CHAPTER TEN

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (a man after midnight)

‘It’s the back of his head.’

‘Yes, I know it is, Wren.’

‘The back of his head, Rom! That’s all you have?’

‘Oh, look, Fat Face has a sale on. Shall we go in?’

Wren wasn’t listening, staring at the photo in her hands as we travelled down a vivid pink-lit escalator in The Mailbox. ‘I suppose one consolation is that you can compare the back of this guy’s head with the bloke you saw the back of at the Valentine’s gig.’ She cracked up, oblivious to the disapproving looks she was getting from two well-heeled ladies walking out of Harvey Nic’s. ‘You have to admit it’s funny.’

‘Hilarious. Where did you want to go for coffee?’

She gathered herself together long enough to give me a sensible answer. ‘Let’s head for New Street, then we can take our pick.’ As her eyes met mine, her mirth vanished. ‘Oh Rom, are you upset? I shouldn’t have laughed, I’m sorry.’ Linking her arm through mine, she gave me a squeeze. ‘Right. We’re going to think about lovely, girly things now and for the rest of the afternoon, OK?’

A week after I first laid eyes on the photo, I was feeling decidedly calmer about the whole thing – in fact, I even found myself laughing with Jack and Soph when I shared the photo with them yesterday evening. Yes, I was disappointed, but what mattered was that he was in the photo, which meant that he was real and it had happened. However I looked at it, I couldn’t escape the positives in this situation.

‘It’s one more piece of the puzzle,’ I explained to Wren when we sat down in a coffee shop ten minutes later, watching shoppers milling about outside as a street performer played his tenor sax, accompanied by a sound-activated dancing reggae cat.

Wren stirred the whipped cream into her venti hot chocolate. ‘You’re amazing, Rom. I’d have given up months ago. So what happens now?’

‘I don’t know. We keep looking, I suppose. Uncle Dudley reckons the blog will bear fruit soon, especially as the number of followers keeps growing.’

‘How many do you have now?’

‘Nearly forty. I don’t know how they find it, but they’re certainly very enthusiastic when they arrive. If my chances of success were directly proportionate to the level of belief in my followers, I’d be on to a dead cert.’

‘Hmm …’ She was flicking through an old local paper, left on our table. ‘I guess your problem now is that the supporters you have aren’t much good for anything other than cheering you on. What you need is …’ She broke off as something caught her eye.

Wren possesses the type of creative brain that operates at a zillion miles an hour, all day, every day. Consequently people assume she’s a ditzy redhead, owing to her apparent inability to finish sentences or follow the thread of a discussion. In reality, she is probably more intelligent than the rest of us put together, capable of multitasking several different trains of thought and physical actions at once. One school report famously suggested that Wren had the potential to become ‘either a prodigiously gifted young woman or a despot in the making’ – a description she frequently reminds us of with unbridled pride.

‘Anyway, at least I know that the man I met was real. Wren?’ I waved my hand in front of her face, but her eyes would not be moved from the crumpled newspaper spread out between our coffee mugs. ‘Hello? Earth to Wren …’

‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed, stabbing page 12 with her finger. Lifting her head, she beamed, triumph igniting her expression. ‘I know how we can find him! Why didn’t I think about this before?’ She slapped the heel of her hand to her forehead. ‘Dumbnut! I apologise, Rom, for being so bloomin’ slow on the uptake here. This is perfect!’ Any moment, I expected Wren to lift off and bump up against the ceiling, like a newly filled helium balloon.

‘Wren, calm down. What are you talking about?’

‘This!’ She rotated the newspaper and indicated a page.

‘The Encounters section?’

‘Yes! We put an ad in there, saying where you were, what you were both wearing and what happened, and then when he reads it he’ll get in touch and that will be it!’

‘As long as he reads this paper.’

‘Rom, everyone reads this paper. Anyway, that’s just details. I want you to find him again. I think you deserve to have a gorgeous man rescuing you, especially after all that time you waited for Charlie.’

Out of all of my closest friends, Wren’s opinion of me was one of those I cherished the most. It was unspeakably touching to see her so passionate about my happiness.

‘In fact, I think we should write the advert now and I’ll email it in.’

Now it was my turn to be cautious. ‘Don’t you think we should maybe take some time to consider this properly?’

‘Oh come on, sweets, where’s your famous sense of adventure? Grab a pen and let’s get writing!’

 

Even though I had my reservations about Wren’s latest plan, I had to admit that I couldn’t think of anything else that might work. Since Baz’s not-so-great photographic evidence of the meeting with my stranger, developments had been scarcer than promotion opportunities for my boss at work. Wren’s Encounters advert was due to go in the following weekend’s paper (after she had insisted on rewriting it at least five times since our first draft a few days ago), and Uncle Dudley had nothing to report, apart from a new batch of lovely messages from my ever-growing crowd of supporters:

Go for it Romily – you carry our dreams of fairytale endings with you! xx rosieNYC

Hope you find your chap. Best of luck dave_carter

I go 2 the city every wknd and all the blokes r proper mingers LOL. Gd luck finding the only fit one! :D x chelC

This is a great campaign! All my friends at school are watching you xoxoxo Jenna96

Such enthusiastic encouragement was going to take some getting used to, unaccustomed as I was to sharing the intricate details of my love life with half of cyberspace. But then, as Uncle Dudley reminded me, ‘The wider the net, the more chance you’ve got of catching your fella.’

I had to believe that was possible, even though the trail had gone cold – temporarily, I hoped. At least Wren was a gold-card-bearing member of the quest, and my other friends, though happy to make kind-hearted jokes at my expense, were supportive too. The only person yet to be convinced was Charlie.

Following our discussion on the way to the medieval wedding, the tension between him and I had noticeably eased, but we were far from the level of honesty we had shared before the quest began. My instinct was to tell him everything – fifteen years of doing so wasn’t easy to forget – but the subject remained firmly out of bounds. Not wishing to be the unwitting instigator of an argument, I resolved to avoid it entirely when Charlie and I were together.

Meanwhile, the wedding gigs began to increase in frequency. As March passed into April, one wedding emerged that was to pass into Pinstripes’ history: ‘The Bunny Wedding’.

Set in a hotel on the outskirts of Leeds, the Easter Saturday gig had appeared promising enough when D’Wayne provided us with the details. But when we gathered together mid-rehearsal in the old shoe factory to listen to the couple’s requirements, we had no inkling of the delights that lurked in store for us.

‘OK, we’re looking at a standard set but the couple have vetoed the Motown medley in favour of the Bee Gees one – they think their guests will be up for a bit of “Saturday Night Fever” and “Grease” rather than “Heard it Through the Grapevine”. First dance will be “Better Together”.’

‘Ugh. Jack Johnson. Bo-o-o-o-oring,’ Tom groaned.

I stared at him. ‘It’s a lovely song.’

‘To sing, maybe. To play it’s the musical equivalent of watching paint dry.’ Tom and Wren launched into an impression of playing the song, bm-bming the bass line whilst miming yawning, looking at their watches and slipping a noose around their necks. Charlie and Jack found this utterly hilarious and joined in, motioning drums and keyboard with the same reactions.

‘You’re all cynics,’ I reprimanded them, although it was impossible not to be amused by their act.

‘And you’re sure there aren’t any tights this time?’ Jack asked D’Wayne, whose shoulders instantly drooped. He had been relentlessly ribbed about the medieval outfits since our costumed spectacular.

‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry about the medieval gig,’ he replied. ‘The wedding planner assures me that this is a straightforward event today.’

As it turned out, the wedding planner lied.

What better way to celebrate your commitment to the love of your life on Easter Saturday than an Easter Bunny theme? To our collective horror, we discovered that not only were the entire bridal party resplendent in baby-pink furry bunny-ear headbands, but every guest was expected to wear them, too. According to the wedding planner, each invitation had stated firmly that nobody, be they bridal party member or guest, would be admitted to the nuptials if they failed to come attired in the correct headgear. Needless to say, the wedding entertainment wasn’t exempt from this edict and the best man insisted we comply before we were allowed to set foot in the country club venue.

Tom’s expression conveyed what we were all feeling. ‘I used to think I was a serious musician,’ he thundered, the impact of his fury dampened somewhat by the ridiculous fluffy appendages strapped to his head that bobbed as he spoke. ‘What kind of strange, demented psycho demands bunny ears for their wedding? It just makes a mockery of the whole event.’

I would love to say that the Easter theme ended with the fluffy ears, but I’m afraid I would be lying. Yellow, fluffy toy chicks marked each place setting and were scattered across the top table; pastel pink, blue, yellow and green ribbons were tied around the white chair covers and looped round the marble pillars at the entrance to the reception hall; cuddly toy rabbits were everywhere – nestling round the Easter-egg-topped wedding cake, sitting in the middle of tables holding baskets stuffed with daffodils and white tulips; and real white rabbits sat dejectedly in a caged area on a strip of sickening green Astroturf in the middle of the room. For bridal favours, each guest received a box of Cadbury Mini Eggs and an Easter egg hunt had been organised for the children between the afternoon and evening receptions. Worst of all, garishly pink fluffy rabbit tails were fixed to the back of each chair. It was hideous – a case of a funny idea being taken way too far, eventually taking precedence over everything that should have been lovely about a spring wedding.

And as for the gig – well, you try giving a polished performance with two hundred blatted guests John Travolta-ing to ‘Night Fever’ in matching leporine accessories …

Our task was not helped by the thoroughly unpleasant selection of guests who moaned, bitched and shouted their way through the majority of our set. The bride – highly spray-tanned and sporting at least four sets of false eyelashes – pouted constantly because she was being ignored by her three chunky bridesmaids who were desperately attempting to grab anything remotely male. Meanwhile, her new husband – who had the legend ‘Wolfman’ blue-tattooed across the back of his neck – almost caused a full-on fistfight when he very publicly fell out with his best man, two of the ushers and the mother of the bride.

It doesn’t happen very often, but all of us were thoroughly relieved to reach the end of the gig and leave as soon as possible. However, the night was saved by Tom’s timely summation of the event, as we sat in Jack and Soph’s living room nursing huge mugs of hot chocolate:

‘Look at this way: at least we got out of there alive. Pity the bunnies, people!’

BRIEF ENCOUNTER?

I was the girl in the red coat and cream scarf who crashed into a toy stall in the Christmas Market, Victoria Square, Birmingham, on Saturday 17th December.

I have shoulder-length dark blonde hair, sea green eyes and I’m 5ft 5ins tall. You were the man in the black coat wearing a green, brown and cream striped scarf who came to my rescue. You had wavy, russet-brown hair, hazel eyes and were around 6ft tall. If you don’t want this to remain a brief encounter, please contact me.

Email encounters@brumnews.co.uk quoting

Box No: BE1712

‘I think it’s good,’ Tom said slowly, his eyebrows raised far too high for this to be what he truly thought.

I don’t often wish for alcohol at ten thirty on a Saturday morning, but today the presence of a nice glass of red in the middle of the band rehearsal might just have helped to take the edge off the sinking feeling I was now experiencing.

‘I think it’s cheesy beyond belief,’ I admitted, ‘but it might help to jog someone’s memory.’

Tom handed me a strong cup of tea as Jack joined us. ‘I can’t believe we’re the first ones to show it to you.’

‘To be honest, I hadn’t made that much of an effort to get hold of a copy,’ I confessed.

While I was touched that Wren was supporting me, I remained unconvinced about placing the advert in the paper. Still, at least someone was doing something – and, like Auntie Mags had put it recently (over the most amazingly sticky St Clements cake that, unsurprisingly, turned out to be exactly what I needed): ‘It’s any port in a storm now, kid.’

‘But do you think he’ll still remember meeting you, bearing in mind it’s three and a half months since it happened?’ Jack asked, yelping as Wren clipped his ear.

‘Don’t listen to him. He’s being pedantic.’

‘That hurt. You’re vicious, Wren.’

‘Well, consider it your just reward for overt pessimism, Jack. Seriously, Rom, I think this could work. And if he was as bowled over with you as you said he was, he’ll be searching for you, too.’

With every last ounce of optimism within me, I hoped he was.

Two hours later we broke for lunch, Wren, Tom and Jack heading into town to grab food for us. With the rehearsal room empty, I grabbed the kettle and walked to the tiny kitchen down the hall to refill it.

When I returned, I was shocked to see Charlie standing on the far side of the rehearsal room, head bent over the open newspaper where Jack had left it on the amp beside his keyboard. I had wrongly assumed he had joined the others on the food run. I stopped in the doorway, kettle in hand, debating whether or not to leave. As I stepped back, the floorboard creaked and Charlie looked up.

‘Brief Encounter, huh?’

I walked into the rehearsal room and replaced the kettle on its base, flicking the switch to boil it. ‘It was Wren’s idea.’

‘Hm. Any replies yet?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s only just come out. This morning was the first time I’d seen it.’ That frustrating barrier had appeared again between us, blocking the usual flow of conversation, forcing every word to be considered before it could pass. ‘Cup of tea?’ I offered, desperate to find anything to recapture some of the easiness I so longed for between us.

‘Probably should wait until the others get back.’

‘Oh.’ Unsure whether to leave him reading the offending column and occupy myself with tea-making duties anyway, or wait for his next comment, I remained where I was, goosebumps prickling along my arms as I searched for something else to say.

Why was this so hard? Even though I absolutely believed in my quest and nothing would persuade me otherwise, the atmosphere between Charlie and I sat uncomfortably with my soul. Unfinished business, I suppose. After being convinced that I loved him for the best part of the last three years, perhaps this was understandable: feelings harboured and nurtured for all that time didn’t disappear overnight, did they? As no more was said, I busied myself with making tea, hoping fervently that Wren’s crazy advert would encourage some kind of response soon. I needed to focus on the quest: rogue thoughts about Charlie were most definitely not welcome.

 

In the event, the first response arrived far sooner than anyone could have predicted:

Hey

I saw your ad in the Encounters section and had to reply. I remember meeting you in the Christmas Market and I’d like to pick up where we left off. If you’re interested, let me know.

Sebastian.

‘I don’t think that’s him,’ I said, peering at the reply. My heart was beating like the Duracell Bunny at a rave and my palms were damp.

‘How do you know? He answered the ad, didn’t he?’

‘But Sebastian?’ I pleaded.

‘What’s wrong with Sebastian? It’s a lovely name.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Sebastian on the whole. My stranger didn’t strike me as a Sebastian, that’s all.’

Wren scowled at me. ‘Romily Parker, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a name racist!’

A group of businessmen at the next table were now staring at us. Embarrassed, I lowered my voice. ‘No I’m not. I’m just trying to get my head around the fact that my handsome stranger might be called Sebastian.’

‘Well, what name were you expecting?’

This was an interesting question, one I had mulled over many times since the day I met him. Is it possible to guess someone’s name merely on the strength of two words, a gorgeous face and a striped scarf? He could be a Matt, or a Ben, or maybe a Joe at a push – but he couldn’t be a Sebastian, could he?

Wren’s eyes were sparkling dangerously. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

‘I know. But I need a little more time to prepare myself before I decide whether or not to reply.’

‘Too late. I replied this morning.’

‘What?’

Wren sipped her tea with self-satisfaction. ‘Well, if I’d left it up to you it would never happen. So you’re meeting Sebastian tomorrow evening in the café overlooking St Martin’s church. All you have to do is to decide what you’re going to wear to meet the man of your dreams.’

Robbed of my usual arsenal of witticisms, I nodded blankly. One thing I know about Wren: when she sets her mind to do something, nothing short of a freak meteor strike will dissuade her from seeing it through. The die was cast. I was meeting Sebastian tomorrow.