It Started With a Kiss (5 page)

Ted, the gruff-looking security guard, greeted me at the door as I arrived.

‘Morning. Didn’t think you’d be in today, what with Christmas and all.’

‘I’m only in for a couple of hours, Ted. Looking forward to Christmas?’

He gave an almighty sigh and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Well, if by Christmas, you mean being holed up for three days in my mother-in-law’s semi in Nuneaton with the wife and all the nutjobs in her family, then no, not particularly.’

‘Ah. Well, hope it passes quickly for you.’

‘That’s all I can hope for, Romily.’

I took the lift down to the depths of Brum FM, known affectionately by our small team of three as the ‘Bat Cave’, which consists of a production room and a minuscule vocal booth that would make the smallest broom cupboard look capacious.

For the past five years I’ve worked here writing jingles for the radio adverts that pepper the station’s schedule. I’m never likely to win any Brits or Ivor Novello Awards for my daily compositions, but my work never fails to keep my friends entertained.

The Bat Cave was noticeably more pungent than normal today, the stale remnants of late-night curry, sweat and acrylic carpet fug from the soundproofing fabric that covered its doors, floors and walls meeting my nose as I walked in.

Mick, the department’s studio engineer, looked up from his already grease-stained copy of the
Mirror
. ‘Romily! How the devil are you?’

‘Good thanks. What died in here, though?’

He let out a thundering laugh. ‘That’ll be our esteemed colleague Nev Silver. Apparently he had another row with the wife last night – I found him on the sofa in his sleeping bag this morning.’

I hung my bag up on the rickety coat stand in the corner and filled a mug with coffee from the filter machine. ‘Not again. Does that mean he’ll be staying over Christmas?’

Mick sniffed. ‘Probably. So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this morning?’

‘I need to finish the mixes for the New Year campaign so they’re ready for next week. Anything else in?’

‘Bits and bobs for the new schedule – nothing particularly earth-shattering, I’m afraid. Jane Beckingham wants a new jingle for her morning show, if you don’t mind. Oh, and Amanda’s on the warpath.
Again
.’

News that my department manager was upset about something didn’t surprise me. Amanda Wright-Timpkins is so uptight she makes a coiled spring look relaxed. The twinkle in Mick’s eye revealed all I needed to know about his opinion on the matter – there is very little love lost between him and the woman who takes her persistent frustration at being ‘sideways-promoted’ to our department out on us whenever possible. ‘What is it this time?’

‘She reckons she’s been overlooked for another promotion,’ Mick replied, folding his newspaper and rolling his chair over to mine. ‘Apparently she was going for the producer job on the
Breakfast Show
.’

‘Ah.’

‘Exactly. So best to keep your head down, eh?’

The morning passed slowly. As I composed the music for Brum FM’s
New Year, New You
campaign, my thoughts strayed back to my conversation with Charlie. What would the year ahead bring for us?

Squeezed into the vocal booth a couple of hours later, I was recording the vocal parts for the jingles when one of the lines struck me:

This could be the year when all your dreams come true.

Instantly Charlie left my mind as I remembered my handsome stranger. Maybe he was the start of my dreams coming true – after all, hadn’t he turned up
exactly
when I needed him? Unlike Charlie. Maybe all the time I had spent waiting for Charlie to notice me was actually preparation for meeting this man. Let’s face it, if I hadn’t been running away from Charlie, the chances were we would never have met. But was it possible to find him again? I wasn’t sure, but I was determined to try. All I had to do was to figure out
how
…

‘Er, Rom, whenever you’re ready?’ Mick said in my headphones as I bumped back to reality.

‘Sorry. Let’s do that line again …’

All day, the first sparks of possibility glowed brighter in my mind. It
had
to be possible to find the stranger – even in the sprawl of England’s second city. Compared to the situation with Charlie, which I could do no more about, looking for the man who kissed me seemed an enticing alternative. After all, what could be more positive than searching for someone who clearly thought I was beautiful?

‘Positivity is key,’ Wren said that evening, when she joined me for dinner in my little house in Stourbridge, ‘or else you’ll never go through with it. Still can’t work out where you should start looking, though.’

I handed her a glass of red wine. ‘Me either. But I’ll think of something.’

‘So, things with you and Charlie are a bit better?’

‘I’m not sure they’re better, but at least we’ve talked about it. One thing I do know is that I definitely made a mistake. He’s only ever seen me as a friend.’

‘Yeah right,’ Wren muttered into her Merlot.

‘Sorry?’

‘Who can fathom the minds of men, eh?’ she replied dismissively. ‘Charlie will sort it out eventually.’ She looked over to my Christmas tree in the corner of the room and smiled. ‘I see the bauble has pride of place.’

I followed her gaze and felt a shiver of excitement as I watched the reflections of the tree lights passing smoothly across its surface, remembering the stranger’s voice by my ear. ‘Yes. It’s lovely. Makes me feel Christmassy – I was worried I wouldn’t feel like that this year after what happened with Charlie.’

‘Everyone should feel Christmassy, no matter what,’ Wren said, raising her glass in a flamboyant toast. ‘It should be law. Or at least a tradition.’

‘Talking of traditions, are you looking forward to the band Christmas meal tomorrow night?’

‘Of course, wouldn’t miss it. You?’

I shrugged. ‘It should be OK. I think Charlie and I will be putting on a united front. Hopefully nobody will notice any difference.’

Wren took a rather large gulp of wine. ‘Absolutely. And it will be good to hear about the gigs Dwayne has booked for next year.’

‘They’d better be good. He hasn’t exactly been successful with bookings this year.’

‘Don’t pick on him; he’s still learning about the business. He hasn’t managed us for that long, remember,’ she replied, frowning at me. ‘Dwayne tries his best. And he needs our support. Anyway, from what he’s said, he has some great gigs lined up.’

‘You’re too nice to him,’ I smiled. ‘He has to prove himself tomorrow night, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Hmm,’ Wren replied, her sly expression clear behind her half-empty wine glass. ‘And he won’t be the only guy there who’ll be proving himself, will he?’

Next morning a thick fog shrouded the city centre as I wheeled my bicycle out of the train station. After all the emotion of the past few days I needed to clear my head. A long ride was just what the doctor ordered.

Even in the dim December light, the rolling fields and picturesque villages huddled alongside the road were impossibly gorgeous. I had taken the route to Kingsbury many times since Jack first persuaded me to join the unofficial Pinstripes’ pursuit of cycling. He, Charlie and Tom have been bike nuts since university, grabbing any opportunity to tackle increasingly demanding off-road terrain. Following much cajoling and pro-cycling propaganda from the Terrible Three, I had finally surrendered and subsequently spent a very amusing day shopping for bikes with Jack, who spent the whole time skipping like a child in and out of endless cycle shops. While I’ve still to fully appreciate the delights of mountain bike trails, I’ve fallen in love with road cycling – especially on days like this when I hadn’t a particular schedule to stick to. Plus, this particular route had one distinct advantage: it inevitably involved generous helpings of cake with two of my most favourite people in the world.

As I passed through the lovely village of Shustoke, a single thought played on my mind: the stranger from the Christmas Market. The thrill of his body so close to me, and the glorious memory of his lips on mine, had visited my dreams every night since Saturday and it was beginning to drive me mad. I
needed
to find him … but how? After all, we had met in the middle of a bustling Christmas Market on the busiest trading day of the year, surrounded by countless people I would never recognise again. Those kind of odds would make even John McCririck wince. Still, as my old maths teacher Mr Williams used to say, odds of any kind indicated a possibility, however remote.

I’ve always been the kind of person who believes things are possible before I embark upon them, so searching for my ‘Phantom Kisser’, as Wren had named him, didn’t seem like as big a step of faith as it probably would to other people. In this respect, I am very much like my Uncle Dudley. He’s the most positive person I know, always thrilled by the opportunities that life presents and never afraid of a challenge. I sometimes wonder if I should have been his daughter instead of my dad’s, whose idea of a risk is something backed up by pages of careful calculations – so not really a risk at all. Uncle Dudley’s philosophy of life is that everything turns out well in the end, eventually. His health isn’t brilliant, he and Auntie Mags have had to cope with quite a tough series of life problems (including discovering quite early on in their marriage that they were unable to have children – something that I know devastated them both) and they never seem to have quite enough money to be able to fully relax in their retirement, but they are, without a doubt, the happiest couple I know.

Nearing my destination, I crossed over a small humpback bridge spanning a canal. Once on the other side I left the road and turned on to the towpath towards the permanent moorings. The spicy tang of woodburner smoke tickled my nostrils as I dismounted and wheeled past narrowboats with names I knew by heart:
Taliesin
,
The King
,
Barely-A-Wake
,
Adagio
,
Titch
,
Llamedos
. Beside each narrowboat a thin plot of grass revealed a snapshot of the owners’ personalities, from a fully stocked vegetable plot to a brick-built barbecue with a greening old picnic table beside it, and what can only be described as a garden gnome shrine. At the end of the row of brightly coloured vessels, stood
Our Pol
– a magnificent 60ft green and red narrowboat crowned with traditionally painted enamel jugs, basins and planters stuffed with winter pansies.

A chirpy whistling from inside made me smile. I knocked three times on the cabin door. ‘Anyone aboard?’

The whistling stopped abruptly and the door flew open as Uncle Dudley emerged, blue cap perched at a rakish angle and face in full beam. ‘Hello, you!’ He ducked his head back inside briefly. ‘Mags my love! There’s a red-faced cyclist here in need of a cuppa!’

‘I’ll put the kettle on!’ Auntie Mags’ disembodied voice replied.

‘Hi, Uncle Dud,’ I smiled. ‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced?’

‘Of course not, bab! We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Chuck your bike up above and come on in.’

Uncle Dudley has been in love with narrowboats for as long as anyone can remember. Dad says that his younger brother’s favourite toy as a child was a small wooden canal boat (a present from my great-great grandfather), which he insisted accompany him on every outing and family holiday. Uncle Dudley had his first taste of being aboard the real thing during his time as an engineer on the production lines at Leyland and Rover, when his long-time workmate Eddie bought the rusting hulk of an old coal boat and gradually restored it to full working order. From that moment on, Uncle Dudley’s sole ambition was to own a narrowboat, and when, at the age of fifty-two, he elected to take early retirement, he finally realised his dream and bought
The Star
from Eddie’s cousin, which he renamed
Our Pol
after Auntie Mags’ beloved aunt.

The other great love of his life, Auntie Mags, was consider ably less enamoured of the whole idea than her husband, but because it was his dream and because – despite her protestations to the contrary – she dearly loves Uncle Dudley, she went along with it. And continues to go along with it every weekend and holiday or whenever Dudley gets the itch to check on ‘the old girl’. Auntie Mags finds spending time on
Our Pol
much more frustrating than she would ever let on to her husband, but it comes out in subtle ways – most notably in her baking. As a simple guide, the level of stress she is experiencing is directly proportional to the amount of baking she produces from the small wood-fuelled oven in the narrowboat’s galley.

Judging by the cake tins balanced precariously on every flat surface in
Our Pol
’s interior, Auntie Mags was having a particularly bad day today.

‘Spot of baking, Auntie Mags?’ I grinned as I entered the warmth of the cabin.

Mags pulled a face. ‘Just a tad. Come here and give your poor old landlubber aunt a hug!’

I’ve always loved hugs from Auntie Mags. She has one of those strong yet soft embraces that makes everything seem better. Not like Mum. My mother’s idea of a hug is an air kiss with minimal bodily contact. Causes less creases in one’s clothes and removes the need for any embarrassing public displays of affection. Not that I’m a massively ‘huggy’ person, but hugs from my aunt class as delightful exceptions to the rule – generous treats to be savoured and enjoyed (much like her baking).

There was a whimper and the diminutive, shaking frame of Elvis, my aunt and uncle’s rescue poodle, appeared at our feet. Elvis is even less of a fan of being on the water than Auntie Mags and whenever he is spotted aboard
Our Pol
he is not much more than a shivering, terrified bundle of curly grey fur.

Breaking the hug, I reached down to pat his poor terrified body. ‘Hey Elvis, how’s it going?’ Elvis gave my hand a hesitant lick, then fled to the safety of his faded tartan dog bed by the cooker.

Auntie Mags grabbed my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mmmm. Oh dear. You’ve something serious going on in that mind of yours. There’s only one thing I can recommend.’

She wandered over to the pile of old Roses tins hap hazardly stacked on the benches and compact table in what Uncle Dudley refers to as ‘The Grand Dining Room’, and began to search through them, lifting lids and discarding tins until she located the one she was looking for.

‘Ah! Here we are.’ Brandishing the tin, she thrust it under my nose. ‘Coffee and walnut. That’s what you need.’

And, like countless times before, she was right.

Maybe it’s because she bakes so often – or maybe (as I secretly suspect) she actually has some mystical culinary-based second sight – but Auntie Mags’ ability to prescribe exactly the right sweet treat to meet your need is practically legendary. Broken heart? ‘Lemon drizzle, pure and simple.’ Anxious about something? ‘Bakewell tart. It’s the only thing that will work.’ Tired? ‘Triple-layer cappuccino cake – that’ll perk you up, chick!’

‘You’re a genius, Auntie M,’ I smiled, as Uncle Dudley poured the tea and Auntie Mags cut an enormous wedge of cake with an ancient, yellow bone-handled butter knife that could only have come from one of my uncle’s many car boot sale visits.

‘Nonsense. Everybody knows that coffee and walnut cake is vital for making important decisions. Isn’t it, Dudley?’

Uncle Dudley nodded sagely. ‘Absolutely.’

Dubious as their reasoning may have been, I found myself grinning like a loon. ‘And what important decisions do you think I have to make?’

‘Cake can’t tell you everything,’ my aunt replied, wagging the butter knife at me. ‘Enlighten us, darling niece.’

I feigned a protest, but inside I was delighted she had asked. The fact was, I needed their advice – and my aunt and uncle were quite possibly the only people I knew who had the ability (and inclination) to fully understand.

They listened intently as I relayed the events of the fateful day, stopping me every now and again to ask questions.

‘Why were you running through the Christmas Market?’

‘Because I’d just told Charlie I loved him.’

They exchanged raised-eyebrowed glances. ‘Oh.’

‘But that doesn’t matter because it was a mistake. The point
is
, the guy who kissed me changed everything.’

‘He kissed you?’

‘Yes. It was only for a moment, but …’ I stopped, suddenly unsure whether this was appropriate territory for a niece to approach with her aunt and uncle. But their mirrored expectant expressions – instantly reminding me of the two china Staffordshire dogs that guard each end of Mum’s mock-alabaster mantelpiece – urged me to continue. ‘It took my breath away.’

Uncle Dudley patted his wife’s hand excitedly. ‘Magic! It’s just like me and you, love!’

Rolling her eyes, Auntie Mags gave a loud tut. ‘Ignore him, Romily, he’s deluded. Carry on.’

‘That’s all, really. I know I should just chalk it up to experience – one of those heart-stopping, fleeting moments that will always give you a thrill. But I keep thinking …’

‘The attraction of
possibility
,’ Uncle Dudley chipped in. ‘No matter how unlikely, you can’t shake the feeling it
might
happen.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s it exactly!’

‘And you want to find him again,’ Auntie Mags nodded. ‘But you don’t know where to start.’

‘I love you guys. So what do I do?’

Uncle Dudley rose to refill the kettle. ‘I reckon you should go for it. What’s the worst that could happen, eh?’

‘Humiliation, disappointment and an unwanted reputation as a desperate woman?’ I ate a forkful of cake and stared at my aunt, who was deep in thought.

‘Pah, that’s
nothing
,’ Uncle Dudley said. ‘I’ve had worse than that in my life and I’m still smiling, aren’t I?’

‘You were called a desperate woman?’

‘Eh? Oh, good one. Our Romily’s sharp as a needle, eh, Magsie?’

‘Quiet, Dudley, I’m thinking.’ She placed her elbows on the table, folded her hands and rested her chin on them.

My uncle clapped his hands in delight. ‘Ooh, I know that look, Romily. You’re in for a proper treat now if your auntie’s got that face on her.’

We waited in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the canal waters against the side of the boat and the distant chug of a slowly approaching narrowboat, until the shrill ascending whistle of the kettle broke through.

‘If you’re going to do this, you need to think about how best to let people know you’re looking,’ Auntie Mags said, finally. ‘The more people you can involve in your search, the greater your chances of finding him.’

Uncle Dudley clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant, our Mags!’

‘That’s what I’ll do then. But how do I begin?’

Uncle Dudley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, bab. You just leave it to your Uncle Dudley.’

Just as I was about to leave home for the band’s annual Christmas party, Mum rang.

‘I just wanted to check you’re still coming for Christmas Day,’ she said. I could hear the theme music of
The Great Escape
drifting into the background where Dad was no doubt glued to the television for its umpteenth showing. Rather apt, I thought, given the topic of conversation.

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ I lied, putting on my heels as I held the phone against my ear with my shoulder.

‘Good. I thought you were going out with your musician friends this evening?’

‘I am,’ I replied, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

‘You’re leaving it awfully late, aren’t you? It’s seven fifteen already.’

I smiled to myself. Mum clearly doesn’t know that many musicians.

There are many wonderful skills that my musician friends possess, but accurate timekeeping is not one of them. I can’t tell you how many band rehearsals have started with two or three of us waiting for over an hour for the others to roll up. Jack and I are usually there pretty much on time, but Charlie, Wren and Soph can be anything from twenty minutes to well over an hour late. And we almost always start without Tom, who has been known to turn up with only three-quarters of an hour of the rehearsal session remaining.

Every year, the band and their partners meet for a Christmas meal, usually at The Old Gate, a pub and restaurant near Jack and Sophie’s house that sells excellent food and locally-brewed ales. This year, however, Jack had left booking the meal to the last minute and, unsurprisingly, discovered that the pub was fully booked. To rescue a few scraps of credibility (although you could lay money on the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to forget this indiscretion
ever
), he and Sophie hastily arranged a meal at their house, begging dining room chairs from family and friends and bringing in the white plastic picnic table from their garden to extend the dinner table in order to accommodate us all. In response to their valiant efforts (and because, despite the constant mocking, we love them both to bits), the rest of the band had divided responsibility for bringing food and drink, each agreeing to bring a component course of the meal. Thankfully, I’d been nominated to provide dessert, which was easy as my mother’s beloved Waitrose was only a short drive away from their house.