I want to hide but I can’t run from what I’ve done. I’ve failed Sam. I’ve failed my friends. Worst of all, I’ve failed myself. And my life will never be the same.