The Day We Meet Again - Miranda Dickinson

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eyes glisten. It was the first thing I noticed about him when we met in the registration line in Freshers’ Week – that and the Glaswegian accent, which I’m ashamed now to say I didn’t expect, either. ‘Aye. I reckon she’d be happy to see it there.’

      ‘Place looks great, man.’

      Donal nods. ‘Cheers. Didn’t think we’d get there but the kids helped me finish it off.’

      I glance at Addie, Ivor and Lexie, still giggling with their mum. ‘I bet they’re all artistic.’

      ‘They’re annoyingly talented at everything,’ he chuckles. ‘No idea where they get it from. Kate and I were lucky to graduate. Addie’s taught himself so many instruments I’ve lost count, Ivor’s studying piano at the conservatoire on Saturdays and Lexi’s pretty much fluent in Gaelic, singing and playing guitar with a trad band at school.’

      I love the pride with which Donal speaks about his kids, but I think he’s selling himself short. ‘I hope you’re planning on getting that guitar of yours out while I’m here.’

      ‘Show him the lair, Donal,’ Kate grins, and instantly the clan are dragging their father out of the patio doors into the garden. He protests, but it’s nowhere near convincing.

      A large wooden building sits at the end of the garden, more a pine lodge than a shed. When we step inside, it’s a tiny studio, complete with a square vocal booth and a rack of amps and processors my studio partner Chris would be envious of.

      ‘Dad’s doing an EP,’ Lexie says, looping her arm through mine. ‘Mum’s singing on it, too.’

      ‘You kept that quiet,’ I smile at my friend who beams back.

      ‘Well, it’s only a bit of messing around, you know. I just figured it was time I sorted it out and rescued my guitars from the attic.’

      Kate joins her daughter beside me. ‘Don’t believe him, Sam. He’s been gigging most weekends this year and he’s already working on album projects for a couple of local bands.’

      ‘Then it’s a business?’

      Donal shrugs, but his eyes sparkle. ‘Could be. Part-time for now, but if I can get a good number of clients, who knows?’

      I’m proud of my friend but also sad that I’ve only learned this now. I retreated after Laura, more concerned with my own studio venture. This year will be different, I promise myself. This year my friends come first.

      After dinner the kids are grudgingly coaxed up to bed and Donal and I finally collapse in the living room at 9 p.m. I have no idea how my friends function at their frenetic pace. Their kids rock but, man, they are full-on. Kate seems to thrive on it – a fact confirmed when she appears, fresh-faced and smiling, her arms laden with beer bottles and a large bowl of crisps.

      ‘Right, lads. Beers.’

      Those three words have heralded many an unwise imbibing of alcohol over the years and I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. But I have been looking forward to this for weeks. We grab a bottle each and handfuls of crisps, which turn out to be teddy bear-shaped snacks.

      ‘We ran out of the usual ones.’ Kate shrugs. ‘Don’t tell Lexie but I raided her packed lunch crisps.’

      ‘Very rock ’n’ roll,’ I laugh.

      ‘Robert Plant is a Pom-Bears fan,’ she says. I love the sparkle in her voice when she’s joking. I’ve missed it – and Donal’s hearty guffaw, too. ‘Probably. Dave Grohl too, when he isn’t drumming.’

      ‘So tell us about your studio, Sam. Is it going to rival Abbey Road?’

      I grin at Donal. ‘One day maybe. It’s all set up now and we have bookings for the first four months.’

      ‘And Chris doesn’t mind you leaving, just when it’s all starting?’

      ‘He’s glad I’m not under his feet,’ I admit. It’s true: I was always going to be the one who funded things, while Chris was hands-on. ‘Truth is, neither of us expected to find premises as quickly as we did and by then my year out was already arranged.’

      ‘Like Kate and me,’ Donal says, draining his beer bottle and reaching for another. ‘She’s the brains, I’m the brawn.’

      Kate bats him with the back of her hand but the way they snuggle together on the sofa warms my heart. It took long enough to get them together, but they’re inseparable now. Will Phoebe and I be like that?

      My phone is on the coffee table where I left it and occasionally notifications illuminate the screen. I’m trying not to look, but each time it happens I wonder if it might be Phoebe. Is she thinking of me? I guess her first night with her hosts will call her attention from her phone more than mine. She mentioned she’s only met one of them before. That makes me glad I know the people I’m staying with.

      ‘Will you be seeing Niven while you’re on Mull?’ Donal asks.

      ‘Hope so, as often as I can. Have either of you heard from him lately? I tried calling a couple of times before I left but I couldn’t get hold of him.’

      There’s a very definite look that passes between my friends. ‘He’s on some kind of training course for work, I think. He’ll be in touch soon as he’s able. You know Niven.’

      I smile back but it makes me wonder what they know about him that I don’t. I know things have been up in the air since his fiancée moved out, but the last I heard he was dating again. Before I can ask any more, Kate pulls out a large bottle of single malt whisky from between the sagging sofa cushions.

      ‘Time for this baby, I think.’

      Donal and I protest, but it’s useless. Kate only has to raise an eyebrow and suggest a girl might beat us in a drinking competition and we’re both in. Years have not taught us wisdom on this. Donal fetches glasses from the sideboard while I clear a space between the empty beer bottles covering the coffee table. It’s like being in our earliest days as friends: the whisky may be more expensive now, but the friendship is as strong as it’s ever been.

      We settle into an easy silence as we take our first sip of peaty liquor and I glance at the clock. Midnight already. Will Phoebe be asleep now? Kate’s head is resting on Donal’s shoulder, his eyes closed as he enjoys his dram. I sneak my phone from the coffee table and jump as the screen illuminates.

       PHOEBE – 1 MESSAGE

      I look up at my friends but they haven’t moved. Heart racing, I open the message.

      Hi ☺ Arrived in Paris and in my new temporary home. Excuse the text but it’s just this once because I miss you. Speak soon and sleep well xx

      That’s why she’s no Laura, I tell myself. Laura would only text if she wanted something, or to have a go at me. Phoebe misses me. So much that she broke her own rule of limited contact less than twenty-four hours into our year apart.

      Shielding my mobile from view of my friends, I reply:

      I miss you too. All good here apart from my arms being empty. Sweet dreams, beautiful xx

      Kate raises her head and I pocket my phone before she notices. But I’m humming now. I can’t tell if it’s alcohol or lust… or love…? No, not love, not yet. But if I still feel like this in twelve months’ time I’ll fly faster than the train back to St Pancras and never let her go.

      We talk, we laugh, we drink. My phone remains silent. But the thought that she might text again – the unpredictability of it – warms me more than any amount of single malt could.

      I’ll text her when I leave here for Mull, I decide. If Phoebe can bend the rules, so can I.

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