It Started With A Kiss

They exchanged raised-eyebrowed glances. ‘Oh.’

‘But that doesn’t matter because it was a mistake. The point is, the guy who kissed me changed everything.’

‘He kissed you?’

‘Yes. It was only for a moment, but …’ I stopped, suddenly unsure whether this was appropriate territory for a niece to approach with her aunt and uncle. But their mirrored expectant expressions – instantly reminding me of the two china Staffordshire dogs that guard each end of Mum’s mock-alabaster mantelpiece – urged me to continue. ‘It took my breath away.’

Uncle Dudley patted his wife’s hand excitedly. ‘Magic! It’s just like me and you, love!’

Rolling her eyes, Auntie Mags gave a loud tut. ‘Ignore him, Romily, he’s deluded. Carry on.’

‘That’s all, really. I know I should just chalk it up to experience – one of those heart-stopping, fleeting moments that will always give you a thrill. But I keep thinking …’

‘The attraction of possibility,’ Uncle Dudley chipped in. ‘No matter how unlikely, you can’t shake the feeling it might happen.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s it exactly!’

‘And you want to find him again,’ Auntie Mags nodded. ‘But you don’t know where to start.’

‘I love you guys. So what do I do?’

Uncle Dudley rose to refill the kettle. ‘I reckon you should go for it. What’s the worst that could happen, eh?’

‘Humiliation, disappointment and an unwanted reputation as a desperate woman?’ I ate a forkful of cake and stared at my aunt, who was deep in thought.

‘Pah, that’s nothing,’ Uncle Dudley said. ‘I’ve had worse than that in my life and I’m still smiling, aren’t I?’

‘You were called a desperate woman?’

‘Eh? Oh, good one. Our Romily’s sharp as a needle, eh, Magsie?’

‘Quiet, Dudley, I’m thinking.’ She placed her elbows on the table, folded her hands and rested her chin on them.

My uncle clapped his hands in delight. ‘Ooh, I know that look, Romily. You’re in for a proper treat now if your auntie’s got that face on her.’

We waited in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the canal waters against the side of the boat and the distant chug of a slowly approaching narrowboat, until the shrill ascending whistle of the kettle broke through.

‘If you’re going to do this, you need to think about how best to let people know you’re looking,’ Auntie Mags said, finally. ‘The more people you can involve in your search, the greater your chances of finding him.’

Uncle Dudley clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant, our Mags!’

‘That’s what I’ll do then. But how do I begin?’

Uncle Dudley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, bab. You just leave it to your Uncle Dudley.’

Just as I was about to leave home for the band’s annual Christmas party, Mum rang.

‘I just wanted to check you’re still coming for Christmas Day,’ she said. I could hear the theme music of The Great Escape drifting into the background where Dad was no doubt glued to the television for its umpteenth showing. Rather apt, I thought, given the topic of conversation.

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ I lied, putting on my heels as I held the phone against my ear with my shoulder.

‘Good. I thought you were going out with your musician friends this evening?’

‘I am,’ I replied, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

‘You’re leaving it awfully late, aren’t you? It’s seven fifteen already.’

I smiled to myself. Mum clearly doesn’t know that many musicians.

There are many wonderful skills that my musician friends possess, but accurate timekeeping is not one of them. I can’t tell you how many band rehearsals have started with two or three of us waiting for over an hour for the others to roll up. Jack and I are usually there pretty much on time, but Charlie, Wren and Soph can be anything from twenty minutes to well over an hour late. And we almost always start without Tom, who has been known to turn up with only three-quarters of an hour of the rehearsal session remaining.

Every year, the band and their partners meet for a Christmas meal, usually at The Old Gate, a pub and restaurant near Jack and Sophie’s house that sells excellent food and locally-brewed ales. This year, however, Jack had left booking the meal to the last minute and, unsurprisingly, discovered that the pub was fully booked. To rescue a few scraps of credibility (although you could lay money on the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to forget this indiscretion ever), he and Sophie hastily arranged a meal at their house, begging dining room chairs from family and friends and bringing in the white plastic picnic table from their garden to extend the dinner table in order to accommodate us all. In response to their valiant efforts (and because, despite the constant mocking, we love them both to bits), the rest of the band had divided responsibility for bringing food and drink, each agreeing to bring a component course of the meal. Thankfully, I’d been nominated to provide dessert, which was easy as my mother’s beloved Waitrose was only a short drive away from their house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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