It Started With a Kiss (13 page)

‘Well, you are. And you must be if Tom’s noticed it too. Normally if it doesn’t have two wheels and an expensive carbon fibre body he doesn’t notice anything.’

Bracing myself, I asked the question now rotating magnificently like a glitter ball in my mind. ‘And Charlie?’

Jack grabbed his mug. ‘Another coffee?’

I opened my mouth to speak, but Jack was already halfway up the stairs to the kitchen. Stunned, I stared in the direction he had left. What did Charlie think?

Jack didn’t answer my question then or later, although judging by Charlie’s brooding silences at the band rehearsal and meal out at our local balti restaurant in the week that followed, I could hazard a pretty good guess. Part of me was pleased that the internal optimism I felt about my quest was evident externally too, but a stubborn part of me still wished that I could talk to Charlie about it. In any other situation, his opinion would have been the first I sought.

The Valentine’s gig arrived and, true to form, our manager was still keeping the pertinent details close to his chest. Mumbling something unconvincing about ‘last-minute planning issues’, he arranged to meet us in the car park of an immense twenty-four-hour supermarket on the outskirts of Birmingham. This in itself was nothing new – D’Wayne often met us in random car parks and motorway service stations on our way to an event. But this particular evening the lack of detail was beginning to fray my bandmates’ patience.

‘Where is he?’ Tom demanded, pacing furiously at the back of the van. ‘We’re meant to be loaded in and sound-checked in two hours.’

‘He’ll be here,’ Wren said gently, although her anxious observation of the car park entrance undermined her professed confidence.

Ten minutes later, D’Wayne’s silver BMW roared into view, driving across the rows of empty parking spaces and screeching to a halt alongside Jack’s van. Holding his hands up in apology, he joined us.

‘Traffic was crazy,’ he offered.

‘Funny, we didn’t have any problems
twenty-five minutes ago
,’ Tom sneered.

D’Wayne pressed on regardless. ‘Anyway, we’re all here now, yeah? So no harm done.’

‘Except the one, very small detail of where the venue is for the gig,’ Charlie reminded him. ‘We’ve less than two hours now, and if there’s a long drive involved we’re going to be in deep crap.’

‘It’s very near.’ D’Wayne’s reply was so cool it was practically Alaskan.

‘How near?’ We all observed him carefully.

Triumphant, D’Wayne opened his hands. ‘Right here, guys!’

Stunned, The Pinstripes stared at him.

‘In the
car park
?’ I asked.

‘No, not the car park. That would just be stupid. It’s in
there
.’ He pointed in the direction of the supermarket, where two workers were parking impressively lengthy stacks of metal trolleys as shoppers milled in and out of the automatic doors.

‘Where, exactly? The frozen food aisle? The deli counter?’ Tom was so incensed he was almost incandescent.

‘They’ve rigged up a stage in the entrance,’ D’Wayne proudly informed his incredulous charges. ‘It’s a “Lonely Hearts Valentine’s Shopping Event” and you’re the headline band.’

D’Wayne McDougall had pulled some stunts in his just-over twelve months managing the band, but this had to be up there with the craziest of them. As we set up on the low, bolt-together riser stage in the wide entrance to the store, it transpired that he had taken the ‘executive decision’ to withhold crucial information concerning the venue because he felt it would ‘impair our approach’ to the gig. Fortunately for D’Wayne, time was not on our side so setting up for the gig had to take precedence over the reckoning he should have faced.

Crazy as the idea seemed, it certainly had attracted some attention from shoppers. By the time we began our first set, at least two hundred single people were walking round the store, embarrassingly pink heart name badges pinned to their chests. That said, their response to find a live band bopping around a makeshift stage by the automatic doors was less than rapturous. For the first four songs, we had to contend with bemused looks from the shoppers, not to mention the odd Tannoy announcement cutting in through the supermarket speakers. As I sang, trying to ignore the small child observing me suspiciously at the front of the stage with his middle finger jammed up one nostril, I looked around at the band. Their identical resigned expressions told me all I needed to know.

After a while more lonely heart shoppers stopped to watch and by the end of the first set we were rewarded with polite applause. Relieved, we left the stage to enjoy the refreshments laid on for us by Frank, the cheerful and immensely rotund store manager.

‘Excellent set,
dudes
,’ he enthused, handing round a tray of drinks. ‘The crowd’s loving it.’

‘Not like you’d know,’ Jack mumbled between mouthfuls of food, his previously dark mood placated by the considerable spread at his disposal.

D’Wayne walked up to us, chatting to the beautiful blonde with him. Tom instantly forgot his anger and deployed his most devastating smile. ‘D’Wayne, mate, aren’t you going to introduce us to this lovely lady?’

Charlie groaned and shot me a weary look as he retreated to the relative safety of the buffet table. The woman in question smiled serenely.

‘Hi, I’m Cayte Brogan, reporter with Midlands Radio – we’re covering tonight’s event. I love your music, by the way.’

‘Thanks,’ Tom accepted, although the compliment was clearly meant for all of us. ‘So, are you Kate with a “K” or a “C”?’ His charm was more dairy-laden than the entire contents of the cheese counter just behind the stage.

‘Actually, I have a “C”
and
a “Y”,’ Cayte purred, indicating the shocking pink heart-shaped name badge on the lapel of her exquisitely fitted suit.

Tom was only too happy to accept this invitation to observe her ample chest. ‘Ah, two of my favourite members of the alphabet.’

The palpable chemistry between them transformed this Sesame-Street-style discussion of pertinent letters into something more akin to an 18-certificate movie.

Jack rolled his eyes and turned to Frank, who was failing to disguise his disappointment at being deserted in favour of Tom. ‘What time do you want us back on?’

‘As soon as possible,’ he replied a little too forcefully as he glared at Tom.

We launched into set two, the groove of ‘Love Train’ attracting more lonely heart shoppers to the area in front of the stage. Although this gig probably rated as one of the most unusual venues we had ever played, I had to admit that the idea appeared to be working. Certainly the assembled singles dancing and milling around the store with their ridiculous name badges seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to window-shop their fellow attendees as they bought their groceries. Nevertheless, as we worked through our repertoire, I knew that all of us were dearly hoping that D’Wayne would never book another gig like it. Weddings were undeniably safer territory …

‘At least one person’s definitely pulled tonight,’ Wren whispered to me as the intro to ‘Sunny’ began. She nodded towards the right of the stage, where a rapt Cayte was gazing up at Tom as he played.

I picked up a tambourine and kept the beat as I danced, Wren stepping up to the microphone to take the lead. While she was singing, I let my gaze drift casually across the crowd, pausing to add stabs of harmony here and there. Towards the end of the second verse, I was about to sing when something caught my eye.

A striped scarf – green, brown and cream – identical to the one I had seen on the day I met PK.

I noticed it at the far end of the dance floor area, by the start of the fresh produce aisle. It was unmistakably familiar and draped around the neck of a shopper with his back to me. Squinting against the spotlight glare, I tried to make out more of the figure. His russet-brown hair was wavy, but could it be the same man I’d met? All around me, the music continued, the band reaching the instrumental and Tom delighting in the opportunity to show off his considerable guitar skills for the benefit of the gorgeous blonde reporter. Turning back to the crowd, my heart plummeted when I saw that the man in the striped scarf was no longer standing there.

It couldn’t be him
, I scolded myself, willing my head to stop spinning.
Concentrate on what you’re here to do
.

The final verse arrived and Wren began to improvise while Jack and I picked up the melody. As we reached the three repeats of the last line, I suddenly saw the man again, this time walking from the checkouts towards the door. This time, there was no mistake: his hair, his scarf, the black wool coat … all exactly as I remembered. The song came to an end and, without thinking, I dropped the tambourine and ran down the steps at the side of the stage, weaving through the dancing shoppers and out into the car park. I gasped as the intense chill of the night air hit me.
Where was he?

Scanning left to right, my heart sank. How could he have disappeared so quickly? Dismayed, I was starting to walk back inside when the loud blast of a car horn spun me back around. A white taxi was pulling up about thirty feet away. I watched, heart in mouth, as the man with the scarf strolled from the canopied entrance and opened the car door. I started to walk quickly, praying that the taxi would remain parked by the kerb. The thud of my pulse competed in my ears with the beat of Charlie’s drums coming from inside the store. I had no idea what I would say, and no clue about how I would handle the situation. But I wasn’t going to let him get away this time without at least trying to say something.

He was placing his shopping bags on the back seat as I neared the boot of the car.

‘Cheers, mate,’ I heard him say and I recognised his voice immediately. I wasn’t mistaken – it was him!
Please don’t leave yet
, I begged him silently, breaking into a run.
Please stay where you are
… Just a few more steps …

‘Wait!’ I called, but my voice was no more than a whisper when it came out and I watched with helpless despair as he ducked inside and the taxi door slammed shut. My fingers brushed the paintwork of the boot, then thin air, and the car roared away, leaving me devastated on the pavement, my breath short and painful as the taxi’s red rear lights shrunk from view.

I was
so close
… How could I have missed him? Shivering as a shudder of chill passed down my spine, I hugged my arms to myself and swallowed back my tears that threatened to flood forth. Then, heart heavy, I slowly retreated into the warmth of the store.

If there is one thing you can rely on my friends to do, no matter what, it’s to leap gleefully on any opportunity to mock each other. Tom’s preposterous strutting around stage for the beautiful Cayte’s benefit at the Valentine’s gig  should have elicited hilarity: it was akin to a cross between Mick Jagger (in his latter years) and AC/DC’s Angus Young in full plank-spanking mode, and certainly not attractive in any sense. However, thanks to my impromptu exit from the stage, Tom’s misdemeanours had paled into insignificance.

By the time the first signs of spring began to appear at the beginning of March, the jokes at my expense were firmly entrenched in The Pinstripes’ psyche.

‘Hey, Rom, are you staying with us for lunch?’ Jack asked innocently as I arrived on the small green where my friends had gathered to make the most of the mild weather.

‘Of course. Hence the fact that it’s lunchtime and I’ve come over to meet you,’ I smiled.

‘Right. I just wanted to check, you know, in case you have to
dash off
…’

I raised my eyebrows grudgingly as my assembled bandmates collapsed in fits of giggles. ‘Hilarious. Don’t you think three weeks of this is a little much, now?’

‘We haven’t even started,’ Tom grinned, stretching his long legs out in front of the bench and fiddling with his tie. It’s always a little strange to see my friends in their work clothes – especially Charlie and Tom, who spend so much of their spare time in t-shirts, hoodies and jeans. Of course they dress smartly for our gigs, but all our outfits are co-ordinated to create an overall effect so there isn’t much scope for personal expression. Work clothes, however, highlight the differences. Tom is referred to by all of us as ‘Man at Next’ – owing to the fact that almost all his work wardrobe for the IT firm hails from that store. Charlie is perhaps the most arty of the guys – which is just as well considering that he manages his father’s art gallery. His blue suit, blue checked shirt, silver tie and Converse sneakers were typical of his eclectic work wardrobe. Jack is the only one of us who can legitimately not dress up for his job, but even he likes to ring the changes sometimes, pairing jeans with a shirt and tie. Wren, of course, would have outshone us all, had she not been teaching today and therefore unable to join us; I have it on good authority that her work wardrobe is every bit as eclectic as the outfits we see her in at evenings and weekends.

‘Aw, Rom, sit down,’ Jack said, pulling me on to his lap. ‘If you want to run away from our gigs on a whim, then who are we to mock you for it?’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. So was it him?’

I noticed that Charlie, seated on the far end of the bench, had flicked open his newspaper and was studying it intently. ‘I think so. No, I’m sure of it.’

Reclining magnificently on the grass, Tom flicked crumbs off his shirt from the enormous baguette he was demolishing. ‘Shame we didn’t get a good look. You know I like to vet all your dates.’

‘Like who? I haven’t dated in over a year.’

He smirked. ‘Yes, well, when you do finally find a bloke who’s brave enough to stick around, Rom, I’ll be ready to do my vetting
thang
.’

I shot him a withering look. ‘You know, I’m so glad I sacrificed my lunch hour to be here this afternoon.’

Jack hugged me. ‘It’s only because we love you. I think you’re right to search for this fella.’

‘Well, thank you, Jack.’

There was a dangerous glint in Jack’s eye, which could mean only one thing: and, sure enough it happened. ‘It’s about time someone noticed how wonderful you are. Don’t you think, Chas?’

Subtle as a lump hammer, Jack’s overt challenge brought Charlie’s head snapping upright, and I noticed a deep flush across his cheeks. ‘Sorry?’

Oh dear. Cue round two: ‘I said Rom should find someone who appreciates her.’

Charlie’s midnight blue eyes flicked from Jack to me, holding my gaze for a second before he blinked the moment away. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t hear you. So when are we meeting for rehearsal this week?’

His snub hit a nerve and I bit into my sandwich to hide it. Tom caught my reaction and winked at me, patting the grass beside him in invitation. Gratefully, I accepted, moving away from Charlie and Jack’s discussion.

‘Ignore him, babes. He’s just being a prat about everything.’

‘I know.’

‘Good. I think it’s cool, honestly. Borderline crackers, but still cool. How’s the blog going?’

‘Great, actually. I’ve had about ten messages from supporters, which is nice.’

Tom’s smile was like warm honey. No wonder he was always a hit with the ladies at gigs. ‘Well, seeing your chap at the gig was a great thing, I reckon.’

‘You do?’

‘Definitely. Because now you know it’s possible to find him again. He’s in this city and that means he could be closer than you think. He could live above Ricky WahWah’s.’ He pointed at the popular music shop, where he and Charlie teach occasional music lessons. ‘He could drink in The Garter over there. Something suitably rubbish, probably, like Sol or Leffe – not real ale like us proper men.’ I laughed as his attention switched to an old lady approaching us with a scratty dog in tow. ‘And
that
could be his nan …’

I love the way that Tom can make me forget I’m angry or stressed, just with a well-placed phrase. He has an amazing eye for the comical in any situation. I know it was once a career contender for him, too. Just before we started university, he took a stand-up show to Edinburgh Fringe and, by all accounts, was a bit of a hit. But the lure of music soon usurped his love of comedy and now only we are treated to his comic skills.

‘Thanks, hun.’

He stroked my hand. ‘Listen, if this chap has any sense, he’ll be hunting for you, too. So let’s keep everything crossed that something turns up soon, OK?’

Pleased by his vote of confidence, I agreed. But little did I know how effective his wish would turn out to be …

The messages of support had started to appear from my fourth blog post and were increasing in number. It amazed me how all these complete strangers came across my blog – especially now that my followers had grown from just my kind bandmates to people I’d never met. That very fact filled me with hope about my quest: after all, if these strangers could find me, then it was completely conceivable that PK could find me, too.

As I worked on the week’s quota of jingles, my growing excitement at the burgeoning popularity of my blog took the edge off the lyrical challenge of purporting the virtues of vertical blind suppliers, coach tour operators and even a well-known haemorrhoid preparation.

Wren’s face was a picture when I met up with her one evening at Petito’s, a bright, modern canalside restaurant in Brindley Place, not far from her home.

‘I can’t believe you had to sing about
piles
,’ she exclaimed, eliciting a disapproving stare from the older couple seated at the table next to us.

‘Say it a bit louder, hun – the ducks on the other side of the canal didn’t quite catch that,’ I grimaced, ducking my head behind the menu.

Wren giggled and raised her glass of wine. ‘Romily Parker, I salute you. You’re the only person I know who can write a song about embarrassing medical conditions. Whatever next, diarrhoea?’

‘Did one for that last month.’

‘Awesome.’ She topped up our glasses with red wine. ‘Anyway, enough about the day job. What’s happening with the quest?’

‘I’m getting more supporters every week. Someone has to know who he is.’

‘I certainly hope so. I mean, it’s March and you haven’t exactly made much headway yet, have you? Apart from the fleeting glimpse that may or may not have been the man in question last month.’

‘It’s still early in the year. There’s time.’

‘Yes, there is. But there’s also time to conclude that it was a lovely, romantic notion that just won’t stand up to the test of time. We
all
have our “what-if” memories, Rom. I still think about that guy I met on holiday in New York when I was eighteen. He took me on a horse-drawn carriage tour of Central Park and gave me a single yellow rose. But it was
one day
– and I knew I wouldn’t see him again. It’s just a nice memory. And we need nice memories for the days when we think nobody will ever be interested in us. Not to chase after indefinitely.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘And I really don’t want to be the one to say it because, you know, I desperately want this all to come good for you. I would hate you to be hurt by this, you know.’

‘I know, hun, but it’s just a year of my life. If I can do this, regardless of whether I’m successful or not, then it proves I can set my mind to something and see it through.’

Wren observed me intently. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Then we need to up the ante. I’ll think of something.’

The Garter pub was packed when I walked in the following evening. As usual, there was the odd combination of patrons: well-to-do diners enjoying the expensive gastro-pub food, raucous locals indulging in a few pints after work and pockets of students downing pints as they crowded around tiny tables or playing darts in the pub’s newly renovated interior.

‘Remind me what we’re doing here?’ I asked Wren, as she ducked through a gap in the crowd to claim a small table by a slot machine in one corner.

‘We’re
here
because it’s just possible that your handsome stranger might be.’

‘How do you figure that?’

Wren hung her coat over the back of the chair. ‘If he’s local, he’s likely to
have
a local – a pub, I mean – and this could be it.’

I laughed at her seriousness. ‘It could be, or it could be any other pub anywhere across the city. Are you suggesting we visit all of them? Because I think we might need more than a year to do that. Not to mention the fact that we might end up alcoholics in the process.’

Wren was undeterred by my amusement. ‘Well then in
that case
you could meet him at an AA meeting, so it could all be worth it after all.’

I looked around the packed pub. ‘I don’t think he’s in here, Wren.’

‘You didn’t think he’d be in that supermarket on Valentine’s Night, but he was, wasn’t he? Think of the
possibility
, Rom! Now, I’m going to get us some drinks, so you keep looking, OK?’

I smiled as she headed to the bar. I knew the chances of us just happening to bump into PK here were slim at best, but her belief in what I was doing was touching nevertheless. I flicked to my emails on my phone and saw that I had received another three messages on my most recent blog post. I was just about to look at them when the pub door opened and in walked Charlie and Jack.

Of course, they spotted me straight away, Charlie’s expression more of surprise than delight to see me, unlike Jack, who beamed brightly and bounded over.

‘I didn’t know you were going to be in here tonight,’ he said as he and Charlie approached.

‘Ditto,’ I replied. ‘Wren thought it was a good idea.’

‘Ah right,’ Jack replied, clearly confused. ‘Why?’

‘We’re here on official quest business.’

Charlie shifted uncomfortably and stared in the direction of the bar. Jack raised an eyebrow and sat down on Wren’s empty chair.

‘You’ve had another sighting?’

I couldn’t ignore Charlie’s discomfort as I answered. ‘No, nothing like that. Wren just thought …’

‘Aha! Spying on us, are you?’ Wren interjected as she arrived back with two shots of JD and Coke.

Jack vacated the seat and rejoined Charlie. ‘Perish the thought. We just fancied a blokes’ night out, didn’t we, Chas?’

Charlie muttered something unintelligible, and avoided eye contact with me.

Wren and Jack exchanged looks and I stared resolutely at my drink.

Jack slapped Charlie’s back. ‘Well,’ he said, a little too brightly, ‘we have an appointment with a rather lovely local ale, so we’ll love you and leave you, OK?’

‘Have a good night,’ I offered.

Charlie lifted his eyes to mine momentarily. ‘You too.’ And then they were gone, Jack pushing Charlie into the crowd by the bar.

Wren giggled and leaned towards me. ‘Blimey, how awkward was
that
?’

Glumly, I twisted my glass in the puddle of water on the dark, shiny table surface. ‘I know.’

‘Stuff him, Rom. He needs to grow a pair. You’ll show him when you find the mystery man and live happy ever after.’

I smiled back. But as the night wore on, ultimately proving fruitless for me (although Wren managed to elicit the phone number of the rather cute barman, so perhaps not a total loss), my thoughts kept returning to Charlie’s expression. Lately, I had begun to hope that things were becoming more settled between us, but his reaction tonight harked back to that awful argument in Jack’s van after the New Year’s Eve wedding. Was this how it would be with us from now on, I wondered?

After a bus ride back to Wren’s, I said goodnight and hailed a taxi home. As the bright lights of the city passed by in a bright blur, I sank into the back seat and my thoughts returned to PK. Forget what Charlie Wakeley thought, I was going to carry on searching. Wren was right: I had to believe that I could bump into him again anywhere, at any time. After all, if it had happened once, why not again?