I’m still reeling from seeing the photos of Phoebe and her actor boyfriend days later, when we’re loading gear in the warm September sun into Coventry’s Big Comfy Bookshop. I have to pull myself together. This gig is important.
The independent bookshop in Fargo Village is the coolest venue with an enviable reputation for hosting the best artists and bands on the folk circuit. Michael, the owner, has hinted that if he likes our set this evening he’ll invite us back, possibly to feature in his famous acoustic sessions that have a huge following on YouTube. I would love that.
Several people have arrived already, enjoying cake and coffee and browsing the shelves. It doesn’t bother me to have an audience as we set up our gear.
I’ve almost finished running mic leads when I see her.
At first, it’s just one of those feelings that a person is vaguely familiar but you probably don’t know them. I get that a lot, largely because I see a lot of people in my line of work. And I’m often useless with names, so chances are if I have met you I won’t remember what you’re called until you remind me.
But it’s more than a déjà vu with this woman – because I’m quite certain there aren’t many people I’ve encountered who look like her.
Blonde hair streaked with dark blue. Eyes that seem to peel away the layers of your skin until she can see your soul.
I would know her anywhere.
She waits until the end of the first set before she approaches, but my discomfort has been steadily building all evening and my eyes have kept being drawn to her, trying to gauge her emotions and decipher her motive.
‘Sam,’ she says, her voice betraying the slightest quiver of nerves.
‘You were at the station. St Pancras. 14th June.’
She nods, the soul-stripping gaze lowered for now. ‘I left the rose. For my best friend.’
‘Phoebe.’
‘Yes. I’m Meg.’ She withdraws her hand when I don’t accept it. ‘I didn’t know you were playing tonight. I’m visiting old university mates.’ She looks over to the table where two women smile and nod back. ‘Sam, Phoebe made a mistake…’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘She missed the train and she knew you’d be waiting. But she was a mess, Sam, truly a wreck. I don’t think she could have phoned you then, even if she’d been brave enough. The rose was the next best thing.’
‘So, what, she asked you to buy that rose and write the label and leave it?’
She nods. ‘If it helps, I was furious with her. I thought she should have followed her heart. Because she loves you, Sam.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to me? Tell me what the hell was happening? Because I was completely alone there. And I expected to see your friend – the woman I was in love with? Not some poxy rose and cryptic message.’
‘If you still wanted to talk to her, she’d listen.’ Meg apologises as Shona shoulders her way to the stage a little too firmly. ‘She’s devastated.’
‘Now she knows how I feel. I’m sorry, I have a set to play.’
‘I have a New Year event I want to book you for,’ she blurts, shoving a thick, glossy business card at me.
MEG GÓRECKA
– SENIOR EVENT MANAGER
LONDINIUM EVENTS
AWARD-WINNING CORPORATE AND
MEDIA EVENT COMPANY
‘Where?’ I ask slowly.
‘Central London location, two-day load-in, load-out. Corporate gig at New Year, so name your price and they’ll go for it.’
‘We’re in,’ Niven grins, coming in on the last part of the conversation, oblivious to the rest. ‘Is your number on there, Meg? I’m Niven McNish and this is my band.’
‘Right, call me on that mobile number.’ Her gaze flicks to me. ‘It would be good to talk.’
The set passes in an autopilot blur. Too much to consider, too many questions, too much emotion. I can’t process it yet.
Hours later we’re at the hotel and whisky is my best friend. Whisky and Shona. She’s matching me drink for drink and has gradually moved from the seats across the table to perch on the arm of my chair, her body just close enough to be within touching distance of mine. She smells amazing and I can feel the heat from her skin.
When our bandmates call it quits and head for their rooms she drops into my lap, her arms finding my neck. It’s too easy to meet her kiss; too easy to accept the invitation to her room.
I don’t want to think about anything but finding her in the dark, giving in to the impulse that’s been building since she arrived on Mull last year.
She isn’t Phoebe. But she’s willing to take her place.
She isn’t Phoebe. But she wants me.
She isn’t…
Wait.
‘No,’ I say, hating that I’m pushing her away. But this is no better than refusing to talk to the woman I thought I loved for a year.
‘You’re joking?’ Shona says, struggling upright and snapping on the light. ‘I want you, Sam. It’s blatantly obvious you feel the same about me. So what’s the problem?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, picking up my jacket and making for the door. ‘I can’t do this, Shona.’
‘Why?’
I shake my head and slip out into the hideously striped hotel corridor, powering away from the mistake I almost made.
Because you aren’t Phoebe, I reply in my mind.
I hate that I love her. But I have to be honest with myself.
And this is the right thing to do.