Phoebe, call Sam. Just do it. Mx
I was angry when Meg’s text arrived. How dare she tell me what to do? No apology for what she said before I left London, not even a hint of remorse. But the worst of it is, I know Meg is right.
The bones of the garden at the Eden Project are in place now and the storytelling spaces are rising up from the earth. At the moment, there is little for me to do except paint pebbles with book quotes. Nothing to sufficiently occupy my mind.
Meg’s text won’t go away.
Sam.
Maybe I should try…
I find his entry on my phone contacts list but hesitate. What will I say? Will he even answer when he sees who’s calling? I’m freefalling: only he will determine where I land.
I hit ‘call’. It rings twice, connects.
‘Sam?’
‘Hello?’
A woman’s voice. Why is a woman answering Sam’s phone? I make to speak but the words vanish.
‘Hello… Hello?’
‘Sam…’ I manage. ‘Can I speak to Sam, please?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘It’s Phoebe.’ When silence greets my name, I press on. ‘He’ll know who I am.’
‘Will he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s busy.’
‘I think he’ll want to talk to me.’
‘He’s setting up the stage right now.’
‘Can I talk to him, please?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, hen, do you?’
‘Sorry, who is this?’
‘Shona,’ she says. ‘And Sam’s busy.’
The line dies.
Shona. I don’t remember him mentioning her. She’s Scottish – could he have met her while he was on Mull? My breath is ragged when I inhale the September air. It doesn’t matter where he met her. She answered his phone. There is only one reason she would do that: he has someone else. I’m too late.
Great timing, Phoebe.
As the weeks pass, I throw myself into the project. It’s good to reconnect with Amanda again and we’re just as we were at Villa Speranza. The Eden Project is an amazing place to be and it feels like an oasis in every sense. The team of students are wonderful and I’ve discovered I enjoy discussing my doctorate studies with them. Amanda reckons with my PhD I should consider a career in academia. I’ve never thought of that as an option. But if Professor Amanda thinks I have something to offer that’s a considerable endorsement.
I find time to write every day, making myself go out after work and at weekends, exploring this lovely part of the world. Everywhere I go I try to capture the experience with my words – and like I first found in Paris, I’m proud of what appears on the pages of my journal. I spend weekends on the beach in Padstow and Sennen, or staying nearer home by exploring the beautiful Lost Gardens of Heligan. Amanda and I sometimes take boat trips on the Helford River, enjoying the gentler pace of life. I know this can’t last, but it’s a lovely time and I feel like I’m healing. Time to breathe after too long without air.
As summer draws to a close, the highlight of our calendar arrives: the Eden Arts and Music Festival – the official launch of the Storytelling Garden. It’s a work in progress and there will be more to do afterwards, but the first section is ready with magical woven withy bothies and a Cornish literature trail inspired by the novels of Daphne du Maurier.
Around the festival site the team and I leave special painted story pebbles for festivalgoers to find: pictures on one side and invitations to the Story Garden on the reverse. Management loves the idea and is making a big deal of the hidden pebbles on Eden’s website and media channels. While my colleagues set to work decorating and hiding stones, I sneak Giana’s paint box from my rented car and paint a special pebble, hiding it in the maze of canvas tents that have sprung up behind the stage. I have to let everything with Sam go and this is my way of saying goodbye to a chapter of my life I wish had ended better. Sam’s moved on. It’s time I did the same.
The heavens open the weekend of the festival. After a long, dry summer it’s a shock, not least to those who had planned the festival in the hope of good weather. Chaos ensues. Bands and artists turn up with equipment and do their best to unload in torrential rain, queues of vehicles backing up across the site. Pretty soon all the available roads resemble mudslides. It’s all hands to the pump to get everything safely unpacked and taken into the canvas tent village for shelter. The Story Garden team and I dash to help along with everyone else at Eden, grabbing whatever box or case is shoved into our hands from the unloading vans.
The caterer’s lorry is stranded by the entrance to the backstage area so we empty it first. The priority is to get the perishable foodstuffs safe and dry and then, when everyone has unloaded, all of us will attempt to push the vehicle out of the quagmire.
We’re soaked and covered in mud, but it’s become hilarious due to the sheer grimness of our situation.
‘Non-stop glamour, this,’ Amanda yells at me over the hammering of rain and the constant burr of van engines ticking over.
‘I can’t handle the pressure,’ I laugh back, taking another box of food from the stranded caterer lorry.
As I turn to trudge through the mud, I freeze.
Sam Mullins is waiting by a hire van, jacket hood pulled up to fend off the rain. He doesn’t see me. But it’s unmistakably him.
Dark hair plastered to his cheeks, the beard he grew over the winter gone.
He’s here.
As fast as I can, I turn and hurry back the way I’ve come.