It Started With a Kiss (21 page)

Now, with my third glass of wine well underway and Cayte’s words resounding in my head, all I wanted to do was to express the turmoil I now felt. But the words wouldn’t come. Admitting defeat, I pushed back my chair and, wine glass in hand, opened the front door to step out into the warm night.

This was a disaster, in more ways than one. Ignore the utter embarrassment this was bound to cause me when people read the article; the worst thing was that, if PK did happen to read it, he was more likely to run away than into my arms. I felt helpless to know what to do next and as I leaned against the wall watching bats flitting about over the darkened waters of the Stourbridge canal, it occurred to me that in any other situation Charlie would have been the first person to ask for advice. Knowing that this road was no longer available to me filled me with the deepest sadness. There was only one thing to do. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I made a call.

‘Hi, it’s me. Cayte’s article has just come out and it’s …’ I swallowed hard, ‘…
awful
. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You come over and see us straight after work tomorrow, our bab. We’ll sort you out.’

Next day I headed to work, my head in a bruised fug from the dodgy combination of far too much red wine and far too little sleep. Although it was still early, my mobile was annoyingly message-free from my friends. Was this just because they hadn’t seen Cayte’s article yet, or were they lying low after seeing their words about me committed to print? Determined to get through the day with as few reminders of the annoying piece as possible, I shook my concerns away as I walked into the bright June sunshine.

I knew something was up the moment I arrived at Brum FM. Ted was as gloomily cheery as ever, but I swear he was smirking as the lift doors shut the lobby from my view. People in the corridors averted their eyes and muffled laughter broke out behind me as they passed by. But it was only when I walked into the Bat Cave that Mick gave the game away.

‘You should probably go and have a look at the notice-board in the staffroom,’ he said, an annoying half-grin on his face.

Heart plummeting, I walked into the small room and, as I suspected, found Cayte’s article slapped right in the middle of it.

‘Makes quite interesting reading, doesn’t it?’ asked a self-satisfied voice behind me.

Amanda Wright-Timpkins, every inch the personification of smugness and a severe seniority complex.
Fantastic
.

I shrugged. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

She snorted. ‘I imagine
you
don’t.’

Oh, how witty of you … ‘Yes, well, now you’ve had your fun …’ I reached out, pulled the article down and screwed it up. ‘There. That’s much better.’ I smiled sweetly at her and started to leave the room.

‘That’s fine, Romily, I quite understand. Of course, the
others
are still up.’

I stopped in the doorway and turned slowly to face her. ‘The others?’

‘You mean you didn’t know? They’re up on
every
notice-board in the building, sweetie!’

Deflated, I walked back to the Bat Cave with Amanda prancing along in my wake.

‘Well, you know, we like to celebrate our colleagues’
success
at Brum FM. It’s only fair that everyone gets to share your fifteen minutes of fame.’

Mick looked up as we entered the studio. ‘You look pleased with yourself, Amanda.’

‘Do I? Well, I must admit it gave me the smallest little boost this morning when I read the article. I mean,
how embarrassing
for you, Romily. Having your sad little love life broadcast to all and sundry. But you really only have yourself to blame. I mean, spending a whole year searching for a man who’s clearly not interested? I know pickings are getting slim now you’re almost
thirty
, but even you’ve got to admit it’s a bit desperate.’

‘Don’t you have a broom to ride or something?’ Mick growled, handing me a takeaway cup of coffee and a grease-proof-paper-wrapped bacon roll. ‘We’re actually quite busy in here.’

‘Fine, I can take a hint,’ she said, holding up her square-tipped acrylic nails in surrender, leaning towards me before she left. ‘Maybe
some other people
in here should learn to do the same.’

‘That woman has a stick
so far
up her jac …’

‘It’s cool. Let her have her fun,’ I replied, looking through the work roster to see which delights were lined up for us today. ‘Cereal bars, driving lessons and constipation relief – hmm. Nobody can say our job isn’t varied.’

‘We are nothing if not versatile,’ Mick grinned. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m just hoping this all blows over. In the meantime, I’m just going to rise above it.’

Mick grinned. ‘You do that. Actually, I have the very thing to help you …’ He opened the music library on his screen and selected a track, ducking to avoid my empty coffee cup that flew towards his head when ‘Desperado’ began to play.

By the time I reached
Our Pol
later that afternoon, I was thoroughly sick of the jokes and thinly veiled amusement of my colleagues. It was all good-natured, of course, but it still rankled.

Auntie Mags was waiting anxiously by the cabin doors and when she saw me she hopped off the boat and hurried towards me in her slippers, a tea towel flapping from her hand as she ran. When she reached me, she scooped me up into the biggest, best hug.

‘Ooooh, poppet! Give me a hug! That horrible woman! Poor, poor you!’ Breaking the embrace she took a long, hard look at me. ‘You need carrot cake. Nothing else will do.’ She grabbed my hand and led me into the comforting interior of
Our Pol
. Uncle Dudley was already making a pot of tea in the old yellow teapot as we entered the galley.

‘There she is! Our little media star!’

‘
Quiet
, Dudley, you’re not helping.’ Auntie Mags made a tea towel swipe at my uncle, which he expertly ducked, the result of years of training. ‘Romily is here for cheering up, not mickey-taking.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve had lots of that today,’ I said, flopping down on the bench by the table as Elvis hopped up on to my lap.

‘You see? Even the dog has more sensitivity than you,’ my aunt tutted.

Uncle Dudley looked so crestfallen that I had to hug him when he sat down. ‘It’s fine, Uncle Dud. I’m just in desperate need of some of your famous
uppage
.’

He brightened instantly. ‘Well, in that case, bab, you’ve come to the right narrowboat!’

It is a thing of real beauty to me that even five minutes in the company of my aunt and uncle can completely change my perspective. They should bottle it, or maybe open a ‘positivity spa’ – somewhere where people could book themselves in for an exclusive ‘uppage boost’ while luxuriating in delicious, emotion-specific baked goods …

‘The point is, our kid, this does nothing to harm your quest,’ Uncle Dudley said, pouring me a third mug of tea.

‘But what if he’s seen it and takes out a restraining order or something?’

‘Romily Louise Parker, stop that! It’s in a few local papers and the odd internet site,’ Auntie Mags said. ‘If he did happen to see it – which I highly doubt – he wouldn’t recognise you from the lies
that woman
wrote about you. You’ve come through six months of your quest – are you really going to let one silly woman take the rest of it away from you?’

‘And besides, this isn’t just about you any more,’ Uncle Dudley added. ‘Have you seen the comments on your blog lately? No? Right!’ He made a flourishing gesture with his hand as if summoning a vast army. ‘Magsie, fetch the laptop!’

Auntie Mags didn’t move. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

His face fell. ‘Didn’t I leave it in the bedroom?’

‘I’ve no idea, Dudley, on account of not yet being able to see through walls, even if they are chipboard. Did you want me to go and look for you?’

Blushing slightly, Uncle Dudley nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind,
lovely
wife of mine.’

Patting his balding head, Auntie Mags winked at me as she headed off to locate the lost laptop. When she returned with it, my uncle logged into my blog.

‘There,’ he said, spinning the laptop to face me. ‘Read those.’

To my utter surprise, the last blog post I’d written (before the article appeared) now had about twenty new messages. It transpired that several of my blog followers had seen the article and taken to the social networks to drum up support. Their number had now risen to almost one hundred and fifty and the comments were nothing short of lovely.

And there were more of the same. I could hardly believe it.

‘You’ve struck a chord with people, dear,’ Auntie Mags smiled.

‘And she’s not the only one,’ Uncle Dudley grinned, scrolling to the bottom of the comments and sliding the laptop towards my aunt.

‘Well, gracious me! Whatever does she want that for?’ Auntie Mags feigned shock, but the deep flush of her cheeks told a different story.

‘You should write them down, Magsie, I’ve been saying this for years.’

‘Maybe I should … If I type out some recipes, would you email them to that young lady, Romily?’

‘Of course I will. This is amazing, Uncle Dud. Thanks for showing me. I’ve been feeling so rotten about it all day, but knowing that people are supporting me still has really helped.’

We moved to the squashy seats of the living area and Auntie Mags brought more tea and cake. Before long, the conversation moved into not-so-positive territory.

‘So have you spoken to your parents yet?’

Oh yes. Mercifully, only by phone so far. I had been putting off the evil moment, but finally bit the bullet in my lunchbreak earlier that day.

There are few certainties in this world, but when it comes to my mother, one immovable truth exists: when she is angry,
everyone
knows about it. Mum had made sure that she called as many people as possible to tell them how mortified she was about me. Consequently, the first ten minutes of our conversation had been filled with details of just how horrified everyone else had been.

‘A
blog
, Romily? Do you have any idea how cheap and tacky that appears to the world? We didn’t bring you up to air your dirty laundry in public. This is a complete embarrassment – everyone I have spoken to today says the same thing.’

I had apologised, of course, especially for the way she found out. But Mum was unwilling to let the matter drop and an argument thus ensued that began with her blaming the band, my aunt and uncle and more or less everyone else who had offended her over the years, and ended with her demanding that I cancel the quest.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, Mum.’

‘But what good is it doing you if you’re nothing but a joke with your friends?’

That had hurt – after all, if Cayte’s article was to be believed, one of my closest friends had been less than supportive of me. ‘There are people who still believe in what I’m doing. And I happen to be one of them.’

‘Well, more fool you. Fine. Go ahead. Show yourself up in front of everyone. But don’t expect your father and I to pick up the pieces for you when it all goes wrong.’

‘She said that?’ Auntie Mags stared at me. ‘I know she’s not the most supportive mother on the planet but even for her that’s harsh.’

‘I just told her that this is my life and she has to let me take charge of it.’

Uncle Dudley grasped my hand between both of his. ‘Now  you listen to me, bab, this is just a little setback. I can’t shake the feeling that you’re going to find him. As for your parents, just leave them be. The only person you have to answer to for who you are is
you
. Don’t you forget that.’

On my way home that evening, I felt distinctly brighter about the situation. Sometimes, it’s only when your beliefs and values are challenged that you understand how import ant they are in your life. The exchange with my parents, while heartbreaking, confirmed what I had suspected all along: I was never going to be the person they assumed I should be. Instead, I felt free: I had found out that I could believe in who I actually was. And that was a girl who was going to carry on following her heart …

I heard nothing from any of the band the next day, save for a couple of concerned texts from D’Wayne. Bless him, he seemed to feel personally responsible for the hurt the article had inflicted on me. I really wasn’t looking forward to the next band rehearsal, not least because I still couldn’t be certain whom the ‘close friend’ quoted in Cayte’s article was.

Of course this was assuming that Cayte had broken with tradition and actually bothered to source a genuine quote from anyone, instead of making it up like the rest of her article. I was still shocked at how blatant her betrayal had been. Did she imagine that I was going to thank her for what she wrote? Did she even care what I thought?