CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Please don’t stop the music …

Hi everyone. Sorry for mass text. Millionaire gig is OFF. Not our fault but nothing we can do about it. Will explain at rehearsal on Thursday. Tom x

I was staring at the text in disbelief when my phone rang.

‘Rom, it’s Charlie. Have you seen Tom’s message?’

Despite my shock, it was good to know that Charlie’s first response was to call me. ‘Just. What’s going on?’

Charlie sounded as shaken as I was. ‘I’ve no idea. I just tried calling him but it was engaged.’

‘If you find out anything, will you let me know?’

‘Sure. Talk to you soon.’

Mick was looking at me as I ended the call. ‘Everything OK?’

‘No, it’s not actually. My band just lost the biggest gig and I’ve no idea why.’

‘Not the one for the millionaire bloke?’ Mick’s capacity for remembering random bits of conversation never ceased to amaze me.

‘Yes.’

‘That sucks, kid. Bet you’re gutted.’

I nodded, twisting my chair back to face my monitor and feeling my heart bobbling about somewhere around my toes. Suddenly writing a jingle about underarm deodorant seemed like a booby prize. ‘We all will be.’

Thursday was one of the most depressing days I had endured for a very long time. It didn’t help that I had spent all day battling with the advertising manager of an agency drafted in by a client to ‘pep-up’ their radio campaigns – which, in non-idiot speak, meant interfering with every decision when he had very little creative input to offer. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the product in question hadn’t been a well-known brand of earwax softener …

My day went from bad to worse, especially when my boss Amanda waded into the debate.

‘What Romily is trying to say, in her own way – not very well, admittedly – is that the concept you’ve suggested is impossible to realise in a thirty-second commercial. And if you want that commercial to be entirely sung in the style of Sigur Rós, your message will be completely lost on our audience. Most of whom, I would dare to suggest, will have little grasp of the Icelandic language.’

Great. As if the tension in the Bat Cave wasn’t sliceable enough already.

‘Maybe there’s another way around this?’ I suggested. ‘We can write something that sounds like an art-house piece to use as a bed underneath your script – in English, of course. Would that keep the feel you’re looking for?’

For the smallest of moments, I honestly thought the advertising manager was impressed. But my optimism was short-lived.

‘It stays as the agency has designed it,’ he sneered, ‘or we pull the campaign.’

Amanda’s face said it all as she flounced out of the studio.

I groaned and let my head drop to the desk as Mick uttered a few choice words.

The thought of seeing my friends after such a tough day should have been comforting, but given the stony silence that had settled over us all since Tom’s text, our impending rehearsal hung over me like a hail-heavy thundercloud.

We gathered in Tom’s rehearsal studio in the old shoe factory at six pm, after the quietest load-in of equipment in the band’s history. We set everything up, but the futility of the act was not lost on anyone in the room. This was supposed to be our final rehearsal before the gig that could lead to bright things for the band; yet now, in light of this week’s developments, it was little more than going through the motions before the inevitable post-mortem of what had happened.

Charlie and Jack slumped against guitar and bass amps in one corner of the room, while Wren and Tom sat motionless on the sofa. I stood by the kettle and mugs, not really knowing what else to do. After ten minutes of this, the door opened and D’Wayne arrived, his expression as stone-hewn as everyone else’s. He managed the briefest of smiles when his eyes met mine, but it was over as quickly as it had appeared.

‘What happened, Tom?’ he asked, finally giving voice to the question we all had.

Tom shook his head. ‘Jules phoned me to say that the wedding’s been postponed, perhaps indefinitely.’

‘How come?’

‘His daughter has been recovering from injuries she sustained in a car crash recently, but on Monday night she took a turn for the worse. Apparently the nerves in her legs sustained more damage than they first thought and she now needs a major operation to repair her injuries. The doctors have advised against her going through with the wedding until her condition has stabilised. They reckon it could take up to a year for her to be able to walk unaided again.’

Charlie groaned. ‘Man, I feel bad now. I thought he’d just changed his mind and booked someone else.’

‘I think that’s what we all thought, Chas,’ Jack reassured him. ‘Tom, mate, next time you see Jules would you pass on our best wishes to his daughter?’

Tom nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, guys. I feel like this is my fault. I mean, if I’d never mentioned us to Jules then he wouldn’t have offered us the gig and we wouldn’t have all built up our expectations.’

‘We probably wouldn’t have been good enough anyway,’ Wren said, picking at a thread in her distressed jeans.

‘Wren, don’t say that.’

‘You know what I mean, Rom! We’ve never handled a gig that prestigious before. Maybe the responsibility would’ve been too much.’

Suddenly everyone began to protest at once, the rehearsal space ringing to the sound of impassioned disagreement. D’Wayne held up his hands to silence us once more.

‘It’s nobody’s fault and you’re more than good enough. So let’s just do what we came here to do and run the rehearsal, OK? Romily, can I have a word?’ He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor beyond. Leaving the others reluctantly beginning the rehearsal, I followed him outside.

He smiled the same half-smile that he’d flashed at me earlier. ‘I didn’t know if you’d seen this, but I thought it was important you did.’

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Intrigued, I reached out for it, but he held it back for a moment, fixing his deep brown eyes on me. ‘I just want to say, I think this is unwarranted and you should ignore it.’

What an odd thing to say. If he thought I should ignore it, why had he brought me out of the rehearsal to show me? I took it from him and unfolded it to reveal a printout of a news article. Looking closer, I recognised, with utter horror, my photo from The Pinstripes’ website at the centre of it:

 

DESPERATELY SEEKING … ANYONE!

 

How far should you go to find love?

They say that The One is out there somewhere for everyone. But how far is too far to look? CAYTE BROGAN thinks she’s found the answer.

Like many women, I believe in true love. I cry as much as the next girl when Elizabeth marries Darcy, or Bridget snogs Mark in a snowy London street; I listen to songs about the pursuit of love and use them to soothe my broken heart when love goes wrong for me; and I will admit, in the past, I’ve accepted the odd blind date on the off-chance that the stranger I’m about to meet is the man of my dreams.

But would you spend an entire year of your life searching for a stranger you’d only met once?

Romily Parker is doing just that. Following a chance meeting with a handsome stranger in Birmingham’s Christmas Market last December, she is convinced he is The One and has embarked on a desperate quest to locate him again. And ‘quest’ is exactly the word she chooses to explain it.

‘I know people will think my quest is mad, but I’m determined to find him,’ she told me. ‘When something like this happens in your life, I believe you shouldn’t let it go.’

Ms Parker, 29, is not undertaking this mission alone. Her blog about the search has, to date, attracted over a hundred followers, keen to see if her real-life fairytale gets its happy ending. So far the mystery man remains at large, but Ms Parker – who hasn’t been in a relationship for over a year – is undeterred. ‘Love doesn’t come along every day. This may be my only chance of happiness,’ she said.

However, not all of her friends and family share her enthusiasm. ‘Romily seems to have latched on to this “quest” on a bit of a whim,’ a close friend confided. ‘One minute she was declaring undying love for a mate of ours, the next she was starting this search for a random stranger. If you ask me, she’s desperate.’

Alice Parker, 49, Ms Parker’s mother, expressed horror at her daughter’s yearlong search. ‘She’s done some preposterous things in her time, but this takes the biscuit. It’s a real embarrassment to the family.’

Die-hard romantics might argue that Ms Parker is simply following her heart and that all’s fair in love. But I believe her ‘quest’ carries a darker, more sinister undertone for women today.

While womankind has progressed far in terms of career choice, civil liberties and recognition, what of our personal lives and relationships? Have we been reduced to this? Wasting our lives searching for some outdated, utopian ideal forced down our throats by society and the media?

Whether Romily Parker succeeds in her ‘quest’ or not, the picture this kind of desperate act paints of today’s young women is not a pretty one. Happily-ever-after? I don’t think so.

 

I couldn’t breathe. My eyes scanned the scathing article over and over, as if this would eventually wear it away completely. Insult piled upon offending words as Cayte’s damning verdict of my life screamed out at me from every line. A sickening cold rush gripped my stomach and my head was giddy as I held the paper with shaking hands that didn’t look like mine any more.

‘This is – a disaster …’ I spluttered. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this!’

D’Wayne watched me impotently, his face full of concern. ‘I’m just so sorry.’

‘She told my mother.’ I shuddered as the full force of the implications hit me like a landslide. ‘And one of my friends called me desperate …’ Who was it? Tom most probably. But what if it was Jack or Wren, or worse – what if it was Charlie? I closed my eyes as tears flooded in. Whoever it was knew me well enough to know how long it had been since my last relationship. Why on earth would any of them share something like that with a viciously ambitious journalist baying for fresh blood?

Unwilling to consider this further, my mind switched into damage limitation mode. I needed to stop panicking and try to think clearly: this was a local article in a local paper that only relatively few people would see. Granted, I might encounter some problems with people who knew me and the inevitable conversation with my parents was going to be hell – but once the initial interest had died down, surely it would pass?

‘Where did you get this?’ I asked him, wiping my eyes.

‘My sister Shenice saw it on the Edgevale Gazette’s website this morning and when I checked the local paper it was on their website, too.’

‘Right. Well, that’s not too bad. Cayte said to me that the articles she wrote were often syndicated locally. Edgevale – that’s Stone Yardley way, isn’t it?’

‘I think so. But …’

I took a breath to steady myself. ‘OK, good, that’s local at least …’

‘Romily.’ I stopped speaking and stared at D’Wayne, suddenly chilled by the tone of his voice. ‘It gets worse, I’m afraid.’

‘Define “worse”.’

‘I think – no, I know – it’s gone viral.’

I blinked. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I Googled the article to see which papers it was in. It’s everywhere. Websites, newspapers, blogs … It turns out some columnist at the Daily Mail picked up on it and wrote her own opinion this morning. I didn’t bother to print out that one, but you can imagine how bad it was.’

When Cayte said her article would achieve the most exposure possible for my quest, she wasn’t kidding. ‘I can’t believe it. I didn’t say any of what she quoted me as saying.’

‘Why did you agree to speak to her in the first place?’

‘She said she could help me. She said I was an inspiration to other women,’ I replied, even though in the light of what she had written in the article, my reasons now carried about as much weight as a feather in the wind.

D’Wayne laughed in disbelief. ‘She’s a journalist. She’ll say anything to get the story she wants. I can’t believe you trusted her.’

‘She’s dating one of my closest friends and she offered to help. What was I supposed to do?’ I stared back at her article, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. ‘Do you think I’m desperate?’

‘No.’ His smile was kind. ‘Not at all.’

When I walked back into the rehearsal room, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Tom. If he was going to find out exactly what sort of woman he was dating, I decided, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Besides, I was too angry to be able to make any kind of coherent sense. So, although it hurt me to conceal it, I endured the rest of the rehearsal keeping the truth of Cayte’s betrayal secret.

 

I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but I’m a laughing stock …

No, that wasn’t right.

Ever felt like you’ve been stabbed in the back?

That didn’t work, either.

Frustrated, I stared at my laptop’s screen on the kitchen table, as if I could summon the right words on to my blog with just the power of my eyes. After the tensest rehearsal in Pinstripes history, I had made my excuses as soon as I could and fled to the safety of my little house. How I’d managed not to tell Wren or Jack was a minor miracle in itself. I think in the end the only thing that stopped me was the fear of saying something that I would later regret. The band was in enough of a state without me kicking off and making things worse.

Now, with my third glass of wine well underway and Cayte’s words resounding in my head, all I wanted to do was to express the turmoil I now felt. But the words wouldn’t come. Admitting defeat, I pushed back my chair and, wine glass in hand, opened the front door to step out into the warm night.

This was a disaster, in more ways than one. Ignore the utter embarrassment this was bound to cause me when people read the article; the worst thing was that, if PK did happen to read it, he was more likely to run away than into my arms. I felt helpless to know what to do next and as I leaned against the wall watching bats flitting about over the darkened waters of the Stourbridge canal, it occurred to me that in any other situation Charlie would have been the first person to ask for advice. Knowing that this road was no longer available to me filled me with the deepest sadness. There was only one thing to do. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I made a call.

‘Hi, it’s me. Cayte’s article has just come out and it’s …’ I swallowed hard, ‘…awful. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You come over and see us straight after work tomorrow, our bab. We’ll sort you out.’

 

Next day I headed to work, my head in a bruised fug from the dodgy combination of far too much red wine and far too little sleep. Although it was still early, my mobile was annoyingly message-free from my friends. Was this just because they hadn’t seen Cayte’s article yet, or were they lying low after seeing their words about me committed to print? Determined to get through the day with as few reminders of the annoying piece as possible, I shook my concerns away as I walked into the bright June sunshine.

I knew something was up the moment I arrived at Brum FM. Ted was as gloomily cheery as ever, but I swear he was smirking as the lift doors shut the lobby from my view. People in the corridors averted their eyes and muffled laughter broke out behind me as they passed by. But it was only when I walked into the Bat Cave that Mick gave the game away.

‘You should probably go and have a look at the notice-board in the staffroom,’ he said, an annoying half-grin on his face.

Heart plummeting, I walked into the small room and, as I suspected, found Cayte’s article slapped right in the middle of it.

‘Makes quite interesting reading, doesn’t it?’ asked a self-satisfied voice behind me.

Amanda Wright-Timpkins, every inch the personification of smugness and a severe seniority complex. Fantastic.

I shrugged. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

She snorted. ‘I imagine you don’t.’

Oh, how witty of you … ‘Yes, well, now you’ve had your fun …’ I reached out, pulled the article down and screwed it up. ‘There. That’s much better.’ I smiled sweetly at her and started to leave the room.

‘That’s fine, Romily, I quite understand. Of course, the others are still up.’

I stopped in the doorway and turned slowly to face her. ‘The others?’

‘You mean you didn’t know? They’re up on every notice-board in the building, sweetie!’

Deflated, I walked back to the Bat Cave with Amanda prancing along in my wake.

‘Well, you know, we like to celebrate our colleagues’ success at Brum FM. It’s only fair that everyone gets to share your fifteen minutes of fame.’

Mick looked up as we entered the studio. ‘You look pleased with yourself, Amanda.’

‘Do I? Well, I must admit it gave me the smallest little boost this morning when I read the article. I mean, how embarrassing for you, Romily. Having your sad little love life broadcast to all and sundry. But you really only have yourself to blame. I mean, spending a whole year searching for a man who’s clearly not interested? I know pickings are getting slim now you’re almost thirty, but even you’ve got to admit it’s a bit desperate.’

‘Don’t you have a broom to ride or something?’ Mick growled, handing me a takeaway cup of coffee and a grease-proof-paper-wrapped bacon roll. ‘We’re actually quite busy in here.’

‘Fine, I can take a hint,’ she said, holding up her square-tipped acrylic nails in surrender, leaning towards me before she left. ‘Maybe some other people in here should learn to do the same.’

‘That woman has a stick so far up her jac …’

‘It’s cool. Let her have her fun,’ I replied, looking through the work roster to see which delights were lined up for us today. ‘Cereal bars, driving lessons and constipation relief – hmm. Nobody can say our job isn’t varied.’

‘We are nothing if not versatile,’ Mick grinned. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m just hoping this all blows over. In the meantime, I’m just going to rise above it.’

Mick grinned. ‘You do that. Actually, I have the very thing to help you …’ He opened the music library on his screen and selected a track, ducking to avoid my empty coffee cup that flew towards his head when ‘Desperado’ began to play.

 

By the time I reached Our Pol later that afternoon, I was thoroughly sick of the jokes and thinly veiled amusement of my colleagues. It was all good-natured, of course, but it still rankled.

Auntie Mags was waiting anxiously by the cabin doors and when she saw me she hopped off the boat and hurried towards me in her slippers, a tea towel flapping from her hand as she ran. When she reached me, she scooped me up into the biggest, best hug.

‘Ooooh, poppet! Give me a hug! That horrible woman! Poor, poor you!’ Breaking the embrace she took a long, hard look at me. ‘You need carrot cake. Nothing else will do.’ She grabbed my hand and led me into the comforting interior of Our Pol. Uncle Dudley was already making a pot of tea in the old yellow teapot as we entered the galley.

‘There she is! Our little media star!’

‘Quiet, Dudley, you’re not helping.’ Auntie Mags made a tea towel swipe at my uncle, which he expertly ducked, the result of years of training. ‘Romily is here for cheering up, not mickey-taking.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve had lots of that today,’ I said, flopping down on the bench by the table as Elvis hopped up on to my lap.

‘You see? Even the dog has more sensitivity than you,’ my aunt tutted.

Uncle Dudley looked so crestfallen that I had to hug him when he sat down. ‘It’s fine, Uncle Dud. I’m just in desperate need of some of your famous uppage.’

He brightened instantly. ‘Well, in that case, bab, you’ve come to the right narrowboat!’

It is a thing of real beauty to me that even five minutes in the company of my aunt and uncle can completely change my perspective. They should bottle it, or maybe open a ‘positivity spa’ – somewhere where people could book themselves in for an exclusive ‘uppage boost’ while luxuriating in delicious, emotion-specific baked goods …

‘The point is, our kid, this does nothing to harm your quest,’ Uncle Dudley said, pouring me a third mug of tea.

‘But what if he’s seen it and takes out a restraining order or something?’

‘Romily Louise Parker, stop that! It’s in a few local papers and the odd internet site,’ Auntie Mags said. ‘If he did happen to see it – which I highly doubt – he wouldn’t recognise you from the lies that woman wrote about you. You’ve come through six months of your quest – are you really going to let one silly woman take the rest of it away from you?’

‘And besides, this isn’t just about you any more,’ Uncle Dudley added. ‘Have you seen the comments on your blog lately? No? Right!’ He made a flourishing gesture with his hand as if summoning a vast army. ‘Magsie, fetch the laptop!’

Auntie Mags didn’t move. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

His face fell. ‘Didn’t I leave it in the bedroom?’

‘I’ve no idea, Dudley, on account of not yet being able to see through walls, even if they are chipboard. Did you want me to go and look for you?’

Blushing slightly, Uncle Dudley nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, lovely wife of mine.’

Patting his balding head, Auntie Mags winked at me as she headed off to locate the lost laptop. When she returned with it, my uncle logged into my blog.

‘There,’ he said, spinning the laptop to face me. ‘Read those.’

To my utter surprise, the last blog post I’d written (before the article appeared) now had about twenty new messages. It transpired that several of my blog followers had seen the article and taken to the social networks to drum up support. Their number had now risen to almost one hundred and fifty and the comments were nothing short of lovely.

Keep going and ignore what that stupid journalist said about you. We believe! X rosienyc

All you are doing is following your heart. I think that’s fab x MissEmsie

I haven’t seen your blog before but when I saw that article I had to come and say that I thought it was very rude. I’m going to follow your progress from now on. Hope you find him xx pasha353

Romily, I’d just like to say that you’re not on your own in your quest. There are LOTS of people willing you to find this guy, so keep going! xx Ysobabe8

And there were more of the same. I could hardly believe it.

‘You’ve struck a chord with people, dear,’ Auntie Mags smiled.

‘And she’s not the only one,’ Uncle Dudley grinned, scrolling to the bottom of the comments and sliding the laptop towards my aunt.

Can I have the recipe for some of your auntie’s cakes? They sound proper lush! x cupcakefairy

‘Well, gracious me! Whatever does she want that for?’ Auntie Mags feigned shock, but the deep flush of her cheeks told a different story.

‘You should write them down, Magsie, I’ve been saying this for years.’

‘Maybe I should … If I type out some recipes, would you email them to that young lady, Romily?’

‘Of course I will. This is amazing, Uncle Dud. Thanks for showing me. I’ve been feeling so rotten about it all day, but knowing that people are supporting me still has really helped.’

We moved to the squashy seats of the living area and Auntie Mags brought more tea and cake. Before long, the conversation moved into not-so-positive territory.

‘So have you spoken to your parents yet?’

Oh yes. Mercifully, only by phone so far. I had been putting off the evil moment, but finally bit the bullet in my lunchbreak earlier that day.

There are few certainties in this world, but when it comes to my mother, one immovable truth exists: when she is angry, everyone knows about it. Mum had made sure that she called as many people as possible to tell them how mortified she was about me. Consequently, the first ten minutes of our conversation had been filled with details of just how horrified everyone else had been.

‘A blog, Romily? Do you have any idea how cheap and tacky that appears to the world? We didn’t bring you up to air your dirty laundry in public. This is a complete embarrassment – everyone I have spoken to today says the same thing.’

I had apologised, of course, especially for the way she found out. But Mum was unwilling to let the matter drop and an argument thus ensued that began with her blaming the band, my aunt and uncle and more or less everyone else who had offended her over the years, and ended with her demanding that I cancel the quest.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, Mum.’

‘But what good is it doing you if you’re nothing but a joke with your friends?’

That had hurt – after all, if Cayte’s article was to be believed, one of my closest friends had been less than supportive of me. ‘There are people who still believe in what I’m doing. And I happen to be one of them.’

‘Well, more fool you. Fine. Go ahead. Show yourself up in front of everyone. But don’t expect your father and I to pick up the pieces for you when it all goes wrong.’

‘She said that?’ Auntie Mags stared at me. ‘I know she’s not the most supportive mother on the planet but even for her that’s harsh.’

‘I just told her that this is my life and she has to let me take charge of it.’

Uncle Dudley grasped my hand between both of his. ‘Now  you listen to me, bab, this is just a little setback. I can’t shake the feeling that you’re going to find him. As for your parents, just leave them be. The only person you have to answer to for who you are is you. Don’t you forget that.’

On my way home that evening, I felt distinctly brighter about the situation. Sometimes, it’s only when your beliefs and values are challenged that you understand how import ant they are in your life. The exchange with my parents, while heartbreaking, confirmed what I had suspected all along: I was never going to be the person they assumed I should be. Instead, I felt free: I had found out that I could believe in who I actually was. And that was a girl who was going to carry on following her heart …

 

I heard nothing from any of the band the next day, save for a couple of concerned texts from D’Wayne. Bless him, he seemed to feel personally responsible for the hurt the article had inflicted on me. I really wasn’t looking forward to the next band rehearsal, not least because I still couldn’t be certain whom the ‘close friend’ quoted in Cayte’s article was.

Of course this was assuming that Cayte had broken with tradition and actually bothered to source a genuine quote from anyone, instead of making it up like the rest of her article. I was still shocked at how blatant her betrayal had been. Did she imagine that I was going to thank her for what she wrote? Did she even care what I thought?

Later that afternoon, Charlie smiled as I walked into Tom’s rehearsal room, but it was short-lived and did nothing to reassure me of his innocence. Jack looked up from his keyboard and was more forthcoming, leaving his instrument and walking quickly across the room to wrap his arms around me.

‘Oh mate, I saw it yesterday. What a total bitch! Sophie was so angry I had to stop her going round to Tom’s to confront Cayte. I think she probably fired off some choicely worded texts, though.’

‘But you didn’t text me.’ I glanced over at Charlie, who was staring at me. ‘Nobody did.’

Jack stepped back, guilt staining his features. ‘I know. We just didn’t … I wasn’t sure what to say. I should have called. I’m sorry.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t think I would have known what to say if it had happened to one of you instead. But I’d like to think I would have tried to say something.’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘You didn’t tell Cayte anything, did you?’

Utter shock filled his face. ‘No! Never! Hell, did you think that quote was from me?’

Instantly I felt terrible for even entertaining the possibility. ‘No – well, I don’t know who it was, so …’

‘It wasn’t me, either,’ Charlie said, joining us. ‘I hope you believe that.’ His eyes were earnest as he spoke and I sensed he was telling the truth.

‘I know she probably invented the whole thing. I just hate that it’s made me question my friends.’

The door creaked and Charlie nodded in its direction. ‘I would imagine this is the person who can tell you more.’

Tom didn’t smile as he carried in his battered guitar case and placed it beside the drum kit. Jack, Charlie and I watched him as he busied himself with unpacking his guitar and connecting its lead to the amp. Our eyes must have been burning into him, however, because after a few moments he let out a massive sigh and returned our collective stare.

‘So say it.’

Jack seemed taken aback by his defensiveness. ‘Hey, steady on …’

‘There’s no point messing about. Just say what you’re all dying to say.’

‘Tom,’ Charlie began, but Tom had clearly decided to dig in.

‘Look, I had no idea what she was writing. It’s not my fault it went viral. I don’t control her and I’m not responsible for her actions. OK?’

Incensed, Jack stared at him. ‘What, that’s it? It doesn’t matter to you that your stupid airhead girlfriend has attacked one of your best friends?’

I didn’t want this. Animosity between us wouldn’t achieve anything. ‘Jack, let’s not fight. In fact, can we just not mention it, please? I’d like to forget the whole thing and move on.’

‘No, I’m sorry, Rom. You’ve been attacked and humiliated and he doesn’t even seem to care. I think that needs dealing with.’

‘That’s it.’ Tom slammed his guitar down on top of the amp and leapt across the room, stopping inches away from Jack’s face. ‘If you’ve something to say to me, you can say it to my face.’

‘Fine by me,’ Jack growled back, squaring up to him.

‘You start on Jack and you start on me,’ Charlie threatened.

That was the last straw. Cayte was not going to rob me of my closest friends. ‘Enough!’ I shouted, surprising them sufficiently to cease the standoff. ‘Look, she’s your girlfriend, Tom. If you want to defend her, that’s fine. Jack, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. And, Charlie, you should know better than to rise to the bait. So stop this now, because I will not have a bust-up laid at my feet on top of everything else. Just flippin’ well grow up!’

They were still gawping at me dumbly as I walked out.

I didn’t go far – just the small coffee shop in a former jewellery workshop around the corner from the old shoe factory – but it was far enough to make my point. I ordered a caramel latte and let the scents of fresh coffee, old worn wood and vintage dust soothe my racing pulse. I knew that the tension wasn’t wholly due to the fallout from Cayte’s article: we were all still reeling from the loss of the millionaire gig, suffering the sudden disappearance of its promise for our fortunes and the gaping hole in our diaries it had left behind. And since we couldn’t blame anyone for its postponement, especially given the awful circumstances that had necessitated it, the resulting pent-up emotions were finding another outlet.

Ten minutes after my departure, I received a text.

Rom, where are you? We’re sacking off the rehearsal.

Do you want to talk? Jack x

Unwilling to reopen the conversation for today, I quickly sent a text back.

Sounds like a plan. Don’t worry about me, just didn’t want to stay in the middle of a row. Talk soon. Rom x

Your comments are amazing, thank you so much.

I feel like a total idiot for believing Cayte Brogan when she offered to help me. Looking back it was so obvious what she was planning to do. But then I’m not a suspicious person and I don’t have time for people who are constantly looking for conspiracy theories. I trust people – is that a bad thing?

My aunt and uncle helped a lot, though, especially when the story first appeared. They always have a positive answer for everything. Of course, some people I know haven’t taken it well, but I’ve realised I can’t worry about what they think because, ultimately, it’s up to me to decide what to do with my life.

Am I angry? Yes, actually, I would be lying if I said otherwise. But I think I’m angry that I got sucked in more than anything. And I’m upset that what she said about me made me question myself – and, worse, people that I care about. But feeling like this has made me understand how much this search means to me and I’m not going to let this stop me. I’ve come too far for it to be taken away by someone who doesn’t see me as anything more than a meal ticket. If I let her words stall me then she’s won. So I’m going to prove her wrong.

Thank you for believing in me. This is not the end!

Rom x

Don’t give up! I know you’re going to find him x pasha353

You have to carry on Romily and don’t let that woman win. Go for it! xx Ysobabe8

Keep going hun, you’ll get there x p.s. I made your auntie’s ginger cake last night and it’s amazing cupcakefairy

In all the great chick-flicks there’s a bit where the main character gets her faith rocked by something and she has to bounce back. This is just yours. I know you’re going to have a happy ending! x MissEmsie

The next day, I met up with Wren and we walked into the city centre. She was horrified and upset that she had been one of the last of my friends to hear about Cayte’s article – not to mention the ensuing row between Charlie, Jack and Tom.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t call me straight away,’ she said, setting two mugs of cappuccino and two white sparkly cake-pops on the table. ‘The first I heard of it was when Jack called me to say the rehearsal was off. I’ve tried calling Tom but his phone’s going straight to answerphone. It’s such a mess.’

‘I know. I just left them to it. I know it’s not Tom’s fault for what Cayte’s done but Jack seemed to think it was.’

Wren raised her eyebrows. ‘And you’re surprised? Tom should have defended you, not her. You and he go way back – that woman has only been in his life five minutes. And what’s to say that she wasn’t just using him for her next scoop, hmm? The way I see it, it’s about time he got his priorities straight.’

This wasn’t my idea of a relaxing Sunday morning. ‘Wren, stop it. I don’t want us all breaking up over this. It’s done and it’s out there: can we not just all move on?’

‘But she’s a total bitch …’ Wren protested.

‘That’s as maybe, but she’s not worth losing all my friends over.’

That evening, I noticed the email inbox flashing on my mobile. Flicking it open, I caught my breath …

To: jack@funkster-studio.com, mistertom@gmail.com, charliew@galleryQ.co.uk
CC: romilyp@bubblemail.co.uk
From: ladywren@hotmail.com
Subject: Pinstripes unite!

Guys,

We are all idiots. I just thought you should know. Our lovely Rom is hurting enough without us all joining in the kicking. So Jack, reel your head in. Tom, regardless of what your girlfriend says, let Rom know what she means to you. And Charlie, be the old head that we need right now. Otherwise, we’ll tear ourselves apart and for what?

This stops now. Do something about it.

Wren xx

To: romilyp@bubblemail.co.uk, mistertom@gmail.com, charliew@galleryQ.co.uk
CC: ladywren@hotmail.com
From: jack@funkster-studio.com
Subject: RE: Pinstripes unite!

Rom – I’m so sorry. You didn’t need me weighing in like that. You’re wonderful and we’re all here for you.

Tom – sorry for being a knob. I was just angry but that’s not your fault.

Charlie – you’re a mate and I value you, but you shouldn’t have to make a prat of yourself to support me.

Wren – thanks for making me see sense. You’re right. (But don’t make a habit of it. It’s not good for my pride.)

Jack x

To: romilyp@bubblemail.co.uk, charliew@galleryQ.co.uk, jack@funkster-studio.com, ladywren@hotmail.com
From: mistertom@gmail.com
Subject: RE: Pinstripes unite!

Guys

Wren’s right. I don’t want to fight with you. But you have to see it from my point of view. Cayte’s my girlfriend and it’s only right that I defend her. All the same, what she wrote about Rom in that article was shocking and we’ve done nothing but argue about it since it came out. Rom, I do care about you, more than you realise, and I hate that you’re in this position because of someone I invited in. I had no idea what she was planning and I don’t think I could have stopped her even if I did. But I hate that she hurt you and I hate that you thought I said those things about you. I didn’t say anything at all.

This is such a mess. I need to sort out what happens next with Cayte and me and right now

I have no idea what that’s going to be. But that’s not your problem. I love you guys and I don’t want this fight any more than you do.

Big love
Tom x

To: romilyp@bubblemail.co.uk, mistertom@gmail.com, jack@funkster-studio.com, ladywren@hotmail.com
From: charliew@galleryQ.co.uk
Subject: RE: Pinstripes unite!

So much love in the room today!

Seriously, this is good stuff, people. We shouldn’t be arguing.

Rom, I’m sorry for being an idiot the other day. You’re right, I rise to the bait too easily and I should know better. Jack, sorry for egging you on when you were doing the big square-up. And Tom, I’m sorry for taking sides. We’re all here for you, too. Wren, well said about everything. Glad we’ve got you to sort us all out. Can we get back to having a laugh now? Good.

Biggest love
Chas

To see my friends reunited gave me the biggest boost. At least I didn’t have the breakup of The Pinstripes on my head on top of everything else. Now all I had to do was  weather the storm of my unwelcome sudden celebrity …

 

‘I’m sure I know you,’ the lady in the supermarket queue for the self-service checkouts said again, screwing up her eyes and leaning her head to one side, as if this was going to aid her memory.

I smiled politely, wishing I’d gone to an out-of-town store instead. ‘I don’t think so,’ I answered, hoping this would be sufficient.

‘Have you been on the telly? Ooh, I know – were you on Casualty last week?’

Please get bored and leave it, I pleaded, but the woman in the cerise velour tracksuit obviously wasn’t on the same ESP frequency. Time to try another angle: ‘Um, I think that till’s free now …’

‘Million Pound Drop? EastEnders?’

What next, Crimewatch? Wife Swap? At this rate I would be here until Christmas until she had named all the television programmes she’d watched lately. Looking into my basket I was dismayed to see nothing that could legitimately aid my escape from this conversation, unless you counted poking her in the eye with a baguette or throwing tampons at her as possible options.

This was the fifth such conversation I had endured today and it was beginning to wear thin. The problem with celebrity status, I was discovering, was that although people recognised you, they didn’t necessarily know where from. Consequently, they had to embark on the same thought process every time: did we go to school together, are you from work, do you know my husband, do you know my mother, are you my sister’s best friend, have you been on an advert, are you off the telly, have you been on Big Brother, were you in Heat magazine last week …?

A week after ‘Cayte-gate’ (as Wren christened it), the instances of people thinking they recognised me showed no signs of slowing. It had happened everywhere – from the trains I caught, to the shops I had visited during the week, including one very embarrassing incident in M&S while being measured for a new bra. I was at the point of seriously considering having a t-shirt made up with Cayte’s article emblazoned across it to save me from this random game of Guess Who.

Jack told me that the day after the Daily Mail columnist covered the article, ‘#desperatewoman’ was briefly a UK trending topic on Twitter and the subject of several phone-in debates on local and national radio shows.

My uncle and aunt, as ever, managed to find a positive spin on the situation, with Auntie Mags assuring me that all publicity was good for spreading the word. I wanted to share her enthusiasm but, as far as I was concerned, the reality of being recognised was proving decidedly less positive than the promise of what it might lead to. But I was about to discover how wrong I was …

Almost two weeks after the article, I received a breathless answerphone message from Uncle Dudley:

‘Bab! It’s me. I think your journalist friend might have done you a favour. We’ve just had an email that could possibly be the break we’ve been hoping for! Call me back as soon as you get this …’