If there is one thing you can rely on my friends to do, no matter what, it’s to leap gleefully on any opportunity to mock each other. Tom’s preposterous strutting around stage for the beautiful Cayte’s benefit at the Valentine’s gig should have elicited hilarity: it was akin to a cross between Mick Jagger (in his latter years) and AC/DC’s Angus Young in full plank-spanking mode, and certainly not attractive in any sense. However, thanks to my impromptu exit from the stage, Tom’s misdemeanours had paled into insignificance.
By the time the first signs of spring began to appear at the beginning of March, the jokes at my expense were firmly entrenched in The Pinstripes’ psyche.
‘Hey, Rom, are you staying with us for lunch?’ Jack asked innocently as I arrived on the small green where my friends had gathered to make the most of the mild weather.
‘Of course. Hence the fact that it’s lunchtime and I’ve come over to meet you,’ I smiled.
‘Right. I just wanted to check, you know, in case you have to dash off …’
I raised my eyebrows grudgingly as my assembled bandmates collapsed in fits of giggles. ‘Hilarious. Don’t you think three weeks of this is a little much, now?’
‘We haven’t even started,’ Tom grinned, stretching his long legs out in front of the bench and fiddling with his tie. It’s always a little strange to see my friends in their work clothes – especially Charlie and Tom, who spend so much of their spare time in t-shirts, hoodies and jeans. Of course they dress smartly for our gigs, but all our outfits are co-ordinated to create an overall effect so there isn’t much scope for personal expression. Work clothes, however, highlight the differences. Tom is referred to by all of us as ‘Man at Next’ – owing to the fact that almost all his work wardrobe for the IT firm hails from that store. Charlie is perhaps the most arty of the guys – which is just as well considering that he manages his father’s art gallery. His blue suit, blue checked shirt, silver tie and Converse sneakers were typical of his eclectic work wardrobe. Jack is the only one of us who can legitimately not dress up for his job, but even he likes to ring the changes sometimes, pairing jeans with a shirt and tie. Wren, of course, would have outshone us all, had she not been teaching today and therefore unable to join us; I have it on good authority that her work wardrobe is every bit as eclectic as the outfits we see her in at evenings and weekends.
‘Aw, Rom, sit down,’ Jack said, pulling me on to his lap. ‘If you want to run away from our gigs on a whim, then who are we to mock you for it?’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. So was it him?’
I noticed that Charlie, seated on the far end of the bench, had flicked open his newspaper and was studying it intently. ‘I think so. No, I’m sure of it.’
Reclining magnificently on the grass, Tom flicked crumbs off his shirt from the enormous baguette he was demolishing. ‘Shame we didn’t get a good look. You know I like to vet all your dates.’
‘Like who? I haven’t dated in over a year.’
He smirked. ‘Yes, well, when you do finally find a bloke who’s brave enough to stick around, Rom, I’ll be ready to do my vetting thang.’
I shot him a withering look. ‘You know, I’m so glad I sacrificed my lunch hour to be here this afternoon.’
Jack hugged me. ‘It’s only because we love you. I think you’re right to search for this fella.’
‘Well, thank you, Jack.’
There was a dangerous glint in Jack’s eye, which could mean only one thing: and, sure enough it happened. ‘It’s about time someone noticed how wonderful you are. Don’t you think, Chas?’
Subtle as a lump hammer, Jack’s overt challenge brought Charlie’s head snapping upright, and I noticed a deep flush across his cheeks. ‘Sorry?’
Oh dear. Cue round two: ‘I said Rom should find someone who appreciates her.’
Charlie’s midnight blue eyes flicked from Jack to me, holding my gaze for a second before he blinked the moment away. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t hear you. So when are we meeting for rehearsal this week?’
His snub hit a nerve and I bit into my sandwich to hide it. Tom caught my reaction and winked at me, patting the grass beside him in invitation. Gratefully, I accepted, moving away from Charlie and Jack’s discussion.
‘Ignore him, babes. He’s just being a prat about everything.’
‘I know.’
‘Good. I think it’s cool, honestly. Borderline crackers, but still cool. How’s the blog going?’
‘Great, actually. I’ve had about ten messages from supporters, which is nice.’
Tom’s smile was like warm honey. No wonder he was always a hit with the ladies at gigs. ‘Well, seeing your chap at the gig was a great thing, I reckon.’
‘You do?’
‘Definitely. Because now you know it’s possible to find him again. He’s in this city and that means he could be closer than you think. He could live above Ricky WahWah’s.’ He pointed at the popular music shop, where he and Charlie teach occasional music lessons. ‘He could drink in The Garter over there. Something suitably rubbish, probably, like Sol or Leffe – not real ale like us proper men.’ I laughed as his attention switched to an old lady approaching us with a scratty dog in tow. ‘And that could be his nan …’
I love the way that Tom can make me forget I’m angry or stressed, just with a well-placed phrase. He has an amazing eye for the comical in any situation. I know it was once a career contender for him, too. Just before we started university, he took a stand-up show to Edinburgh Fringe and, by all accounts, was a bit of a hit. But the lure of music soon usurped his love of comedy and now only we are treated to his comic skills.
‘Thanks, hun.’
He stroked my hand. ‘Listen, if this chap has any sense, he’ll be hunting for you, too. So let’s keep everything crossed that something turns up soon, OK?’
Pleased by his vote of confidence, I agreed. But little did I know how effective his wish would turn out to be …
Just wanted to say, I think your quest is brilliant. Keep going! Maisie x
A friend told me about your blog and I’m so glad I came to see it. What you’re doing is great, like a real-life fairytale! C. Smith
Don’t worry that you haven’t found him yet. Something will turn up. Everyone at work is rooting for you – can’t wait to see what happens in your quest! Kathy96
You are crazy but if you don’t try you’ll never know. Good luck to you. GR007
The messages of support had started to appear from my fourth blog post and were increasing in number. It amazed me how all these complete strangers came across my blog – especially now that my followers had grown from just my kind bandmates to people I’d never met. That very fact filled me with hope about my quest: after all, if these strangers could find me, then it was completely conceivable that PK could find me, too.
As I worked on the week’s quota of jingles, my growing excitement at the burgeoning popularity of my blog took the edge off the lyrical challenge of purporting the virtues of vertical blind suppliers, coach tour operators and even a well-known haemorrhoid preparation.
Wren’s face was a picture when I met up with her one evening at Petito’s, a bright, modern canalside restaurant in Brindley Place, not far from her home.
‘I can’t believe you had to sing about piles,’ she exclaimed, eliciting a disapproving stare from the older couple seated at the table next to us.
‘Say it a bit louder, hun – the ducks on the other side of the canal didn’t quite catch that,’ I grimaced, ducking my head behind the menu.
Wren giggled and raised her glass of wine. ‘Romily Parker, I salute you. You’re the only person I know who can write a song about embarrassing medical conditions. Whatever next, diarrhoea?’
‘Did one for that last month.’
‘Awesome.’ She topped up our glasses with red wine. ‘Anyway, enough about the day job. What’s happening with the quest?’
‘I’m getting more supporters every week. Someone has to know who he is.’
‘I certainly hope so. I mean, it’s March and you haven’t exactly made much headway yet, have you? Apart from the fleeting glimpse that may or may not have been the man in question last month.’
‘It’s still early in the year. There’s time.’
‘Yes, there is. But there’s also time to conclude that it was a lovely, romantic notion that just won’t stand up to the test of time. We all have our “what-if” memories, Rom. I still think about that guy I met on holiday in New York when I was eighteen. He took me on a horse-drawn carriage tour of Central Park and gave me a single yellow rose. But it was one day – and I knew I wouldn’t see him again. It’s just a nice memory. And we need nice memories for the days when we think nobody will ever be interested in us. Not to chase after indefinitely.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘And I really don’t want to be the one to say it because, you know, I desperately want this all to come good for you. I would hate you to be hurt by this, you know.’
‘I know, hun, but it’s just a year of my life. If I can do this, regardless of whether I’m successful or not, then it proves I can set my mind to something and see it through.’
Wren observed me intently. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Then we need to up the ante. I’ll think of something.’
The Garter pub was packed when I walked in the following evening. As usual, there was the odd combination of patrons: well-to-do diners enjoying the expensive gastro-pub food, raucous locals indulging in a few pints after work and pockets of students downing pints as they crowded around tiny tables or playing darts in the pub’s newly renovated interior.
‘Remind me what we’re doing here?’ I asked Wren, as she ducked through a gap in the crowd to claim a small table by a slot machine in one corner.
‘We’re here because it’s just possible that your handsome stranger might be.’
‘How do you figure that?’
Wren hung her coat over the back of the chair. ‘If he’s local, he’s likely to have a local – a pub, I mean – and this could be it.’
I laughed at her seriousness. ‘It could be, or it could be any other pub anywhere across the city. Are you suggesting we visit all of them? Because I think we might need more than a year to do that. Not to mention the fact that we might end up alcoholics in the process.’
Wren was undeterred by my amusement. ‘Well then in that case you could meet him at an AA meeting, so it could all be worth it after all.’
I looked around the packed pub. ‘I don’t think he’s in here, Wren.’
‘You didn’t think he’d be in that supermarket on Valentine’s Night, but he was, wasn’t he? Think of the possibility, Rom! Now, I’m going to get us some drinks, so you keep looking, OK?’
I smiled as she headed to the bar. I knew the chances of us just happening to bump into PK here were slim at best, but her belief in what I was doing was touching nevertheless. I flicked to my emails on my phone and saw that I had received another three messages on my most recent blog post. I was just about to look at them when the pub door opened and in walked Charlie and Jack.
Of course, they spotted me straight away, Charlie’s expression more of surprise than delight to see me, unlike Jack, who beamed brightly and bounded over.
‘I didn’t know you were going to be in here tonight,’ he said as he and Charlie approached.
‘Ditto,’ I replied. ‘Wren thought it was a good idea.’
‘Ah right,’ Jack replied, clearly confused. ‘Why?’
‘We’re here on official quest business.’
Charlie shifted uncomfortably and stared in the direction of the bar. Jack raised an eyebrow and sat down on Wren’s empty chair.
‘You’ve had another sighting?’
I couldn’t ignore Charlie’s discomfort as I answered. ‘No, nothing like that. Wren just thought …’
‘Aha! Spying on us, are you?’ Wren interjected as she arrived back with two shots of JD and Coke.
Jack vacated the seat and rejoined Charlie. ‘Perish the thought. We just fancied a blokes’ night out, didn’t we, Chas?’
Charlie muttered something unintelligible, and avoided eye contact with me.
Wren and Jack exchanged looks and I stared resolutely at my drink.
Jack slapped Charlie’s back. ‘Well,’ he said, a little too brightly, ‘we have an appointment with a rather lovely local ale, so we’ll love you and leave you, OK?’
‘Have a good night,’ I offered.
Charlie lifted his eyes to mine momentarily. ‘You too.’ And then they were gone, Jack pushing Charlie into the crowd by the bar.
Wren giggled and leaned towards me. ‘Blimey, how awkward was that?’
Glumly, I twisted my glass in the puddle of water on the dark, shiny table surface. ‘I know.’
‘Stuff him, Rom. He needs to grow a pair. You’ll show him when you find the mystery man and live happy ever after.’
I smiled back. But as the night wore on, ultimately proving fruitless for me (although Wren managed to elicit the phone number of the rather cute barman, so perhaps not a total loss), my thoughts kept returning to Charlie’s expression. Lately, I had begun to hope that things were becoming more settled between us, but his reaction tonight harked back to that awful argument in Jack’s van after the New Year’s Eve wedding. Was this how it would be with us from now on, I wondered?
After a bus ride back to Wren’s, I said goodnight and hailed a taxi home. As the bright lights of the city passed by in a bright blur, I sank into the back seat and my thoughts returned to PK. Forget what Charlie Wakeley thought, I was going to carry on searching. Wren was right: I had to believe that I could bump into him again anywhere, at any time. After all, if it had happened once, why not again?
Reaching into my bag, I retrieved my mobile and was surprised to find a text from Charlie.
Hope the search went well. Sorry for being a moron. See you tomorrow Cx
As messages of support continued to appear on the comments section of my blog posts, I found myself increasingly touched by the enthusiasm and unshakeable belief of complete strangers in what I was doing.
Jack’s girlfriend Sophie certainly seemed to think so. After The Pinstripes’ gig rehearsal next day, she arrived bearing three large pizza boxes, much to the delight of everyone present.
‘Seriously, Rom, everyone at work is following your blog now. I mentioned it in the staffroom last week and it turned out most of the teachers had heard about it already. Two of my colleagues mentioned your quest today without any prompting from me, and then proceeded to tell me about their “what-if” stories.’
This was the second time I had heard that phrase this week. ‘Wren said that. She thinks my handsome stranger is my “what-if”.’
Sophie smiled. ‘Could be. But it turns out this kind of thing has happened to lots of girls. It’s just that none of them were brave enough to try to pursue it, unlike you.’
‘Wow. I had no idea.’
‘I reckon if you do this and find him, you’ll be a hero for a lot of women who want to believe that once-in-a-lifetime romances like that can happen.’
I poured boiling water from the kettle into Tom’s battered yellow teapot and gave it a stir. ‘Well, if Wren has her way we’ll be spending an awful lot of time visiting local pubs in order to find him.’
Sophie’s black-brown eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, I heard about that. Jack and Charlie were full of it when they went out for their ride this morning.’
‘Oh? What did they say?’
‘Well, when Charlie first saw you sitting there by yourself he thought you’d located the mystery man and were on your first date. I think he was a bit miffed about it, although of course he didn’t admit it after he realised his mistake. Jack ribbed him all night apparently, and it was still going on this morning.’
Charlie was laughing with Tom and Jack at the other side of the shoe factory rehearsal room. I lowered my voice in case he could hear me. ‘I don’t know why he would think that. He only needs to read my blog to see that the Valentine’s Night sighting is the closest I’ve got to PK so far.’
‘Don’t worry what Charlie thinks, Rom. You go for it with this quest.’
‘Thanks, Sophie. So have you had a “what-if”, then?’
Sophie visibly sparkled. ‘About a year before I met Jack I was in London on a drama trip. We were visiting Covent Garden when this beautiful man with the most amazing azure blue eyes bowed to me by the entrance to Neal’s Yard. That’s all he did: just bowed – a flamboyant, full Shakespearean bow. And then he left. But it took my breath away. I still wonder what would have happened if he had said something, or if I’d met him again.’
I had no idea if Charlie had heard what I said, but his mood was markedly different that evening as we ploughed our way through the boxes of pizza and copious mugs of tea. He made an effort to smile at me whenever I caught his eye and he even offered me a lift to the wedding gig that Saturday. Although I was still irritated by his earlier attitude, the apparent white flag he was waving came as a blessed relief, so I agreed. Despite all that had gone between us since Christmas, I couldn’t deny that Charlie in charming mode was impossible not to like.
Just after eight on Saturday morning, The Pinstripes piled into a motorway service station on the M6 after a criminally early pre-dawn van loading. The wedding venue we were travelling to was a medieval manor house in Northumberland and we had been asked to arrive and set up as early as possible. It would be a five-hour drive from door to door, but at least D’Wayne had arranged accommodation for us nearby after the gig – even if we would have another early start book tomorrow.
After all the recent weirdness between Charlie and I, the journey so far had been surprisingly jovial. Steering well clear of any possibly contentious issues, we resorted to gig stories and memories from school, college and university – far safer territory for both of us. As the miles passed by, I began to relax in the heated seats of his dark green Volvo estate, carefully enjoying our conversation.
Most of the food concessions in the service station were only just coming to life, so the band descended on WHSmith’s for crisps, chocolate bars, fruit juice and cans of drink. Charlie and Jack, coffee snobs to the last, opted to wait for the Italian coffee concession to open, refusing to consume anything produced by the automatic machine in the shop. Meanwhile Wren incurred the wit of Tom for insisting on buying The Times to do the crossword.
‘Call yourself an honest, working-class woman?’ he lambasted her. ‘Anyone else would buy Puzzler or Take a Break, but – oh no – not you! Well, you know what you can do with your bourgeois, middle-class word games. Give me good, honest Hangman and I-Spy any day of the week!’
Half an hour later, we had all given in to the inevitable and purchased coffee and cake from the counter after our junk food choices paled beside Charlie and Jack’s far superior offerings.
‘Why have they booked a band if it’s a medieval wedding?’ Wren asked, taking a bite of an enormous double chocolate chip muffin that was almost as big as her head.
Tom smiled. ‘Apparently it’s a compromise the bride made for the groom. She gets the medieval theme, he gets music he and his friends can dance to.’
‘Sounds like a marriage built on good, solid foundations then,’ I replied.
‘Shame D’Wayne couldn’t be here this morning,’ said Jack, ‘otherwise he’d be able to suggest how long the marriage is likely to last.’ He hunched his shoulders up to give the appearance of a too-muscular neck, adopted a broad Handsworth accent and shook his head sagely: ‘“I give them twelve months maximum.”’
‘Do you think they’ll all be dressed up, though?’ Wren asked. ‘I’m not quite sure how a hundred and fifty guests are going to manage moshing to “I Kissed a Girl” in full medieval garb.’
‘That’s another thing: who requests “I Kissed a Girl” for a wedding? It’s hardly a song you want your granny dancing to, is it?’ Jack offered. The mental picture this created sent us all into helpless giggles.
‘It’s the groom’s friends’ favourite song,’ Tom informed us, his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the gig’s final details taking us all aback. ‘It was the anthem of the stag weekend.’
‘Has D’Wayne got you on the payroll now?’ Charlie asked with surprise. ‘Do we need to start calling you T’Om?’
This was met with the kind of hilarity that can only be created by a group of people with sleep deficiency coupled with a caffeine and sugar overload. When the laughter finally subsided once more, Tom enlightened us. ‘I only know because Cayte’s covering the back story of the wedding for a freelance thing she’s doing for Brides Magazine.’
Since the Valentine’s Night gig, Tom and Cayte’s attraction had blossomed into a full-blown relationship and she was now a regular face whenever we got together for food or a night out. Tom liked to refer to her as ‘a little something I picked up with my groceries’ – a joke that never seemed to lose its allure for the two of them, despite it wearing thin for Jack and Charlie.
‘Honestly, Rom, if he uses that flippin’ line one more time when we’re out riding, I’m going to push him off his singlespeed,’ Charlie grumbled once we were back in the car and heading north.
‘Give him a break. He’s happy again – that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
Charlie pulled a face. ‘I guess so.’
I leaned back and listened to the metallic clunking of the equipment stacked up to the roof as the car bumped over the changing tarmacs of the motorway. ‘I reckon this gig is destined to be another D’Wayne McDougall extravaganza – medieval wedding, bride and groom fighting over the entertainment choices, everyone in tights … It already carries the hallmarks of a classic.’
Charlie laughed. ‘You may well be right. Still, let’s just think about the millionaire gig.’
The thought of the Gig That Could Change Everything was enough to send lightning bolts of thrill careering up my spine. ‘Has Tom found out any more details yet?’
‘He was telling me the latest last night. The venue is a country palace just over the Thames from Kew Gardens. It’s called Syon Park and by all accounts it’s stunning. Countless celebrities have been married there and it’s been used as a location for feature films and TV shows. I think some duke and his family still own it. Tom was gushing – I think he’s more excited about getting to play there than he is about how much we’re getting paid.’ He paused and I sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere. ‘Look, Rom, I was a total idiot on Wednesday night. I just didn’t expect to see you there. To be honest, I thought you were on a date. So you can see why I was a bit quiet?’
I couldn’t really. Any right Charlie had to comment on what I did had surely been surrendered when he passed up the opportunity for us to be together. As far as I was concerned, he could think whatever he liked, just as long as he didn’t tell me what to do with my life. But his sincerity made me swallow my objections and simply smile in return.
‘Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it.’
This polite answer seemed sufficient reward and I watched him relax as he drove.
‘I don’t reckon you’d find anyone in The Garter, though,’ he added.
‘You don’t? Wren did – she got the barman’s number. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. She’s determined to help me find my man.’
His not-so-silent groan was impossible to miss. ‘You still believe that’s possible?’
‘Yes, I do. I definitely saw him at that gig.’
‘Fair enough.’
Unwilling to discuss what was already a highly uncomfortable topic further, I changed the subject as the motorway stretched out before us.
By the time we arrived at Beauforden Manor, Charlie and I had established unspoken boundaries for our conversation and I felt considerably calmer as a result. When we were discussing non-contentious issues, the old magic between us was back: the jokes that sparked off each other’s comments, creating layer upon layer of wit. When it was like this, it was almost as if our conversation at Christmas had never happened. Almost …
The medieval manor house was darkly beautiful, its walls rising from wildly romantic gardens edged with cedars, willows and oaks that led to the silver expanse of a river, which wound its way around the hill on which the building stood. We set up in the grand central hall of the manor, which had been significantly embellished with overtly Gothic splendour by its owners during the Victorian era. Candles burned at every window and along the length of three sixty-foot dining tables that stretched from the top table. Gold-painted platters were set at every place and earthenware jugs of peonies, ivy and roses adorned each table. It was certainly impressive, although Wren, Jack and Tom struggled to take it seriously once they had spotted the venue’s staff walking around sulkily in full medieval dress.
‘You’ve got to hope they’re being paid sufficiently for the ignominy of having to be seen in public like that,’ Jack gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. ‘No wonder they all look so miserable.’
‘There are times when I realise how lucky I am not to have to wear a uniform for work,’ Tom agreed, lowering his voice as a particularly surly older gentleman in bulging smock and pea-green tights walked past carrying a stack of chairs. ‘This is one of those times!’
‘Alright, lads and lasses.’ A gruff-looking man in a baron’s outfit was approaching us. Grasping a very un-twelfth-century clipboard, he surveyed the half-assembled equipment. ‘I’m Gary, event organiser at Beauforden. This is looking good. You’ve got everything you need?’
Jack shook his hand. ‘I think so. Jack Williams – I think we spoke on the phone earlier?’
A broad smile spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh yes, the keyboard player with the dodgy sat-nav. Don’t worry, lad, you’re not the first to get taken the wrong way on the moors by one of them contraptions.’
Jack dropped his head as the rest of us launched into raucous laughter at his expense. ‘I ended up in a field. The only thing I could do was call here and ask them to guide me in. Thanks, mate.’
‘No worries. Now you’ve got a dressing room just through that door and I’ve laid out your costumes in there. Any probs, give us a shout.’ He began to stride away.
Shock ricocheted round the band. ‘Costumes?’ Charlie repeated weakly.
Gary turned back. ‘Aye, lad. The ones your manager sent.’
Wren paled. ‘Did anyone know about this?’
‘No,’ Jack said, ‘and I only spoke to D’Wayne this morning. He never mentioned it.’
Tom’s face was the colour of the crimson roses that framed the stage. ‘I’ll kill him!’
‘Maybe they aren’t that bad,’ I offered, even though I suspected I was wrong. ‘Perhaps we should just go and see them before we all start to panic?’
Five minutes later, we were staring at the most garish collection of quasi-medieval garments ever assembled. These monstrosities made the staff costumes we had been mocking not ten minutes beforehand look almost fashionable.
‘D’Wayne is history, man,’ Tom growled. ‘Nobody gives me canary-yellow tights and lives to laugh about it.’
‘You think you have problems.’ Jack held a purple velvet tunic aloft. ‘I’m going to look like an aubergine in this.’
‘The green tights and matching hat will help with that,’ Wren giggled.
‘Yous lot all getting on OK?’ Gary’s smiling face appeared at the door.
Tom smiled hopefully. ‘We don’t have to wear these if we don’t want to, right?’
‘’Fraid so, lad,’ Gary answered, his mirth barely hidden. ‘S’all in the contract. Your manager agreed it when we booked you. Those tights are surprisingly comfy when you get used to them, you know.’ Chortling, he departed, leaving us helplessly staring after him.
Wren picked up her mustard-yellow velvet dress, burgundy twisted rope headband and veil. ‘The way I see it, we don’t have a choice. I vote we get changed, do the gig and then plan all the truly nasty ways we’re going to wreak our revenge on D’Wayne.’
Only one good thing could be said about the outlandish outfits: at least we didn’t look out of place. Whichever sadistic fancy dress emporium supplied The Pinstripes’ garb for the evening had obviously also been responsible for clothing every guest and member of the bridal party.
Halfway through the second set, we launched into ‘Love Shack’ and the assembled guests (particularly enthusiastic about dancing owing to the prohibitive amounts of mead they had consumed) started bopping about in their ridiculous outfits. Half of them began an energetic conga line around the great hall, the stragglers at the end running as best they could in brightly hued hose and preposterous curling-toed shoes, while the rest of our audience were frantically moshing in a manner more akin to a rock concert crowd. As we looked out at the completely bizarre scene before us, we all suddenly realised how hilarious the situation was. Charlie was the first to snigger, struggling to sing the male lead in the song from behind the drum kit. Wren and I followed suit and Tom had to stop playing his guitar as the wave of mirth hit him next. By the time we reached the end of the song, tears were rolling down our faces and we couldn’t look at each other for fear of losing the plot entirely.
At the end of the gig, we were all on a high.
‘I’m thinking burnt orange might be my colour,’ Tom said, twirling around the stage in his tunic and yellow tights as we packed away.
‘Yeah, mate, it matches your eyes,’ Charlie replied from behind the stacks of his drum cases.
I walked back into the dressing room to change out of the pale blue velvet gown and tall lilac hennin hat. As far as our costumes for the evening went, I think I’d received the best – Wren’s mustard yellow and burgundy braid number resembled a product from an occupational therapy class for depressed colour-blind seamstresses, while the less said about Charlie’s harlequin brown, cream and puce velvet tunic with slate-grey tights the better.
As I folded up my costume, Stevie Wonder started warbling from the front pocket of my bag. I retrieved my mobile and saw that I had three calls and a voicemail message from Uncle Dudley.
‘Bab, it’s happening! Baz called me tonight to say he has some stills of you and your fella! He’s bringing them round to the boat tomorrow afternoon, so get yourself over here as soon as you can. It might just be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for and …’ His voice trailed off and I could hear Auntie Mags’ muffled voice in the background. ‘Yes … I know, I said that, Magsie … say what? Righty-ho. Sorry about that, our Rom. Your auntie says she tried out a new recipe today that is exactly what you’ll need when you see the pictures. Tarar-a-bit!’
‘Everything OK?’ Charlie asked, taking me by surprise.
I smiled, feeling a strange fluttering in the pit of my stomach. ‘Yes, I think it is now.’
He stared at me and for a moment I thought he was going to say something more, but he simply nodded and left. I wasn’t altogether sure whether I was relieved or disappointed by this – to have such a breakthrough happen and not to share it with him was yet another reminder of how things had changed between us. But I couldn’t think about that now: the news from Uncle Dudley was far too exciting to ignore.
Alone once more in the dark wood-panelled room, I sank down on to the oak bench that ran round three of the four walls. I could hardly believe it. I was finally going to see him again – not a fleeting glimpse like before, but an irrefutable image that time couldn’t fade.
There had been so many happenings lately that were now linking together – the Valentine’s Night gig sighting, the growing support for my quest, the collective ‘what-if’ stories from Sophie and her colleagues at school – surely these were confirmations that spending my year searching for him was right?
There was only one way to test this theory: I needed to see those photos.
I can’t remember much of the ride over to Kingsbury next day. My head was consumed by a multitude of thoughts, elbowing and jostling for position like cramped commuters jammed into a morning train. In fact, it nearly wasn’t a ride at all: I was tempted to drive straight from home to Our Pol, but a sense of duty to my parents and two weeks without giving my bike a decent outing led me instead to choose Sunday lunch in the beige kingdom first.
Thankfully, my parents were still blissfully unaware of my blog and Uncle Dudley’s one-man mission to locate PK. And it was likely to remain the case for the foreseeable future, especially given that Mum and Dad (who only used their aged home PC for work spreadsheets and wouldn’t know how to Google anything if their beige lives depended on it) were resolutely against social media in any form.
The delicious naughtiness of concealing something from them was impossible to resist. Of course, my principle is always to tell my parents about the latest developments in my life, just not necessarily right away …
Crossing over the canal bridge and turning on to the towpath, I shivered as my stomach somersaulted for the umpteenth time that day, knowing the inevitable moment of truth was accelerating towards me. Knocking on Our Pol’s bow doors, I hoisted my bike on to the narrowboat’s roof, removed my gloves and cycle helmet and stepped inside.
If there was ever an Oscar awarded for ‘Most Ineffective Attempt at Nonchalance’, my aunt and uncle would be guests of honour at Elton John’s winners’ afterparty. They stood rigidly by the kitchen sink, identikit fixed grins across their faces.
‘Cup of tea?’ Auntie Mags asked, her voice almost squeaking as she battled the excitement evident in every syllable of her body language.
I tried to answer as calmly as I could. ‘Yes, please. Just what I need after my ride. Everything good with you, Uncle Dud?’
My uncle was even worse, fidgeting like a coiled spring about to unravel. ‘Fine, bab, just peachy.’
‘You are rubbish at waiting, aren’t you?’ I laughed, as my aunt and uncle rushed to the table and pushed a brown, A4 envelope towards me.
Clasping her hands to her chin, Auntie Mags fixed me with her gaze. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I think so.’ Holding the envelope in front of me, I realised my hands were shaking. I made a conscious effort to slow my breathing, ignoring the insistent flutter of my pulse, and turned the envelope over to break its seal.
Please let this be him.
Uncle Dudley wrapped a nervous arm around my aunt. So much hope and love were mixed in their encouraging smiles that I had to close my eyes for a second to push the mass of emotion away.
My fingers clumsy with impatience, I pulled back the envelope flap, the salt and vinegar scent of brown paper rising to my nostrils as I did so. I felt the cool glossiness of photo paper and I slowly pulled the picture out, its white reverse appearing first.
Here goes …
I flipped over the image, scanning its hazy black and white detail. Before my eyes were the familiar shapes of the Christmas Market stalls where we had met, the blurry faces of Christmas shoppers crowded around us. And there, in the midst of it all, were two figures, one of whom I instantly recognised …
‘Well?’
‘It’s – a wonderful photo …’ I looked up at my rapt audience and held it out to them, tears welling in my eyes ‘… of me.’
The silence in Our Pol was deafening.