It Started With a Kiss (7 page)

‘Forget Pinstripes’ domestics, I can trump your gig, Chas.’

Relief washed over me as all attention switched to our guitarist.

Clearly happy to be let off the hook, Charlie laughed. ‘Oh really? Pray tell.’

‘I was chatting to my boss Julian last week about the kind of events we do. It was just a bit of small talk on the last day of work and I didn’t expect anything to come of it. But yesterday he called me and asked if we would be interested in playing for his daughter’s wedding in June. Point is, the guy’s loaded – we’re talking multi-millionaire – and he’s booked an amazing stately home in London not far from Kew Gardens. We had the most mental conversation. He was casually reeling off names of some of the guests who have already accepted, and we’re talking
major
celebs.’

It took us all several minutes to process this. It was D’Wayne who finally broke the silence.

‘How much?’

Tom’s smile was confidence personified. ‘Five grand for the full band, and he’ll throw in accommodation in Central London.’

‘Wow,’ Wren breathed. ‘That would make a major dent in my credit card debt. And staying in London, too? I’m thinking
shopping
…’

‘So much for settling the credit cards, Wren,’ I laughed.

‘How many sets?’ Charlie asked.

‘Two one-hours with a break for the evening buffet in the middle.’

‘Ah, music to my ears,’ grinned Jack.

Sophie leant forward. ‘When you say “celebs”, what calibre are we talking?’

‘Put it this way: the happy couple have sold their wedding pictures to
Hello!
magazine for several million pounds. Reckon we could tempt you out of retirement to play some wicked sax for us, Soph?’

Sophie whooped and threw her arms around Tom. ‘Yes! Please!’

‘How definite a booking is it?’ I asked.

‘As definite as us saying yes. He listened to the demo tracks on our website and decided we were perfect. Which of course, we are. So I said yes. Was that OK?’

All of us agreed together, even D’Wayne, who was looking decidedly deflated by the news.

Later, I stood in the kitchen with Jack making hot chocolate as the hum of excited conversation drifted through from the other room. Even though he’s two months younger than me, Jack’s always assumed the role of an older brother, watching out for me at every opportunity. My mother heartily approves of him, I think because he runs his own business (a successful local recording studio) and for several years through my early twenties she wrongly assumed that we were destined for each other – even when I explained that he was already settled with Sophie. As for me, I’ve always loved the easy friendship we’ve built, completely free of any kind of romantic undertones. Unlike Charlie and I …

‘This could be huge for us,’ Jack said, as the milk started to steam in the pan. ‘If we get recommended to society people it could mean serious money.’

‘I know.’ I hardly dared to believe it. ‘I could certainly use the money.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He shook several handfuls of Belgian chocolate flakes into the milk while I stirred. ‘So what’s going on with you and Charlie?’

‘Nothing. Just a misunderstanding. But we’ve sorted it now.’

‘Are you sure? Only neither of you seemed yourselves tonight.’

‘We’re fine, Jack, don’t worry. Give it a bit of time and things will be back to normal, you’ll see.’

‘Right. I don’t believe you, but if you say it’s fine then so be it.’

In truth, I was no more convinced by my assertion than he was, but I hoped with all my heart that it was true.

Christmas Day at the Parker house was as strained an affair as usual. Mum and Dad had been biting at each other’s heels all morning and by the time Christmas dinner was served (after Her Majesty had summed up the year, of course), the atmosphere between them had descended into recriminatory Punch-and-Judy-style bickering.

Cursing my older brothers Niall and Spence for coming up with plausible excuses for missing the annual Parker family agony, and wishing with all my heart that my parents had relented on their traditional festive snub of Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags this year, I grimly focused on my Waitrose-provided Christmas dinner in the beige dining room. Mum was describing how close the meal had come to disaster this year due to Dad ‘fiddling with the new oven timer’ on Christmas Eve.

‘Of all the times to experiment with it, your father – of course – chose the very night I was preparing the glazed bacon joint. We had the windows open in the kitchen
all night
to get rid of the smell of burning meat. This after our butchers had closed for the holidays, so no chance of replacing the joint before Christmas. I told him, Romily, I said he’s only himself to blame if there’s no ham left for supper.’

Dad shrugged. ‘I never said I liked the cold meat thing anyway. And besides, we’ll have enough cold turkey to last us till March with that organic bird we practically had to remortgage the house to buy.’

‘Oh, and
as if
we don’t already have precious little time to enjoy the fruits of our labours, you have to complain about
one extravagance
I asked for! Never mind that I work seven days a week to keep the family business going. Never mind that the closest thing I get to a night out these days is my book group on a Thursday night at Moriarty’s …’

I looked over at Gran, who had obviously switched her hearing aid off and was now giggling at the Christmas film on television, blissfully unaware of World War Three raging around her. If only I’d brought my clear plastic earplugs that I use for rehearsals with the band …

As the main course ended and dessert was served, Mum decided to take a quick break from berating my father, turning the maternal spotlight on to me instead.

‘I suppose work is still bearable?’

‘Not too bad, thanks. The station manager sent my department a bonus for our work this year.’

‘Cut-price double-glazing, was it?’ Dad sniggered, clearly pleased with his rapier wit.

‘Contrary to popular belief, I don’t
just
write jingles for double-glazing companies, you know,’ I protested. But of course this fell on deaf ears (and I’m not just talking about Gran’s).

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Mum continued, handing round a bowl of over-whipped cream to add to the impossibly stodgy Christmas pudding slumped resignedly in our cut-glass dishes. ‘But writing silly little advertising songs for the “third most popular radio station” in Birmingham is hardly a glittering career choice, is it?’

I had been waiting for this topic to arrive all day and was actually quite impressed that my mother had held back until nearly four o’clock. Being a disappointment to your parents is an occasional hazard for most people. For me – a radio jingle-writer and weekend wedding band vocalist with no sign of anything resembling a five-year career plan – it is practically a vocation. My mother, determined to wear me down over time like water dripping on to solid rock, never varied her tactics: it was always the same, every time I visited.

‘The point I’m trying to make is that you are now about to embark on the last year of your twenties, so you should be thinking about a serious career. You know there will always be a place for you at the family firm. Your father has already said he’d happily fund your accountancy training …’

‘Did I?’ Dad’s expression changed instantly – no doubt encouraged by the swift meeting of Mum’s foot with his shin under the table. ‘Er, of course, happy to oblige.’

‘You need to think about what you want to do with your life, that’s all I’m saying. Thirty is a milestone and you’re heading towards it faster than you realise. You should use this time to make a decision about who you want to be.’

Though I hated to admit it, Mum’s words had a profound effect on me. Maybe it was because there had been so much soul-searching over the past few days, what with my encounter with the handsome stranger and the intense awkwardness with Charlie, but the thought of making my twenty-ninth year count began to take centre-stage in my mind.

Later that evening, safe in the peaceful surroundings of my home with the soothing tones of Bing, Frank and Nat in the background and the softly twinkling fairy lights from my Christmas tree casting a gently pulsating glow around my living room, I poured a long-overdue glass of red wine and looked at the teardrop-shaped bauble in my hands. Perhaps the events of this week were more significant than I first thought: what if they were part of an as yet unseen pattern leading me to a year that could change the course of my life? The more I considered it, the less convinced I became that it was all a series of unconnected coincidences. Was the universe trying to tell me something?

I grabbed my laptop and logged into Facebook to see if any of the band were online. Nobody was, but one message caught my eye, from an old school friend I had only recently reconnected with:

I took a long sip of wine and stared at the screen. Suddenly, the words seemed to be suspended in the air before my eyes, their sentiment striking a chord. That was it! I was going to make next year – my last year of my twenties – count. I had no idea how this was going to happen or what it would entail, but in a blinding flash of inspiration I realised what I had to do. My journey
had
to begin with the kiss that had changed everything. I was going to find him.

I checked the time – nine thirty pm – and decided to call my uncle and aunt. I was pretty sure that they would still be up on Christmas Day evening and besides, I needed to share my newfound idea with someone who would understand.

‘Hey! Merry Christmas, our bab! Hang on a tick, I’ll just pop you on speakerphone …’ There was a muffled sound as Uncle Dudley fiddled with the controls on his new phone and then I heard the happy greeting of my aunt. ‘Right, we’re with you, sweetheart! How’s your Christmas been so far, eh?’

‘Bearable with Mum and Dad. Gran managed to fall asleep in her cheese and biscuits though.’

My uncle’s unbridled guffaw reverberated around the room. ‘I’ll bet she did! Poor Nancy – I hope she did her trick with the hearing aid again.’

‘Of course. Good job as well, Mum and Dad were on top form this afternoon. It would’ve been so much more fun if you two had been there.’

‘I don’t doubt it! So how are you feeling now you’ve seen Charlie again?’

I wasn’t sure I felt any easier about the situation, but for the time being my new idea was taking the edge off my concerns. ‘I’ve decided to set myself a task for next year,’ I told them. ‘Starting with finding the man who kissed me.’

I heard my aunt’s whoop. ‘That’s a wonderful idea, Romily! I was just saying to your uncle that I hoped you would.’

‘I just think if I could see him again, it could be the start of something.’

‘Just like that Hot Chocolate song – “It Started With a Kiss”!’ Uncle Dud sang, doing his best impression of Errol Brown. ‘I reckon you should set yourself a deadline, chick, and keep a diary of your search for the mystery kisser!’

My aunt giggled. ‘Ooh, you’re so
twentieth century
, Dudley! Why don’t you start a blog, Romily? There must be so many other women out there heading towards thirty and looking to make their twenty-ninth year meaningful. I reckon you could encourage lots of people with it. My friend Oonagh has a blog and she gets comments on it from all over the world. I’ve been thinking of asking your uncle to set one up for me to share my cake recipes on, even though computers scare me rigid.’

It was a brilliant idea (perhaps made more outstanding by the second large glass of red that I had inadvertently sunk during our conversation). ‘That’s it! I’ll start a blog and give myself until Christmas Eve next year to find the man of my dreams!’

Cheers from the other end of the line warmed my ear as my equally merry aunt and uncle roundly applauded my new idea.

And so it was that, at ten fifteen pm on Christmas Day, my new blog was born.

The next day, I met up with Wren for coffee. We wandered down the canal towpath from her apartment to George, the floating narrowboat café at Brindley Place.

‘I really am sorry about the other night,’ Wren said, dunking a cinnamon biscuit in the froth of her coffee. She looked so earnest it would have been impossible to be angry with her, even if I was – which I wasn’t.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I smiled, watching two ducks float lazily past the window. ‘I think Jack had already guessed something had happened between Charlie and me anyway.’

‘And how
is
everything now?’

‘We’re getting there. To be honest, we haven’t spoken much over Christmas, but he texted me yesterday thanking me for his present and it was the normal Charlie-type text.’

‘Let me guess: another Yellowjackets album?’

‘Ooh, you’re good!’

‘Nope,’ she smiled. ‘You two are just predictable.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Welcome. And what about … the
other
thing?’

I knew what she was referring to, but played dumb. ‘What other thing?’

Wren’s cheeks reddened. ‘Oh
please
! The Phantom Kisser?’

The mere mention of my handsome stranger sent a ripple of delight through me. Unable to contain myself any longer, I knew this was time to announce my plan to the world – even if, at that precise moment, that world consisted of Wren, an elderly couple at the table opposite and George’s waitress. Baby steps, I told myself.

‘I’m going to spend the whole of this year finding him. I’ve given myself a deadline, too. It’s an officially brilliant plan.’

Wren stared at me. ‘Tell me more.’

‘OK, here it is: I have from now until Christmas Eve next year to find the man who kissed me. I know it’s crazy and I know chances are I’ll probably fail, but I want to try this because, unless I give it a go, I’ll never know if it’s possible. No matter how barmy I may sound right now, I honestly believe there’s a possibility I
could
find him.’ I could feel the adrenalin pumping through me as my heart picked up pace.

Wren shook her head, auburn curls bobbling wildly around her porcelain cheeks. ‘Wow. So you’re actually going to do this?’

‘Yes I am. I’ve started a blog about it, too.’

‘No! When did all this happen?’

‘Christmas Day. Something Mum said really made me think.’

‘Blimey, I haven’t heard you say that before. What did she say?’

‘That it’s my twenty-ninth year and I should be making it count. And I thought about it and realised that spending the whole of this year looking for the guy from the Christmas Market might be a good place to start. Auntie Mags has been telling me that she was thinking about blogging her cake recipes and I thought a blog would be a great way of documenting the last year of my twenties.’

Wren sat back in her seat, an amused smile wriggling across her lips. ‘Wow, Rom, I can’t remember the last time I saw you so fired up about something.’

‘I feel so positive about it, I really do.’

‘That’s great …’ Her smile faded and I knew there was a ‘but’ coming. ‘But what about Charlie? You’ve been telling me that
he’s
the love of your life for the past three years, Rom. How do you know you won’t change your mind about this bloke?’

‘I don’t. But that’s all part of the adventure, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if I decide halfway through the quest not to pursue it further. What
will
matter is that I tried in the first place.’