It Started With a Kiss (10 page)

Eyes fixed on the road ahead, Charlie started the engine and we pulled into the thickly frosted darkness. I thanked heaven that this was only a short journey, even if it was likely to be the longest twenty-five minutes of my entire life. Was he angry with me? And if so, why wasn’t he using this opportunity to say so? With no audible communication forthcoming, I huddled up against the passenger door and stared out at the passing streets. I could feel the lack of sleep and the retreat of post-performance adrenalin sapping my strength, but Charlie’s behaviour irked me. Why go to all the trouble of requesting that I travel with him, only to sit in stony silence? Within five minutes, it was too much. One thing all my bandmates know about me is that I never back away if there’s an argument brewing.

‘Right. I’ve had enough of the silent treatment. What is your problem?’

The sharpness of my tone and suddenness of its entrance into the van made Charlie jump. His head jerked round to stare at me and the van swerved a little. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘What,
talk
to you? Oh, I don’t know, Charlie. I just thought that’s what two friends tend to do when they share a journey home.’

His frame tensed as my sarcasm hit its target square on. ‘You nearly made me go off the road. Are you mad?’

‘Yes, I am, actually. I’m mad at you.’

‘Me? What for?’

Prepare yourself for a tirade, Mr Wakeley. ‘Because I’ve been hanging around for hours, while you and the others faffed about with the gear, then even longer when you all decided to start arguing about our manager. I’m cold and I’m tired and I was all set to go with Tom until you stepped in. And now we’re here and you can’t even speak to me.’

‘We’re all tired, Rom. I’m sorry that I’m not “chat-central” right now. I just want to get this van back to Jack’s and go home.’

‘So why ask me to come with you? What was wrong with Wren and Tom?’

‘Nothing, it was … You know, I wish I
had
asked them now. I doubt either of them would be having a hissy fit at me for being quiet.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘You haven’t asked me a credible one yet.’

The classic red-rag-to-bull moment had arrived. ‘Excuse me? You
specifically
ask me to come with you, proceed to ignore me completely and when I finally say something, you accuse me of overreacting? I think you’re the one having the hissy fit, Wakeley, not me. I thought we’d sorted what happened at Christmas. So what the hell do you want from me?’

Charlie braked sharply at a red light and faced me. ‘I thought we might have some time alone, OK?’

I opened my mouth to speak, but words had deserted me. I didn’t know what this meant and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

‘There are things I wanted to say, but I’ve been racking my brains since we set off trying to work out where to begin.’

‘I’m sorry.’ My voice was weak and pathetic when it returned. ‘I thought …’

‘I know what you thought.’

I took a breath. ‘What did you want to say?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does.’ Tentatively, I reached forward and let my fingers brush against his warm hand on the steering wheel. The sensation of it was momentarily comforting before he flinched and I quickly withdrew my hand.

‘I just wanted to say that this year’s going to be better. For both of us. Things will get back to normal and there won’t be
this
…’ He swallowed hard. ‘I hate that there’s this invisible –
thing
– between us. I wanted to let you know I won’t let it stay there forever. That’s all.’

This threw me completely. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. I watched his face in the darkness, the passing streetlights washing alternate waves of orange light and inky shadow across his features. There were a million things I wanted to say to him, but I didn’t know where to begin. Did he feel the same? I couldn’t be sure: his face was frustratingly expressionless, but there was something in his eyes that I couldn’t quite make out. For a moment I almost said something, but instantly thought better of it. ‘Thank you … um, for saying that,’ I managed, finally. And then, because I couldn’t come up with anything better to say: ‘Happy New Year, Charlie.’

His sigh was heavier than an anvil. ‘Happy New Year, Rom.’

January blew through the city with a freezer-like blast – first with an amazing hoar frost, which coated each branch and blade of grass in long, spidery ice crystals, and then the snow descended. Roads became impassable, kids were granted a few more days before their schools opened after the Christmas break and even grown-ups who weren’t badly affected called into their workplaces and claimed a day off anyway.

Having spent two hours on an impossibly slow-moving bus that eventually came to a halt half a mile away from my destination, I was trudging along the main road to work when Amanda called.

‘The water’s frozen at the studio,’ she told me. ‘Maintenance have got all the heating on trying to defrost the pipes. Needless to say, don’t bother coming in today.’

I should have been annoyed at her calling me so late with this news, but actually it felt like a reprieve. The workload at Brum FM had been slightly crazy for the past week, so a surprise day off was more than welcome. With nothing else to do, I decided to walk into the city centre. I crunched through the pristine powder as whisper-light flakes fell thick and fast, gently patting against my nose and cheeks.

The rate at which the snow was falling, together with the considerable depth of snow on the main roads already, had brought the city to a standstill. Row upon row of frustrated motorists waited in immobile, steaming jams under thick white shrouds. It was almost as if every family was trying to leave the city at once, like a scene from a disaster movie where everybody is frantically trying to escape some apocalyptic calamity.

As I pressed on I noticed a distinct difference between the people who were walking and the people stuck in their cars. The motorists were stony-faced, glaring at each flake of snow – now nearing blizzard proportions – as it lashed against their windscreens. By contrast, the people who walked alongside me were smiling, relaxed and visibly proud of themselves, chatting and laughing with passers-by as they walked past. It was almost as if we had recaptured a little of the famed wartime ‘bulldog spirit’ our grandparents had spoken so fondly of: utter strangers uniting together in the face of a common threat.

By the time I reached Wren’s apartment block, I was grinning like a kid, although my eyes stung from the whiteness of everything.

‘Come up, come up!’ Wren’s ecstatic tones crackled through the intercom at the entrance to the building when I buzzed her apartment.

She was positively bubbling with excitement when I walked in. ‘A whole day off school and it’s almost the weekend too!’ she whooped, flitting past me into the kitchen. ‘I’m making mocha with squirty cream and marshmallows! Want one?’

I stepped into the black granite and walnut kitchen. ‘Are you sure that extra sugar is a good idea when you’re this hyper already?’

She giggled, curls the colour of a new penny bouncing around her face. ‘I don’t care. There’s no school, it’s snowing and all is well with the world!’

Leaving her to prepare the kamikaze sugar rush, I pulled off my boots and sank into the sofa, gazing out towards the window at the sheets of snow covering the chic buildings outside.

Wren brought in two enormous mugs of bobbling cream-topped mocha and sat down beside me. ‘I meant to ask you, were you OK after the New Year gig?’

‘Just tired. I didn’t get home till gone six am.’

My nonchalance didn’t wash with Wren. She knows me too well. ‘It was more than that. You were really quiet when you got out of the van. Did Charlie say something to upset you?’

‘No, not really.’ I scooped a spoonful of cream and ate  it. ‘Things are odd between us at the moment.’ I decided to ask the question that had been tapping on my shoulder since the aftermath of the gig. ‘You don’t think he knows about my plan to find the Phantom Kisser, do you?’

‘Of course he doesn’t.’

‘Well, the rest of the band seems to know.’

Wren’s eyes narrowed. ‘Would it matter if he did?’

I was about to answer when Stevie Wonder started singing ‘Sir Duke’ from my mobile. ‘Hello?’

‘Alright, our bab!’

I had to smile. Uncle Dudley’s enthusiasm is infectious even on the other end of a phone line. ‘Aye aye, Cap’n! How’s everything going?’

‘It’s up! Operation Phantom Kisser is officially in action. Are you near a computer?’

I looked around the room to see if I could spot Wren’s laptop. I couldn’t. ‘Um …’

‘What do you need?’ she asked.

‘Laptop?’ I mouthed.

Jumping to her feet, Wren started a comedic search around the living room, lifting cushions off the sofa and tipping her large handbag upside down on the oak floor, sending coins and keys and paper skidding in all directions. Never let it be said that Wren Malloy is invisible when she’s trying to help …

‘What on earth was that?’ asked Uncle Dudley when he heard the crash.

‘It’s just Wren.
Quietly helping
, as usual. Oh, looks like she’s found it.’

‘Oh, bless her! Right, I’ll ping you the link.’

Did my uncle just say ‘ping’? Surely not … Mind you, nothing Uncle Dudley does surprises me now. Since he bought
Our Pol
and discovered the joys of mobile broadband he’s become a genuine silver surfer, a champion of social media and a fiend on Facebook. Hearing him casually mentioning ‘DM-ing’ someone, or ‘RT-ing’ something interesting he’s read from a ‘fellow Tweeter’ never fails to amuse me.

I signed into my email and waited. ‘It’s here,’ I told my uncle, exchanging an anxious look with Wren as she rejoined me.

‘Click the link, sweetheart, and see what your old uncle’s been busy with!’

Opening the email, I felt my heart stop.

There, in the middle of the screen was what looked like an explosion in a flash animation studio. Somehow my uncle had uploaded a whole host of flashing, scrolling and rotating images into a single page that bore the legend: ‘FIND THE PHANTOM KISSER!’ It was, to put it bluntly, a migraine in visual form.

Wren and I stared at the screen. After some time, Wren said, ‘Wow.’

‘Good, eh?’ Uncle Dudley’s voice was full of pride. ‘Your Auntie Mags came up with the strap-line. And the dancing bears, you see? Proper clever she is. We thought you could load it up as a gadget on your blog. I’ve been reading online about how to do all that and it looks like a doddle. Do you like it?’

‘It’s – um – it’s …’

‘Different,’ Wren said slowly.

A moment like this required diplomacy. I desperately didn’t want to offend him, even if his handiwork was, at that precise moment, filling every last filament of my being with a sense of slowly undulating nausea. ‘You’ve put so much effort into it. Thank you.’

‘No probs, our bab. Least me and your auntie could do for you, especially after the Charlie thing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Listen, Romily, just because one fool didn’t want you, it doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who will. This chappy you met at Christmas might just be the love of your life. You’re on the brink of an adventure that could maybe change everything. Take it from someone who knows, chick, it’s worth putting your neck on the line to find that kind of happiness.’

His faith in me – and his complete understanding of why I wanted to pursue the possibility of finding my handsome stranger – was truly inspirational. And about as far removed from the reaction my parents were likely to have when they found out.

Wren saw the change in my expression and, concerned, gripped my hand. I could feel tears welling as I fought to steady myself. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘That means a lot to me.’

‘Aw, don’t you start blubbing, our bab, you’ll have me going off if you’re not careful! So you like it?’

This was it, I knew it: the official start of my yearlong quest. (Sorry, Wren, but there was really no other way of describing what I was about to undertake.) I had taken the first step of telling people close to me. No more hiding, no turning back. I was on my way to destiny.

‘It’s perfect, Uncle Dud.’

‘Right, kidda. Let’s go find him!’

‘So, how’s the search for the Phantom Kisser going?’ Jack grinned, as we were carrying speakers into the elegant venue for our next wedding gig, a large Georgian mansion set in acres of beautiful parkland on the outskirts of Stratford-upon-Avon.

‘I wish people would stop calling him that,’ I replied. ‘Honestly, you, Wren, my aunt and uncle … It makes him sound creepy. And he wasn’t.’

Jack’s smile was warm and instantly forgivable. ‘Well, we need to call him
something
. “Mystery bloke” doesn’t have an alluring ring to it.’

‘How about PK?’ Wren interjected as she arrived with an armful of microphone stands and bent down to stack them on the ballroom floor.

I liked that. It somehow made my handsome stranger seem, well,
less
of a stranger. I smiled at my friends. ‘Excellent, PK it is!’

Charlie stuck his head between Jack and Wren. ‘Who’s PK?’

‘Oh, just a new make of amp we were talking about,’ Jack said, as quick as a flash.

Charlie’s midnight blue eyes narrowed. ‘Why is Rom buying an amp?’

‘I’m not,’ I said, noticing Wren pull a face and leave. ‘I just read about it and, you know, thought I’d ask …’ It was an awful reply and quite obviously a lie, but thankfully Charlie had other things on his mind and didn’t notice.

‘Whatever. Anyone know what’s got into Tom today? He’s scarily quiet.’

We all looked to the other side of the room where Tom was slumped over his guitar retuning the strings.

Wren shook her head. ‘No idea. He’s definitely not himself, though.’

D’Wayne strolled into the ballroom, iPhone glued to his ear. Wren waved and he approached us. ‘Great news, guys. That gig at the Scottish castle has just been confirmed for May.’

‘Blimey, nice one.’ Charlie couldn’t hide his surprise at the news.

‘Good money, is it?’ Jack asked.

D’Wayne grinned. ‘Oh yes, my friends. Four hundred each, plus expenses, so I’ll book us into a local hotel for the night and whoever drives will have their petrol costs covered.’

‘Well, I think that’s brilliant. Well done, D’Wayne,’ Wren said. Her eyes shone with mischief when she saw the effect her praise had on our manager, who had all of a sudden become a bashful fifteen-year-old.

I left them chatting and walked over to Tom.

‘Hey.’

He didn’t look up. ‘Hey.’

‘You OK?’

‘Peachy, Rom.’

I folded my arms. ‘Don’t ever go into acting, will you? That was dreadful.’

He gave a hollow laugh as he raised his head, and immediately I could see sadness paling his face. ‘Thanks, loser.’

‘What’s going on? You haven’t been yourself all day.’

It was some time before he answered. Tom and I have always had an understanding. While we were at university together, we both worked on Saturdays at his granddad’s pub and during that time we developed a close friendship, talking about everything from music to relationships and whatever other random topics we happened to fall upon. He likes to think that he’s enigmatic and able to shield his feelings from other people, but he’s about as mysterious as a glass box. So when he tells the rest of the band that being an IT specialist in a job with few promotion prospects doesn’t bother him, I know he’s lying. Or when he insists he doesn’t mind that one of his best friends chucked him out of a band just before they landed a huge recording contract and became global stars, I don’t believe a word of it. This latest attempt to avoid the truth was doomed and he knew it.

‘It’s Anya and me. We’re over.’

This was a shock. Tom and Anya had been together since they met at college and though things hadn’t been great between them for a while, we’d all assumed they would work through it. ‘Oh hun, no! What happened?’

He shrugged. ‘She’s met someone else. At work. I mean, a solicitor, for heaven’s sake. I met him once – the guy’s a jerk. His idea of cutting-edge music is James Blunt.’

I placed my hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘That’s dreadful. When did you …?’

‘Last night. She said we’d run our course and wanted something new. I wasn’t likely to argue with her, not with her mind made up like that. I mean, it sucks, but I guess I’ll get over it eventually.’

‘Yes, you will. Absolutely. In fact,’ I looked out at the venue for tonight’s wedding gig, as people milled around setting tables and arranging flowers underneath an enormous glittering crystal chandelier, ‘I reckon there could be plenty of options for you here tonight.’

That elicited a wry smile. ‘At least some eye candy will keep my mind off stuff.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Cheers, Rom. Um … would you tell the others and ask them to give me a bit of space? The way Charlie and Jack were looking at me just now I might end up with my head kicked in otherwise.’

‘Sure. The wedding organiser’s just brought us some leftovers from the wedding breakfast. Can I get you anything?’

‘In a totally film-clichéd way, I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.’

I left him and rejoined the others who were enjoying the surprise gift of food at the back of the room.

‘He’s fine,’ I said, when they all looked up at me. ‘But we should just be a bit sensitive around him today, OK?’

‘Fine by me,’ Jack replied through a huge mouthful of food. ‘If he’s not eating it means more for us.’

You never know how a wedding gig will go, and tonight was no exception. Despite the beautiful surroundings, impeccably attired bridal party and equally elegant guests, the atmosphere was noticeably muted and – worse for us – the dance floor remained frustratingly empty after the first dance. D’Wayne offered an unhelpful shrug from the side of the stage whenever I looked over at him. Tom was defiantly quiet and Jack and Charlie wore identical thunderous expressions. Still, Wren and I pressed on regardless, smiling and dancing for all we were worth.

‘Why was nobody dancing?’ Jack asked D’Wayne, as we congregated by the side of the stage while the buffet was served.

‘I don’t understand it,’ he replied. ‘When I booked the gig the bride and groom were adamant their guests would be dancing all night.’

‘Well they weren’t,’ Wren said, stepping out of her impossibly high gold sequinned heels and reaching down to rub her aching feet. ‘I felt like a right prat up there smiling like a loon.’

‘Aye aye,’ Jack nodded in the direction of the groom who was walking towards us. ‘This should be interesting.’

‘Guys, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into them. Karen’s really upset.’

Charlie smiled at him. ‘Hey, don’t worry, Josh. It happens sometimes.’

‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ D’Wayne suggested.

Josh shrugged. ‘You’re all great. I can’t think of what more you could do for us.’

Tom threw his hat into the ring. ‘Maybe the set list isn’t exciting your guests? Are there any songs that you and your friends like?’

Josh considered this for a moment. ‘I’m a bit of a fan of Bon Jovi,’ he admitted. ‘My mates always rib me about it.’

Tom, Jack and Charlie shared a look. ‘You reckon you can handle a bit of classic rock, Wren?’

Wren sniggered. ‘Their back catalogue was the first thing I learned to play. My bass teacher was obsessed with them.’

Charlie turned to me with a cheeky smile that momentarily threw me. ‘Think you can manage it, Rom?’

I had never previously found a good time to confess my thorough knowledge of all things BJ (thanks to my brothers playing little else as we were growing up), but now seemed like an opportune moment. ‘I’ll be fine. You call it and I’ll sing it.’

So that’s what we did. And it was as if a switch had been flicked to bring the room to life. Delighted, the guests abandoned the chairs they had been so resolutely glued to and crowded on to the dance floor in an enthusiastic jumble of grooving bodies. Halfway through ‘Living On a Prayer’, Tom sidled up to me, clearly loving the unexpected opportunity of full-on eighties axe-wielding, and yelled: ‘This is the best gig in ages!’

It was great to see Tom’s demeanour so transformed, and fantastic to witness the change in The Pinstripes as a whole. The feeling when you connect with an audience is completely wonderful and unlike any other. There’s an invisible energy that links you to them, an understanding that moves the performance and drives their response. That’s what happened that night and we all felt it. By the end of the night, everybody in the room was smiling – and none broader than Karen and Josh, the radiant bride and groom.

‘That was hilarious,’ Jack said later, as he and I were coiling up microphone leads. ‘Who knew that Bon Jovi had the ability to save a wedding gig?’

I laughed. ‘I can’t get over us doing three encores.
Three!
When was the last time that happened?’

‘Er,
never
,’ Wren said. ‘You know, I reckon we’re in the wrong line of business. Maybe we should start a Bon Jovi tribute act.’

‘Or maybe not,’ D’Wayne interrupted. ‘I’ve given out five cards tonight. You’re stuck doing wedding gigs for the time being, I’m afraid.’

‘Perhaps we should make it policy to always ask the bride and groom to nominate their favourite songs,’ I suggested. ‘I don’t want another first set like tonight. It was excruciating.’

‘Amen, sister!’ Charlie brought his drum cases to the front of the stage and hopped off to carry them across the ballroom to the fire exit at the back of the room.

‘Forget that for a second. I want to know how the blog is going,’ Jack said, with a cheeky smile.

I groaned. ‘You saw it then?’

‘Saw it? I’m following it!’

‘Me too,’ Tom added. ‘And I’ve tweeted the link to my Twitter followers.’

‘You mean all the desperate bridesmaids you’ve met at our wedding gigs who are still lusting after you?’ Wren chuckled.

Tom winked back. ‘Hey, what can I tell you? Girls love a guitarist.’

‘Great. So is it safe to assume that the entire band knows about it, then?’ I asked.

‘Knows about what?’ We hadn’t seen Charlie come back in and there was an incredibly awkward pause as he stared at us. I had made a point of not thinking about what would happen when Charlie found out and now, with a sinking heart, I realised why.

‘Rom’s searching for a bloke who kissed her,’ Wren informed him.

I couldn’t tell whether his expression was that of shock or surprise. ‘Oh? When?’

Jack glanced at me. ‘The last Saturday before Christmas. In the Christmas Market.’

Charlie stared at me, a million questions in his eyes. ‘Right.’ My heart went out to him, but I couldn’t find the words to do the same.

‘It’s so sweet,’ Wren continued mercilessly, clearly on a mission. ‘Her mad Uncle Dudley’s concocting all these crazy schemes to try to find him.’

‘So this guy didn’t leave a number?’ Charlie asked.

‘Didn’t hang about, did he, Rom?’ D’Wayne grinned.

‘Blimey, have you seen the time? We need to be out of here by twelve,’ I said quickly, grabbing an armful of microphone stands and making my way off the stage as fast as I could. Dropping them with the stack of equipment by the fire exit doors, I ran out into the frosty car park to my car, leaning against it as I tried to calm my thudding heart. I was angry with myself for not considering how Charlie might react to the news. He had made his feelings towards me abundantly clear; but even so, discovering that the girl who had so openly declared her affections for him had then been kissed by someone else barely twenty minutes later might, understandably, be an unwelcome revelation.

‘Rom.’

I jumped and looked up to see Charlie walking towards me.
Great
. ‘Hey.’

‘You’re serious about finding this bloke, are you?’

I nodded. ‘I should have told you.’

‘You should have.’

Please, car park tarmac, swallow me now
. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t be. You’ve every right to do whatever you want. Just be careful, OK? The guy might be an idiot.’

‘Right. Absolutely. Thanks.’ Was that the best I could do? The tension between us was excruciating and alien, and might as well have been a ten-foot-high brick wall for the separation it made me feel from him.

‘Good.’ He regarded me for a moment and then, unexpectedly, leaned in for what was, quite possibly, the world’s most awkward hug. ‘Let’s get back in, shall we?’