It Started With a Kiss (9 page)

Watching my uncle at work was an education in strategy. While the casual observer would merely see a fifty-something man engaged in friendly banter with stallholders, to the trained eye it was apparent that Uncle Dudley was a skilful negotiator, cleverly steering the conversation towards a killer deal.

‘It’s all about
stealth
and
patience
, Romily,’ he explained, after I’d seen him barter for a tiny, stylised tank ornament, bringing the price down from £35 to £15. ‘I’m like a car boot ninja, ready to strike when they least expect it. This little beauty was made by one of Birmingham’s famous armament factories as a salesman’s sample during the First World War. Worth about £50, I’d guess. Point is, he wanted £35 for it and I would’ve happily paid £40. It’s the ones who claim to know the most about their stock that know nothing, see. If they don’t say anything but the price doesn’t move, chances are they know their stuff.’

We walked to ‘Dave’s Diner’ – the grubby-looking refreshment van in the middle of the field – and ordered polystyrene cups of scalding hot tea, the warm steam stinging our faces as we blew on our beverages. Above us, the lightening sky and swelling birdsong heralded the slow arrival of dawn.

‘Verdict on Furnace End, then?’

‘Nice. In a strangely damp and freezing way.’

Uncle Dudley punched my arm. ‘That’s why I love you, Romily! You crack me up, you really do.’

‘Thanks – I think. So what’s the latest on Operation Phantom Kisser?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Right. Hold this for us, chick.’ He handed me his cup and rifled through his pockets until he found a folded wad of papers. ‘Now, I was looking on the web last night and I found
these
…’ He cleared his throat and started to read from the document in his hands. ‘“Ellen Adams, 42, has been reunited with a good Samaritan who rescued her car from a snowdrift on Valentine’s Day, twenty years ago. A passing remark to a friend led to a blog to find the handsome stranger who had remained in her heart all that time. By chance, the man’s sister, Janet Milson, 44, read about the campaign in her local paper and encouraged John Ireland to contact Ellen. When the pair met in August this year, a mutual attraction was obvious. They started to date and, last week, John proposed. ‘It just goes to show that true love always wins out,’ said a delighted Ellen. ‘I never forgot him during all that time and was amazed to discover that he felt the same way.’ The couple plan to marry on Valentine’s Day next year, exactly twenty-one years since they first met.” How about that, our Rom?’

‘Wow. That’s … erm …’

‘And there’s plenty more where that came from! Love, against the odds, couples reunited after thirty, forty, fifty years sometimes, and amazing coincidences bringing old flames back together. Don’t you know what this means?’

I had to admit, I didn’t. Nice though the story was, what did it mean for my handsome stranger and me? I didn’t have twenty years to wait for a reunion: I had a year – no,
less
than a year now – to find him again. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Dud.’

‘It
means
it’s
possible
, sweetheart! There are so many people who’ve followed their heart and believed in dreams other folks have written off as plain daft – and those dreams have come up trumps! Now I’m not saying you’ve got to wait for thirty years to meet this chap again. What I’m saying is that the idea works! And if we can get it in the papers, so much the better!’

‘Let’s just see how my blog goes first,’ I suggested gently, dreading to think what lengths Uncle Dud was considering for publicising my search. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for large-scale printed public humiliation just yet.’

‘Dudley Parker, you promised me doughnuts!’ Auntie Mags called as she splodged her way irritably across the field towards us. She had Elvis in tow, resplendent in his baby-blue padded coat, and looking more than a little grateful to have his paws on
terra firma
.

‘And doughnuts you shall have, my love. Cup of tea as well?’

Auntie Mags took one look at the refreshment van and shuddered. ‘Not likely. I’ve a flask in the car. There’s many things I wouldn’t mind picking up here, but listeria isn’t one of them.’

As my uncle tripped away to procure doughnuts, Auntie Mags claimed his seat and beamed at me. ‘So how’s my favourite niece?’

‘Good, thanks. Cold, though.’ Elvis nudged my knee and when I reached down to pat him he curled up over my feet.

‘Yes, well, that’s what you get for indulging your uncle in a muddy field before the birds are up. I take it he’s told you about his latest findings?’

I nodded and risked a cautious sip at the lava-hot tea in my cup. ‘He’s very excited.’

‘I know.’ Auntie Mags pulled a face, but her deep love for her husband was impossible to miss. ‘I think this blog of yours could work, though. At any rate, it’ll set the ball rolling.’

She was right, of course. I remembered one of the quotes I’d copied down from Dad’s desk calendar when I was thirteen:
Every journey begins with a single step
. That’s what this was: the first step on the long journey ahead of me. ‘Let’s do it, then!’

As we high-fived in the middle of a muddy square of Warwickshire countryside, I had no clue of the rollercoaster ride I had unwittingly climbed aboard. If only I’d known …

‘I still can’t hear anything, Jack.’

‘What do you need?’

‘Definitely drums, bit of bass and keys, please.’

Jack was hunched over the sound desk at the back of the Excelsior’s conference room, tweaking knobs and checking leads. ‘I don’t understand why you’ve got no foldback, Tom.’

‘Is it plugged in?’ Wren asked.

‘Of course it is,’ Tom retorted from the stage as I stifled a giggle. ‘I connected them all up myself.’

Charlie groaned and left his drum kit to join Jack by the sound desk.

I looked at my watch. Five thirty already and less than an hour left to attempt some kind of a sound-check before the wedding guests descended on the venue. Placing set lists around the stage, I noticed that one of the cables linking Tom’s foldback speakers was loose. I pushed the connector back into the socket and a sudden rush of noise blasted out, making him yelp in shock.

‘That’ll be the cable
you
connected then.’ I winked and Jack, Wren and Charlie launched into a tirade of merciless mocking.

After a single song sound-check, we headed for the Excelsior’s luxurious washrooms to get changed. Changing in a toilet cubicle is nothing new for Wren and I: during our time in The Pinstripes we’ve changed in pub toilets, motorway service station facilities and more than one broom cupboard. I’ve had to do my make-up bent awkwardly over a compact mirror, sitting on a toilet with one foot wedged against a boltless cubicle door, more often than you would believe.

Already dressed I smiled at my reflection in the large gilt-framed mirror as I applied my make-up. ‘Remember those terrible loos we had to change in at the Rock Café in Wigan?’ I asked Wren, who was getting dressed in one of the wide toilet stalls.

‘With the dodgy flickering lights and that mirror made out of polished steel? How could I forget?’ Wren replied, from the other side of the cubicle door. ‘It looked like the kind of toilet block where people are murdered on those TV pathology dramas. We were lucky to get out alive.’

‘I know. Mind you, the crowd wasn’t much better. Remember that embarrassing uncle who was more than a bit pickled, dancing in front of you?’ I laughed.

The cubicle door opened and Wren joined me at the mirror, pulling a tube of mascara from her bag. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Adopting a gruff, Lancashire accent, she began to imitate the knock-kneed, middle-aged lothario who had spent most of our second set at the sixtieth birthday party in the dodgy venue wiggling his worryingly snake-like hips just feet away from her, his pink wing-collared shirt open to his exceedingly hairy navel. ‘I thought Jack was going to punch him at one point.’

I started to pin up my hair, spraying with hairspray as I went. As Wren and I stood side by side, I couldn’t help thinking we both looked good this evening – Wren in her deep green satin cocktail dress, wild red curls piled up on top of her head; and me in my purple strapless dress with dark blue sequinned shrug, my straight dark blonde hair now well and truly held in a slick chignon. Although it can be a pain sometimes, especially when time is short between the sound-check and the start of the first set, I enjoy being able to dress up for gigs. I have more sparkly tops and dresses than I probably need, a still-growing collection of glittery costume jewellery and several pairs of fabulous (but, crucially, comfortable) heels to choose from. It’s fun to transform myself before I step on stage, not to mention the terrific boost it gives to my confidence. All part of the magic of performing, I suppose.

‘Liking the up-do, Rom.’

‘Thanks. I thought I’d try something new.’

‘So, how’s the search going for mystery man?’ She lowered her voice, even though we were the only two people there.

‘Good, actually. My aunt and uncle found all these amazing stories about people who have found love against the odds.’

Wren grimaced. ‘Watch them, Rom, especially your uncle. If he has his way he’ll be trying to get you on
Jeremy Kyle
.’

‘Don’t worry. I have them under control.’

‘In the meantime, like Sophie said to me today, your blog might give Charlie a kick up the proverbial.’ She winked and started to gather up her things. Together we headed out into the hotel foyer.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about being such a talking point with my friends, I’ve never been a particularly private person – if anything I’m maybe a little
too
honest sometimes – but knowing that the details of my life were being picked over out of my earshot unnerved me a little. Nothing I could do about it now, I told myself. I was going to have to get used to my life being on show if I stood any chance of finding my stranger again.

In any case, there were much more interesting things to focus on: principally, the wedding reception we were about to perform at. The Excelsior staff had positioned all the tables for the evening event while we had been getting ready, and the whole of the event hall had been transformed.

Contrary to what the guys think, the reason Wren and I love weddings so much is not a pathological urge to get married but an appreciation of the elements that create a magical day. It is impossible not to be swept up in the sheer romanticism of a wedding – even if the bride and groom are dressed as Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, have poodles as bridesmaids or are wearing matching kaftans …

Thankfully tonight, for the last wedding of the year, the theme was stunningly elegant: black, white and gold. The dozen round tables set around the polished dance floor were draped in pristine white linen cloths and surrounded by white-covered seats tied with gold bows at the back. Each place setting featured a gold platter, cutlery and fine crystal glassware edged with a single line of gold. Large centrepieces in dark glass vases featured white and yellow lilies, roses and sprays of deep green ivy trailing out along the table. Tea lights flickered from clear crystal holders, reflected in the gold sequins and crystal beads scattered across the tablecloths. In the dimmed light of the event hall, this gave the stunning effect of lavish tables at a prestigious award ceremony.

The conference hall was steadily filling up with well-heeled guests – women in expensive black, white and gold evening gowns that appeared to make them float on air as they moved around the room, and men in black evening suits so perfectly tailored that I half-expected George Clooney to stroll in at any moment.

We took in as much of the scene as we could, knowing that Sophie was going to demand a detailed account of it all when we next saw her, and then Wren and I reluctantly left the glamorous scene and made our way across the dance floor towards the stage. A black curtain hanging from one side created a small backstage area where Charlie, Jack and Tom were gathered, sitting on flight cases and a couple of chairs stolen from front of house. They were smartly dressed in freshly-pressed black shirts, black trousers and white ties.

‘Wow, Rom, great dress.’ Tom nodded approvingly as I joined them. ‘Nice to see those legs of yours out for a change.’

I gave a little spin and smiled at him. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

‘See? She knows class when she sees it. Are you ladies ready?’

Wren nodded. ‘What time are we on?’

Charlie consulted his watch. ‘I reckon we start about eight fifteen. There’s a buffet break at nine fifteen and the DJ goes on until eleven. Then we’re back on again until just after the big Happy New Year bit and the DJ will take over until about two.’

Tom scowled. ‘It’s going to be a long night, guys. Don’t suppose we can start to pack down while “Disco Paul” is doing his thing?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Sorry. I had a word with Eric, the wedding planner, but no joy, I’m afraid. He said it would “spoil the aesthetics of the atmosphere”, whatever that means.’

‘Heaven
forbid
we spoil anyone’s aesthetics,’ I said.

‘Especially if we’re “going with the demographic”,’ Wren added.

Charlie groaned. ‘Anyone have any idea where our great and noble manager is this evening?’

Nobody did.

‘He’d better show,’ Tom said, picking up his guitar and beginning to tune it.

‘He will,’ Wren quickly replied. ‘He said he would be here.’

The curtain pulled back and Eric looked in. ‘All ready, guys?’

There was a tangible change in the atmosphere as the band moved into action. I could feel my pulse rate increase and the familiar flutter of anticipation in my stomach. I hummed through a couple of scales and shook the tension from my hands – two pre-gig rituals that help to calm my nerves.

No matter where the gig is, how large the audience or which songs I’m about to perform, this moment is always the same: it’s like standing on a precipice, daring yourself to jump. Even though I have waited in the wings on countless stages, and even though I know the set backwards, there remains a small element of the unknown, which I will only discover when I stand before the audience. It’s an intoxicating mix of risk and possibility – and it’s impossible not to feel its fire.

On stage, the Master of Ceremonies was welcoming the  guests and calling them forward on to the dance floor. The rising sense of expectation fuelled the adrenalin rush I knew that all of us were experiencing at that precise moment. Charlie pulled his drumsticks from his back pocket and hopped up the steps on to the stage. Jack picked up his music folder, waiting for Tom to take the steps before him. Wren and I fitted our in-ear monitors and switched on our power-packs as we headed on stage.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a warm welcome for your band for this evening – The Pinstripes!’

As New Year’s Eve gigs go, the Excelsior event was relatively uneventful. There was the usual good-natured heckling, lairy behaviour and embarrassing ‘Dad-dancing’ that come with the territory when there are two hundred and fifty sozzled wedding guests in the mood for a party. The bride and groom surprised everyone with a well-choreographed American Smooth-inspired first dance to ‘It Had to Be You’, the bride’s flowing 1930s-style dress making her look every inch like Ginger Rogers. Later on, the Hollywood sheen slipped somewhat when she and her new husband joined their friends in frenzied moshing to Reef’s ‘Place Your Hands’ – one of the stranger song requests of the night. Wren and I enjoyed a good banter with the crowd, encouraging them to dance and sing along with us, and the band were summoned back on stage for an encore at the end of our performance.

The only downside of the night was the extremely late pack-down time, after ‘Disco Paul’ the DJ decided he was such a hit with the merry crowd that it warranted another hour’s worth of ‘yesteryear hits’. Trust me, keeping your cool backstage when you’re tired, longing for bed and forced to listen to ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’, ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ and ‘Agadoo’ is an
art
…

At 4.15 am, we loaded the last of the gear into Jack’s van  and shut the doors. Charlie flopped against the van’s side and I looked around at my near-comatose bandmates.

‘Happy New Year, everyone.’

A weary set of murmurs were sent back in my direction.

‘This time next year,’ Wren began, only to be met with protestations. ‘No,
listen
. This time next year, we will have done the millionaire gig and we might just be looking at a full diary for the year ahead.’

‘Amen to that,’ Jack said, raising his half-empty plastic water bottle.

Tom buttoned his jacket against the bitter night air. ‘I can’t believe
Duh-Wayne
didn’t even show his face tonight. The organiser was expecting him to be here.’

Charlie grunted. ‘He wasn’t the only one.

‘He texted me at midnight to say he’d been majorly delayed and wouldn’t make it,’ Wren offered. ‘He was really upset about it – no, Charlie, don’t look like that – he did.’

I could feel the rumblings of an argument beginning – an  occupational hazard when there are five knackered musicians all with short tempers, a journey back and a van to unpack before anyone can go home – so I stepped in. ‘This is a conversation for another time. Let’s just get the gear back to Jack and Soph’s so we can all get to bed, OK?’

Jack slung his battered rucksack over his shoulder. ‘
Thank you
, Rom. I’m heading off. See you at the house, guys? I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Smashing,’ Tom replied. ‘Fancy a lift, Rom?’

Charlie stepped forward. ‘Actually, why don’t you take Wren with you to help Jack get the garage ready for the gear? Rom can come back with me.’

A sinking feeling claimed my insides. ‘I’m fine to go with Tom.’

Tom exchanged glances with Charlie and held up his hands. ‘Hey, I’m cool whatever. The sooner we get this lot sorted the sooner I can get to bed.’

Charlie was clearly set on his suggestion. ‘It’ll just be better if Wren goes with you. I mean, her bass is already in the boot of your car.’

A clearly relieved Wren ignored my silent pleas to not let this happen. ‘Cheers, mate.’

I watched helplessly as my friends swiftly deserted me and an excruciatingly awful silence fell between Charlie and I. He just stood there, frozen to the spot, staring at me. What was I supposed to do now? I avoided his stare, looking over to the yellow wheelie bins at the back of the hotel, suddenly vulnerable. This, I realised, was the first time we had been alone since our talk in the park and I had no idea what to say to him. I stamped my feet to coax the circulation back into my toes, which tonight had endured the triple-whammy of hours of standing about, dancing on stage and now freezing in the wee small hours of New Year’s Day. One thing was certain, if I wanted to get home before daylight I had to chivvy things along a bit.

He opened his mouth to speak but I got there first.

‘Let’s move then, shall we?’ It was my best attempt at chirpiness, given that I was exhausted and cold.

He looked at me for a moment, frowned and climbed into the driver’s seat without a word.

‘Great,’ I muttered to myself, as I got into the passenger side, balking at the ripe aroma wafting from the bins, ‘of all the men in the city tonight I had to choose the strong silent type to hitch a ride with.’