The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

granted one day in Paris, which wasn’t enough time to see much of anything. We spent most of that day stuck on the coach in traffic around the Arc de Triomphe and on the most mind-numbing river cruise up and down the Seine (all the bridges from one side, then all the bridges from the other). My eleven-year-old heart sank as Notre Dame passed like a ghost, frustratingly out of reach. We did climb the Eiffel Tower, though – only to the second level, as it was a windy day, but climbing the steps instead of taking the lift – and standing on the famous tower gazing out across the neat squares of the city was the moment Paris stole my heart.

      Despite his poor head Luc is a great guide, pointing out places only a local would know. With it, I’m getting the history of him and Tobi: where he proposed, where they first told the other they loved them, and how they first met in the famous bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, when they both reached for the same copy of Candide byVoltaire.

      ‘Like Serendipity only with a better taste in books,’ he jokes as we wander into a gorgeous sunlit park. We find a bench and sit.

      ‘That’s so romantic.’

      He laughs. ‘Yeah, it would have been if I hadn’t been so annoyed with him for getting the book before me. I stormed out – the full flounce, you know – and that could have been that. Except that when I stopped by the Seine to catch my breath, I looked down and there was the book beside me. He’d bought it, followed me from the store and was standing there with this great big loon grin on his face.’

      Instantly, I think of Sam. ‘I met someone yesterday,’ I say, the words dancing out before I can stop them. I hardly know Luc and I’d said I wouldn’t tell anyone. But in the soothing green of the small park, overlooking a colonnade swathed with flowering blue wisteria and the white dome of Sacré-Cœur rising behind, it feels right. ‘I think he could be someone really special.’

      Could I have imagined myself saying this two days ago? Or a year ago? Already I feel so different and I like how the change sits in me.

      Luc peers at me over his sunglasses. ‘Tell me more, mademoiselle.’

      ‘I met him when our trains were delayed.’ I find Sam’s photo on my phone and show Luc. ‘That’s Sam.’

      ‘Cute. And you left him there?’

      I laugh and hope it disguises the dip my heart just took. ‘He was travelling to Scotland. For a year.’

      ‘Okay.’

      The sun sparkles on the crazy silver-glitter laces Osh gave me for my turquoise Converse. Suddenly I’m self-conscious. ‘We’ve promised to meet up in twelve months if we still feel the same.’

      He is quiet for a while and I wonder how sensible it was to share something so personal with someone I hardly know. I’m about to stuff a different, safer subject into the gap when Luc turns to face me.

      ‘Y’know, Phoebe, a year is good. Test the theory. I’m all for spontaneity but you’ve got to give your head chance to catch up with your heart. I mean, I tell the story of T and me like the moment he gave me that book all my dreams came true, but it wasn’t like that at all. The moment was spontaneous; the working out how the hell it was all going to happen took a long time. Over a year, actually.’

      ‘It did?’

      ‘Mm-hmm. I was a visitor here when we met, on a three-week vacation. Tobi had never been to Canada. We knew nothing about one another, other than the chemistry and the fact we both wanted to read Voltaire on the same day. We both had careers, owned property, had lives in our countries we couldn’t just pack up and leave. Then there was all the legal stuff – visas, applications. Where we’d live. The boring reality that inevitably follows after your heart’s run away with a notion. I don’t regret a thing, but I wish I’d seen all those frustrating delays as important time for laying foundations. If we’d rushed it, who knows if we’d be together now? The details can derail you, if you’re not prepared.’

      We watch the world pass our bench in our tiny patch of Paris. I haven’t looked beyond returning to Sam in a year’s time. It seems far too early to think about that stuff, but when would the right time be? A month from now? Six months? Just before I go home?

      I’m nervous about thinking too far ahead but Luc is right about making the most of our time apart to really think things through. I remember his text last night:

      I miss you too.

      That’s what I need to focus on. Everything else is just logistics.

      Luc is decidedly less delicate by 2 p.m. so we venture a little further afield and spend a few hours wandering around tiny art shops, artisan food stores and a farmers’ market he tells me is Tobi’s favourite. We buy bits of cheese, bread and cured meats, enjoying the samples offered by every stallholder.

      One stall is covered in tiny watercolour paintings – some no bigger than a postage stamp, some two inches square and some the size of postcards. I choose a beautiful one of a Parisian street with cherry blossom trees and tiny window boxes at every window. It’s the perfect first postcard to send to Sam, who emailed me the address of his friends in Glasgow earlier today.

      Luc goes to buy some envelopes for me and coffee for us both. I sit on a bench opposite the market to write my card to Sam. I don’t know when he is going to be leaving his friends’ house and travelling to Mull, so I hope the card will arrive in time.

      Dear Sam,

      Surprise! I wasn’t sure how long you would be in Glasgow so I hope this reaches you before you leave for Mull.

      I’m writing this by the side of a farmers’ market. Luc has been giving me a personal tour of his favourite Parisian haunts and we’ve just eaten half our bodyweight in free food samples. The sun is shining, it’s warm and it’s about as perfect as days in Paris get. The artist who painted this postcard is called Mme Comtois and she started painting at night after working on the dairy farm she owns with her husband all day. She told us she paints to keep her heart smiling – how lovely is that? I think we should always do things that bring smiles to our hearts.

      I miss you. I hope you’re happy. And I can’t wait to see you again.

      All my love, Phoebe xxx

      When we return from our day wandering around Montmartre, Luc shows me how to get into the tiny courtyard. There’s a service staircase at the back of the building and a door at the bottom that opens into the small green space. I’m sitting there now, looking up at the square of sky framed by the ivy-covered walls of the building. It feels like a secret space and it’s so quiet. It’s a perfect place to read – maybe even write.

      Sitting in the café made me think of the authors I love who chronicled their adventures across Europe. Maybe I can do what Mark Twain and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe did: note down what I see, what I experience. My first full day in Paris has been so wonderful I want to remember it all. Maybe one day I can show Sam, too.

      When I switch my phone on Sam is smiling at me from the screen. It’s as if he knew I was thinking about him. I resist the urge to squeal as I open his message.

      Hey you. My turn to break the rules. I’m leaving for Mull tomorrow, so here’s the address. Just if you happened to be passing a postcard shop in Paris or anything. Email me yours and I’ll send you a tartan-emblazoned one when I land on Mull (prepare yourself…) By the way, I miss you xx