Читать книгу It Started With A Kiss - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 12

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:

This time next year, things will be different.

I’m going to make it count.

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.

It Started With a Kiss

Welcome to my new blog!

I’ve never blogged before, but this is the first new experience for me in what I hope will be a year of discoveries.

As the title suggests, all of this began with a man who stopped to help me when I most needed him. He was gorgeous and he kissed me – but he left and I didn’t get a chance to ask his name. I might be mad, but I have to find him again, if for no other reason than to prove that this amazing thing actually happened to me.

So I’m going to spend a year looking for him. I don’t know his name, or where he lives: all I know is that I met him on the last Saturday before Christmas in Birmingham’s German Christmas Market, when I demolished a toy stall by the Town Hall (long story, I’ll explain later). He was amazing: gorgeously handsome, about six feet tall, with hazel-brown eyes and wavy, russet-brown hair. He was wearing a black coat and a green, cream and brown striped scarf, and he helped me to pick up the toys. We spoke for a while and then he gave me the most amazing kiss I’ve ever received, but he had to leave when his friend called him away.

Were you in the Christmas Market on that Saturday? Do you remember seeing him?

I’m not a desperate woman, or a crazed stalker. I just want to see him again, because I think he felt the same way that I did. So I’m setting myself this challenge in my last year of my twenties: I have between now and the next Christmas Eve to find him.

If you can help – even if it’s just an encouraging word to reassure me that I’m not a complete nutter – please let me know.

So, here goes the year of the quest … wish me luck!

Love, Romily xx

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.’

Wren giggled. ‘You said “quest”, Rom.’

‘Well, that’s what it feels like.’

‘I can’t believe you just called it a quest, you crazy woman. I think you should go for it. Just promise me you won’t do anything silly, OK? And tell me everything. Someone needs to be looking out for you.’

‘Uncle Dudley’s offered to help,’ I offered, although it was immediately evident that this did nothing to allay Wren’s concerns.

‘Even more reason that you should tell me what’s happening. Deal?’

I shook her hand. ‘Deal.’

Heavy rain had set in by the following morning, washing everything in a dull grey mist, the brave colours of the Christmas lights in the city’s streets and houses the only exception to the dimness. After a frustratingly slow journey stuck in endless traffic queues, I finally arrived at the old shoe factory where Tom rents a rehearsal studio. Charlie and Jack were already there, huddled on the curved steps of the peeling Art Deco entrance with identically grumpy expressions.

‘Let me guess, we’re waiting for Tom?’

Jack grimaced. ‘Correct.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Twenty-eight minutes,’ Charlie said, pointing at his watch.

‘Trust me, he’s been counting,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve had updates every minute. It’s like standing in a doorway with CNN.’

A frigid wind sprang up, blowing sheets of rain into the entrance. I shivered and pushed my hands deeper into my pockets, reprimanding myself for forgetting my gloves this morning. ‘I would have been here sooner, but the traffic was horrendous.’

‘I wouldn’t worry, Rom. It’s not like you missed anything. Wren’s running late, too, but no surprise there … Oh finally,’ Charlie announced, looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Tom sprinting through the puddles on the road towards us. ‘Leave your watch at home, did you?’

‘So-o-o-rry!’ Tom chirped. ‘Romily, charming as ever.’ He kissed my cheek and hugged me, then raised his hand at the lads. ‘Jack, Charlie, respect.’ Quickly, he unlocked the double doors and propped them open. Clapping his hands together, he grinned at us. ‘Care to load in, gentlemen?’

Jack laughed but Charlie strode back out towards his car, muttering unmentionables as he went. Tom pulled a face.

‘I see you brought Sarky Git Charlie with you today. I don’t like that one. Whatever happened to Nice Friendly Charlie?’

Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.’

Once all the gear was safely out of the rain, we took turns filling the old service lift, Charlie and I walking up two flights of stairs to unload guitars, drums, amps and cable bags on the first floor, then heading back down to repeat the process.

Thankfully the sheer logistics of getting all the gear to its destination removed the necessity for talking; a blessed relief for me, given that the sight of Charlie had inexplicably brought butterflies to my stomach.

By the time everything was on the first floor, Wren had arrived. We each grabbed a piece of equipment and headed along the high, steel-gabled dusty corridors and towards the heavy riveted steel door into Tom’s rehearsal room.

Over the years that The Pinstripes have been performing, we have seen our fair share of rehearsal spaces, ranging from tiny ‘sound-proofed garage’ affairs to dodgy-looking back rooms in music shops where the mic stands are bolted to the floor. Tom’s rehearsal room is a palace by comparison: a sharp contrast to its stark industrial surroundings once you step through the thick steel door. Draped with long white curtains suspended from the ceiling, the room resembles a second-hand furniture shop, with three enormous, incredibly squashed sofas arranged around an old Chinese-patterned rug and a 1940s sideboard that serves as a sound desk stand. A fading rose-painted tray on the gaffer-taped tea crate houses the all-important kettle, mismatched mugs, coffee, tea and dubious-looking scrunched-up sugar bag. Fairy lights are strung up all round the room and a jumble of shaded table lamps illuminate the floor. Tom shares the rent of the room with a heavy metal band called Disaffection and it’s a source of great amusement to Wren and I to think of highly tattooed, gruff rockers thrashing out their stuff surrounded by fairy lights and homely soft furnishings.

While the band set up I made tea – something Jack jokily calls ‘The Vocalists’ Saving Grace’, largely because being the singer in a band invariably involves an inordinate amount of standing around while the other band members set up their equipment.

Jack summoned our attention. ‘Right, as usual our D’Wayne has been about as useful as a fart in a hurricane and hasn’t deigned to enlighten us about what the New Year’s Eve wedding organisers want set-wise, apart from the rock’n’roll medley of doom. So I vote we stick to the usual set and add “Auld Lang Syne” for authenticity, followed by the ultimate cheese of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” for post-midnight.’

‘At least it’s a bit funky,’ Charlie conceded, ignoring Wren who was miming slashing her wrists.

Tom ripped open a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and handed them around. ‘Cheese is a necessary evil when it comes to New Year,’ he grinned. ‘Even more so when it’s a wedding on the last day of the year. And anyway, any artistic integrity we once had is a distant memory now. Face it, brothers and sisters, we are whores for our art.’

Even considering Tom’s legendary lack of tact and decency, this was close to the bone. ‘That’s terrible, Tom!’

‘Yes, but sadly true, Romily. We prostitute our musical selves for the sordid enjoyment of others.’ He looked around the room, pleased with the despairing reaction this elicited from the rest of the band. ‘OK, Jack, first song in the set?’

‘“Love Train”. Count us in, Chas.’

Charlie inserted his earphones as Wren and I did the same, watching him for the beat. ‘Two, three, four …’

My mum can never understand why we need to rehearse before every gig. ‘If you play the same songs every time, shouldn’t you know them by now?’ The fact is that unless we run through the arrangements, medleys and set orders, things can go horribly wrong during the gig. Like the time we played at a particularly raucous wedding where Tom nearly caused a riot by getting stuck in the second verse of ‘Love Shack’ when he forgot the words for the male vocal part and kept missing the link into the breakdown section. We ended up going round in circles several times until Jack jumped in and brought it to an end. After that, we made it band policy to always rehearse, no matter what.

We took a break between rehearsing sets one and two and Tom produced a tin-foiled parcel from his rucksack while Charlie made coffee.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have cake!’ Tom announced, as we crowded round to witness the unwrapping.

‘Please tell me it’s your mother’s amazing Christmas cake,’ Wren said, clapping her hands and whooping when the slab of rich fruitcake nestled within pale marzipan and pure white royal icing was revealed.

‘The very same,’ Tom grinned. ‘Enjoy!’

I wandered over to the jade-green sofa and checked my phone for messages. I was scrolling through my emails when Jack flopped down beside me.

‘So.’

‘So what?’

He patted my knee. ‘So tell me about this guy.’

One look at him confirmed my worst fears. Glancing at Wren, who was engaged in animated debate with Tom, I felt my heart sink. ‘When did she tell you?’

‘Yesterday, after she’d seen you.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘She’s just concerned about you.’

My hackles were rising. ‘Yes, well I wish she’d keep her concerns to herself.’

‘Hey, chill. As far as I know, she’s only told me. And Sophie, obviously. But that’s all.’

‘Oh, that’s OK then. Only half of my friends know about it.’

‘A yearlong search, eh?’

I fixed my eyes on my mobile. ‘Yup.’

Jack gave me a gentle nudge. ‘I think it’s a good thing.’

‘You do?’

‘Definitely. For one thing it’ll take your mind off declaring your undying love to Charlie last week.’

‘She told you that, too?’

‘Nope. That was Charlie.’ Jack’s smile was warm and comforting, despite the sense of rising panic within me. ‘You deserve to be happy, Rom. And if searching for the weirdo in the Christmas Market is going to bring you happiness then I reckon you should go for it. Even if it makes you look like a desperado. Besides, it’ll give His Charlieness food for thought.’

This threw me. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Jack leaned in and kissed my cheek. ‘Never you mind. Just follow your heart, Rom. And be careful, yeah?’

Knowing that Wren had blabbed the details of my plan to Jack and Sophie was annoying, but as I thought about it, I realised that sooner or later all my friends needed to know. If I was going to do this properly, I needed to be loud and proud about it right from the off. As I was mulling this over, Charlie looked up from the far side of the room and caught my eye, causing my heart to perform a somersault. His smile was so quick even a slow-motion camera would have struggled to catch it, but at least it was a smile.

That night, Uncle Dudley sent me a text imbued with so much enthusiasm I could feel it emitting from my handset.

Meet us at Furnace End Car Boot, 6am tomorrow

LOTS to tell! Xx

The next morning, my uncle was waiting impatiently by the gate in the dark when I arrived at the muddy field, chunky red torch illuminating his bright red cheeks, thick woollen scarf and tweed flat cap. Together we started to walk up the steep path towards the hulking shadows of cars and vans in the darkness of the field beyond.

‘No Auntie Mags this morning?’ I asked, my breath rising in white clouds as I spoke.

‘She’s in the car with Elvis and the heater on. Says they’re not getting out till the doughnut van opens at seven. You know your auntie. Likes her home comforts too much to fully appreciate the joys of car booting.’

Car booters were laying out their stalls as a surprising number of people milled around.

‘I thought we’d be the first ones here.’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, no! Most of this lot would’ve turned up at five when the site opened. Got to get here early for the bargains, see. The dealers get here before everyone else to snap up the good stuff. Arrive after eight and all you’ve got is an outdoor tat sale and a dodgy hot dog van.’

‘Wow.’

‘Now I just need to see my mate Trev on the military memorabilia stand and then we can grab a cuppa.’

For most people, going to a car boot sale is a leisurely weekend pastime. For Uncle Dudley, it’s a highly intricate set of unwritten rules, all designed to lead him to the Holy Grail – the find that will one day make his fortune. And, to give him his due, this approach has paid dividends in the past. A couple of years ago, while rummaging through an old suitcase full of yellowing newspapers and back copies of Good Housekeeping, he came across an unassuming notebook, filled with what appeared to be watercolour studies of animals, children and pastoral scenes. The stallholder, keen to shift his stock, agreed to sell Uncle Dudley the suitcase and all its contents for £10. When my uncle took the notebook to an antique dealer, he discovered that the notebook was in fact a pottery artist’s personal collection of designs for a major pottery firm in Stoke-on-Trent. At auction, the notebook sold for over £700 – enough to fund a dream trip to Bruges for him and Auntie Mags and a repaint for Our Pol.

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.’