It Started With a Kiss (14 page)

Reaching into my bag, I retrieved my mobile and was surprised to find a text from Charlie.

As messages of support continued to appear on the comments section of my blog posts, I found myself increasingly touched by the enthusiasm and unshakeable belief of complete strangers in what I was doing.

Jack’s girlfriend Sophie certainly seemed to think so. After The Pinstripes’ gig rehearsal next day, she arrived bearing three large pizza boxes, much to the delight of everyone present.

‘Seriously, Rom,
everyone
at work is following your blog now. I mentioned it in the staffroom last week and it turned out most of the teachers had heard about it already. Two of my colleagues mentioned your quest today without any prompting from me, and then proceeded to tell me about their “what-if” stories.’

This was the second time I had heard that phrase this week. ‘Wren said that. She thinks my handsome stranger is my “what-if”.’

Sophie smiled. ‘Could be. But it turns out this kind of thing has happened to lots of girls. It’s just that none of them were brave enough to try to pursue it, unlike you.’

‘Wow. I had no idea.’

‘I reckon if you do this and find him, you’ll be a hero for a lot of women who want to believe that once-in-a-lifetime romances like that can happen.’

I poured boiling water from the kettle into Tom’s battered yellow teapot and gave it a stir. ‘Well, if Wren has her way we’ll be spending an awful lot of time visiting local pubs in order to find him.’

Sophie’s black-brown eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, I heard about that. Jack and Charlie were full of it when they went out for their ride this morning.’

‘Oh? What did they say?’

‘Well, when Charlie first saw you sitting there by yourself he thought you’d located the mystery man and were on your first date. I think he was a bit miffed about it, although of course he didn’t admit it after he realised his mistake. Jack ribbed him all night apparently, and it was still going on this morning.’

Charlie was laughing with Tom and Jack at the other side of the shoe factory rehearsal room. I lowered my voice in case he could hear me. ‘I don’t know why he would think that. He only needs to read my blog to see that the Valentine’s Night sighting is the closest I’ve got to PK so far.’

‘Don’t worry what Charlie thinks, Rom. You go for it with this quest.’

‘Thanks, Sophie. So have you had a “what-if”, then?’

Sophie visibly sparkled. ‘About a year before I met Jack I was in London on a drama trip. We were visiting Covent Garden when this beautiful man with the most amazing azure blue eyes bowed to me by the entrance to Neal’s Yard. That’s all he did: just bowed – a flamboyant, full Shakespearean bow. And then he left. But it took my breath away. I still wonder what would have happened if he had said something, or if I’d met him again.’

I had no idea if Charlie had heard what I said, but his mood was markedly different that evening as we ploughed our way through the boxes of pizza and copious mugs of tea. He made an effort to smile at me whenever I caught his eye and he even offered me a lift to the wedding gig that Saturday. Although I was still irritated by his earlier attitude, the apparent white flag he was waving came as a blessed relief, so I agreed. Despite all that had gone between us since Christmas, I couldn’t deny that Charlie in charming mode was impossible not to like.

Just after eight on Saturday morning, The Pinstripes piled into a motorway service station on the M6 after a criminally early pre-dawn van loading. The wedding venue we were travelling to was a medieval manor house in Northumberland and we had been asked to arrive and set up as early as possible. It would be a five-hour drive from door to door, but at least D’Wayne had arranged accommodation for us nearby after the gig – even if we would have another early start book tomorrow.

After all the recent weirdness between Charlie and I, the journey so far had been surprisingly jovial. Steering well clear of any possibly contentious issues, we resorted to gig stories and memories from school, college and university – far safer territory for both of us. As the miles passed by, I began to relax in the heated seats of his dark green Volvo estate, carefully enjoying our conversation.

Most of the food concessions in the service station were only just coming to life, so the band descended on WHSmith’s for crisps, chocolate bars, fruit juice and cans of drink. Charlie and Jack, coffee snobs to the last, opted to wait for the Italian coffee concession to open, refusing to consume anything produced by the automatic machine in the shop. Meanwhile Wren incurred the wit of Tom for insisting on buying
The Times
to do the crossword.

‘Call yourself an honest, working-class woman?’ he lambasted her. ‘Anyone else would buy
Puzzler
or
Take a Break
, but – oh no – not you! Well, you know what you can do with your bourgeois, middle-class word games. Give me good, honest Hangman and I-Spy any day of the week!’

Half an hour later, we had all given in to the inevitable and purchased coffee and cake from the counter after our junk food choices paled beside Charlie and Jack’s far superior offerings.

‘Why have they booked a band if it’s a medieval wedding?’ Wren asked, taking a bite of an enormous double chocolate chip muffin that was almost as big as her head.

Tom smiled. ‘Apparently it’s a compromise the bride made for the groom. She gets the medieval theme, he gets music he and his friends can dance to.’

‘Sounds like a marriage built on good, solid foundations then,’ I replied.

‘Shame D’Wayne couldn’t be here this morning,’ said Jack, ‘otherwise he’d be able to suggest how long the marriage is likely to last.’ He hunched his shoulders up to give the appearance of a too-muscular neck, adopted a broad Handsworth accent and shook his head sagely: ‘“I give them twelve months
maximum.
”’

‘Do you think they’ll all be dressed up, though?’ Wren asked. ‘I’m not quite sure how a hundred and fifty guests are going to manage moshing to “I Kissed a Girl” in full medieval garb.’

‘That’s another thing: who requests “I Kissed a Girl” for a wedding? It’s hardly a song you want your granny dancing to, is it?’ Jack offered. The mental picture this created sent us all into helpless giggles.

‘It’s the groom’s friends’ favourite song,’ Tom informed us, his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the gig’s final details taking us all aback. ‘It was the anthem of the stag weekend.’

‘Has D’Wayne got you on the payroll now?’ Charlie asked with surprise. ‘Do we need to start calling you T’Om?’

This was met with the kind of hilarity that can only be created by a group of people with sleep deficiency coupled with a caffeine and sugar overload. When the laughter finally subsided once more, Tom enlightened us. ‘I only know because Cayte’s covering the back story of the wedding for a freelance thing she’s doing for
Brides Magazine
.’

Since the Valentine’s Night gig, Tom and Cayte’s attraction had blossomed into a full-blown relationship and she was now a regular face whenever we got together for food or a night out. Tom liked to refer to her as ‘a little something I picked up with my groceries’ – a joke that never seemed to lose its allure for the two of them, despite it wearing thin for Jack and Charlie.

‘Honestly, Rom, if he uses that flippin’ line one more time when we’re out riding, I’m going to push him off his singlespeed,’ Charlie grumbled once we were back in the car and heading north.

‘Give him a break. He’s happy again – that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

Charlie pulled a face. ‘I guess so.’

I leaned back and listened to the metallic clunking of the equipment stacked up to the roof as the car bumped over the changing tarmacs of the motorway. ‘I reckon this gig is destined to be another D’Wayne McDougall extravaganza – medieval wedding, bride and groom fighting over the entertainment choices, everyone in tights … It already carries the hallmarks of a classic.’

Charlie laughed. ‘You may well be right. Still, let’s just think about the millionaire gig.’

The thought of the Gig That Could Change Everything was enough to send lightning bolts of thrill careering up my spine. ‘Has Tom found out any more details yet?’

‘He was telling me the latest last night. The venue is a country palace just over the Thames from Kew Gardens. It’s called Syon Park and by all accounts it’s stunning. Countless celebrities have been married there and it’s been used as a location for feature films and TV shows. I think some duke and his family still own it. Tom was gushing – I think he’s more excited about getting to play there than he is about how much we’re getting paid.’ He paused and I sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere. ‘Look, Rom, I was a total idiot on Wednesday night. I just didn’t expect to see you there. To be honest, I thought you were on a date. So you can see why I was a bit quiet?’

I couldn’t really. Any right Charlie had to comment on what I did had surely been surrendered when he passed up the opportunity for us to be together. As far as I was concerned, he could think whatever he liked, just as long as he didn’t tell me what to do with my life. But his sincerity made me swallow my objections and simply smile in return.

‘Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it.’

This polite answer seemed sufficient reward and I watched him relax as he drove.

‘I don’t reckon you’d find anyone in The Garter, though,’ he added.

‘You don’t? Wren did – she got the barman’s number. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. She’s determined to help me find my man.’

His not-so-silent groan was impossible to miss. ‘You still believe that’s possible?’

‘Yes, I do. I definitely saw him at that gig.’

‘Fair enough.’

Unwilling to discuss what was already a highly uncomfortable topic further, I changed the subject as the motorway stretched out before us.

By the time we arrived at Beauforden Manor, Charlie and I had established unspoken boundaries for our conversation and I felt considerably calmer as a result. When we were discussing non-contentious issues, the old magic between us was back: the jokes that sparked off each other’s comments, creating layer upon layer of wit. When it was like this, it was almost as if our conversation at Christmas had never happened. Almost …

The medieval manor house was darkly beautiful, its walls rising from wildly romantic gardens edged with cedars, willows and oaks that led to the silver expanse of a river, which wound its way around the hill on which the building stood. We set up in the grand central hall of the manor, which had been significantly embellished with overtly Gothic splendour by its owners during the Victorian era. Candles burned at every window and along the length of three sixty-foot dining tables that stretched from the top table. Gold-painted platters were set at every place and earthenware jugs of peonies, ivy and roses adorned each table. It was certainly impressive, although Wren, Jack and Tom struggled to take it seriously once they had spotted the venue’s staff walking around sulkily in full medieval dress.

‘You’ve got to hope they’re being paid sufficiently for the ignominy of having to be seen in public like
that
,’ Jack gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘No wonder they all look so miserable.’

‘There are times when I realise how lucky I am not to have to wear a uniform for work,’ Tom agreed, lowering his voice as a particularly surly older gentleman in bulging smock and pea-green tights walked past carrying a stack of chairs. ‘This is one of those times!’

‘Alright, lads and lasses.’ A gruff-looking man in a baron’s outfit was approaching us. Grasping a very un-twelfth-century clipboard, he surveyed the half-assembled equipment. ‘I’m Gary, event organiser at Beauforden. This is looking good. You’ve got everything you need?’

Jack shook his hand. ‘I think so. Jack Williams – I think we spoke on the phone earlier?’

A broad smile spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh yes, the keyboard player with the dodgy sat-nav. Don’t worry, lad, you’re not the first to get taken the wrong way on the moors by one of them contraptions.’

Jack dropped his head as the rest of us launched into raucous laughter at his expense. ‘I ended up in a
field
. The only thing I could do was call here and ask them to guide me in. Thanks, mate.’

‘No worries. Now you’ve got a dressing room just through that door and I’ve laid out your costumes in there. Any probs, give us a shout.’ He began to stride away.

Shock ricocheted round the band. ‘Costumes?’ Charlie repeated weakly.

Gary turned back. ‘Aye, lad. The ones your manager sent.’

Wren paled. ‘Did anyone know about this?’

‘No,’ Jack said, ‘and I only spoke to D’Wayne this morning. He never mentioned it.’

Tom’s face was the colour of the crimson roses that framed the stage. ‘I’ll kill him!’

‘Maybe they aren’t that bad,’ I offered, even though I suspected I was wrong. ‘Perhaps we should just go and see them before we all start to panic?’

Five minutes later, we were staring at the most garish collection of quasi-medieval garments ever assembled. These monstrosities made the staff costumes we had been mocking not ten minutes beforehand look almost fashionable.

‘D’Wayne is
history
, man,’ Tom growled. ‘Nobody gives me canary-yellow tights and lives to laugh about it.’

‘You think you have problems.’ Jack held a purple velvet tunic aloft. ‘I’m going to look like an aubergine in this.’

‘The green tights and matching hat will help with that,’ Wren giggled.

‘Yous lot all getting on OK?’ Gary’s smiling face appeared at the door.

Tom smiled hopefully. ‘We don’t have to wear these if we don’t want to, right?’

‘’Fraid so, lad,’ Gary answered, his mirth barely hidden. ‘S’all in the contract. Your manager agreed it when we booked you. Those tights are surprisingly comfy when you get used to them, you know.’ Chortling, he departed, leaving us helplessly staring after him.