It Started With a Kiss (27 page)

‘Auntie Mags, what’s wrong?’ I pleaded, shocked to see such an intense flood of emotion coming from my usually level-headed aunt. Her loud, full-body sobs were startling the other diners in the restaurant.

‘I’ll never be able to compete with this! What was I
thinking
?’

‘What do you mean? Why do you have to compete?’ For a moment I half-wondered if Auntie Mags had entered
MasterChef
– something Uncle Dudley drives her mad suggesting whenever they’re watching it.

‘Ooh, ignore your old batty auntie,’ she sniffed, wiping her eyes with her napkin. ‘It’s just that I’ve … well, I’ve gone and done something a bit silly.’

‘Madame Parker, are you well?’ asked Jean-Jacques, the assistant manager and son of the restaurant owner, arriving at our table after being alerted by one of the waitresses, who now half-hid behind him. The family is great friends with Auntie Mags and Uncle Dudley, who have been coming to this restaurant since they first got together.

Blushing, she smiled up at him. ‘I am now, JJ. I’m so sorry for scaring your customers.’

‘You mustn’t worry about that. We are concerned about you,’ Jean-Jacques replied, with the waitress and now the wine waiter and the maître d’ all nodding their agreement either side of him. ‘Please, tell us what has happened to make you so sad?’

Auntie Mags sniffed again and addressed her growing audience at the table. ‘I was just explaining to my niece that I’ve been a little … impulsive.’ Her smile was apologetic as she looked at me. ‘It was something you said in the summer when you came to stay with us, Romily, about my cakes being like therapy? Well, I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my mind ever since. And then when your blog followers started asking me for my recipes, it all seemed to point to one obvious thing. I mean, life’s too short to put things off, isn’t it?’

Jean-Jacques, the waitress, the wine waiter, the maître d’, the couple at the next table (who had now turned their chairs to face us) and I all nodded.

‘Well, that’s what I thought until … But I’m getting ahead of myself.’ She smoothed the napkin into a neat triangle beside her plate and took a deep breath. ‘Yesterday morning, I signed the lease on a small tea shop in Kingsbury village, with some of the inheritance money from my mother that I’ve been squirrelling away for a rainy day. And I know what you’re going to say, Jean-Jacques, and I agree
totally
– it was impetuous …’

‘
No
, Madame!’ The assembled staff shook their heads in unison with their boss.

‘But it
was
! What do I know about food service?’

‘That’s nonsense, Auntie M. You bake all the time and your meals are always wonderful,’ I protested.

‘For my family and friends, yes, but I don’t know the first thing about health and safety regulations, or food hygiene thingies! And how will I know what to make every day, or how much to make? I’m starting a business in the premises of a former tea shop that went bust in six months – that’s not a great omen to begin with, is it?’ Tears welled in her lovely grey eyes once more and she gave a helpless shrug. ‘You see? It’s hopeless.’

The waitress and the wine waiter placed sympathetic hands on her shoulders as Jean-Jacques, the other diners and the maître d’ offered their best sympathetic smiles.

‘I think it’s a brilliant idea,’ I said, reaching across to take hold of her hand. ‘Your cakes
are
like magic. You should be sharing them with the world. I’ll help you to sort everything out – and so will Uncle Dudley.’

‘And you must come to the kitchens after service one day for my father to tell you about the regulations,’ Jean-Jacques agreed. ‘You can ask us anything.’

Hope glistened in Auntie Mags’ eyes as she looked around at the impromptu team of cheerleaders gathered round her chair. ‘Do you really think it could work?’

It was impossible not to grin as I reassured her with the very words she had said to me when I was launching into the unknown at the beginning of my quest: ‘Absolutely. You just have to believe that it’s
possible
.’

The following Tuesday, an excited phone message from Jack summoned me to his studio after work. He was waiting by the fire exit when I arrived in the car park.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked, a little unnerved by this enthusiastic welcoming committee. Jack is usually so laid-back he makes snails look like they’re in a hurry.

‘Fine, fine –
excellent
,’ he gabbled, ushering me inside and slamming the door behind us. When I sat down in the black leather office chair, Jack was practically hovering off the edge of his seat.

Amused, I giggled. ‘What on earth is up with you?’

His smile was wider than I’ve ever seen it before (excepting, perhaps, the time we surprised him with front row tickets to see Prince in concert for his birthday). ‘We might just have had a breakthrough.’

‘Who might have?’

‘
Us
– me and you, Rom! Keep up, will you?’

‘What kind of breakthrough?’

‘A
music
kind of breakthrough …’

Now my interest was fully switched on. ‘Tell me.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Right. You know those two songs we sent to the music lawyer ages back? Well, I had a very enlightening phone conversation this afternoon with one of the music buyers for Integral – they handle some of the biggest names in the industry. Turns out someone there listened to our tracks and passed them on to Mitchell, the senior music buyer.’

My heart was racing. I knew Integral well – they had been one of the labels we had always joked about being signed to when we were in our teens and writing truly awful songs together. Could it really be possible that they were interested in us? ‘So what did they say?’

He took a breath. ‘They liked what they heard. And they want more. Six more, to be precise. They have an artist in development at the moment and they’re looking for something fresh that will set them apart. I can hardly believe I’m saying this – but they think our stuff is what they’ve been looking for!’

I let out a yelp as Jack jumped up and wrapped his arms around me, the pair of us jumping around like children, until we fell back breathless into our chairs, mirroring dopey grins at each other. This was crazy – our songs had become something we did for fun and we had long since put our unrealistic teenage dreams of chart-storming stardom behind us. I knew we were good, but I never in my wildest dreams thought that anyone else would be interested in them but us.

‘Who’d have thought it, eh? Our tunes being
commercial
,’ Jack grinned. ‘I’ve been in a daze since I spoke to them. But I know we can do it. We totally rock!’

‘We so do!’ Trying to get a grip on my emotions, I made a concerted effort to calm my racing pulse. ‘Wait – OK, what does this
actually
mean for us? In terms of time frames …?’

Jack calmed himself sufficiently to talk shop. ‘Realistically, Integral are looking to receive the extra tracks in the New Year. The guy I spoke to reckons they’ll be searching in earnest for the album tracks from around mid-January. We’re just lucky to have come to his attention while they’re in the planning stages. I don’t think this is “give up your day job” stuff just yet – but if they like them, and this artist turns out to be suitable, who knows where it might lead? So, what you think?’

It was a lot to take in, but the easiest decision I’ve ever made. ‘I’m in if you are.’

Jack reached out and shook my hand. ‘Deal.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘We work out when we’re actually going to write these songs,’ Jack replied. ‘I reckon we give ourselves six weeks – aiming to deliver them by the end of the second week of January.’ He flashed a wry smile at me. ‘I suppose it’ll be good for you to focus
past
the end of this year for a change.’

Wow. That was a new thought to add to the mix. I hadn’t really considered what I would be doing after my Christmas Eve deadline. I had lived with the quest and my thoughts of PK day in, day out for the past ten months and had come to rely on them always being with me. But the truth was, time was running out and, come Christmas Day, the quest would be over. What would I do then? I hadn’t considered how I would walk away into the rest of my life if he didn’t show up. I had so many people rooting for me, believing in what I’d pledged my year to achieve: what would they do after midnight on Christmas Eve if I failed to find my mystery man? Would it be like the scene in
Forrest Gump
where he just stops running and everyone following him is left standing when he turns to begin the long walk home?

The prospect of at least a foot in the door at Integral was exciting. It wasn’t the career in music that I dreamed of – not yet. But it was a start: and that, surely, was something we could build on. As we excitedly discussed how we would go about this, I marvelled at how far I had come in almost a year. Searching for PK, no matter how fruitless it had proved to be so far, had undeniably stood me in good stead for learning to wholeheartedly pursue my heart’s desires. And if I could get to the end of this year knowing I’d remained true to myself, then all boded well for next year … whatever it might bring.

With a free weekend that week, The Pinstripes arranged a weekend gathering at Jack and Soph’s, beginning with a meal on Friday night, followed by a bike ride at Cannock Chase the next day. One good thing that had come out of our gig drought of late was that we had been able to spend a lot more time together doing non-music-related things. I arrived before everyone else and helped Jack prepare the component parts of the meal. By the time Sophie arrived home, an impressive selection of delicious tapas was laid out on the table in the dining room.

Sophie was grave-faced when I handed her a freshly brewed mug of tea. ‘You know Tom’s bringing
her
tonight, don’t you?’

I didn’t have to ask to whom she was referring. Since Tom and Cayte announced their tentative intentions to give their relationship a second chance, my friends had been sharply divided over the decision. Sophie was unrepentant in her opinion: ‘I don’t think she deserves to come back. Frankly, I’m surprised at Tom for believing her.’

‘It was his choice, hun. We have to support him.’

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘That’s as maybe. But I don’t have to
like
it – or her.’

Right on cue, Tom and Cayte entered, he looking a lot more relaxed than she was. His eyes lit up when he saw me. ‘Hey you,’ he said, giving me what Uncle Dudley would call a ‘hug that could crush walnuts’, ‘thanks – you know, for this.’

I hugged him back. ‘You’re welcome.’

Cayte hesitantly offered a hug, which I accepted briefly. ‘Romily, I …’

‘I know. Hi.’ I might have been instrumental in bringing them back together, but I wasn’t quite ready to be bosom buddies just yet.

Wren and Charlie arrived an hour later, after a meeting at Charlie’s dad Henry’s art gallery.

‘I’m doing a jazz gig there next month,’ she told me. ‘Henry reckons it could be a regular thing.’ Her eyes were sad tonight – noticeably so.

‘That’s great – isn’t it?’ I asked.

Wren’s smile said otherwise. ‘Yeah, of course it is. It’ll make my bank manager a little happier at least.’

Sophie clapped her hands. ‘OK, everyone, food’s ready.’

We dutifully filed through into the dining room, everyone making approving noises about the spread of tapas before us. As we moved around filling our plates, I could see the dynamics change around Cayte. Sophie avoided her entirely, watched carefully by Jack; Tom stayed close behind her, his right hand protectively at the small of her back and his eyes flicking to each of us, trying to gauge our reactions; Wren was in a world of her own and seemed oblivious to everything going on around her; while Charlie made an effort to include Cayte in the conversation drifting between us all.

‘Bet you’ve never seen so much tapas in one room before, eh, Cayte?’

‘I haven’t. You’ve done a great job, Sophie.’

Sophie muttered something and walked into the kitchen. Cayte’s smile remained in place, but the tension in her expression was unmissable.

‘Guys, don’t feel you have to stand up in here,’ Jack said quickly, smiling broadly. ‘Let’s go into the living room where we can all relax, yeah?’

Tom and Cayte were the first to leave, with Charlie following close behind. Jack gave me a despairing smile and headed into the kitchen to pacify his girlfriend, leaving Wren and I alone by the mountain of buffet food.

‘I don’t think Cayte’s in for an easy ride tonight,’ I said.

‘Hmm.’ Wren was absent-mindedly picking at a pile of salad on her plate.

‘Right, what’s up?’

‘What? Nothing, I’m fine.’ She popped an olive into her mouth and chewed vigorously. ‘See? I’m eating and everything. So no need to worry.’

‘
Wren
…’

Her face fell instantly. ‘Oh, OK. Seth broke it off last night.’

‘The barista? How come?’