It Started With a Kiss (18 page)

He beamed as brightly as the May sunshine pouring in through
Our Pol
’s windows. ‘Ah, good question. Now I was thinking you might be wondering what the chances of you finding your fella are, now that you’ve hit a few snags. So I did a bit of virtual digging. And you are going to be amazed at what I found!’ He pulled a sheet from the stack spread before me. ‘Listen to this: “A Solihull man has been reunited with his childhood sweetheart after the discovery of a letter she wrote to him thirty years ago. Al Cunningham lost contact with first love, Ruth Lucas, when her family moved to Leicestershire. After six months with no contact, Mr Cunningham assumed she had forgotten him, going on to marry and have a family. Following the death of his mother, Alan – now divorced – was amazed to find a letter behind a sideboard, written thirty years ago by his childhood sweetheart. ‘I know my mother didn’t approve of Ruth so I think she kept the letter from me, hoping that I would forget her,’ said Mr Cunningham, 46. Visiting the address Ms Lucas gave in her letter, Mr Cunningham met a neighbour who was still in contact with the family. The couple were reunited five months ago and are now planning a fairytale wedding in St Lucia, later this year. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Alan called me,’ Ms Lucas said yesterday, speaking from the home the couple now shares in Solihull. ‘When we met again it was as if the years melted away. I never stopped thinking about him, even though he didn’t respond to my letter. He’s my soul mate and now we’re looking forward to the rest of our lives together.’” See? True love overcomes every barrier!’

I must admit that for my first taste of uppage, this was hard to beat. But there were more – at least fifty more instances of love triumphing over the odds that Uncle Dudley had collected to lift our spirits. For the next hour and a half, the three of us pored over the details of real-life love stories, some of which were so beautiful that all of us were reduced to tears.

‘Ooh, look at us,’ Auntie Mags laughed, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. ‘We’re like a season finale from
Dynasty
! A bunch of soppy gets, the lot of us.’

‘If we carry on like this,
Our Pol
will sink to the bottom of the Cut,’ Uncle Dudley agreed. ‘But what’s important, bab, is that you realise this stuff happens. You just keep believing and who knows what might happen.’ He patted the stack of evidence on the table. ‘By Christmas Eve, one of these stories could be
you
.’

In the same way that Auntie Mags’ baking matched every mood perfectly, Uncle Dudley’s true love research was exactly what I needed to see. With so many people willing me to find the man I was looking for, the promise of Cayte’s article and just under seven months remaining of the quest, I felt more positive than ever that success was within my grasp.

‘I think you just pulled the best man!’ Wren’s eyes were wider than saucers.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You did! He just totally hit on you!’

‘All he said was that he was looking forward to hearing me sing,’ I protested as we crunched across the gravel of the staff car park towards Jack’s van.

‘But it was the
way
he said it, like “hearing you sing” was a euphemism for what he’d
really
like to see you do …’

‘Wren!’

Tom passed by with an armful of mic stands. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The best man just tried to chat Rom up.’ Wren’s amusement was unbridled.

‘Well, you know what
that
is,’ Jack grinned, arriving at my side as I stared helplessly at Wren, who was carrying the sound desk bag towards the stone archway of the impossibly gorgeous Scottish castle, the venue for our gig today. The speed of the Wren Malloy Grapevine would make Jensen Button pale.

‘No. But I’ve a feeling you’re about to enlighten me.’

‘That’s the Jim Bowen Theory of Attraction.’

Halfway to the door, I stopped and turned back. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Isn’t he the comedian who used to present that darts quiz show?’

Jack nodded, carrying three drum cases. ‘The very same. It’s the “Let’s Have a Look At What You Could’ve Won” effect.’

I still had no idea what he meant. ‘Which means?’

‘It means that the minute you’re looking elsewhere, that’s the moment that you become completely irresistible to the opposite sex.’

‘Why is that?’

He smirked. ‘Who knows? I guess it’s because you aren’t checking out every bloke as a potential date – you relax, become more yourself, and the fact you aren’t bothered is the ultimate challenge. We like the “Quest Rom”. She rocks.’

It touched me that my friends had noticed the positive effects of my quest.

‘Cayte says her article should be live at the start of June,’ Tom told me, as we set up in the limited space available between two giant pink Cadillac cut-outs that were taking pride of place on the small stage. ‘Her editor loves the idea. It could turn out to be a much bigger feature than she first thought.’

This was fantastic news. More column inches meant more of a chance that the man in question would read it.

I have to say that when D’Wayne first mentioned the wedding gig in a beautiful Scottish castle nestled between heather-crowned mountains with a silver loch lapping at its feet, the last thing I expected was to find a rockabilly theme inside. Yet here it was, resplendent in fifties kitsch, from the diner-style stools at the bar to the Rat Pack and Teddy Boy outfits worn by the groom’s party – including the best man whose polite comment about my singing was responsible for Wren’s current amusement.

‘Hope you’ve brought your bobby socks, Rom,’ Charlie quipped, dropping a coil of leads by my mic stand.

‘Absolutely. Wren and I found our outfits at a fancy dress shop last week. I think you’ll be impressed.’

‘No doubt I will.’ There was a definite twinkle in his eye when he looked at me over his shoulder. I shook away the thought bouncing around my mind like a kid on a space-hopper and jumped down from the stage to go and find Wren.

After much fruitless searching around the giant fifties-themed props in the grand ballroom, I eventually found her in the car park. She was talking and giggling on her phone, oblivious to the world around her, and from her demeanour and lowered, flirtatious tone, I knew there was a man involved.

As she ended the call, she seemed surprised to see me. ‘I thought you were inside.’

‘I was. But then I thought I’d find you. So, who’s the lucky guy this time?’

She shoved her hands into her pockets and glared despairingly at me. ‘I don’t know why, whenever I’m on the phone, you lot assume there’s a man on the other end. Do you think so little of me?’

I waited until she had finished her impassioned speech. ‘Right. So what’s his name then?’

Her pale cheeks became rosebud pink. ‘Seth. The barista from Selfridges who we met on Sophie’s birthday.’

‘Wren Malloy, what are you like?’

‘Oh I know, but he’s so cute and I couldn’t resist! Talk about “wake up and smell the coffee”!’

‘Too much information, thanks!’

‘Noted.’

‘Has D’Wayne arrived yet?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t see him when we were having breakfast at the hotel this morning.’

‘I think he may be a little delicate after Tom persuaded him to take part in a whisky tasting in the bar last night.’ Wren rolled her eyes. ‘I think it’s part of his attempt to fit in.’

‘Oh, bless him. Nobody should take Tom on in a drinking competition.’

‘I would imagine he’s well aware of that now.’ Her eyes followed a delivery driver who was carrying a huge fibre-glass Fender guitar into the venue. ‘Question is, how will Jack and Tom cope with our fifties and sixties set tonight? The first hour is non-stop rock’n’roll.’

‘I would imagine they’ll be thinking of the money, the same way we do every time we perform “9 to 5” and “Copacabana”.’

Wren wrinkled her nose disapprovingly. ‘Tell me about it! Talking of money, though, I was thinking – when we’ve been paid for the millionaire gig, how do you fancy going on a girly weekend to Paris?’

Saving money is about as alien to Wren as quantum physics is to me. ‘You’re meant to be clearing your overdraft and credit card bills with that, remember.’ We walked in through the fire exit into the main hall.

‘I know. But the way I see it, those bills aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, whereas the opportunity for a bit of European culture doesn’t come around very often, and … what the heck is
that
?’

I followed her pointed finger towards the stage. ‘Ah. That’s the wedding cake.’

Wren giggled. ‘But it’s an Elvis figure. A three-tiered Elvis head and shoulders cake!’

It certainly was. At this rock’n’roll-themed wedding, every vaguely relevant music and culture theme had been referenced, from the
High Society
-style champagne glasses and early Audrey Hepburn posters around the room, to the table names laid out like the diner menus from
Happy Days
, and the giant multi-coloured Wurlitzer juke box by the top table. Appearing in our set list for the evening were retro delights such as Little Richard’s ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’, Jerry Lee Lewis’ ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and medleys of songs by Elvis, Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran.

An hour before the event was due to begin, with guests beginning to mill around, The Pinstripes gathered by the bar with Ailsa, the venue’s wedding co-ordinator, for final checks on the evening’s running order.

‘Lucy and Rick have asked for some extra photos to be taken as guests are arriving, so if you can do three or four songs before the first dance, that would be good.’

‘Not a problem,’ Jack nodded. ‘We’ve more than enough be-bop to do that tonight.’

‘It’s a good crowd,’ Ailsa said, as a group of guests looking like extras from
Grease
passed by. ‘You know, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed planning a wedding so much as I have this one.’

‘Do you get a lot of unusual weddings here?’ I asked.

Ailsa smiled. ‘Not very many. Mostly people want the full “kilts and haggis” experience, although we also had a spate of
Lord of the Rings
-themed ceremonies a couple of years ago. This makes a nice change for me.’

A man in his mid-fifties walked over and flung a clearly unwelcome arm around the wedding co-ordinator. ‘Ahhh, lovely
Ailsa
,’ he breathed, sending a waft of stale-cigar-and-whisky odour in our direction. ‘Handling all the fine details of this h-h-happy, h-h-happy day, eh? She’s a wonder, this one. Can handle
my
requirements any day of the week.’

Ailsa’s smile was pure professional grit as the man coughed a guttural laugh.

‘All part of the service,’ she replied, perhaps ill-advisedly, given the guest’s wicked smile that seeped across his face like an oil slick.

‘H-h-h-ha,
h-h-haaa
! I’ll bet!’

As he wandered off towards the bride and groom who were greeting their guests by the entrance to the ballroom, Ailsa visibly shuddered.

‘Occupational hazard?’ Charlie asked.

‘Exactly. He’s the stepfather of the bride and was three sheets to the wind when he arrived for the ceremony this morning. I dread to think how much he’s consumed by now.’ She winked at Wren and me. ‘I’d watch out for that one, if I were you.’

Wren laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Rom and I have fended off more than our fair share of lecherous relatives in our time. We can handle him.’

While the boys in the band had made no secret of their feelings towards rock’n’roll songs in rehearsal, the enthusiastic reaction from the entirely fifties-attired guests made  it a thoroughly enjoyable experience for all of us when we performed that night. As a vocalist, I actually relish the opportunity to sing well-known songs that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to perform otherwise. Especially if the guests are as appreciative as our audience were that night. The wedding had a truly retro vibe, with every guest entering into the spirit of things with their brightly coloured costumes – ladies in full circle skirts and bobby socks, or Grace Kelly evening gowns, and gentlemen in fitted suits and trilbies. Lucy, the bride, wore a vintage Dior ‘New Look’ strapless wedding gown, its bodice covered in guipure lace roses and studded with pearls, over a full tulle skirt, with long white silk gloves; while her new husband Rick was every inch a Gregory Peck in his grey flannel suit. Watching them dancing with their guests to an era-specific set list was inspiring.

Not wanting to stand out from the crowd, Wren and I had hired two circle-skirt dresses from a fancy dress shop and looked as if we had stepped off the set of
Happy Days.
Getting into character really helped the show that night, particularly when it came to performing the songs. Fronting a band is very similar to acting: it’s about playing a role – one which, in any other circumstance, you perhaps wouldn’t dream of portraying. On stage, I can be confident, flirty and in control – much more than in real life. I’m happy to chivvy the audience to step on to the dance floor, answering back the obligatory hecklers and keeping the show running smoothly. The key is to ensure that once people are on the dance floor, the band and I make it harder for them to leave. The whole task becomes much easier when Wren is helping me and it’s one of the many things I love about singing with her. If one of us needs a break,  the  other can take the melody; if one forgets the words, the other can jump in. We call it ‘tag-teaming’ and it’s wonderful to know that my friend has my back during a performance.