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‘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.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7d923cfe-fa0d-5dcd-b50a-a8780f3f2749)
You’ve got a friend (#ulink_7d923cfe-fa0d-5dcd-b50a-a8780f3f2749)
The next morning, I bundled myself up in as many layers as I could realistically get away with and set off along the frozen pavements towards the train station. I’d secretly been hoping that the near-arctic conditions would cause considerable delays to the trains, thus keeping me away from the toe-curlingly awful conversation I knew was in store. But the train carried me to Birmingham with perfect punctuality and even though I walked slower than usual to the bus stop, my bus arrived on time. It was clear that nothing was going to keep me from this particular engagement. Accepting my fate, I reluctantly climbed on board.
My mind was distracted as the city suburbs passed by in a hazy blur. All around me, excited children and raucous teens gabbled, the thrill of Christmas tangible in their laughter. Only two days to go before The Big Day, the same topic of conversation buzzed between my fellow passengers: was it going to snow this year?
‘Midlands Today reckons there’s heavy snow heading our way,’ the lady behind me was telling her friend, as two chubby tots gurgled on their laps. ‘They’d put that poor Shifali out in a park last night to talk about it.’
‘Poor love,’ the other mother tutted. ‘It’s a wonder she doesn’t catch her death with all those outside broadcasts they make her do. Still, when it comes to the weather she doesn’t often get it wrong.’
‘Hmm, well, I hope she has this time. Our Dave will go berserk if it snows. He’ll be out all hours making snowmen to compete with the neighbours, you watch. It’s bad enough with the Christmas lights war in our road without a snowman competition too.’
I smiled into my scarf and took a deep breath as my stop appeared ahead.
There are some places that become landmark locations in your life: for The Pinstripes, Harry’s Café is one such place. Ever since Wren, Charlie and I first discovered the greasy, no-frills charms of the small, single-window café as secondary school pupils, Harry’s became the setting for countless key (and not-so-key) moments; then we introduced Tom, Jack and Sophie to the café’s manifold delights when we met them in our college years. Since The Pinstripes officially formed, Harry’s has assumed the status of our unofficial office – most of the major decisions about the band have occurred within its warm, steamy interior.
Given all of this shared history, it was fitting that the inevitable conversation with Charlie should happen here. That and the fact that Harry makes quite possibly the best bacon sandwich around. Not that I was particularly hungry that morning, though, as I stood outside the café willing my stomach to unknot itself. Take a deep breath, Rom. Gazing through the steamed-up window I could just make out Charlie’s messy mop of chestnut brown hair and the familiar hunch of his shoulders at our usual table by the counter. Right, I said to myself, let’s get this over with.
A humid rush of fried-breakfast-scented air hit me as I pushed open the door and Harry raised a stained tea towel to greet me.
‘Romily! Where you been this last week, eh?’
‘Oh you know, Harry, Christmas and all that.’
