MIRANDA DICKINSON
It Started with a Kiss

Copyright

AVON

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2014

Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847561671

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007387083

Version: 2014-12-09

Dedication

For the Peppermints: Andi, Clarko, Dan, Ed, Phil and Susanna. The best friends ever.

‘I dwell in possibility.’

Emily Dickinson

I’m a big believer in following your heart – and that’s so much easier to do when you have wonderful people believing in you. While writing and editing this book, I have been joined a merry band of lovelies who have watched my vlogs, tweeted with me and offered me so much enthusiasm and love. I hope this book is worth the wait for you!

Three books in, and I’m still blown away by everyone’s support. Big thanks to my family and friends for their constant love, Julie Cohen for wise words and woops, Ritzi Cortez, Ella, Barry and Sue for help with narrowboat questions, Joanne Harris for the signal box wedding pictures and Serena at Combermere Abbey (www.combermereabbey.co.uk) for sharing your wonderful wedding venue with me. Thanks also to Vickie Pritchett (Mrs Bou) from The Boutique Baking Company (www.boutiquebaking.co.uk) for providing magical cake inspiration for Auntie Mags. And, as ever, huge thanks to Kim Curran (Next Big Thing) for reading every draft, giving awesome advice and being a fab friend.

Massive thanks as always to my lovely editor Sammia Rafique for her constant belief in me (and long phone chats!), and to the fabulous team at Avon, especially Claire Bord, Caroline Ridding and Charlotte Allen. Big thanks also to Rhian McKay and Anne Rieley.

Inspiration for my characters comes from everywhere, but this time several real-life lovelies have inspired characters in my story. Big love to Phil White (father-in-law-to-be and the inspiration for Uncle Dudley), Wayne McDonald (top bloke and the inspiration for D’Wayne) and my wonderful chums in The Peppermints wedding band (www.peppermintmusic.co.uk) for inspiring The Pinstripes (we’re available for weddings, birthdays, events …!).

And last, but not least, thanks to my lovely fiancé, Bob – for putting up with tons of wedding research, being my constant cheerleader and making me smile. I can’t wait to marry you next year!

This book is about following your heart. I hope it inspires you to follow yours. xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: The most wonderful time of the year

Chapter Two: Dream a little dream of me

Chapter Three: You’ve got a friend

Chapter Four: We are family

Chapter Five: People get ready

Chapter Six: Get the party started …

Chapter Seven: Keep on moving …

Chapter Eight: Love is all around …

Chapter Nine: Help!

Chapter Ten: Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (a man after midnight)

Chapter Eleven: Rescue me

Chapter Twelve: Move on up …

Chapter Thirteen: Could it be magic?

Chapter Fourteen: Please don’t stop the music …

Chapter Fifteen: I will survive

Chapter Sixteen: Spinning around …

Chapter Seventeen: Here come the girls …

Chapter Eighteen: Respect

Chapter Nineteen: Stuck in the middle

Chapter Twenty: Let there be love

Chapter Twenty-One: It had to be you

Keep Reading …

Character Fact Files

Deleted Scenes

Cake Therapy by Auntie Mags

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
The most wonderful time of the year

When it comes to telling your best friend that you love him, there are generally two schools of thought. One strongly advises against it, warning that you could lose a friend if they don’t feel the same way. The other urges action because, unless you say something, you might miss out on the love of your life.

Unfortunately for me, I listened to the latter.

The look in Charlie’s midnight blue eyes said it all: I had just made the biggest mistake of my life …

‘Sorry?’

Perhaps he hadn’t heard me the first time. Maybe I should say it again?

‘I said I love you, Charlie.’

He blinked. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Yes.’ I could feel a deathly dragging sensation pulling my hope to oblivion.

Gone was the trademark Charlie grin that had been so firmly in place only moments before. In its place was a look I didn’t recognise, but I knew it wasn’t a good alternative.

‘H-how long have you …?’

I dropped my gaze to the potted plant beside our table. ‘Um – a long time, actually.’ Maybe I should have worn something a bit more ‘potential girlfriend material’ today? But then this morning when I pulled on my trusty jeans and purple sweater dress I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation. And judging by the look of sheer horror on Charlie’s face, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had been sitting opposite him in a designer gown and diamonds. This was such a mistake …

‘But … we’re mates, Rom.’

‘Yeah, of course we are. Look, forget I said anything, OK?’

He was staring at his latte like it had just insulted him. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to do that. You’ve said it now, haven’t you? I mean it’s – it’s out there.’

I looked around the busy coffee shop. It was overcrowded with disgruntled Christmas shoppers huddled ungratefully around too-small tables on chairs greedily snatched from unsuspecting single customers. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that none of that lot heard anything.’

As attempts at humour go, it wasn’t my finest. I took a large gulp of coffee and wished myself dead.

Charlie shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. I heard it. Oh, Rom – why did you say that? Why couldn’t you just have …?’

I stared at him. ‘Just have what?’

‘Just not said anything? I mean, why me? Why put this on me now?’

I hated the look of sheer panic in his eyes. He’d never looked at me that way before … In my perennial daydream about this moment it had been so very different:

Oh Romily – I’ve loved you forever, too. If you hadn’t told me we could have missed each other completely …

‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I mean, if it’s good then why change it? I can’t believe you actually thought this would be a good idea.’

Well, excuse me, but I did. Somewhere between my ridiculous, obviously deluded heart and my big stupid mouth, my brain got pushed out of the picture and I – crazy, deranged loon that I am – found myself persuaded that I might be the answer to his dreams. That maybe the reason for the many hours we’d spent together – cheeky laughter-filled days and late night heart-to-hearts – was that we were destined to be more than friends. Everyone else noticed it: it had been a running joke among our friends that Charlie and I were like an old married couple. The ‘Old Folks’ – that’s what they called us. We’d lost count of the number of times complete strangers mistook us for partners. So if it was this blindingly obvious to the world, how come Charlie couldn’t see it?

Of course, I couldn’t say any of this to him. Sheer embarrassment stole the clever arguments from my mind so that then and there, in the crowded café packed with people who couldn’t care less about what I was saying, I found that all I could say was:

‘I’m sorry.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘I did not see this coming. I thought we were friends, that’s all. But this – this is just weird …’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlie.’

He stared at me, confusion claiming his eyes. ‘I-I didn’t mean … Heck, Rom, I’m sorry – you’ve just got to give me a moment to get my head round this.’

I looked away and focused on a particularly harassed-looking couple talking heatedly at the next table over enormous mugs of cream-topped festive coffees. ‘You don’t appreciate me,’ the woman was saying. Right now, I knew exactly how she felt.

‘The thing is,’ Charlie said, ‘you’ve always been just Rom – one of the guys, you know? You’re a laugh, someone I can hang out with. But now …’ He was digging an impossible hole for himself and he knew it. He gave a massive sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really not sure how to deal with this.’

This was awful – I’d heard enough. I rose to my feet, intense pain and crushing embarrassment pushing my body up off the chair. I opened my mouth to deal a devastating parting shot, but nothing appeared. Instead, I turned and fled, stubbing my toe on a neighbouring customer’s chair and tripping over various overstuffed shopping bags, almost taking a packed pushchair with me as I beat an ungraceful retreat from the coffee shop and out into the bustling street beyond.

Outside, Birmingham’s famous Christmas Market was in full flow, packed with shoppers grabbing last-minute Christmas shopping and crowding around the wooden beer stalls. The coloured lights strung overhead glowed brightly against the greyness of the December afternoon sky and Christmas music blared relentlessly from speakers along the length of New Street.

‘Rom! Where are you going? I’m sorry – please come back! Rom!’ Behind me, Charlie’s shouts blended into the blur of crowd noise and Christmas hits of yesteryear. I picked up my pace, making my way blindly against the tidal flow of bodies, their countless faces looming up before me, unsmiling and uncaring. I had humiliated myself enough already: the last thing I needed was for Charlie to come back for Round Two …

As I passed each shop front the sale signs began morphing into condemnatory judgements of my actions, screaming at me from every lit window:

Insane!

Stupid idiot!

What were you thinking?

As the jostling crowd propelled me involuntarily towards the marble pillars of the Town Hall, Paul McCartney was singing ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ like it should have an ironic question mark at the end. Unable to wriggle free, I found myself moving along with the throng. But I felt nothing; my senses were numbed by the faceless bodies hemming me in, and my heart too beset by ceaseless echoes of Charlie’s words to care any more. At a loss to make sense of the total catastrophe I’d just caused, I surrendered to the irresistible force of the crowd and, quite literally, went with the flow.

What was I thinking telling my best friend in the whole world that I loved him? I hadn’t even planned to say it at all – and now I couldn’t quite believe I had blurted out my biggest secret seemingly on a whim. One minute we were laughing about last week’s gig, his smile so warm and his eyes lit up in the way they always do when he’s talking about music; the next I was confessing the feelings for him I’ve been carrying for three years. What on earth made me think that was a good idea?

Maybe it was the impending arrival of the ‘Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ (thanks for nothing, Andy Williams) or the deliciously festive atmosphere filling the city today that had caused me to reveal my feelings to Charlie like that. Perhaps it was the influence of watching too many chick-flick Christmas scenes that had tipped my sanity over the edge and made the whole thing seem like such a great idea (Richard Curtis, Nora Ephron, guilty as charged).

Dumped unceremoniously by the crowd at the base of the grand stone staircase in Victoria Square, I managed to squeeze through a gap in the tightly-packed, slow-moving shoppers and emerged breathless into a small pocket of pine-scented air by the barriers around the base of the huge Swedish Christmas tree. Tears stung my eyes and I swallowed angrily in a vain attempt to keep them at bay. What was the matter with me? How did I get it so devastatingly wrong?

All the signs had been there, or so I had thought: hugs that lingered a moment too long; snatched glances and shy smiles during nights out with our friends; moments of unspoken understanding during conversations begun in the early evening and ending as birdsong heralded a new day. Then there were his unexplained silences – times when I felt he had something more to say, when unresolved question marks sparkled magnificently in the air between us and the room held its breath – ultimately in vain. There had been more of these lately, peppering almost every occasion we spent together with an irresistible spice of intrigue. If they didn’t mean what I thought they meant, then what on earth were they all about?

My mobile phone rang in my bag, but I couldn’t face answering the call, so Stevie Wonder continued his tinny rendition of ‘Sir Duke’ unhindered by my usual intervention. Reaching into the crummy depths of my coat pocket, I retrieved a crumpled shopping list and read down the list of scribbled names: my ‘To-Do’ list for the afternoon. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and my final chance to buy everyone’s presents. Christmas shopping waited for no one, it seemed – not even thoroughly embarrassed owners of newly-shattered hearts.

Mum & Dad

Wren

Jack & Soph

Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags

Tom & Anya

Charlie

Charlie. My breath caught in the back of my throat as my eye fell on the last name. No need for that one to be there now, I hissed under my breath. I think he’s had quite enough surprise gifts from me this year. I stuffed the list back into my pocket and prepared to dive back into the undulating ocean of people.

‘Rom!’

My head snapped upright in horror to see Charlie pushing his way through the crowd, further back down the street. No, this was absolutely not going to happen now. I couldn’t face it – the lead-heavy mortification gripping my insides was already too much to bear. Turning on my heels, I pushed back into the crowd and ran on again.

‘Oh come on, Rom! Just stop!’ Charlie called behind me, closer this time.

Looking over my shoulder, I shouted back. ‘Go home, Charlie!’

I saw him stop, throw his hands up in the air and turn back into the horde of shoppers behind him. Furious with myself for creating this awful situation, I wanted to put as much distance between me and the scene of my worst ever decision. Tears filled my eyes as I put on another sprint, rushing through the swarming mass of bodies. Part of me wanted Charlie to be following me, to catch me and say that he’d overreacted, that I hadn’t been mistaken, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen and I hated myself for wanting the impossible. Angrily, I wiped the tears from my eyes – just in time to see the gaudy wooden stall laden with soft toys appear directly in front of me a split second before my body slammed headlong into it.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd of shoppers as I tumbled, helpless limbs flailing, in an ungracious slow-motion sprawl. Bears, rabbits and reindeer spun in the air around me like a shower of oversized plush snowflakes and, for a moment, it was as if all noise ceased as I descended. The clamour of the crowd and the Christmas music receded and my senses were now aware only of the sensation of moving through the air. This feeling was short-lived, however, followed as it was by the inevitable gut-wrenching crack as my body hit the unforgiving block-paved ground and I skidded to a halt amid a sea of stuffed animals on the frosted pavement.

It took a moment for me to catch my breath, my ears buzzing from my head’s heavy meeting with the floor, but then it was as if someone flicked a switch and all the light, noise and music of the Christmas Market roared back into life – along with the shock of an intense flood of pain along my back and the appearance of one very angry stallholder.

His beetroot-red round face appeared directly over me as I lay there, but instead of helping me up he launched into a tirade of thick German-accented abuse.

‘Crazy woman! Look at this mess! It is ruined, ruined!’

Thoroughly embarrassed, I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my bruised limbs creaked and groaned back into an upright position.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, grabbing armfuls of toys and wishing I could disappear.

In true British fashion, the crowd around me didn’t offer to help – the spectacle of the woman who trashed the toy stall frantically trying to reconstruct it far too much fun for them to intervene. The disgruntled stallholder didn’t help either, standing by the remains of his stall with pudgy arms folded tight across his squat body as he watched me. As if I wasn’t morbidly mortified enough already, I was vaguely aware that some of the onlookers had produced mobile phones and were now happily filming the scene. Great. All I needed after the events of today was to become the unwitting star of the latest YouTube viral sensation. I was cold, aching, unspeakably embarrassed and all I wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. Christmas was ruined now anyway: Charlie wouldn’t want to see me and when the rest of the band found out what had happened, everything would be awkward there, too. Only Wren would understand – and no doubt even she would have a strong opinion on it.

I bit back tears as I reached out to scoop more of the fallen bears from the pavement …

… and that’s when I saw him.

As my fingers closed around a toy penguin, I was suddenly aware of a gloved hand reaching out for a polar bear hand puppet next to it. Lifting my eyes I came face to face with quite the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. His hazel eyes caught the light from coloured Christmas lights above, while wavy strands of his russet-brown hair picked up the twinkling blue light from the fairy lights that framed the toy stall roof. A slight shadow of stubble edged his jawline and I noticed that his cheekbones were quite defined.

‘Hi,’ he said, his warm smile and kind eyes momentarily numbing the sting of my bruises. ‘Need some help?’

I smiled back. ‘Please.’

We slowly moved around each other, gathering up the scattered stock. As we did so I was aware that he was watching me, his shy smile appearing whenever our eyes met. And I can’t explain why, but the sudden arrival of this kind stranger after the utter awfulness of the afternoon felt like a blissful reprieve – as if everything I had experienced was merely instrumental in bringing me to this moment, this meeting.

Once we had retrieved all of the toys from the wide circle they had been flung to, I turned to the stallholder and apologised again.

‘Whatever,’ he shrugged, disappearing inside his wooden stall and slamming the door.

Spectacle over, the onlookers dispersed back into the crowd and the stranger and I were left alone by the stall.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. I noticed tiny crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

For a moment, we stood in silence, our breath rising in puffs of Christmas-light-washed steam. It was clear that neither of us knew what to say and the awkwardness of the silence brought my earlier humiliation flooding back.

He’s obviously just being polite, I reasoned, my heart sinking, and now he’s looking for an excuse to leave.

‘Well, I’d better …’ I nodded in the direction of the Town Hall behind us, as though this would be some universal indicator of the Christmas shopping I still had to do before I could go home. Thankfully, he seemed to understand, nodding and looking down at his feet.

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks again.’

He raised his lovely eyes once again to mine. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas.’

As I hurried away, I felt like screaming. Not content with merely ruining my friendship with Charlie and making a complete idiot of myself in full view of a large section of city shoppers, I had now embarrassed myself in front of a really good-looking bloke. Nice work, Romily.

My shoulder was complaining vociferously as I reached into my coat pocket again for the list. At times like this, practicality was the only way forward. I headed towards the white lights of the craft market section. My aunt loves hand-painted glass and I vaguely remembered seeing a glass ornament stall earlier that day. Forcing my conflicting thoughts to the back of my mind, I wove my way through the dawdling shoppers until I found it.

Two middle-aged ladies wrapped up against the bitter December air were chatting animatedly behind the stall, oblivious to everything else. The voice of Nat King Cole was crooning from the speakers of a small CD player on the counter.

‘Gotta love a bit of old Nat, eh?’ the taller of the two was saying.

‘Tell me about it. Our Eth won’t listen to anything else at Christmas.’

‘Not even Bing or Frank?’

‘Nope. It’s Nat or nothing. Him and his chestnuts roasting on an open fire.’

‘Always thought that sounded a bit painful myself,’ the taller lady sniggered as the shorter one giggled.

I relaxed a little as their jovial banter continued, casting my gaze across the glass baubles of all shapes and sizes, suspended on delicate silver thread from white-painted twigs set in plant pots. A gentle breeze had sprung up, making the hanging glass shapes shiver and spin slowly, so that they caught the light from the white fairy lights woven around the stall edge and the coloured strings of Christmas lights swinging high over the market. One particular bauble near the front of the display immediately caught my eye: a large, teardrop-shaped ornament adorned with tiny painted silver stars – delicate brushstrokes that sparkled from the glass surface. It was beautiful, a real work of craftsmanship, and I knew my aunt would adore it. I reached out and felt the icy coolness of the glass against my fingers.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ a deep voice said behind my right ear, making me jump and only just manage to save the bauble from falling from its twig. Leaving it safely spinning, I turned, my eyes first meeting a green, brown and cream striped scarf and then heading north to reach the shy smile of the stranger who had helped me. My breath caught in the back of my throat and I nodded dumbly at him.

‘I’m sorry to … er … I just wanted to check you were OK?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks again for helping me.’

‘You’re welcome. I couldn’t believe all those people were just watching.’

I smiled, despite the blush I knew was glowing from my cheeks. ‘I think they thought I was part of the entertainment.’

‘Some entertainment,’ he laughed, almost immediately hiding his amusement when he saw my expression. ‘So – you’re OK? I mean, you aren’t hurt or anything?’

His concern was touching but bearing in mind the afternoon I’d had, the last thing I needed was the pity of a gorgeous man. ‘All good. Nothing broken.’

‘Good.’ He stared at me and this time there was something more in his eyes than concern. ‘Look, this is going to sound mental, so I’m just going to say it. I couldn’t let you go without telling you that you’re beautiful. That’s why I followed you here. Please don’t think I’m a psycho or that I do this a lot: I don’t. But you’re beautiful and I think you should know that.’

Stunned, I opened my mouth to reply, but just then a shout from behind us caused him to turn.

‘Mate, we’ve got to go … Now!’

What happened next was so fast that even now the details remain frustratingly sparse in my mind. But here’s what I know.

When he turned back to face me, the way he looked at me took my breath away. It was the kind of look you see in movies when a bridegroom turns to see his bride walking towards him for the first time: a heady, overpowering mix of shock, surprise and all-encompassing, heart-stopping love. It was the look that Charlie should have given me when I told him I loved him. But this wasn’t Charlie; and that, in itself, was part of the problem. Because – apart from not being the man to whom I had publicly expressed my undying love not half an hour beforehand – this person was almost perfect: from his wide, honest eyes and shy smile, to the woody scent of his cologne now surrounding me.

But most of all because of what happened next …

He took a step back and I could see a battle raging in his eyes as the voice behind him called again, more insistent this time.

‘We have to go – come on!’

‘One minute,’ he called back, just as a hurrying shopper crashed into his shoulder, momentarily throwing him off balance – and straight into my arms.

In utter surprise, I held on to him and his strong arms reached round to cradle my back. The shock of it blew all thoughts of Charlie instantly from my mind. Heart racing, I gazed up into his eyes.

‘I’m so sorry, I have to go,’ he whispered, his lips inches from mine. ‘But you’re beautiful.’

And then, he kissed me.

Although our lips touched for the smallest of moments, it was unlike anything else I’ve experienced. It was the type of kiss you only expect to see in Hollywood films, finally uniting the two leads as the credits start to roll over the delicious tones of Nat King Cole. In fact, even the soundtrack was perfect because at that very moment Mr Cole himself began crooning ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ via the muffled speakers of the bauble stall’s CD player. All thoughts of Christmas shopping dissolved from my mind as I closed my eyes and gave in to the unexpected gift of the stranger’s lips on mine.

It was almost perfect. Almost. But not quite. Because, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone: swallowed up by the heaving, unyielding mass of shoppers. I remained frozen to the spot for what felt like an age, dazed yet elated, my heart beating wildly.

And then, from somewhere deep in the recesses of my consciousness, a thought began to push urgently through the swirling mass of emotions.

Go after him!

‘Wait! Come back!’

I looked in the direction I thought he had gone, but there was no sign of him. Nevertheless, I began to shove my way through the crowds, rising on tiptoes to scan across the sea of bobbing bodies for a glimpse of his hair or his scarf as I ran. Shoppers tutted as I pushed past, but I was a woman on a mission and oblivious to their disapproving glances.

As I neared the end of the line of wooden stalls, I suddenly caught a glimpse of russet-brown hair, hurrying ahead of me. Heart thumping hard against my chest, I pressed on, gaining on him. Soon, I was within touching distance, so I reached out my hand and tapped his shoulder.

‘Hey, you can’t just kiss me and then leave without giving me your name,’ I said. He turned to face me … and my heart plummeted.

‘That’s one hell of a chat-up line, love,’ the older man grinned. His yellowing teeth and pockmarked skin were anything but kissable. ‘Now I don’t know about any kiss but I’m happy to oblige if you want.’

I recoiled, dropping my gaze as I backed away. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’

‘Story of my life, chick,’ he laughed as I hurried back towards the safety of the Christmas Market stalls. Utterly deflated, I stopped and looked up at the darkening sky, heavy with snow-laden clouds. I had lost him.

How was it possible for something so amazing to happen and then disappear as quickly as it had arrived? And how stupid was I for not asking his name? At least then I would know something tangible about him. My scarf still retained traces of his cologne and my lips were tingling from our brief kiss, but that was all I had to show for an event so significant it might just have changed everything.

All I knew about him was what I could remember. To all intents and purposes, he was just another stranger existing in a sprawling metropolis – another life lived in parallel to mine, with little chance of meeting again. But when he looked into my eyes and kissed me, I felt like I had known him all my life. More than an attraction, there was a connection that resonated deeper within me than any other. That one single meeting in a lifetime of acquaintance was enough to alter my life irrevocably.

And that’s why I had to find him.

CHAPTER TWO
Dream a little dream of me

‘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.

CHAPTER THREE
You’ve got a friend

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.’

He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Christmas this-and-that – it’s all I hear for weeks. You want bacon? I’m a-making one for Charlie now.’

I smiled. ‘Go on then.’ I looked over to see Charlie raise a self-conscious hand and felt my head spin a little as I approached.

‘Morning,’ he smiled, half-standing to meet me. He was wearing the dark blue sweater that I like so much because it makes his midnight blue eyes look amazing, with a white t-shirt underneath it and indigo blue jeans. This combination didn’t help the butterflies in my stomach one bit.

‘Hi.’ Not really knowing how to begin the conversation, I bought myself a few precious moments while I removed my coat and slowly unwound my scarf, placing it on the seat beside me.

Charlie resumed his seat and fiddled with an empty sugar packet as he stared at the melamine tabletop. When he lifted his eyes to meet mine, I was surprised to see vulnerability staring back at me.

‘It’s good to see you.’

I folded my arms protectively. ‘I can’t stay long.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘I’ve got about forty-five minutes, though, so …’

‘Good.’ He raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose – something he always does when he’s nervous. ‘But I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.’

‘Neither was I.’ Every word felt like extracting teeth without anaesthetic.

He looked away. ‘Man, this is tough.’

‘I know.’

‘Charlie-boy! You want-a espresso?’ Harry called from behind the counter, causing us both to jump.

‘Always, Harry,’ he replied with a smile, turning back to me and pulling a face. ‘Not that I think it’ll be any better than usual.’

The in-joke served as a small icebreaker and I felt a modicum of ease in the tension between us. Only for it to instantly disappear when Charlie said: ‘Look, Rom, about Saturday …’

A sickening rush of nerves swept over me. If the worn olive-green lino beneath our feet had parted to swallow me up at that moment I would have been the happiest woman in the world. Ever since Saturday’s debacle I had found myself wishing fervently that I could do that thing Christopher Reeve did in Superman, where he flew up into space and reversed the rotation of the earth to turn back time. But the fact remained that this wasn’t something that was going to disappear. Gathering what courage I could, I faced him.

‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Yes I did, Charlie. I embarrassed myself, too.’

‘Rom …’

‘No, please let me say this, OK? Because if I don’t say it now I never will.’

He nodded and folded his arms.

‘You see, the thing is, I got my wires crossed. I obviously thought we were heading a certain way when, clearly, we weren’t. It’s my mistake. I just don’t want to lose your friendship over this.’

‘You won’t.’

‘Well, good.’

Charlie was about to say something else when the café door flew open and a large group of builders burst in. Their raucous laughter and loud voices rendered further conversation impossible as they spread themselves liberally around the café. I wondered if this would bring our meeting to a premature end, but Charlie motioned for me to stay where I was and left the table to go to the counter, where a slightly startled Harry was surveying the onslaught on his establishment. A few minutes later, he returned with two takeaway cups and a brown paper bag.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I know a better place to have these.’

I followed him out of the noise of the café and out into the High Street. Five minutes later, we were walking down the steep hill towards Cannon Hill Park.

While I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted this conversation to be prolonged, I had to admit that Charlie knew me well. Everywhere I turn memories surround me in this park: summer weekends spent as a kid feeding the ducks; fun bank holiday picnics with Wren, Tom, Jack and Sophie; lunchtime meet-ups on sunny spring days – it’s all happened here. Like Harry’s, the park is an integral part of our lives.

And what Charlie could never know – but what now stabbed at my heart like sharp winter icicles – was that this park was the place where I first realised I was in love with him.

We had arranged to meet for lunch by the lake on the first Saturday in September, three years ago, just as we had countless times before. The deal – as always – was that he would bring sandwiches if I provided some of my aunt’s homemade cake, so I had made a special trip to collect a particularly spectacular white chocolate and elderflower cake from her that morning. Charlie’s smile was pure delight when he saw the cake and it made me laugh.

‘You’re so easy to please,’ I mocked him. ‘One cake and you’re anybody’s.’

‘Ah, but this isn’t just a cake, Rom. It’s love at first sight.’

‘Blimey. So all those girls who try to get you to go out with them have clearly been missing a trick. All it takes is cake.’

He grinned, broke a piece off the cake and popped it into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he clasped a hand to his heart. ‘Find me a woman who makes me cake like this and I’ll be hers forever.’

‘I’m afraid my aunt’s already taken.’

‘Shame.’ His eyes flicked open and the twinkle in them was unmistakably Charlie. ‘Maybe I should settle for a girl who can bring me cake like this, then …’

‘Yeah, well good luck finding her then,’ I grinned back.

He smiled again and his midnight eyes held mine a moment longer than usual. And that was when it happened. I felt my heart skip and the world began to swim a little – and I knew I was in love. The revelation rocked me completely and, when Charlie turned his attention back to the cake moments later, I was left dazed by what had just happened.

In the following days I tried to dismiss it as a freak occurrence and almost managed to convince myself until the next time we met on a Friday night at Jack and Sophie’s. As soon as Charlie walked into the room, my pulse began racing and all evening I had to resist the urge to stare at him. Suddenly it was as if I was seeing him for the first time – his easy smile, the twinkle in his eyes as he joked about with Tom and Jack, how he used his hands when he talked. I’d known him all my life but somehow I’d never noticed how wonderful he was.

From that moment on, I fell deeper and deeper in love with him. Every minute we spent together reaffirmed my feelings and then, last year, I began to notice his attitude change towards me. He sought my company more often and when we were together the chemistry was astounding. Or so I’d thought …

Today that blissful summer day three years ago felt light years away. The park was covered in a thick layer of frost, the lake an icy winter blue as we walked along the icepuddled path. I stole a glance at Charlie, trying to work out his feelings from his nondescript expression. The little we had already said to each other this morning clearly wasn’t enough for him, otherwise this unscheduled jaunt in the park would not be happening. On the walk down from Harry’s our conversation had retreated to safe small talk, Charlie telling me about an art launch his father’s gallery had managed to secure and me amusing him with the latest double-glazing advertising jingle I had written for Brum FM.

We walked away from the lake until we reached a Victorian ironwork bandstand. Tiny snowflakes began to swirl about our ears as we climbed the steps and sat down on the wooden bench seats for our alfresco breakfast. Charlie bit into his bacon sandwich and as silence fell between us I felt my stomach begin to knot once more.

‘Good sarnie?’ I offered, reasoning that any conversation was preferable to none at all.

He nodded and turned the full force of his stare on me. ‘Rom …’

The excruciation factor shot up a million-fold. ‘Charlie, can we just forget Saturday ever happened, please?’

‘I still think we need to talk about it. I reacted badly, and I’m sorry.’

‘You were just being honest.’

‘As you were. And I should have handled it better.’

‘You don’t have to say that. I know it wasn’t what you were expecting.’

He smiled. ‘It wasn’t. It came totally out of the blue. I mean, one minute we were talking about Quincy Jones and the next …’

‘I know. I’m sorry, Charlie. I should never have said anything. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

Charlie sighed and looked at me. ‘I think you’re amazing, Rom. I always have. But you’re my best friend and that’s what matters to me. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I … that we … you know.’

Instantly, I looked away. As I stared at my coffee, a sudden image of the handsome stranger from the Christmas Market flashed into my mind. Despite the intense embarrassment still working its way through my guts, the memory of his lips on mine gave me a welcome boost of hope. I remembered Wren’s words to me yesterday, when she gave me the bauble from the scene of the kiss:

‘Let this remind you that there is at least one amazing bloke in the city who thinks you’re beautiful …’

And suddenly, everything came into sharp focus. True, this wasn’t particularly helpful right now, seeing as I didn’t actually know where he was, or have any idea of where to start looking. But I was going to find him. Somehow.

‘So where did you go after you left me?’ Charlie asked, dragging me back to reality.

I kept my expression steady, despite my heart performing cartwheels. ‘Just into the Christmas Market to finish my shopping.’

‘Hope you got me something nice,’ he quipped, obviously instantly regretting it. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’ It wasn’t fine, of course, but I really didn’t want him to be apologising every time any flicker of normality appeared between us.

Charlie studied my face. ‘So – what happens now?’

I unwrapped my sandwich to avoid his eyes. ‘We enjoy our breakfast before it gets cold.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I don’t know, OK? I haven’t ever been in this situation before.’

‘Me either.’

I looked at him and attempted a smile. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ I didn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes, didn’t want to face the consequences of my confession, but we needed to move on from this – for the sake of the band, if nothing else.

‘We have all these gigs coming up, so maybe we should focus on that.’

‘Right.’ He paused, carefully selecting his words before he spoke. ‘And what about – us?’

‘There’s nothing to say about us. It’s going to be awkward for a while, but I’m willing to carry on as before, if you are?’

The strangest look drifted across his face. ‘Sure.’

It was an uneasy truce, but it was a truce nonetheless. As I headed towards the city centre offices of Brum FM later that morning, I consoled myself with the thought that at least I had tackled the subject head on with Charlie before anyone else was involved. Hopefully we could move on from this without the rest of the band noticing too much awkwardness – I really didn’t need any more embarrassment.

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?’

CHAPTER FOUR
We are family

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.

I picked up two large New York baked cheesecakes and a tub of raspberry compote, remembering to bring a couple of bowls of ready-prepared fruit salad for Sophie, who seems to be permanently on a diet.

True to form, even though I arrived just past nine pm, I was still the first guest at Jack and Sophie’s. A grave-looking Sophie met me at the door, apron on and tea towel slung over one shoulder.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ she said, giving me a huge hug and ushering me inside. ‘Jack’s being a total nightmare.’

‘Oh no. What’s up?’ I followed her down the hall to their dining room.

‘Just my boyfriend doing his best impression of a total muppet. Honestly, you’d think he was entertaining royalty the way he’s been carrying on. I swear he’s cleaned the kitchen three times, even though it’s too minuscule for any of us to spend any time in there tonight.’

‘I heard that,’ Jack said, emerging from the archway that led to the kitchen. ‘I’m just making sure our home is presentable, that’s all.’

‘I wouldn’t mind, but all he’s cooking for the meal are some sausage rolls,’ Sophie grimaced. ‘It’s hardly cordon bleu, is it?’

‘They’re pork and herb sausage filo wraps, actually.’

His serious expression sent us into a fit of giggles. Sophie threw the tea towel at him. ‘Ooh, get you, Gordon Ramsay.’

Jack folded his arms and scowled at us. ‘Oh, you mock now. But just you wait until you taste them. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.’ He leaned in for a kiss. ‘Romily, looking gorgeous as ever. Loving the dress, lady.’

I grinned and did a little twirl so that he and Sophie could get a good look at my black sequinned mini-dress and electric blue heels. I had decided to wear something that made me feel fabulous tonight to combat my nerves about seeing Charlie – and so far it was working.

Twenty minutes later, a raucous knocking at the front door heralded the arrival of Charlie, Wren and Tom, who had shared a taxi in order to, as Tom put it, ‘be free to quaff muchly’. Charlie and I greeted each other politely, carefully avoiding eye contact, as Wren, resplendent in a bright yellow cocktail dress that looked amazing against her hair, took centre-stage with her witty banter. I knew exactly what she was doing and I loved her for it.

Five minutes later our manager, Dwayne McDougall, appeared bearing a case of red wine, which was welcomed by the assembled Pinstripes with noticeably more warmth and enthusiasm than he was. It isn’t that we don’t like him – we do immensely – but the band likes to remind him that managing us is very different from running his event management business that helped him make his money. For a start, the events he organises for his eldest brother’s hotel tend to stay in one place, unlike we do.

‘Hello, Pinstripes!’ he boomed as he entered the dining room where drinks had already been handed out. ‘How’s my favourite wedding band tonight?’

‘Don’t you mean your only wedding band, Dwayne?’ Wren asked.

Dwayne’s confident countenance faltered slightly. ‘It starts with one, Wren,’ he mumbled.

It’s the cause of much hilarity in the band that Wren (standing at barely five feet two inches tall) can reduce Dwayne (over six feet in stature and a former member of the England judo squad to boot) to a blithering wreck so easily. Fortunately for Dwayne, Wren wasn’t looking for a fight this evening. She merely winked at him before wandering into the kitchen to talk to Jack. Quickly recovering his swagger, Dwayne dug in his leather jacket pocket and produced a slim silver business card case. ‘Before I forget, I’ve had some new cards done. You should all have one, in case of emergencies.’ He handed cards out to us all.

Tom was the first to laugh. ‘Hang on a minute: are you taking a stage name now, “D’Wayne”?’

One by one, each of the band read the name on the business card in front of them and laughter began to break forth like a wave.

‘Changed it by deed poll last week, actually. It’s classy,’ he protested. ‘That name will get us openings we’ve never had before. Top-class stuff. The calibre of engagements that might just take care of all those pesky bills of yours …’

The room fell silent. All joking aside, the promise of well-paying events was what kept us all going, and Dwayne – sorry, D’Wayne – knew this better than anyone.

‘Yeah, but it’ll still make you sound like a prat,’ Jack added, his dry remark reducing the room to unbridled hilarity once more.

Just over a year ago, The Pinstripes decided we needed a manager to take care of our promotion and bookings. I’m still not altogether sure how we managed to find D’Wayne McDougall – but, knowing how most of the band’s decisions seem to be made, it was probably through a recommendation from some random musician that one of us met in the pub. Whoever recommended him should, by rights, be given a swift kick up the proverbial, as D’Wayne had so far yet to prove himself in band promotion. And band management. And taking bookings, for that matter. What he had excelled at was giving the impression that big things were just a conversation away and taking the credit for gigs that the band ended up planning ourselves in order to save the booking. (That and having the most impressive array of shave patterns cut into the sides of his shiny black Afro hair which, this evening, appeared to be flames surrounding a large italic D.) Still, The Pinstripes were nothing if not hardened optimists, so we all held out hope that tonight our manager was going to come up trumps.

As we all sat down for our multi-component meal, I watched the interactions between my favourite group of people in the world. Tom, with his dark hair and cyclist physique, always launching into completely improvised impromptu comedy routines at any opportunity; Wren, flame-haired and elfin-framed, confounding the boys with her lightning-fast wit and (it has to be said) utterly filthy sense of humour; wise-cracking, tall Jack, with his green-blue eyes, closely-cropped brown hair and a laugh so loud and distinctive that we can tell if he’s in a room long before we enter it; Sophie, quiet and contemplative but a great listener, her long blonde hair always piled up on her head in one of those messy-chic hairstyles that look effortless but probably take hours of careful pinning to achieve; and Charlie, chestnut-brown haired with midnight blue eyes that seem to change depending on what colour he wears, sharing increasingly obscure jazz references with Jack. Even though my heart was torn by the sight of him, my embarrassment still raw, I still felt comforted by his presence together with my friends. In their company I have always been able to be myself – fitting in as comfortably as putting on a beloved pair of slippers, sharing the jokes and joining in the light-hearted music trivia debates. The situation with Charlie had definitely brought an edge to it all, but thankfully the others appeared to be completely unaware of it all for the time being.

After the four-course meal of canapés (a.k.a. Jack’s posh sausage rolls), baked salmon fillets with lime and fenugreek for the fish course from Charlie, a fantastic rustic pot roast with crispy herb potatoes from Tom (no doubt influenced by Nigel Slater, whose recipe books he worships at the index of), my desserts and coffee with mints provided by Wren (whose idea of culinary skill is knowing where to find things in an M&S food hall, but she gets away with it because we love her so much), we all decamped to the living room.

I love Jack and Sophie’s house. An old Edwardian villa, its rooms are spacious, high-ceilinged affairs with original coving, carved plaster ceiling roses and picture rails. They have rented it for the past four years and it’s a place we all end up at some time or other each week. I often visit on Saturday afternoons if we aren’t gigging or weekday evenings after work whenever Jack is cooking and the offer of a hearty home-cooked meal is too tempting to resist.

Thankfully, Jack had offered me the use of their spare bed for the night, so I was enjoying the luxury of being able to drink a little more than usual this evening.

Jack chose a Yellowjackets album to play as Sophie and I set out bowls of chocolates, nuts and biscuits on the low wooden coffee table. Charlie and Tom claimed the sofa as usual, with Wren perched up on one arm, and D’Wayne settled himself in the old threadbare armchair that Sophie has made several unsuccessful attempts to retire over the past four years.

‘Now we’re all together, I want to let you know what I’ve secured for you next year,’ D’Wayne said, pouring himself a large glass of red wine and consulting his iPhone.

Tom brushed biscuit crumbs from his jeans. ‘This should be interesting.’

Wren jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Shush.’

D’Wayne shot him a look. ‘Prepare to be impressed, my friend.’

‘Oh, I’m waiting for it, mate.’

‘Right. As you know we have the New Year’s wedding at the Excelsior in Solihull next week. I think maybe the rock’n’roll medley should be thrown in?’ This was met with loud protests from all of us, which D’Wayne lifted his large hands to still. ‘I know you hate it but it’s what the punters want. Most of the guests at the party are Baby Boomers. You’ve got to work with your demographic, guys.’

‘But it’s like death on a G-string,’ Tom moaned. ‘Six songs with identical chord structures. I might as well get Jack to sequence it and just go to the bar for the whole medley.’

I laughed. ‘Any excuse, Tom.’

‘What can I say? It’s a vocation.’

‘Maybe we should be looking for gigs that cater for a younger crowd,’ Jack muttered, as Wren and Charlie groaned. This was a frequent source of disagreement within the band and was unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

‘Older crowds have more disposable income,’ Sophie said, topping up her wine glass. ‘If you go for younger crowds all the time you’ll have to do more gigs to make it financially viable.’

‘Which is fortunate, then, that all the gigs in the diary for next year are going to pay well,’ D’Wayne interjected, clearly pleased with himself. ‘So do you mind if we return to next year’s programme?’

Tom shrugged and took a handful of nuts. ‘Don’t let us stop you, Duh-Wayne.’

‘Thank you. In January we have a fiftieth birthday gig on the 14th and on the 21st there’s a winter wedding at Elstone Farm Estate down in Somerset – smaller crowd but they’re all booked into the accommodation onsite so should be in the mood for a party. In February I’ve managed to get you playing at an exclusive Valentine’s Night bash at a venue to be confirmed – two forty-five-minute sets before the DJ comes on and they’re happy to pay a premium to secure us, so that should be around £250 each.’

A murmur of surprised approval rippled through the room. February is traditionally a dead month as far as gigs are concerned and, after the usual shock of post-Christmas bills in January, any money coming in during that month is a definite bonus.

‘March-wise, bit quiet at the moment but I’ve almost secured a medieval banquet wedding gig in Northumberland. Bride and groom both work for a big City law firm in London, so it should be more than worthwhile. I’ll have more on that next month, hopefully.’

‘Ah, the madrigal set then, guys,’ Jack quipped.

Tom laughed. ‘Must dust off my mandolin.’

‘Usual set, actually,’ D’Wayne countered. ‘And the type of younger crowd you’re looking for, Tom.’ He finished his wine and flicked through the list on his phone. ‘Two weddings in April, then May is more or less booked for weddings – three Saturdays and a Sunday, including a very nice one at a Scottish castle near Fort William. There’s a Regency wedding in June, a summer ball for a major accountancy firm in London in July and possibly a late July beachside wedding in Devon, so we might blag a free weekend break out of it. Obviously there are more I’m working on but it’s all good stuff, I think you’ll agree.’

‘It’s a start,’ Charlie said. ‘But ideally I think we need to be trying to gig most weeks from May to end of September.’

D’Wayne raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, feel free to do better if you think you can.’

‘Actually, I already have,’ Charlie replied, his coolness disguising the irritation I knew he was experiencing. We all turned to look at him, including our manager, who looked slightly winded by this. ‘My sister’s getting married at Combermere Abbey in Shropshire, on the second weekend of September, and she’s booked us for the whole day. She’s hired a string quartet for the ceremony and wants some smooth jazz for the afternoon reception, so I suggest that Rom, Jack and I do the American Songbook set we put together for Soph’s mum’s fiftieth last year, and then we’ll have the whole band set in the evening. We get £250 each plus travel, two nights’ accommodation and expenses. Added to that, the event planner at the venue is an old school friend of hers and is interested in taking us on to her recommended entertainment list, so there’s definite potential for repeat gigs. That OK with you, Mr McDougall?’

D’Wayne’s voice was small and resigned when it came out. ‘Fine. Well done.’

‘You kept that quiet, Charlie,’ Sophie said. ‘Did you know about this, Rom?’

I shook my head, my heart sinking at the fact. Usually, I would be the first to know. After what happened on Saturday, was this how things were going to be between us from now on?

‘They’re not really talking at the moment,’ Wren interjected.

Horrified, I stared at her. ‘Wren!’

‘I’m just saying.’

All eyes swung to me, then Charlie, who was looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

‘Why? What’s up?’ Tom demanded.

Charlie’s gaze dropped to the carpet. ‘Nothing. We’re fine.’

Jack pulled a face. ‘Awkward!’

I considered throwing out a lame excuse to leave the room, but it would only further fuel my friends’ interest. So I remained rooted to the floor, hoping against hope that nobody would pursue it. Luckily for me, Tom had a bigger bombshell to drop.

‘Forget Pinstripes’ domestics, I can trump your gig, Chas.’

Relief washed over me as all attention switched to our guitarist.

Clearly happy to be let off the hook, Charlie laughed. ‘Oh really? Pray tell.’

‘I was chatting to my boss Julian last week about the kind of events we do. It was just a bit of small talk on the last day of work and I didn’t expect anything to come of it. But yesterday he called me and asked if we would be interested in playing for his daughter’s wedding in June. Point is, the guy’s loaded – we’re talking multi-millionaire – and he’s booked an amazing stately home in London not far from Kew Gardens. We had the most mental conversation. He was casually reeling off names of some of the guests who have already accepted, and we’re talking major celebs.’

It took us all several minutes to process this. It was D’Wayne who finally broke the silence.

‘How much?’

Tom’s smile was confidence personified. ‘Five grand for the full band, and he’ll throw in accommodation in Central London.’

‘Wow,’ Wren breathed. ‘That would make a major dent in my credit card debt. And staying in London, too? I’m thinking shopping …’

‘So much for settling the credit cards, Wren,’ I laughed.

‘How many sets?’ Charlie asked.

‘Two one-hours with a break for the evening buffet in the middle.’

‘Ah, music to my ears,’ grinned Jack.

Sophie leant forward. ‘When you say “celebs”, what calibre are we talking?’

‘Put it this way: the happy couple have sold their wedding pictures to Hello! magazine for several million pounds. Reckon we could tempt you out of retirement to play some wicked sax for us, Soph?’

Sophie whooped and threw her arms around Tom. ‘Yes! Please!’

‘How definite a booking is it?’ I asked.

‘As definite as us saying yes. He listened to the demo tracks on our website and decided we were perfect. Which of course, we are. So I said yes. Was that OK?’

All of us agreed together, even D’Wayne, who was looking decidedly deflated by the news.

Later, I stood in the kitchen with Jack making hot chocolate as the hum of excited conversation drifted through from the other room. Even though he’s two months younger than me, Jack’s always assumed the role of an older brother, watching out for me at every opportunity. My mother heartily approves of him, I think because he runs his own business (a successful local recording studio) and for several years through my early twenties she wrongly assumed that we were destined for each other – even when I explained that he was already settled with Sophie. As for me, I’ve always loved the easy friendship we’ve built, completely free of any kind of romantic undertones. Unlike Charlie and I …

‘This could be huge for us,’ Jack said, as the milk started to steam in the pan. ‘If we get recommended to society people it could mean serious money.’

‘I know.’ I hardly dared to believe it. ‘I could certainly use the money.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He shook several handfuls of Belgian chocolate flakes into the milk while I stirred. ‘So what’s going on with you and Charlie?’

‘Nothing. Just a misunderstanding. But we’ve sorted it now.’

‘Are you sure? Only neither of you seemed yourselves tonight.’

‘We’re fine, Jack, don’t worry. Give it a bit of time and things will be back to normal, you’ll see.’

‘Right. I don’t believe you, but if you say it’s fine then so be it.’

In truth, I was no more convinced by my assertion than he was, but I hoped with all my heart that it was true.

CHAPTER FIVE
People get ready

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.’

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