Kitabı oxu: «It Started With A Kiss»

‘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.