It Started With a Kiss (26 page)

The service was simple but beautiful: Owen and Francesca in a pool of golden sunlight reflecting through the glass roof, the guests rapt by the scene. An immense sense of peace flooded the entire room, the surety of real, life-changing love. I saw Jack and Sophie’s hands squeeze tighter together and the wistfulness in Tom’s eyes as his thoughts no doubt drifted to the uncertain situation with Cayte. Wren smiled at me, but her eyes were sad – and for the first time in months I realised how alone I felt. It was a nanosecond of reality, but enough to jolt me alert. I shook it away. I have never been much of an emotional wallower in the past and I didn’t intend to start now.

Rings were exchanged and the couple were declared husband and wife. Owen didn’t wait for the registrar’s invitation to kiss his bride, sweeping a giggling Frankie into a full Hollywood-style Errol Flynn kiss as the whoops, whistles and applause swelled around them. The formalities thus completed, Owen and Frankie’s own personalities were free to emerge, evident when Charlie produced a pair of bongos from under his chair, crouching on the floor in the middle of the string quartet to perform a completely unique rendition of Feeder’s ‘Buck Rogers’ as the couple danced their way out into the garden followed by their highly amused guests.

Following an afternoon reception filled with a great deal of laughter, some tears and a hundred happy people, accompanied by Jack, Charlie and my American Songbook set, the band walked back through Combermere’s beautiful secret gardens to our cottage.

‘How fab is it that we can have tea in between performances?’ Sophie asked, bringing a tray of fine bone china mugs and a rather splendid Royal Doulton teapot into the living room. ‘I could definitely get used to this.’

I took off my high pink satin platform heels and enjoyed the rush of relief as my toes luxuriated in the lush pile of  the cream wool carpet. The shoes had seemed like a brilliant idea this morning but I had forgotten how much standing around was involved in a daylong event and now the balls of my feet were burning ferociously. Taking my mug of tea, I padded out through the French doors in the dining room into the small private garden of the cottage, walking into the middle of the token square of lawn.

I was trying to pick a daisy with my toes when a pair of shiny black shoes came into view. Lifting my head, I came face to face with Charlie – his laid-back smile and rolled up shirtsleeves befitting our restful surroundings.

‘Great stuff this afternoon. Frankie loves your voice.’

‘Thanks. It was fun. Respect for the bongo playing, by the way. When did you arrange that?’

He flopped down on the grass and took a gulp of tea. ‘Last week. Over the phone, anyway. We didn’t practise until today while you lot were getting ready. Imogen, the cellist, is Frankie’s friend from uni and it was her idea to do the Feeder song because my sister and Owen love it.’ He picked a blade of grass and started to weave it in and out of his fingers. ‘I don’t find this kind of thing easy, you know.’

His sudden subject switch was so fast that it took my brain a few moments to catch up. Assuming he was still referring to the previous conversation, I smiled. ‘Well, I did think it was brave of you to wing it, knowing how much you love your rehearsals.’

‘Eh? Oh, not the bongo playing. I mean –’ he gestured to his surroundings, ‘–
this
. The wedding. Seeing my kid sister making a huge leap in her life, while I’m …’ His voice faltered and he coughed sharply. ‘Change and me don’t get on.’

Such candidness was practically unheard of and it had certainly been a long time since Charlie had been as remotely open as this with me. ‘We all have to go through it sooner or later, I suppose.’

Excellent
. Now I sounded like a daytime TV agony aunt …

‘Mmm.’

The bees in the surrounding hedges seemed to have pushed their amplifier settings up to eleven as we struggled to make conversation.

‘Oi! You two! How long have we got till we need to be back over at the pavilion?’ Tom called from the French doors.

Slightly shaken, Charlie jumped to his feet, the motion of which gave the impression that he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Tom’s smirk confirmed that he had caught it and that the incident was likely to be mentioned relentlessly from this day forth.

‘Hope I didn’t interrupt anything there?’

‘No, Rom and I were just chatting.’ Charlie brushed a clump of mown grass from his trouser leg. ‘I think if we head over at about seven that should give us plenty of time to check everything before the evening reception begins.’

‘Cool.’ Tom winked at me. ‘As you were.’

Charlie sank his hands into his pockets and looked down at me. ‘He’s a sarky git.’ He fell silent again and I was reminded of the kind of weighted silences we shared before Christmas, where there had seemed to be a tide of unspoken things being held at bay. Those silences had been responsible for my confession of love, believing them to be confirmation of his feelings for me. But those assumptions had been proven to be spectacularly wrong then – so why take notice of them now?

I felt goosebumps beginning to rise on my forearms and took this as my cue to stand. ‘I think I might grab a nap for an hour or so before we’re back on duty.’

‘Cool. I might join you –’ his eyes widened in shock, ‘– um, I mean, the sleep, not the … erm …’

Great digging, Charlie. Next stop Australia. ‘You’re going red.’

His eyes moved away. ‘I am not.’

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t take that as an invitation.’ The rush of amusement felt good, even if it was a mask hastily pinned over my own embarrassment. ‘Anyway, it’s a single, so there’s only room for me …’

His blush intensified. ‘Rom! I can’t believe you said that!’

‘Lighten up, will you? We have to laugh about Christmas sometime – and, let’s face it, I’m the one who has the most right to be upset by it.’

‘But you were only saying how you felt. That’s nothing to reproach yourself for.’

I couldn’t work out whether he was being condescending or not, but either way his tone irritated me. Did he think I was still in love with him, despite all I had done to pursue my quest? If he did, how bigheaded was that? ‘I’m not reproaching myself for anything. I’m just trying to get back to where we were before I declared my undying love for you.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. So cut me some slack and at least let me joke about my mistake.’ I made to walk back inside, but Charlie caught my arm.

‘What if it wasn’t a mistake?’

I glared at him. ‘It was.’

His voice softened. ‘But you were so sure about it at Christmas …’

I shrugged my arm free. ‘Charlie, enough! Can’t you take a joke any more? This … it’s not fair.’ I bent down to collect my empty mug, straightening back up until my face was inches away from his. ‘I thought you wanted us to be like we were before? Well, this is me trying to do that.’

He said nothing in return. All of a sudden he seemed vulnerable, in a way I had never seen – as if one more word from me might shatter him into a hundred million pieces.

This was getting us nowhere. Relaxing a little, I pulled back and patted his chest lightly. ‘Sorry. I really need a lie-down. I’ll catch you later.’

I walked away, but could feel him watching my every step.

‘Toast?’ Tom asked, next morning. It was seven thirty and I had decided to venture into the kitchen after a night of broken sleep. I was surprised to find Tom already there.

I declined, my stomach decidedly queasy. ‘Just a cup of tea, if there’s one going.’

He feigned offence. ‘If I’m in the kitchen, there’s
always
tea going.’ He picked up the rose-covered teapot and poured out a mug for me. As I sat down at the large oak kitchen table, he looked concerned. ‘You OK, Rom?’

‘I’m really tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.’

‘Strange bed, I imagine. I’m the same – hence the early morning breakfast. You look rough, though.’

‘Cheers.’ I wrapped my hands around the mug, the warmth from the bone china soothing on my hands. ‘What time did everyone get to bed last night?’

‘No idea. I went about two and I don’t think Wren and Soph were too far behind me. But Jack and Charlie were up a lot longer – I got up to go to the bathroom at four and could still hear their voices in the lounge.’

There was nothing remarkable about this. After a gig it can be really difficult to relax for a few hours, the adrenalin rush from the performance still coursing through our veins. Added to this, we usually have a long journey home and a van to unload, so our bodies have learned to maintain the adrenalin flow longer than it would normally. Last night, after a wonderful evening reception, it was such a gift to simply walk back to our cosy cottage, crack open a bottle of wine, demolish the platter of leftover buffet food and relax, chatting in the warm afterglow of a good performance.

Of course, it
would
have been the perfect end to the day had it not been for my conversation with Charlie being on constant repeat in my head. During the evening’s performance there was nothing in the way he interacted with me that would suggest anything was different, but I couldn’t get away from the questions his sudden outburst had left  hanging in my head. As the jovial conversation from the others surrounded us, we had walked back through the fairy-light-illuminated garden together without speaking. But when we met in the kitchen later, he was seemingly back to his old self – no awkward silences, no carefully avoided eye contact – so much so that I wasn’t sure whether I had imagined it all.

‘What time do we have to be out of here?’ I asked Tom, needing to wrench my weary mind away from the Charlie conundrum.

‘Midday, I think. Loads of time.’ He pointed at me with the edge of his toast. ‘You should eat something. Can’t have you passing out on us when we’re loading the van.’

Charlie didn’t surface until nine, looking remarkably fresh considering his late-night conversation with Jack, who emerged looking dishevelled and grumpy half an hour later.

‘I don’t know how you two do it,’ he muttered, shuffling into the kitchen and banging cupboard doors until I handed him a cup of tea and gently steered him towards a seat.

Charlie finished buttering three rounds of toast and joined us at the kitchen table. ‘How “we two” do what?’ He winked at me and I instantly lost my appetite again.

Jack scratched his messy hair. ‘You know what. Look so annoyingly sober the night after you’ve been drinking. You knocked back more than me, Chas.’

‘Must be good genes,’ Charlie answered. ‘You saw how much my folks put away last night? I guarantee they’ll be as fresh as daisies this morning, probably making breakfast for everybody.’

I left them chatting and went back to my room to finish packing. As I folded my trusty black John Rocha dress, I noticed a thread hanging from the hem and sat down on the bed to bite it off.

‘Toast would probably have been a better choice, but each to their own.’ Charlie was leaning against the door-frame, that annoying smirk on his face again.

‘Very funny. Haven’t you got a keyboard player to cheer up?’

‘Jack will be fine when he’s had a shower and re discovered his mojo.’ He took a step into the room. ‘I’m more concerned about you.’

I closed my eyes and wished with all my might that he would take the hint and disappear. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.’

His face fell. ‘Oh? How come?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

‘Adrenalin overload from last night perhaps? Or was it something you ate?’

‘Charlie, I don’t know!’ I snapped, then quickly checked myself. ‘Sorry. I’m not the friendliest person when I’m lacking sleep.’

‘Right.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I’ll – um – let you get back to …’

I watched him leave, my heart heavy. Yesterday I believed we were returning to the friendship I’d missed so much – but now it was as if new complications were queuing up to pile on top of each other.

Monday in the Bat Cave was a quiet one, which was just as well, seeing as my head was still trying to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of the weekend. Mick seemed unusually preoccupied, his trusty one-liners absent as we tried to find things to do to look busy in case Amanda stuck her nose in.

‘Good weekend?’ I asked, attempting to start a conversation.

‘Not bad. You?’

‘Great, actually. We were playing at my friend’s sister’s wedding in Shropshire.’

‘Nice. Well,
I
got chatted up on Saturday night.’

‘You did? Fantastic! Tell me details.’

Mick smiled a shy smile. ‘She’s someone I’ve known for a while, actually. She comes into my local with her friends and there’s always a bit of banter. It’s fun.’

‘So have you asked her out yet?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He stared at his screen. ‘It just hasn’t been the right time yet.’

‘But you think she’d say yes if you did?’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Then what are you waiting for? If you don’t say something now, how will she ever know?’

He grunted. ‘Maybe I’m waiting for her to take the hint.’

‘Mick!’ I laughed. ‘If you like her you should ask her out. Or someone else might get there before you.’

He swivelled in his chair to face me. ‘When did you get so clever, eh?’

Leaning forward, I stretched out a knot in my lower back. ‘Call it almost a year of searching for someone I should have held on to when I had the chance.’

Lately, the thought had crossed my mind more than once that maybe I should have done something more on the day I met PK. I should have run after him through the snowy streets, or scribbled my number on the back of his hand in eyeliner – the kind of things that characters in chick-flicks do when they are about to be separated from the one they are meant to be with. But it had all happened so quickly that by the time I had processed the details he was gone, swallowed up into the Christmas crowds.

Since Frankie and Owen’s wedding, the uncertainty I felt about Charlie had definitely unnerved me – not least because I thought I had put my feelings for him to bed months ago. Truth was, I didn’t want to be thinking about him; I wanted to be absolutely focused on finding PK, putting all my hopes and dreams and energies into the quest. From Charlie’s hot and cold reactions at the weekend, it was impossible to gauge where he stood on the matter, and I was well aware that the only person likely to be losing sleep over it all was me.

Curled up in front of the television later that night, my attention drifted from Lorelai and Luke’s ‘will-they-won’t-they’ scenes in
Gilmore Girls
to a delightful intrusion of PK’s face in my thoughts. The memory of being in his arms had to become my sole focus. Get this right, I reasoned, and Charlie-centred musings would cease to be relevant.

In the meantime, Charlie was going to return to the only role I wanted him to assume in my life: that of my best friend.

I stared at the email at work, thinking that maybe if I looked at it for long and hard enough it would disappear. Because it couldn’t be real, could it? I must have had my mouth open because the next thing I knew a screwed-up ball of paper bounced off my lips, followed by the raucous laughter of my colleague.

‘Denied! No, don’t close it, Rom. One more shot.’

‘Loser.’

‘You have to admit, that was funny? No?’ Mick shook his head. ‘My comic genius is
wasted
in here. So what’s up? You won the lottery or something?’

I smiled and threw the paper ball back at him. ‘Do you really think I’d be still sitting here if I was?’

‘Fair point. What is it, then?’ He wheeled his chair over to mine and swore loudly when he saw the email. ‘She’s having a laugh, isn’t she? I hope you’re going to tell her to take a running jump.’

I stared back at the screen. ‘Hmm.’

Mick’s eyes narrowed. ‘You
are
going to tell her to get lost, aren’t you?’

I faked a smile. ‘Yes, absolutely. Blimmin’ cheek.’

He was far from convinced. ‘Well make sure you do. That woman doesn’t deserve a minute more of your time.’

Through the rest of the day, Cayte’s email played on my mind. While Mick and I worked on jingles for a loan company, a bingo site and yet another double-glazing firm, my thoughts were somewhere else entirely. By the time I arrived home that evening, my mind was made up.

Yes, Cayte didn’t deserve it, but this was the right thing to do – for me and for Tom. He’d been utterly miserable without her and, whatever else I thought about her, I could see that she’d made him happy. I suspected that the main reason he wasn’t talking to her now was out of loyalty to me. I didn’t want revenge – even though most of my friends seemed to want it for me – so it was up to me to be the bigger person. Besides, Cayte had mocked me for my belief in true love. Perhaps the best comeback I could make was to demonstrate how wrong she was …

‘You have
got
to be kidding me!’ Wren’s indignation lit up her apartment brighter than the floodlights at Villa Park.

‘I thought it was a good idea,’ I protested, but Wren wasn’t listening.

‘You’re unbelievable! This woman
wrecked your life
more or less and now you’re playing Cilla Black so she can have a happy-ever-after? So Cayte flamin’ Brogan is unhappy after qualifying for Bitch of the Year and stuffing up her own life? Diddums – my heart bleeds. Perhaps she should have thought of what might happen
before
she humiliated you.’

I didn’t have an answer for that, agreeing with pretty much everything Wren was articulating. ‘To be fair, I think she’s actually moved on quite a lot since Cayte-gate.’

Wren snorted. ‘Don’t make me laugh. As if a woman like that is capable of moving on with anything except her own motives. Of course, you realise she’s talking through her cheeks, don’t you? She’s playing you as easily as she played you last time and you’re just rolling over and taking it.’

I flopped down on the sofa, watching any remaining chances I had of winning this argument slinking out of the room in shame. ‘I don’t expect you to understand, Wren. I just wanted to tell you about it.’

Hands on hips in the middle of the living room, she frowned at me, but I sensed her fury was dying down. ‘I’m just so mad at the woman for how little she thought of you when it was all about getting an exclusive story. She should have seen you for the courageous, beautiful go-getter you truly are, but instead all she saw was her ticket to the big-time. That angers me, and I won’t forgive her for it.’ She pulled a hairband from her wrist and wound her red curls into a loose bun at the back of her head. ‘What on earth is Tom going to say about all this? He is so gutted about what she did.’

I averted my eyes. ‘Yes – he
was
.’

Slowly, the realisation dawned. ‘You’ve already done this, haven’t you?’

My apologetic smile condemned me and I knew it. ‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon, just before I came here. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but Tom needed to be the first to hear it.’

‘I can’t believe you! How was he?’

How many words did she want? Angry, hurt, incensed, disbelieving, quiet, cold, emotional, lost … all of these and more in the space of a thirty-minute conversation. I hated inflicting this on him, loathed that I was the one witnessing his struggle between bitterness and longing when Cayte should have had to endure this. After his initial reaction, Tom had become very still, staring at a sight a hundred thousand miles away from the compact front room of his terraced house. I wanted to hug him, but suddenly wasn’t sure whether he now felt I had betrayed our friendship by bringing this literally to his door. I was debating what to say when he spoke, his voice strained and low.

‘Tell me why I should.’

‘I don’t think I can …’

He raised his head. ‘Then tell me why you agreed to talk to me.’

I desperately hoped that this would make sense when it came out – because I was having trouble deciphering my motives as well.

‘All I can say is that I recognised something in her that I’ve seen in myself since I started my quest. I don’t like what she did to me – and I
hate
what she did to you. I don’t know if I can ever forgive her for that. But what I do know is that she’s realised how amazing you are. And I know it may be too little, too late, but this is her last chance to put everything right. And I don’t know, but I think if I was in her position and I’d hurt someone I knew I was in love with I’d move heaven and earth to make amends. I would do whatever it took to make him hear me. I can’t tell you to take her back; I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could. But I promised I would talk to you, and that’s what I’ve done. What happens now is none of my business.’

He had looked at me for a long time. ‘You’re one of my best friends and you mean the world to me. You’ve always been fair and I know you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t thought it through first.’ He rubbed his chin and nodded. ‘Tell her to call me tonight. But I’m making no promises about anything.’

‘I still think she’s a proper cowbag for making you do her dirty work,’ Wren shook her head. ‘But I’ve got to hand it to you, Rom, you’ve more balls than me. I bet she was over the moon when you called her.’

‘There were a lot of tears and thanks.’

‘Hmm. Well I hope she realises how gracious you’ve been. If there’s such a thing as karma then I reckon PK is already on his way to find you.’

‘Let’s hope there’s a stealth jet nearby so he can get here tonight!’

Joking aside, the thought that my actions might influence events regarding PK gave me an immense shot of hope. Regardless of the result of Tom and Cayte’s tentative cease-fire, I knew I’d done the right thing. Once again, I’d followed my heart – even though it led me towards the most difficult path – and I had stayed true to myself.

As I considered everything that had happened, something Auntie Mags had said to me suddenly came back into sharp focus:

‘You must always be yourself, Romily, no matter what. Because, at the end of the day, that’s all you have.’

The beginning of October brought gale force winds that lashed the city and brought several centenarian trees crashing to the ground. Uncle Dudley called to tell me that the main road had been blocked for the best part of a day while council workers struggled to dissect and remove a four-hundred-year-old oak tree felled by the wind overnight. In the end, he and a group of narrowboat skippers had offered their assistance, finally clearing the road at six pm. Always one to spot an opportunity, Uncle Dudley managed to secure a large section of the fallen tree from the grateful council staff, who were only too happy to transport it half a mile to the narrowboat moorings, thus providing a significant amount of free firewood that would keep the stoves of everyone’s galleys toasty for several weeks.

While my uncle was battling the elements outside, my aunt was engaged in a battle of her own of an altogether different kind – although just as potentially tempestuous. The first I heard of it was when she unexpectedly called me at work and asked if we could meet for lunch.

It was a pleasant surprise and a well-timed interruption from the wonders of writing something suitably annoying for a corn plaster commercial. I arranged to meet her at Chez Henri, a small family-run French bistro just off New Street that I know she particularly likes.

During the first course, we chatted about everything and nothing: work, the weather, Uncle Dudley’s valiant struggle with the fallen tree, Elvis’ ear infection which had led to him crashing about
Our Pol
in a wide plastic moon collar to stop him scratching … All the time, I could see something unspoken causing the corners of her smile to tighten.

When our desserts arrived (the
real
reason my aunt loves Chez Henri) I watched as she carefully rotated the plate, studying its construction as closely as the Jewellery Quarter jeweller inspecting an antique diamond necklace.

‘Faultless,
effortless
…’ she breathed, shaking her head in awe. ‘This is the highest order of confectionery skill.’ Then, quite out of the blue, she burst into tears.