Читать книгу It Started With A Kiss - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 9

‘He’s a psycho.’

‘He is not.’

‘Or some kind of twisted stalker …’

‘Wren, he wasn’t like that.’

‘How do you know? He could have been walking round kissing random female shoppers all day! He could get his sick, evil kicks out of doing that …’ Wren’s cocoa brown eyes opened wide. ‘Maybe he kisses the women he’s about to murder in cold blood … Oh-my-giddy-life, you’ve just had a Judas kiss!’

I let out a long sigh as I sank into Wren’s oversized sofa in her chic city-centre apartment. ‘I wish I hadn’t told you about it now.’

Wren placed a concerned hand on my arm. ‘No, Rom, you were absolutely right to tell me. If only so I could stop you making a terrible mistake!’

Sometimes I wonder how I came to have a friend quite as theatrical as Wren. But then, being a drama teacher, I suppose it’s something of an occupational hazard for her.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this now, but I was still reeling from the events of the day before. In a daze, following the stranger’s hasty departure, I had stumbled to the train station in a fog of emotion and shock. Slumped in my seat, mind numb, I had called the only person who would understand. Wren has been my closest friend since primary school and she’s known Charlie almost as long as I have. Initially, she insisted that I catch a train back into the city and head straight for her home, but all I really wanted to do was to sleep. So instead she made me promise to visit her the next day.

After a restless night with images of Charlie and the gorgeous stranger interchanging in my mind, I arrived at Wren’s chic canalside apartment, just along from the elegant bars and restaurants of Brindley Place.

Eyes wide with concern, Wren had listened quietly as I relayed the events of the previous day; but as soon as I finished she launched into an impassioned commentary.

‘The way I see it, this bloke is just a diversion from the real issue – you and Charlie. I mean, come on, Rom, one minute you’re telling Charlie you love him and then you “just happen” to meet the love of your life?’

‘It doesn’t make sense, I know. But honestly, Wren, it was the most intense, amazing moment. He took my breath away …’

‘And your mind off Charlie.’

This was useless. ‘Forget I mentioned it, OK?’

Wren gave me her best impression of a serious look (which, in truth, is about as serious as engaging in a staring contest with a fluffy kitten …). ‘Oh, Rom, I’m sorry. It’s just that you have to admit it’s a bit odd. Someone you’ve never met appears out of nowhere, does the knight-in-shining-armour bit and then kisses you. What kind of crazed, maniacal freak does things like that? And if he thinks you’re so amazing, how come he didn’t stick around?’

I had been asking myself that very question ever since it happened. ‘I don’t know.’ The events of our encounter remained imprisoned behind a frustrating haze. Whatever – or whoever – had called him away had seemed import ant; but then I’d hardly had sufficient time to know anything about him, so how could I really know what was important to him? ‘That’s the problem: I have no answers. All I can say is that it was the most amazing moment I’ve ever experienced. He was … perfect.’

‘He was a nutter. Believe me, hun, you’re better off not knowing who he was. I’ve chased handsome princes before and they’ve always turned into proper fairytales.’

‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

‘No – I mean Grimm.’ Seeing my face she quickly hid her mirth. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’

I shook my head. ‘I know it’s crazy. But I can’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Thank heaven you had the good sense to come here, then! Are you feeling OK now? Do you need anything?’

‘I’m fine …’

Wren snapped her fingers. ‘Tea! That’s what you need – hot, strong, sweet tea!’ She jumped up and dashed into her smart-yet-bijou kitchen before I had a chance to protest. Cupboard doors banged, crockery clanked and spoons jangled in mugs as the one-woman whirlwind noisily prepared my unwanted beverage. ‘Tea is the best thing for shock, trust me. Or is that brandy? I can never remember …’

‘Tea will be fine, thanks,’ I called back quickly. The last thing I needed was Wren’s idea of a ‘shot’ of brandy (to everyone else, that’s about a quarter of a bottle). Despite her diminutive stature, Wren can drink more alcohol than me, Charlie and all our friends put together.

Ugh, Charlie. In the craziness of the past hour, I had almost forgotten the gut-churningly awful reality of his reaction, but now it made its horrific return to my innards.

‘How did you leave things with Charlie?’ Wren asked, once she had thrust a scalding hot, impossibly sweet cup of tea into my hands.

I shuddered as embarrassment launched another crushing onslaught on my guts. ‘I didn’t. I just legged it. I was so mortified, Wren. I mean, what on earth was I thinking, telling him how I felt?’

Wren grimaced. ‘I bet you felt a right prat.’ Seeing my expression, she raised her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, Rom, I’m sorry! That came out wrong.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s accurate. I just don’t understand how I got it so wrong.’

‘I don’t think you did – at least, that’s what all of us thought would happen, sooner or later. But you know Charlie. He’s a typical bloke, head goes straight in the sand the moment he’s challenged on anything. You know that.’

Without thinking, I drank some tea, recoiling in horror as the high sugar content grated against my teeth. Wren completely misread my reaction and grinned with pride.

‘See, I told you tea was the answer.’

Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I swallowed, even though every fibre of my being was screaming at me not to. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. So did you get the bloke’s name?’

I shook my head. ‘I just wish you could have been there. He was amazing – just calmly helped me while everyone else stared.’ I stood and walked over to the window to gaze out at the tiny slice of the cosmopolitan city heart outside. The afternoon light was fading as Christmas lights from the surrounding apartments, restaurants and bars were reflected in the canal four storeys below. Festive city revellers hurried by on the frozen towpath, muffled up against the arctic weather. ‘And he’s out there, somewhere, right now …’

Wren appeared by my side, watching me carefully. ‘He’s really got to you, hasn’t he?’

I nodded, the memory of his lips brushing mine suddenly bright in my mind. ‘I’m honestly not using this as a diversion. I want to find him again.’

‘Right. Come with me.’ Wren grabbed my hand and yanked me towards the front door.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To find him, of course!’

‘What? Wait …’

‘We can’t wait, Rom! We need to find him now!’

‘But we also need coats?’

Wren looked down at her thin jumper, jeans and large pink fluffy slippers. ‘Ah. Absolutely. And then we’re going!’

One of the things I love the most about Wren is her ability to get things done. Although the lightning-fast change in her attitude to my handsome stranger was a bit of a curveball, there was no doubting the fact that when Wren Malloy puts her mind to something, nothing can shake her from her chosen course of action.

‘Wren, it happened yesterday. He won’t be there,’ I protested as we flew along the canalside and across the bridge to the city centre.

‘I know. But there might still be some people around who remember him,’ Wren called back, dodging shoppers laden with last-minute Christmas shopping. ‘And you need to keep his image fresh in your mind.’

When the small wooden stalls came into view, I pulled up to a halt. ‘Wren, stop.’

She stared at me, wild auburn curls blowing about her face. ‘What now?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Eh?’

‘Five minutes ago you thought he was a twisted psycho stalker. And then you drag me out here like your life depends on it. I don’t understand …’

She took a breath and smiled at me. ‘You’re my best friend. So I’m here to support you.’

Genuinely touched by this, I smiled back. ‘Thank you.’

‘And anyway, maybe if we go down this route you’ll get it out of your system.’

‘Ah.’

Wren looked around. ‘So, where did you meet him?’

I looked around. With the arrival of a new day the whole Christmas Market had taken on a magical appearance, the brightly coloured lights that framed each stall reflecting in the damp pavements, while the blazing glow from the whirling carousel illuminated the windows of the surrounding buildings. The air temperature had dropped considerably and tiny white flakes of snow swirled in the air above the bustling market stalls. For a moment it was hard to get my bearings.

‘I think it was near the beginning of the craft market,’ I answered, ‘or at least, that’s where he kissed me. The stall I demolished was further down New Street because we walked a little afterwards. But it’s all a bit of a blur to be honest.’

‘Well, let’s start at the kiss and work backwards,’ Wren suggested, hugging my arm. ‘Where did that happen?’

‘By a stall with hand-painted glass tree baubles.’

We followed the line of craft stalls, passing displays of garish felt hats, jewellery, delicate silk scarves and hand-dipped candles until Wren let out a squeal and tugged at my arm. ‘There!’

My heart began racing as we approached the stall, memories of the stranger’s concerned questions, his breath on my face and that kiss suddenly bombarding my mind. The large, teardrop-shaped bauble was still hanging from its silver-painted twig in the mottled gold pot at the front of the stall, exactly as it had been when he caught up with me. Shivers chased each other up my spine as my fingers brushed its lustrous surface.

‘I was here – looking at this – when he reached me.’ I closed my eyes and remembered the warmth of his gentle voice behind my ear, the light touch of his hand on my shoulder.

Wren was already summoning the attention of the stallholder. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘This might sound a bit weird, but we’re looking for a man.’

The lady behind the counter let out a cracked, throaty laugh that could only have been created by a serious nicotine intake over many years. ‘Aren’t we all, dearie! That’s what I want for Christmas, eh, Sylv?’

‘Ooh too right, Aud,’ laughed the short woman beside her who was swathed in so many woollen layers she resembled a forty-something rainbow-hued sheep.

‘No, I don’t think you understand,’ Wren pressed on, undaunted. ‘You see, it’s a particular man we’re looking for …’

‘That’s the beauty of youth,’ Sylvia grinned back. ‘When you get to our age, chick, the ones that aren’t that particular are the only ones we’re likely to get!’ The two ladies launched into cackles again and Wren shrugged helplessly at me.

‘It was yesterday,’ I explained. ‘I was looking at this bauble and then a guy joined me. He was about six feet tall, with russet-brown hair and a green, brown and cream striped scarf?’

The stallholders’ laughter ebbed and Audrey leaned towards me across the fragile glass ornaments. ‘What time was this?’

I made a mental calculation. ‘Just after two o’clock, I think.’

Audrey made a loud sucking noise of air through her teeth, not unlike the sound my father makes whenever I mention the band I sing with. ‘Trouble is, kid, there’s been a fair old bunch of good-looking young men past this stall the last few days. All panicking over presents for their mums, bless ’em.’

‘He kissed her,’ Wren offered. ‘And then he disappeared.’

‘Ooh, now hold on a tick,’ Sylvia replied, her frost-flushed cheeks reddening further with the mental effort. ‘Come to think of it, there was a young man we noticed kissing a girl.’ Gesturing enthusiastically at me, she added, ‘Turn around, chick!’

I obeyed and the two women engaged in some excited muttering until Sylvia instructed me to turn back.

‘Now, it’s only vague, love, but I do remember something like that happening.’

‘Really? Can you remember anything else? About his face, or whether he gave a name?’

Audrey laughed. ‘Well, you should know, love. You were a lot closer to him than we were.’

It was clear that this was as far as the conversation could go. ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ I replied. Wren was still chatting with Audrey and Sylvia as I began to walk slowly away. I was slightly disappointed by their lack of memory but encouraged by the fact that I obviously hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. Tracing my steps back past the Town Hall and down towards the start of New Street, I tried to piece together my flight from the toy stall.

Footsteps behind me heralded Wren’s arrival and she reached my side, panting slightly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. ‘So, that’s a start, right?’

I smiled. ‘Absolutely. Look, you don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘I know. But now I know you weren’t hallucinating, I’m actually quite excited about the whole thing.’ She nudged me with her shoulder. ‘It’s like something out of a chick-flick, isn’t it? The handsome stranger, the sudden meeting, the kiss that should be accompanied by a Randy Newman score …’

‘Apart from the fact that we have no idea where the leading man is,’ I reminded her, thrilled by the analogy nevertheless.

‘Pah, details. So where next?’

I gazed down the slope of stalls towards a beer bar with strange rotating wooden slats and large polar bear on top. ‘There was a toy stall down that way – that’s what I collided with.’

‘Excellent. And seeing as you more or less demolished the stall, you should be easy to remember.’

Wren has such a way with words sometimes …

I could feel a cold sweat beading around my neck under my scarf as we headed towards the site of yesterday’s second-most mortifying moment. My right arm and shoulder still burned from their sudden meeting with the wooden stall frontage and my cheeks were burning now, too. How had I managed to lose my carefully constructed sense of self-dignity twice in one day, in such spectacular fashion? Inevitably, my thoughts strayed to the first such instance and I felt my heart plummet as the memory of Charlie’s horrified expression returned. If Wren was correct in her assertion that my preoccupation with the handsome stranger was a diversionary tactic to stop me thinking about Charlie, then it wasn’t working very well. Angrily, I shook his face from my mind and turned my attention to the task at hand.

The toy stall was further down New Street than I remembered and I was surprised to see how far the stranger had walked to reach me in the craft market. He must have really wanted to find me. This thought thrilled me. Surely it proved that he was somebody special, that he saw something in me worth chasing after?

When the jumbled pile of plush toys and hand puppets came into view, I braced myself for the abuse bound to flow from the portly male stallholder, but was surprised to see a lanky, bespectacled youth manning the stall instead.

‘I can help you, yes?’ he asked in a broad German accent, his adolescent eyes drinking in every detail of my best friend as she flashed him her brightest smile.

‘I hope so,’ she purred, all wide eyes and batting lashes. Even wrapped up in her multicoloured patchwork coat and long black pashmina scarf with its glinting silver sequins, the effect this had on her quarry was considerable. I resisted the urge to laugh, marvelling at Wren’s impressive attention-commanding skills. ‘I wonder if you remember my friend?’

The lanky boy’s greasy brows lifted as he surveyed me, clearly congratulating himself at his obvious irresistibility to English women. ‘For sure I would like to remember you,’ he replied, giving me what he judged to be a devastating look.

‘No, you don’t understand. My friend knocked over your toys yesterday.’ Wren pointed animatedly at the drop-down display area.

‘Oh, I heard that, ja. But I was not here then: it was my brother. He said toys were everywhere.’

Wren clapped her hands as I tried my best to ignore the creeping warmth flushing my face. ‘Brilliant! So did your brother tell you about the man who helped my friend to pick up the toys?’

The teenager’s expression muddied and then he nodded. ‘For sure. There was a guy who was the only one to help.’

Instantly, I forgot my embarrassment. ‘That’s it! Did he say what the man looked like?’

‘I dunno.’ He shrugged. ‘He just said a young man. That’s all I know.’

Wren nodded at me. ‘Right, I see. And when will your brother be back on the stall?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t work this stall. He’s one of the organisers here. He was just looking after it for the day.’ He winked at Wren and went in for the kill. ‘So, you want a beer with me after we close tonight? Birmingham is a beautiful city but a little lonely …’

‘It’s tempting, but I can’t, I’m afraid. Have to get my Christmas shopping done, you know how it is …’ She linked her arm through mine and we walked away, leaving the gawping German youth behind us. ‘OK, after that thrilling encounter I need a coffee.’

We made our way slowly through the crowds, pushing through the flow of people to the very coffee shop where I had made my devastating confession to Charlie. I was thankful that the large leather sofa at the back of the coffee shop was available so I didn’t have to sit by the window where everything had changed.

Wren arrived with two enormous cups of frothy cappuccino and two slabs of sticky chocolate cake. ‘Caffeine and sugar – just what you need!’ she announced, unwinding her long black scarf and removing her coat before sitting beside me. ‘So, he’s real, then.’

‘I told you he was real. At least now you believe me.’

‘I do. Actually, I’m starting to think that maybe he might not be a psycho after all.’

‘Well, thank you. What changed your mind?’

Wren leaned back, her elfin frame almost disappearing into the sofa altogether. ‘I was thinking about it as we were retracing your steps: he was the only one to help you put the toy display back together and even when you said you were fine he still followed you to make sure. If he was some idiot after a cheap thrill, I doubt he’d have been so committed. And he was obviously memorable enough for the ladies at the bauble stall to remember him – albeit vaguely. I just can’t work out why he didn’t stick around.’

‘I told you, he was called away.’

‘Yes, but who by? Can you remember whether the voice was male or female?’

‘Male.’

‘Right. So, best case scenario: mate. Worst case scenario: boyfriend.’

I spluttered into my cappuccino. ‘Come off it, Wren, he wasn’t gay.’

‘How do you know? I mean, good looking, well dressed, tidy … He might have been kissing you for a bet or having a quick “swing the other way”… OK, OK, I’m joking. But he could have a girlfriend or, worse, a wife.’

I twisted to face her. ‘Then why did whoever called him away let him kiss me?’

She shrugged and speared a large chunk of chocolate cake with her fork. ‘Maybe that’s why he was calling him away …’

I didn’t want to consider the possibility, yet I found myself trying to recall whether I had seen a ring on his left hand as he helped me retrieve the scattered stock from the damp pavement. Frustratingly, I couldn’t. But he couldn’t be married, could he? The way he looked at me, the way he kissed me – it was as if he was seeing a woman he wanted to be with for the first time. I felt … cherished, strange as that sounds; it was as if he were cradling a precious jewel he had no intention of letting go.

But he had let me go, hadn’t he?

Wren pushed her curls behind her ears. ‘Anyway, forget all that. Tell me about the kiss.’

So I told her, replaying the detail of our brief encounter that had been on ceaseless repeat in my mind all night and throughout today: how I felt so utterly safe in his embrace, how soft and warm his lips were on mine; how the whole city seemed suspended in time around us; and how I never for a moment questioned what was happening because it felt so right …

‘Like you were coming home, eh?’ Wren finished my sentence with a wistful look in her eyes.

I nodded. ‘That’s exactly how it felt. And I know it sounds cheesy but it didn’t feel contrived or cheap at all. I was just sharing this amazing moment with someone my heart knew. Does any of this make sense?’

She smiled. ‘Absolutely, hun. Although personally I wouldn’t have let him leave after a kiss like that.’

I felt my shoulders drop as I took a slurp of frothy coffee. ‘I know. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind and I still can’t work out why I didn’t just hang on to him until he gave me his number. Or at least his name. But I couldn’t move for a moment – I think I might have been in shock – so by the time I realised I had to go after him he’d disappeared. And now I have nothing to remind me of him other than my memory.’

Wren patted my hand. ‘Well, not exactly,’ she said, reaching into her coat pocket, producing a pink and white striped paper bag and handing it to me. ‘I thought this could serve as a memento of a momentous experience.’

Surprised, I opened the crumpled paper and slowly unwrapped the yellow tissue-papered object inside. To my utter amazement, I gazed down to see the beautiful teardrop-shaped bauble from the glass ornament stall, its tiny silver painted stars sparkling in the coffee shop lights.

‘Oh Wren, thank you!’

Wren put an arm around me and squeezed my shoulders. ‘You deserve it, sweets. Let this remind you that there is at least one amazing bloke in the city who thinks you’re beautiful – although with those sea green eyes of yours and gorgeous smile I’d hazard a guess that he’s not alone.’

I laughed at this. For as long as I’ve known her, Wren has been obsessed with the colour of my eyes, despite being one of the most amazing-looking women I know. Her own cocoa brown eyes and fiery red ringlets are stunning, but she’s always said how she’d love eyes ‘the colour of the sea in summer’, which is how she describes mine. We’re quite different in our style – Wren is every bit as flamboyant in her clothes as she is in everything else she does. Yet somehow her crazy, unique way of pairing colours together always works. If I tried to carry off some of her looks, I’d look like some kind of strange hippy, but Wren makes it look arty and gorgeous. We work well together, each a visual foil to the other. My shoulder-length hair has been several colours over the years (blonde, red and even black in my teens) but the dark blonde I’ve settled on now works best, I think. While Wren spends hours internet shopping for kooky, one-off fashions, I love my high street shops – and I know that we love each other’s style. But it’s funny how we’re never satisfied with what we’ve been given looks-wise. ‘You’re good for my ego, Wren.’

‘And you’re good for mine. That’s why you need my help to find this chap of yours.’

‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’

‘I don’t know. But we’ll think of something. Now, gorgeous kissing strangers aside, what are you going to do about Charlie?’

I shuddered as a cold shower of reality hit me. ‘I have no idea.’

‘He hasn’t called you?’

‘I haven’t answered.’

Truth be told, Charlie had been calling and texting me almost constantly since my ill-fated confession, but I just couldn’t face talking to him – not yet. Right on cue, my mobile buzzed as a text message arrived.

PLEASE talk to me Rom. Cx

‘Maybe you should call him.’

‘What would I say? I made such a fool of myself, Wren. I still can’t work out how I ever thought that saying I loved him was a good idea.’

Wren let out a groan. ‘Rom, we all thought you and Charlie would get it together one day. Everyone notices how close you two have become – I mean, even my mother and, let’s be honest, everyone knows she isn’t the brightest button in the box. So he panicked when you told him. So what? It’s understandable. After all, you did kind of spring it on him. But I’ll tell you one thing: he’s an idiot if he can’t see how perfect you are for each other. You guys have always been the Old Folks – the whole band says so.’

‘That doesn’t matter now. The Old Folks thing is officially dead.’

‘Well, it blatantly isn’t, if he’s trying to talk to you. And anyway, what about all the gigs we’ve got in the next few months? Tom said yesterday that Dwayne has finally delivered some quality bookings for next year. Whether you like it or not, we need you and Charlie to at least be on speaking terms because, while I love you both, I need the money. My overdraft is scarier than watching The Exorcist in the dark.’

‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure. It’s just awkward at the moment but I don’t want it to be difficult for the rest of the band. I’ll work it out eventually. But I think I just need to lay low for a couple of days.’

Wren’s mobile rang. Turning the screen towards me, her expression was pure seriousness. ‘So what do I tell him now?’

Panic froze me to the spot. ‘Don’t tell him I’m here, please!’

She glared at me and answered the call. ‘Hey, dude. Yeah, I’m fine. You? Ah, right … Rom? No, hun, I haven’t seen her. I spoke to her earlier but …’ she shot me a look ‘… I think she just needs some time, Charlie. What? I’ll tell her – um – when I see her, yeah. Take care, you. Bye.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’

‘That is absolutely the one and only time I’m doing that for you, Rom. You need to call him. The poor guy’s frantic.’

I let out a sigh. ‘I’ll call him tomorrow.’

Wren picked up my phone from the coffee table and thrust it into my hand. ‘No, Rom. Text him tonight, at least. And in the meantime let me work out how you can find the Phantom Kisser of the Christmas Market, OK?’

Of course, I knew she was right. Charlie and I had been friends for too long to let something even as devastatingly embarrassing as this jeopardise our friendship. And then there was the band …

The Pinstripes have been together for nearly seven years. We formed because of a drunken idea at one of the many house parties hosted by my friends Jack and Sophie. Wren’s newly-engaged friend Naomi had been bemoaning the lack of decent wedding bands in the area and joked that we should form a band to fit the bill. To be honest, it was a wonder that none of us had thought of it before; between us we had two singers (one of whom was also a bass player), a drummer, a keyboard player, a lead guitarist and a saxophone player – and all of us were struggling in second-rate bands where we didn’t quite fit in. At the time I was singing jazz standards to increasingly bemused diners at a pizza restaurant chain with Jack; Charlie was playing drums in a Jam tribute band (and hating every moment); Sophie was stuck playing saxophone with a group of easy-listening-obsessed over-forties; while Tom and Wren were lying about their age in a teenage thrash metal band called R.T.A. (which truly defined the term ‘car crash’). As with many other ideas hatched at three am under the influence of copious amounts of red wine and sambuca, the suggestion was unanimously deemed brilliant and The Pinstripes made their magnificent entrance on to the function band scene.

Since then, we have survived nightmare gigs, power-cuts, fistfights (mercifully not involving any of the band) and more than one dodgy middle-aged lothario trying to storm the stage – and have emerged relatively intact and moderately successful. Sophie decided to bow out after two years when she was promoted to Head of Music at the local comprehensive school where she works but we still occasionally coax her back if we’re playing a particularly gorgeous venue. While we all hold down day jobs, the band is a bit of fun and a welcome source of extra cash.

Added to this, it’s a veritable education in How To and How Not To Do a Wedding. It never ceases to amaze me just how awful other people’s weddings can be. It’s a constant source of amusement to us all, not least to Wren and I, who pore over each successively horrific detail with unrestrained glee. Then there are the weddings that are truly inspirational – when everything seems to come together at once and the adrenalin rush sends your head giddy. These we hold in high regard and recall in hushed tones because they are evidence that what we’re doing is more than simply paying the bills. The guys in the band are a bit more cynical about it all, but even they have been known to shed the odd telltale tear at certain moving celebrations.

I’ve sung with several bands throughout my life, but I can honestly say that nothing beats performing with my best friends. There’s a different level of understanding than I’ve experienced with any other musicians – it’s like we all know what the others are thinking. And I love it.

Gig stories form a central part of any conversation when we all get together. It’s something that has built a rock-solid bond between the members of the band, but can be a cause of irritation to the non-musician partners among us, who frequently pull faces and moan when tales of songs that went wrong and strange weddings we’ve played at begin floating across the dinner table on a Saturday night at Jack and Soph’s. We all keep saying that we should try harder to curb the stories when non-band members are present, but it’s kind of a default setting for us; usually by the time we’ve realised what we’re doing, we’ve been happily swapping tales for hours. I’m not proud of it, but the gig stories have definitely caused casualties. Although Wren won’t admit it, the closeness of the band was one of the major reasons that Matt, her last boyfriend, didn’t stick around for long. Sophie told me he asked Wren to choose between The Pinstripes and him. The rest, as they say, is history.

Of course, there are numerous challenges to being in a function band: the sheer logistics of getting five über-busy people together for rehearsals; the internal squabbles that occasionally rear their ugly heads; the stressful load-ins and sound-checks; the late finishes and the often long journeys home in the early hours of the morning, knowing that there’s a van packed with equipment to unload before you can get to bed. But despite everything, it’s great to be able to hang out with your mates and get paid for it – something that makes all the bad stuff pale into insignificance. Some of my best times have been spent breaking into impromptu jam sessions during sound-checks and discussing obscure music trivia in half-closed motorway service stations at some ungodly hour in the morning. I couldn’t bear to lose all that – yet this was what I was risking by continuing to ignore the situation with Charlie.

Staring at my phone alone in my bedroom that night, I knew Wren was right – I had to call him. Mustering every scrap of courage I could, I found Charlie’s number and dialled.

I could hear the stress in his voice as soon as he answered.

‘Rom – hey.’

‘Hi, Charlie.’

‘I didn’t know what to … what to do … or say …’

‘I’m sorry, mate. I was embarrassed.’

‘You weren’t the only one,’ Charlie laughed. My stomach rolled over and I swallowed hard. After a pause, he spoke again. ‘You still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look – this is such a mess. Can we meet up tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know …’

‘Don’t say no, Rom, just listen, OK?’

‘OK.’

I heard him breathe out nervously on the other end of the line. ‘Cool. What you said yesterday – well, I didn’t take it very well.’

No kidding, Charlie.

‘I could have handled it better. I definitely shouldn’t have stopped following you when you told me to go home.’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘I think we need to talk – to clear the air, Rom. I’d hate this to affect our friendship …’

Perish the thought. ‘It won’t …’

‘… and we’ve got those gigs coming up. Me and you need to be sorted for those, you know?’

Ever the practical realist, Charlie had managed to turn an awkward moment into an agenda item. ‘You’re right, we do.’

‘Good. So – er – Harry’s tomorrow about eight? Breakfast on me, OK?’

I pulled a face at the phone. ‘Fine. See you then.’

Ending the call, I threw my phone to the end of my bed, flopped back and placed the pillow over my throbbing eyes.

That night, the stranger from the Christmas Market appeared in my dreams again. There I was, once again, safely cradled in his embrace, inhaling the scent of his skin, gazing at that look resplendent across his gorgeous face.

‘Hello, beautiful.’

‘Hello, you.’

‘I’m waiting for you to find me.’

‘Really? But you don’t know me.’

‘Your heart knows me. And my heart has been searching for you.’

‘I don’t know where to find you.’

He smiled, his face moving closer to mine, his breath tantalisingly warm on my lips. ‘Follow your heart, beautiful girl.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

He blinked and shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I have no idea. This is your dream. But isn’t that what the heroes always say in those rom-coms you insist on watching?’

‘That’s not helpful.’

His eyes were so full of love as he gently stroked my cheek with velvet fingers that I immediately forgave his unhelpfulness. ‘Your heart knows me, beautiful. So follow your heart …’

Waking suddenly, I sat up and stared at the pinky-gold dawn breaking through the gap in the curtains. The birds had begun singing outside and the world was starting to wake up. My heart thundered in my ears as the memory of The Kiss magnificently returned.

Wren was right. I had to find him.

But first, I had to face Charlie.