The following Saturday was Sophie’s birthday. In addition to the meal planned for the evening, Wren and I had arranged a ‘girly day’ of shopping, chatting and eating – or, as Sophie calls it, ‘the holy trinity of girlieness’. After Tom revealed that Cayte felt she didn’t know us well enough yet, Sophie decided to ask her to join us. So at nine am, the four of us met for breakfast in the chic restaurant in Selfridges.
One of the most endearing things about Sophie (and, believe me, there are many to choose from) is how excited she gets about her birthday. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who adores their special day quite as much. No matter what she does or where she spends it, she has an astounding ability to transform herself into a giggling child, finding wonder and awe in everything.
This birthday was no exception. When Sophie laid eyes on the pale pink and green balloons we had tied to her chair, she whooped so loudly that she nearly gave an elderly gentleman sitting by the window heart failure. The barista, who Wren had sweet-talked earlier into helping us (helping herself to his phone number in the process), brought over a heart-shaped cookie and a cappuccino topped with an ‘S’ dusted in cocoa, which earned him a kiss from Sophie.
By the time she’d been treated to a manicure, a slice of elegant Swiss gateau for elevenses in Drucker’s patisserie and a good two hours’ worth of shopping, Sophie was practically effervescent. Over lunch in the Chinese quarter, she finally paused for breath.
‘I am having the best day. Thank you so much!’
Wren hugged her. ‘Just as long as you’re having fun, that’s all that matters.’
‘Is she always like this?’ Cayte whispered to me, when Sophie and Wren were animatedly extolling the attractions of the hunky barista from breakfast.
I smiled. ‘Always. Birthdays do this to her – it’s so sweet.’
‘It’s exhausting,’ Cayte laughed, adding quickly, ‘but sweet, too.’
Perhaps it was because I didn’t know Cayte well enough yet, but her forthrightness and ability to pass wry judgement on any and every subject was taking some getting used to. Wren and I would make wry observations on things we saw around us, but Cayte would take it to the next level, mercilessly dissecting everything within her sight. Even Sophie, in the midst of all her girly birthday glee, commented on it later that afternoon.
We were wandering around the Ikon Gallery, people-watching as much as appreciating the art, when a group of three ladies in their forties came in, talking and laughing loudly. Instantly, our attention was drawn to them and Wren nudged me.
‘That’ll be me, you and Sophie in twenty years’ time.’
I laughed. ‘Bring it on. I think I’d be the one in the green with the perma-tan and the Fendi suit.’
‘Not to mention the embarrassingly loud voice echoing around the gallery. What a nightmare,’ Cayte added, her smile vanishing in an instant when Sophie, Wren and I turned in shock to face her.
Sophie’s perennial brightness dimmed noticeably. ‘You don’t take any prisoners, do you?’
Cayte gave a nervous giggle. ‘I was only saying … I didn’t mean anything by it, I just …’
‘No, I get it, Cayte. But we’re here to have fun, not engage in character assassinations.’
‘OK, look I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin your birthday.’
As suddenly as it had disappeared, Sophie’s smile returned. ‘You haven’t at all. Let’s just have fun, yeah?’
Uncomfortable moment thus averted, our afternoon continued, although I was aware of Cayte approaching each topic of conversation with pronounced caution from then on.
An hour later, we collapsed in the opulent sofas of a Brindley Place wine bar for an end-of-shopping drink before going home to get ready for the evening.
Sophie piled her shopping bags beside her and smiled at us. ‘What a lovely day. Thanks, girls, it was just what I needed.’
‘Glad you had fun – and it’s not over yet,’ I smiled.
Sophie’s eyes sparkled. ‘I know. So, how goes the quest?’
All eyes turned to me. ‘It’s still going. There have been a couple of dead-ends that threw me a little, but I’m staying positive.’
‘I looked at your blog the other day and I couldn’t believe how many fans you have now,’ Sophie said, taking a sip of her sunset-coloured Bellini.
‘They’re not fans …’ I protested.
‘What quest is this?’ Cayte asked, her eyes suddenly alive.
‘Romily’s searching for a gorgeous stranger who rescued her at the Christmas Market last year,’ Sophie squeaked. ‘It’s so romantic!’
‘Oh? Tell me more.’
Sophie and Wren then launched into an enthusiastic briefing of the pertinent details of the quest, sparing no twist, turn or disappointment. Cayte, meanwhile, listened on the edge of her seat, drinking it all in.
‘And you’re spending the whole year searching for him?’
I nodded. ‘It’s more than just looking for a random stranger. It’s about following my heart. And it wasn’t until I started my blog that I understood how many people have had a similar thing happen to them, except they didn’t pursue it. I know people will think I’m crazy, but if I don’t try to find him I think I’ll always wonder what might have happened if I’d taken the chance.’
Explaining my quest to Cayte reminded me of the excitement I had felt about it before the disappointing CCTV photo and the Sebastian dead-end. With a kick of joy I realised that my desire to find him was as strong as ever, the setbacks of recent weeks serving only to further increase my determination.
That evening, we gathered around a large circular table at Bella, the Italian restaurant not far from my parents’ house, for the culmination of Sophie’s birthday celebrations. After the recent tensions regarding D’Wayne, it was wonderful to see my friends relaxed and happy again. Once we had finished eating and Sophie had squealed her way through the box of presents we had pooled our money to buy, Jack – who had been busy tapping various glasses, wine bottles and the blue-glass bud vases on the table, pouring water in and out to establish the correct pitches – proudly performed ‘Happy Birthday’ for his delighted girlfriend, accompanied by the rest of us singing in four-part harmony, much to the amusement of the other diners. This one moment perfectly summed up everything I love about my friends. And it must have been the only time in that restaurant when a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ has elicited calls for an encore …
While Wren and Charlie were working out the bill, Cayte swapped seats with Tom to sit next to me.
‘I had fun today, Rom, thanks for having me.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And, hey, I’m sorry if I upset anyone. I know I can be a bit opinionated – it’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid.’ She pushed her long blonde hair behind her ears, suddenly looking so contrite that my heart went out to her. I often forget how daunting it must be for new partners to enter into our close-knit group, especially if they are unsure of the boundaries.
‘You didn’t upset anyone. It was nice to get to know you.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks. Look, I was thinking about what you told me this afternoon – your quest? I reckon there’s more you can do to get it out there. You need to achieve the most exposure you can to increase your chances of reaching the man in question.’
I twisted in my seat to face her. ‘What were you thinking?’
Cayte’s baby blue eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. ‘OK, this is what I was thinking: I write freelance articles for Newsfast – the group that owns most of the local papers in the region. The features that I write are syndicated across the Midlands, both in print and online. I think, if you agree, I should write an article about you and your quest. Like you say, it’s obviously something that lots of women experience but few act upon, and I think your story is inspiring.’
It was a bit of an unexpected suggestion, but the thought of spreading the word further had definite appeal. ‘So what do you need from me?’
Cayte’s smile lit up her already perfect face as she pulled a notebook and pen from her handbag. ‘Tell me everything.’
The next day the warm late spring sunshine was dancing in glistening globes on the ripples of the deep blue-green canal as I wheeled my bike along the hard-pack ground of the towpath. After a night spent at my parents’ a ride out was exactly what I needed – as was the joy of having some real quest-related news to share with my uncle and aunt. Cayte and I had talked for almost an hour in total, beginning in Bella and continuing at Jack and Sophie’s into the early hours.
Auntie Mags was in the throes of a mammoth baking session when I arrived. Clouds of flour dust rose and swirled in the air and the irresistible smell of baking filled the whole interior of Our Pol. Elvis, trembling as much as ever, was curled dejectedly in his bed by the cooker, his grey furry chin slumped on one of my uncle’s slippers, a weariness in his terrified canine eyes.
‘Everything good here?’ I asked cautiously, taking tentative steps around the stacks of cake tins on the floor.
My aunt wiped her floury hands on her blue polka-dot apron and hugged me. ‘Your uncle is driving me loopy.’
I hid my smile. ‘Why? What’s he up to now?’
‘He’s only gone and found a website for “love against the odds” stories. Well, several, to be precise. He’s been holed up in the bedroom for three days and nearly killed our printer with all the things he’s been printing out. I can’t get any sense out of him, daft old beggar. I tell you, Romily, he’s obsessed.’
‘Oh dear. Shall I put the kettle on?’
Auntie Mags sighed. ‘Might as well. I’m at a loss to know what else to do.’
‘Is that you, bab?’ Uncle Dudley’s voice drifted in from the bedroom at the far end of the narrowboat.
‘Morning, Uncle Dud,’ I called back.
‘With you in a tick. I’m just getting things together.’
Auntie Mags rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, you’d think he was researching for flippin’ Panorama the way he’s carrying on. Anyway, let me look at you.’
Obediently, I did a little twirl, grinning as I did so. ‘What do you see?’
A warm smile greeted me. ‘Well, that’s one determined niece of mine.’ She bent down and began to sort through the cake tins until she stood with an oblong Tupperware box. ‘Perfect! This is the only thing you need when you’re as focused as you are today.’
I would never have thought of millionaire’s shortbread as synonymous with determination before, but when I tasted the rich chocolate, creamy caramel and salty-sweet shortbread, my aunt’s uncanny skill proved correct again.
‘I had a bit of a revelation yesterday,’ I told her, proceeding to explain about the conversation with Cayte and the resulting plan for her article. ‘I think this could really work.’
Auntie Mags chewed her square of chocolate caramel shortbread thoughtfully. ‘It has potential, I grant you. But are you sure this Cayte is the right person to write it?’
‘I don’t see why not. By all accounts she’s a talented journalist – Tom reckons she’ll end up on a national news programme within five years. She certainly seems to know her stuff, so an article from her is likely to gain the attention we need.’
‘When is it going to be published?’
‘I’m not sure. She seems to be so busy at the moment that I guess it’ll be whenever she can fit it in. But we still have seven months of the quest left, so there’s no need to rush.’
There was a loud crash, followed by a muffled curse, and Uncle Dudley emerged from the bedroom, an enormous stack of printed sheets clutched haphazardly in his arms. ‘Flaming ship’s wheel of yours, Magsie,’ he grumbled, dumping the jumbled wad of paper in the middle of the table. ‘Just stubbed my toe on it again.’
Auntie Mags folded her arms and surveyed him sternly. ‘First off, it’s not my ship’s wheel, Dudley, it’s the frankly silly ship’s wheel you decided I needed from one of your blessed car boots. And secondly, if you wore your glasses like the optician told you to, you wouldn’t trip over things in the first place.’
Chastened, Uncle Dudley sank down next to me on to the bench seat. ‘You’re lovely when you’re angry, Magsie.’
‘Oh stop it!’ Auntie Mags reddened and poured him a cup of tea to distract him from her blushes.
I sipped my builder’s-strength tea and listened to the dull thwummph of canal waves hitting the side of the barge as Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags shared smiles that bore a whole story behind them.
‘Now, I’ve been a bit busy on the tinterweb,’ Uncle Dudley said, spreading out the sheets of paper on the table. ‘After that terrible date with the fake stranger, I thought you could do with a spot of uppage.’
Even with my uncle’s famous creativity when it comes to words, I hadn’t heard this one before. ‘Uppage?’
Uncle Dudley looked aghast. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what uppage is? It’s the only thing that works when life’s been dumping its rubbish on you.’
‘You and your made-up words,’ my aunt tutted.
‘It is not made up! My mother said it for years.’
‘Oh well, if your mother said it then it must be right, seeing as she was so well-known for not being a fruitcake.’
Shaking his head, my uncle pressed on regardless. ‘Uppage is when you find things that lift your spirits from the doldrums. Like when I’ve had a tough week with my arthritis and then I find something special at a car boot. Or when I found out my department needed to lose half its workforce, but then discovered I could take early retirement and not lose any of my money. It’s like finding a shiny penny on a rainy day, or when Magsie cooks a new cake, just when I need it. You’ve had some big downs lately. It’s high time for some ups.’
There are times I love my uncle so much I could squish him. ‘So what do you recommend, uppage-wise for me?’
He beamed as brightly as the May sunshine pouring in through Our Pol’s windows. ‘Ah, good question. Now I was thinking you might be wondering what the chances of you finding your fella are, now that you’ve hit a few snags. So I did a bit of virtual digging. And you are going to be amazed at what I found!’ He pulled a sheet from the stack spread before me. ‘Listen to this: “A Solihull man has been reunited with his childhood sweetheart after the discovery of a letter she wrote to him thirty years ago. Al Cunningham lost contact with first love, Ruth Lucas, when her family moved to Leicestershire. After six months with no contact, Mr Cunningham assumed she had forgotten him, going on to marry and have a family. Following the death of his mother, Alan – now divorced – was amazed to find a letter behind a sideboard, written thirty years ago by his childhood sweetheart. ‘I know my mother didn’t approve of Ruth so I think she kept the letter from me, hoping that I would forget her,’ said Mr Cunningham, 46. Visiting the address Ms Lucas gave in her letter, Mr Cunningham met a neighbour who was still in contact with the family. The couple were reunited five months ago and are now planning a fairytale wedding in St Lucia, later this year. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Alan called me,’ Ms Lucas said yesterday, speaking from the home the couple now shares in Solihull. ‘When we met again it was as if the years melted away. I never stopped thinking about him, even though he didn’t respond to my letter. He’s my soul mate and now we’re looking forward to the rest of our lives together.’” See? True love overcomes every barrier!’
I must admit that for my first taste of uppage, this was hard to beat. But there were more – at least fifty more instances of love triumphing over the odds that Uncle Dudley had collected to lift our spirits. For the next hour and a half, the three of us pored over the details of real-life love stories, some of which were so beautiful that all of us were reduced to tears.
‘Ooh, look at us,’ Auntie Mags laughed, wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron. ‘We’re like a season finale from Dynasty! A bunch of soppy gets, the lot of us.’
‘If we carry on like this, Our Pol will sink to the bottom of the Cut,’ Uncle Dudley agreed. ‘But what’s important, bab, is that you realise this stuff happens. You just keep believing and who knows what might happen.’ He patted the stack of evidence on the table. ‘By Christmas Eve, one of these stories could be you.’
In the same way that Auntie Mags’ baking matched every mood perfectly, Uncle Dudley’s true love research was exactly what I needed to see. With so many people willing me to find the man I was looking for, the promise of Cayte’s article and just under seven months remaining of the quest, I felt more positive than ever that success was within my grasp.
I could be on the verge of a breakthrough. Yes, I know I’ve said it before, but this time it’s a real possibility. One of my bandmates has started dating a journalist and she wants to do a piece on my quest! I think she’s going to include this blog, too, so you’re all going to be stars (in a way).
I’ve noticed something over the past couple of weeks that I never would have expected to be an outcome of my search for PK. People keep telling me how different I am, how the quest is changing me. And they like the change. I’ve always felt like I was a confident person, but recently my friends have said how much they’ve noticed it in me. I have to say that following my heart for almost five months seems to suit me. I’m less willing to accept disappointments, and despite the dead-ends and false alarms I’ve encountered so far, my hope is stronger than ever.
So when the opportunity came to widen the net with this article, I jumped at it. I’m not sure exactly when it’s going to be published, but when it happens you’ll be the first to know.
Exciting, eh?
Rom x
‘I think you just pulled the best man!’ Wren’s eyes were wider than saucers.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You did! He just totally hit on you!’
‘All he said was that he was looking forward to hearing me sing,’ I protested as we crunched across the gravel of the staff car park towards Jack’s van.
‘But it was the way he said it, like “hearing you sing” was a euphemism for what he’d really like to see you do …’
‘Wren!’
Tom passed by with an armful of mic stands. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The best man just tried to chat Rom up.’ Wren’s amusement was unbridled.
‘Well, you know what that is,’ Jack grinned, arriving at my side as I stared helplessly at Wren, who was carrying the sound desk bag towards the stone archway of the impossibly gorgeous Scottish castle, the venue for our gig today. The speed of the Wren Malloy Grapevine would make Jensen Button pale.
‘No. But I’ve a feeling you’re about to enlighten me.’
‘That’s the Jim Bowen Theory of Attraction.’
Halfway to the door, I stopped and turned back. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Isn’t he the comedian who used to present that darts quiz show?’
Jack nodded, carrying three drum cases. ‘The very same. It’s the “Let’s Have a Look At What You Could’ve Won” effect.’
I still had no idea what he meant. ‘Which means?’
‘It means that the minute you’re looking elsewhere, that’s the moment that you become completely irresistible to the opposite sex.’
‘Why is that?’
He smirked. ‘Who knows? I guess it’s because you aren’t checking out every bloke as a potential date – you relax, become more yourself, and the fact you aren’t bothered is the ultimate challenge. We like the “Quest Rom”. She rocks.’
It touched me that my friends had noticed the positive effects of my quest.
‘Cayte says her article should be live at the start of June,’ Tom told me, as we set up in the limited space available between two giant pink Cadillac cut-outs that were taking pride of place on the small stage. ‘Her editor loves the idea. It could turn out to be a much bigger feature than she first thought.’
This was fantastic news. More column inches meant more of a chance that the man in question would read it.
I have to say that when D’Wayne first mentioned the wedding gig in a beautiful Scottish castle nestled between heather-crowned mountains with a silver loch lapping at its feet, the last thing I expected was to find a rockabilly theme inside. Yet here it was, resplendent in fifties kitsch, from the diner-style stools at the bar to the Rat Pack and Teddy Boy outfits worn by the groom’s party – including the best man whose polite comment about my singing was responsible for Wren’s current amusement.
‘Hope you’ve brought your bobby socks, Rom,’ Charlie quipped, dropping a coil of leads by my mic stand.
‘Absolutely. Wren and I found our outfits at a fancy dress shop last week. I think you’ll be impressed.’
‘No doubt I will.’ There was a definite twinkle in his eye when he looked at me over his shoulder. I shook away the thought bouncing around my mind like a kid on a space-hopper and jumped down from the stage to go and find Wren.
After much fruitless searching around the giant fifties-themed props in the grand ballroom, I eventually found her in the car park. She was talking and giggling on her phone, oblivious to the world around her, and from her demeanour and lowered, flirtatious tone, I knew there was a man involved.
As she ended the call, she seemed surprised to see me. ‘I thought you were inside.’
‘I was. But then I thought I’d find you. So, who’s the lucky guy this time?’
She shoved her hands into her pockets and glared despairingly at me. ‘I don’t know why, whenever I’m on the phone, you lot assume there’s a man on the other end. Do you think so little of me?’
I waited until she had finished her impassioned speech. ‘Right. So what’s his name then?’
Her pale cheeks became rosebud pink. ‘Seth. The barista from Selfridges who we met on Sophie’s birthday.’
‘Wren Malloy, what are you like?’
‘Oh I know, but he’s so cute and I couldn’t resist! Talk about “wake up and smell the coffee”!’
‘Too much information, thanks!’
‘Noted.’
‘Has D’Wayne arrived yet?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t see him when we were having breakfast at the hotel this morning.’
‘I think he may be a little delicate after Tom persuaded him to take part in a whisky tasting in the bar last night.’ Wren rolled her eyes. ‘I think it’s part of his attempt to fit in.’
‘Oh, bless him. Nobody should take Tom on in a drinking competition.’
‘I would imagine he’s well aware of that now.’ Her eyes followed a delivery driver who was carrying a huge fibre-glass Fender guitar into the venue. ‘Question is, how will Jack and Tom cope with our fifties and sixties set tonight? The first hour is non-stop rock’n’roll.’
‘I would imagine they’ll be thinking of the money, the same way we do every time we perform “9 to 5” and “Copacabana”.’
Wren wrinkled her nose disapprovingly. ‘Tell me about it! Talking of money, though, I was thinking – when we’ve been paid for the millionaire gig, how do you fancy going on a girly weekend to Paris?’
Saving money is about as alien to Wren as quantum physics is to me. ‘You’re meant to be clearing your overdraft and credit card bills with that, remember.’ We walked in through the fire exit into the main hall.
‘I know. But the way I see it, those bills aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, whereas the opportunity for a bit of European culture doesn’t come around very often, and … what the heck is that?’
I followed her pointed finger towards the stage. ‘Ah. That’s the wedding cake.’
Wren giggled. ‘But it’s an Elvis figure. A three-tiered Elvis head and shoulders cake!’
It certainly was. At this rock’n’roll-themed wedding, every vaguely relevant music and culture theme had been referenced, from the High Society-style champagne glasses and early Audrey Hepburn posters around the room, to the table names laid out like the diner menus from Happy Days, and the giant multi-coloured Wurlitzer juke box by the top table. Appearing in our set list for the evening were retro delights such as Little Richard’s ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’, Jerry Lee Lewis’ ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and medleys of songs by Elvis, Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran.
An hour before the event was due to begin, with guests beginning to mill around, The Pinstripes gathered by the bar with Ailsa, the venue’s wedding co-ordinator, for final checks on the evening’s running order.
‘Lucy and Rick have asked for some extra photos to be taken as guests are arriving, so if you can do three or four songs before the first dance, that would be good.’
‘Not a problem,’ Jack nodded. ‘We’ve more than enough be-bop to do that tonight.’
‘It’s a good crowd,’ Ailsa said, as a group of guests looking like extras from Grease passed by. ‘You know, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed planning a wedding so much as I have this one.’
‘Do you get a lot of unusual weddings here?’ I asked.
Ailsa smiled. ‘Not very many. Mostly people want the full “kilts and haggis” experience, although we also had a spate of Lord of the Rings-themed ceremonies a couple of years ago. This makes a nice change for me.’
A man in his mid-fifties walked over and flung a clearly unwelcome arm around the wedding co-ordinator. ‘Ahhh, lovely Ailsa,’ he breathed, sending a waft of stale-cigar-and-whisky odour in our direction. ‘Handling all the fine details of this h-h-happy, h-h-happy day, eh? She’s a wonder, this one. Can handle my requirements any day of the week.’
Ailsa’s smile was pure professional grit as the man coughed a guttural laugh.
‘All part of the service,’ she replied, perhaps ill-advisedly, given the guest’s wicked smile that seeped across his face like an oil slick.
‘H-h-h-ha, h-h-haaa! I’ll bet!’
As he wandered off towards the bride and groom who were greeting their guests by the entrance to the ballroom, Ailsa visibly shuddered.
‘Occupational hazard?’ Charlie asked.
‘Exactly. He’s the stepfather of the bride and was three sheets to the wind when he arrived for the ceremony this morning. I dread to think how much he’s consumed by now.’ She winked at Wren and me. ‘I’d watch out for that one, if I were you.’
Wren laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Rom and I have fended off more than our fair share of lecherous relatives in our time. We can handle him.’
While the boys in the band had made no secret of their feelings towards rock’n’roll songs in rehearsal, the enthusiastic reaction from the entirely fifties-attired guests made it a thoroughly enjoyable experience for all of us when we performed that night. As a vocalist, I actually relish the opportunity to sing well-known songs that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to perform otherwise. Especially if the guests are as appreciative as our audience were that night. The wedding had a truly retro vibe, with every guest entering into the spirit of things with their brightly coloured costumes – ladies in full circle skirts and bobby socks, or Grace Kelly evening gowns, and gentlemen in fitted suits and trilbies. Lucy, the bride, wore a vintage Dior ‘New Look’ strapless wedding gown, its bodice covered in guipure lace roses and studded with pearls, over a full tulle skirt, with long white silk gloves; while her new husband Rick was every inch a Gregory Peck in his grey flannel suit. Watching them dancing with their guests to an era-specific set list was inspiring.
Not wanting to stand out from the crowd, Wren and I had hired two circle-skirt dresses from a fancy dress shop and looked as if we had stepped off the set of Happy Days. Getting into character really helped the show that night, particularly when it came to performing the songs. Fronting a band is very similar to acting: it’s about playing a role – one which, in any other circumstance, you perhaps wouldn’t dream of portraying. On stage, I can be confident, flirty and in control – much more than in real life. I’m happy to chivvy the audience to step on to the dance floor, answering back the obligatory hecklers and keeping the show running smoothly. The key is to ensure that once people are on the dance floor, the band and I make it harder for them to leave. The whole task becomes much easier when Wren is helping me and it’s one of the many things I love about singing with her. If one of us needs a break, the other can take the melody; if one forgets the words, the other can jump in. We call it ‘tag-teaming’ and it’s wonderful to know that my friend has my back during a performance.
In the break between the two sets, Wren and I wandered out into the grounds of the castle to cool down. The air was so fresh it almost hurt my lungs as I gazed out at the beautiful scenery. The last glow of sunset was beginning to dip beneath the shining waters of the loch, bright stars already appearing overhead.
‘This is quite an amazing place. Not a bad setting for your wedding.’
Wren nudged me. ‘Thinking about your mystery man, are you?’
I couldn’t deny it. In such unbelievably romantic surroundings, it was impossible not to think of the man who had burst into my life in such a romantic way. But what was strange was that in all the time I had been in love with Charlie, I had never even considered marrying him. Yet as soon as PK appeared, the thought had become a regular occurrence at our wedding gigs. Which was completely barmy in itself, but there it is. The memory of how he had looked at me had somehow made plausible the possibility of one day spending the rest of my life with him.
‘A-h-h-h-ha!’ boomed a throaty voice behind us. Wren and I turned to see the repulsive stepfather-of-the-bride wheeling his way across the lawn towards us. ‘So this is where you lovely ladies are h-h-hiding yourselves. Naughty, naughty!’
Wren groaned but granted him her brightest smile. ‘Actually, we were just going back inside for the next set.’
Unfortunately, the inebriated man wasn’t likely to be deterred so easily. ‘No h-h-hurry,’ he slurred, grabbing hold of Wren’s arm. ‘After all, you’re being paid to entertain us. So I was thinking of a little private show, if you get my meaning.’
‘I’m sorry. We really have to go …’ Wren balked at his breath as he leaned towards her, lips pursed, making the most gut-wrenching kissy-kissy noises.
‘I think you should let my friend go,’ I said with as much confidence as I could muster, but the tremor at the edge of my voice betrayed my mounting unease.
He didn’t take the hint, instead catching hold of my wrist with his other arm. ‘Two for the price of one, eh?’
‘With respect, I think you should let my artists go,’ said a voice to our right. Wren and I looked over and, to our surprise, saw D’Wayne standing with his arms folded across his chest, looking every inch the scary bouncer.
‘And what is it to you?’ sneered the stepfather.
‘I’m their manager,’ he replied, moving closer. ‘And dealing with dirty old men is not in their contract.’
‘Cost extra, does it?’ His grip on my wrist tightened as I tried to wrench it away.
‘Right, that does it.’
What happened next was so fast it was almost a blur. D’Wayne stepped forward in a single movement, thrusting his arm between the stepfather and me. Our unwelcome guest let go of us in surprise and D’Wayne flipped him over on his back. Wren and I stared down at the stunned man sprawled on the grass.
‘Wow. How on earth did you do that?’
D’Wayne shrugged. ‘I studied judo for a long time. You never forget.’ He looked down at the man at his feet. ‘Now, we’re going back to the reception, sir, and I suggest you do the same. Are we clear?’
Eyes wide with terror, the man nodded dumbly. D’Wayne led us quickly towards the castle doors.
‘Where have you guys been?’ Charlie asked when we rejoined them, his smile vanishing when he saw our expressions. ‘What happened?’
‘D’Wayne has just been a complete hero, that’s what happened,’ Wren replied. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to mess with this man!’
D’Wayne gave a nervous laugh. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she replied, a little too forcefully, making our manager stare at her. ‘He totally karate-chopped that sleazy stepfather of the bride! It was like something from a Kung Fu movie!’
‘It was judo,’ D’Wayne corrected, but Wren wasn’t listening, enthusiastically re-enacting her version of what had just happened as D’Wayne’s embarrassment increased.
The second set passed without further drama, the response from the guests soon removing any thoughts of the sleazy stepfather. When the last bars of the final song ended, our audience applauded and whistled until we gave in and performed ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’, much to their delight as they sang along with all the vigour of a football crowd.
‘Thank you so much,’ the flushed bride smiled as we began to pack away. ‘Everybody’s had the best time tonight.’
When the van was packed, Jack gave us the thumbs-up. ‘Job done. I vote we look for a chippy in that town we pass through on the way back to the hotel.’
D’Wayne pulled a face. ‘Greasy chips? Not my choice of late night food.’
‘Well, don’t feel you have to join us,’ Tom replied, a little too vehemently.
‘I think he should join us,’ Wren cut in, linking her arm around our manager’s considerable bicep – a move that terrified him as much as it amused the rest of us.
‘Um, yeah, I’m cool with that.’
As D’Wayne obediently followed Wren to his car, she looked over her shoulder at us and mouthed, ‘Putty in my hands!’
Tom slung an arm around my shoulder. ‘Now that’s one lady who never needs the Jim Bowen Effect. Just decides what she wants and goes for it. No man is safe, trust me.’ He ruffled my hair. ‘Watch and learn, Rom.’
I pondered this conundrum for most of the week following our return from Scotland, in the spare moments I stole between juggling work and rehearsals for our next wedding booking. Tom had obviously been alluding to something when he made that comment, but I could not for the life of me work out what it was. One thing I did conclude, however, was that when I found my man, I would hold on to him with a stubbornness that Wren – and Tom – would be proud of.