It Started With a Kiss (29 page)

As November set in, D’Wayne was proud to announce that he had secured a golden wedding anniversary booking for The Pinstripes. As the happy couple were fans of fifties and sixties crooners, we had great fun putting together a laid-back set of swing and classic American Songbook songs. Wren and I took turns to lead, Charlie played a simplified drum kit with brushes and Jack indulged in some smooth jazz improvisation. Classics like ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’, ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, ‘Stormy Weather’, ‘Autumn Leaves’, ‘Let There Be Love’, ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ and ‘Summertime’ flowed as easily as the guests traversing the polished hotel ballroom floor in their long evening gowns and full dinner suits. To do justice to the style of songs we would be singing this evening, all of us had gone to town on our stage outfits: the boys wore tuxedos, Wren looked stunning in a figure-skimming gold floor-length gown and I chose a gorgeous crimson satin 1930s-style dress that draped beautifully and made me feel unspeakably glamorous. In fact, the whole event felt like a scene from a classic Hollywood movie. I could almost imagine a full MGM orchestra supporting me as I sang.

For the final song of the first set, we received a request for Nat King Cole’s ‘When I Fall in Love’, which I was duly elected to sing. I adore this song, not least because it’s one of Uncle Dudley’s favourites and one of the few he knows all of the lyrics to. It’s a long-standing joke between my uncle, aunt and myself that Uncle Dudley can never remember more than one line of lyrics to any song. Auntie Mags and I once caught him falling into the famous pitfall of forgetting the words to ‘Unforgettable’: ‘Unforgettable … la la la laaa …’ – which, as you can imagine, he has never been allowed to forget.

Singing ‘When I Fall in Love’, I was instantly reminded of Uncle Dudley serenading Auntie Mags with it in the tiny living quarters of
Our Pol
, waltzing her around in his Simpsons slippers. I closed my eyes and imagined waltzing through the Christmas crowds in the arms of my russet-haired partner, every line from the song a promise to him … I reached the instrumental and looked back at Jack and Charlie as they played. Jack, his eyes closed, was lost in the moment, playing almost unconsciously. But Charlie was looking straight back at me, his midnight blue eyes dark in the coloured stage lights that threw shadows along the con tours of his face.

We took a break while the buffet was served and Jack, Tom and Wren made a beeline for the bar. D’Wayne strolled over to Charlie and me, chatting with the couple celebrating their anniversary.

‘Charlie, Romily, can I introduce you to Trisha and Les?’

Les shook our hands and Trisha hugged us, much to Charlie’s surprise. ‘It’s just so
wonderful
,’ she gushed. ‘It’s the kind of wedding we dreamed of fifty years ago.’

Her husband squeezed her arm. ‘Not that we would’ve had it any other way though, eh?’

She patted his hand. ‘Absolutely not. We didn’t have anything as fancy as this,’ she told us. ‘A fish supper with our families and a couple of friends in Stone Yardley Village Hall and his mother made the cake. I made my wedding dress at evening class and we walked from the church to the reception because my mum and dad didn’t have a car. But it was a lovely day.’

‘Made me the happiest man alive, my Patricia did, when she said she’d be my wife. And we’ve never looked back, have we, sweetness?’

‘No. Happy-ever-after, us, aren’t we, Leslie?’

When they left, Charlie bought me a drink and we sat at a table by the side of the stage, chatting and laughing. I couldn’t help thinking how different this was to when Charlie insisted I accompany him back from the New Year’s Eve gig, ten months ago. It was wonderful to be able to laugh and joke together, even if unfinished business still lurked forebodingly around the peripheries.

After a lull in the conversation, Charlie cleared his throat. ‘I have to say, you sound awesome tonight.’

Taken aback by the sudden compliment, heat began to spread up the back of my neck and I focused hard on my glass. ‘Thanks. You’re playing well, too.’

‘That’s not what I mean. We’ve performed these songs before, but I’ve never seen you so lost in a song as you were with the last one.’

‘I was just thinking about my uncle and aunt,’ I replied truthfully. ‘It’s one of their favourites.’

He was quiet for a while. ‘I thought … No, forget it.’

‘Go on.’

He smiled. ‘I was wondering if you were thinking of
him
.’

I considered my response for a moment, this being new territory for both of us. How odd that he’d read my thoughts like that … ‘I was, actually.’

‘Oh. Spooky, huh?’

I smiled at him. ‘Very.’

Nothing more was said on the subject, but I sensed a taboo had been broken. And it felt good. As we joined the others on stage for the second set, I couldn’t stop smiling.

But as we embarked on the second set, things began to change. I noticed it about four songs in, when I looked over to Charlie during an instrumental break and noticed that he wasn’t smiling. Initially dismissing it, I turned back to the audience and focused on my performance. But, three songs later, it became obvious that a dark mood had settled across him. Everyone else in the band was laughing and enjoying the moment – so why couldn’t he?

As we reached the end of the gig and began to pack away, I tried to think back over what we talked about during the break and couldn’t find anything that I might have said to offend him. Annoyed, I timed my journeys back and forth to the van in order to incur minimal meeting points with him. This tactic appeared to be working until Les and Trisha’s family accosted the others, leaving the task of the equipment pack-down to Charlie and me. With no spare bodies to watch the van, I was forced to remain by its open back doors, as Charlie brought the remainder of the equipment out.

I fitted the speakers, flight cases and bags into the van as best I could, but Charlie insisted on taking out what I had packed and huffily replacing them. Incensed by his silent hostility, feeling utterly useless and disregarded, I resorted to handing him items as he crouched inside. When he shook his head in exasperation at me for the fifth time, it was the last straw.

‘Maybe I should leave this to you, seeing as I’m obviously causing more problems by helping,’ I snapped.

His head jerked round. ‘What?’

‘I don’t see the point of me standing here like a total lemon while you tut and sigh at everything I do.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I was.’

‘Like hell you weren’t. Honestly, Charlie, I don’t know what’s worse: you blowing hot and cold or you ignoring me entirely.’

The blue touch-paper well and truly lit, he jumped down from the van and faced me, anger firing through him. ‘That’s rich coming from you.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You heard.’

He pushed past me and stormed back into the hotel, leaving me raging by the van. How on earth could he accuse me of being the one at fault? It was
his
attitude from out of nowhere that had caused this tension, not mine. And if he thought I was going to take the blame, then he was seriously mistaken.

Reasoning that the best thing I could do now was to make my excuses and leave, I slammed the van doors and turned to head back – just as Charlie strode out again.

‘See, the thing is, Romily, I don’t get it. I’m sorry, but I don’t.’

If he was after a fight, he was most certainly going to get one now.
Seconds out, round two
… ‘Oh,
please
enlighten me.’

His midnight eyes were aflame as they seared into mine. ‘I don’t get how you can spend a year of your life looking for someone you barely know, when the someone you
should
be looking for is right in front of you.’

The world around me skidded to a halt. My anger vaporised, leaving me numb and defenceless. ‘Sorry?’

‘This guy you think you’re in love with doesn’t exist. Only up here,’ he pointed to his temple. ‘You’re asking him to be someone he isn’t. He can’t be what you want him to be because he doesn’t know who you are. This isn’t what you need, Rom, and you know it.’ His voice softened. ‘Deep down, you
know
who you need. I think you’ve known it all along.’

What on earth was he talking about? He knew how much my quest meant to me – and if he didn’t, then why did he seem to be supporting me at the Chase last week?

‘Don’t you dare say that now, after everything we talked about,’ I countered, hurt and confusion mixing with anger to form a dangerously flammable cocktail. ‘You have no right to …’

‘I have every right!’ he shouted back. ‘Why are you still searching, Rom? Why won’t you admit how you feel?’

‘I
am
saying how I feel! The difference is, Charlie, the man I’m looking for sees me for who I am – and yes, it was only for a second, but in that time I saw all I needed to know.
That’s
why I’m still searching.’

‘But he doesn’t deserve you like …’ he broke off.

‘Like
who
, Charlie?’

‘Like
me
!’

Winded by this blindside blow, I reeled for a moment then regrouped. ‘This is ridiculous. I gave you the opportunity to be with me at Christmas and you didn’t want me!’

‘Well, I do now!’

And there it was, his final shot reverberating around the buildings that surrounded us as we faced each other.

Gone was the fire from his eyes; instead they met mine with the startling vulnerability I had seen for the first time in the cottage garden at Combermere Abbey, two months ago. But what was I supposed to say? Did he expect me to fall into his arms now, after he so roundly rejected me almost a year ago?

‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ I said.

His shoulders dropped. ‘Don’t say anything now. Just think about it, OK? I know everything’s a mess and I don’t blame you for being cautious. But what happened at the Chase – I
know
you felt something too.’

He was right, of course, but I needed time to think, to weigh up the evidence before me and work out where all the pieces belonged: Charlie, PK, my quest, the possibility of a burgeoning new career … ‘I don’t know how I feel.’

He took a breath. ‘But you’ll think about it?’

I nodded.

Even though it had been one of Mum’s pet sayings as I was growing up, the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’ had never really made sense to me before. I had always assumed it was just my mother’s way of discouraging any illogical, heart-led notions I might be harbouring.

But now I understood. I had invested at least three years of my life fostering what I thought was true love for Charlie, only to have it thrown in my face last year and then newly resurrected now. On the other hand, I had devoted almost a year of my life – along with everything that had entailed – searching for someone who appeared to want my love, only for him to disappear instantly and remain stubbornly at large. It was nearly the end of November, a month before the quest deadline. If I was honest with myself, what chance did I realistically have of finding him now?

Of course I loved Charlie: you don’t spend three years of your life pining after someone without it leaving any lasting mark. But after a year of looking in the opposite direction, did enough of it remain to support a relationship? And what of my feelings for PK? The intoxicating, gleaming prize awaiting me at the close of my quest, the promise of which had dictated my every move this year; waiting, longing, sure in the knowledge that it could be mine?

When I confided in Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags, they told me to follow my heart. But the only problem was that my heart was twice as confused as my head. Wren suggested that I imagine which of them I’d like to wake up next to in the morning, but that didn’t exactly narrow the choice down either.

In the end, the best advice I received came from a most unexpected source.

The aged laptop I had been using at home finally decided it had tired of slaving over my photographs, freezing one evening and stubbornly refusing to turn itself off or reboot. When it comes to anything computer-related, there is only ever one person my friends and I turn to.

‘Hello, Tom Rushton.’

‘Hi, it’s Rom.’

‘
Romulus!
How goes it in the land of jingling? Still immortalising dodgy products in song?’

‘I’m afraid so. Sorry to do this to you, but my laptop’s playing hardball. Is there any chance you could take a look at it for me?’

‘Sure, bring it over any time. In fact, what are you up to tonight?’

‘Nothing, I think.’

‘Excellent! Come to mine for tea! Cayte bought me the new Gordon Ramsay cookbook and I’m experimenting tonight. You up for it?’

I smiled. ‘Absolutely. Thanks, mate.’

‘No worries. Oops, better go, the boss’s car has just pulled in.’

He was in the throes of a chopping frenzy when I arrived that evening. His father is a trained chef, so he learned how to do the impressive fast chopping thing at an early age. It never ceases to amaze me how he can expertly shred vegetables with a knife so sharp it scares me, without ever looking at what he’s doing.

‘It’s a kind of a stew,’ he informed me, scrutinising the recipe book that lay open on the top of the kitchen scales. ‘You’re supposed to leave the veg pieces quite big, but you know me once I start – it’s julienne or bust!’

‘Well, it certainly looks impressive.’

‘Excellent.’ He addressed the book with a mini bow. ‘Thank
you
, Gordon.’ He beamed at me. ‘So I hear your laptop’s not a happy chap?’

I glanced down at the offending item I carried under my arm. ‘Yup. I think it might be on the way out.’

‘We’ll see about that. Let’s head up to my office and I’ll leave this cooking.’

Tom’s office is quite possibly the smallest office I have ever seen; it’s barely more than a large cupboard. It has a compact, half-size desk (which I have on good authority from Jack and Charlie took a fair bit of sawing in order to ‘custom-fit’ it into the limited space); an old leather-look office chair that has an unfortunate wobble and a printer he has to counsel, coax or threaten before it will print anything. That his home office is so shabbily attired seems a contradiction when you consider the cutting-edge, millionaire-owned technology firm where he works, with its state-of-the-art terminals, spacious accommodation and swanky office furniture.