It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson
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obviously instantly regretting it. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry.’ It wasn’t fine, of course, but I really didn’t want him to be apologising every time any flicker of normality appeared between us.
Charlie studied my face. ‘So – what happens now?’
I unwrapped my sandwich to avoid his eyes. ‘We enjoy our breakfast before it gets cold.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I don’t know, OK? I haven’t ever been in this situation before.’
‘Me either.’
I looked at him and attempted a smile. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ I didn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes, didn’t want to face the consequences of my confession, but we needed to move on from this – for the sake of the band, if nothing else.
‘We have all these gigs coming up, so maybe we should focus on that.’
‘Right.’ He paused, carefully selecting his words before he spoke. ‘And what about – us?’
‘There’s nothing to say about us. It’s going to be awkward for a while, but I’m willing to carry on as before, if you are?’
The strangest look drifted across his face. ‘Sure.’
It was an uneasy truce, but it was a truce nonetheless. As I headed towards the city centre offices of Brum FM later that morning, I consoled myself with the thought that at least I had tackled the subject head on with Charlie before anyone else was involved. Hopefully we could move on from this without the rest of the band noticing too much awkwardness – I really didn’t need any more embarrassment.
Ted, the gruff-looking security guard, greeted me at the door as I arrived.
‘Morning. Didn’t think you’d be in today, what with Christmas and all.’
‘I’m only in for a couple of hours, Ted. Looking forward to Christmas?’
He gave an almighty sigh and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Well, if by Christmas, you mean being holed up for three days in my mother-in-law’s semi in Nuneaton with the wife and all the nutjobs in her family, then no, not particularly.’
‘Ah. Well, hope it passes quickly for you.’
‘That’s all I can hope for, Romily.’
I took the lift down to the depths of Brum FM, known affectionately by our small team of three as the ‘Bat Cave’, which consists of a production room and a minuscule vocal booth that would make the smallest broom cupboard look capacious.
For the past five years I’ve worked here writing jingles for the radio adverts that pepper the station’s schedule. I’m never likely to win any Brits or Ivor Novello Awards for my daily compositions, but my work never fails to keep my friends entertained.
The Bat Cave was noticeably more pungent than normal today, the stale remnants of late-night curry, sweat and acrylic carpet fug from the soundproofing fabric that covered its doors, floors and walls meeting my nose as I walked in.
Mick, the department’s studio engineer, looked up from his already grease-stained copy of the Mirror. ‘Romily! How the devil are you?’
‘Good thanks. What died in here, though?’
He let out a thundering laugh. ‘That’ll be our esteemed colleague Nev Silver. Apparently he had another row with the wife last night – I found him on the sofa in his sleeping bag this morning.’
I hung my bag up on the rickety coat stand in the corner and filled a mug with coffee from the filter machine. ‘Not again. Does that mean he’ll be staying over Christmas?’
Mick sniffed. ‘Probably. So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this morning?’
‘I need to finish the mixes for the New Year campaign so they’re ready for next week. Anything else in?’
‘Bits and bobs for the new schedule – nothing particularly earth-shattering, I’m afraid. Jane Beckingham wants a new jingle for her morning show, if you don’t mind. Oh, and Amanda’s on the warpath. Again.’
News that my department manager was upset about something didn’t surprise me. Amanda Wright-Timpkins is so uptight she makes a coiled spring look relaxed. The twinkle in Mick’s eye revealed all I needed to know about his opinion on the matter – there is very little love lost between him and the woman who takes her persistent frustration at being ‘sideways-promoted’ to our department out on us whenever possible. ‘What is it this time?’
‘She reckons she’s been overlooked for another promotion,’ Mick replied, folding his newspaper and rolling his chair over to mine. ‘Apparently she was going for the producer job on the Breakfast Show.’
‘Ah.’
‘Exactly. So best to keep your head down, eh?’
The morning passed slowly. As I composed the music for Brum FM’s New Year, New You campaign, my thoughts strayed back to my conversation with Charlie. What would the year ahead bring for us?
Squeezed into the vocal booth a couple of hours later, I was recording the vocal parts for the jingles when one of the lines struck me:
This could be the year when all your dreams come true.
Instantly Charlie left my mind as I remembered my handsome stranger. Maybe he was the start of my dreams coming true – after all, hadn’t he turned up exactly when I needed him? Unlike Charlie. Maybe all the time I had spent waiting for Charlie to notice me was actually preparation for meeting this man. Let’s face it, if I hadn’t been running away from Charlie, the chances were we would never have met. But was it possible to find him again? I wasn’t sure, but I was determined to try. All I had to do was to figure out how …
‘Er, Rom, whenever you’re ready?’ Mick said in my headphones as I bumped back to reality.
‘Sorry. Let’s do that line again …’
All day, the first sparks of possibility glowed brighter in my mind. It had to be possible to find the stranger – even in the sprawl of England’s second city. Compared to the situation with Charlie, which I could do no more about, looking for the man who kissed me seemed an enticing alternative. After all, what could be more positive than searching for someone who clearly thought I was beautiful?
‘Positivity is key,’ Wren said that evening, when she joined me for dinner in my little house in Stourbridge, ‘or else you’ll never go through with it. Still can’t work out where you should start looking, though.’
I handed her a glass of red wine. ‘Me either. But I’ll think of something.’
‘So, things with you and Charlie are a bit better?’
‘I’m not sure they’re better, but at least we’ve talked about it. One thing I do know is that I definitely made a mistake. He’s only ever seen me as a friend.’
‘Yeah right,’ Wren muttered into her Merlot.
‘Sorry?’
‘Who can fathom the minds of men, eh?’ she replied dismissively. ‘Charlie will sort it out eventually.’ She looked over to my Christmas tree in the corner of the room and smiled. ‘I see the bauble has pride of place.’
I followed her gaze and felt a shiver of excitement as I watched the reflections of the tree lights passing smoothly across its surface, remembering the stranger’s voice by my ear. ‘Yes. It’s lovely. Makes me feel Christmassy – I was worried I wouldn’t feel like that this year after what happened with Charlie.’
‘Everyone should feel Christmassy, no matter what,’ Wren said, raising her glass in a flamboyant toast. ‘It should be law. Or at least a tradition.’
‘Talking of traditions, are you looking