It Started With A Kiss

MIRANDA DICKINSON

It Started with a Kiss

Copyright

AVON

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2014

Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847561671

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007387083

Version: 2014-12-09

Dedication

For the Peppermints: Andi, Clarko, Dan, Ed, Phil and Susanna. The best friends ever.

‘I dwell in possibility.’

Emily Dickinson

I’m a big believer in following your heart – and that’s so much easier to do when you have wonderful people believing in you. While writing and editing this book, I have been joined a merry band of lovelies who have watched my vlogs, tweeted with me and offered me so much enthusiasm and love. I hope this book is worth the wait for you!

Three books in, and I’m still blown away by everyone’s support. Big thanks to my family and friends for their constant love, Julie Cohen for wise words and woops, Ritzi Cortez, Ella, Barry and Sue for help with narrowboat questions, Joanne Harris for the signal box wedding pictures and Serena at Combermere Abbey (www.combermereabbey.co.uk) for sharing your wonderful wedding venue with me. Thanks also to Vickie Pritchett (Mrs Bou) from The Boutique Baking Company (www.boutiquebaking.co.uk) for providing magical cake inspiration for Auntie Mags. And, as ever, huge thanks to Kim Curran (Next Big Thing) for reading every draft, giving awesome advice and being a fab friend.

Massive thanks as always to my lovely editor Sammia Rafique for her constant belief in me (and long phone chats!), and to the fabulous team at Avon, especially Claire Bord, Caroline Ridding and Charlotte Allen. Big thanks also to Rhian McKay and Anne Rieley.

Inspiration for my characters comes from everywhere, but this time several real-life lovelies have inspired characters in my story. Big love to Phil White (father-in-law-to-be and the inspiration for Uncle Dudley), Wayne McDonald (top bloke and the inspiration for D’Wayne) and my wonderful chums in The Peppermints wedding band (www.peppermintmusic.co.uk) for inspiring The Pinstripes (we’re available for weddings, birthdays, events …!).

And last, but not least, thanks to my lovely fiancé, Bob – for putting up with tons of wedding research, being my constant cheerleader and making me smile. I can’t wait to marry you next year!

This book is about following your heart. I hope it inspires you to follow yours. xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: The most wonderful time of the year

Chapter Two: Dream a little dream of me

Chapter Three: You’ve got a friend

Chapter Four: We are family

Chapter Five: People get ready

Chapter Six: Get the party started …

Chapter Seven: Keep on moving …

Chapter Eight: Love is all around …

Chapter Nine: Help!

Chapter Ten: Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (a man after midnight)

Chapter Eleven: Rescue me

Chapter Twelve: Move on up …

Chapter Thirteen: Could it be magic?

Chapter Fourteen: Please don’t stop the music …

Chapter Fifteen: I will survive

Chapter Sixteen: Spinning around …

Chapter Seventeen: Here come the girls …

Chapter Eighteen: Respect

Chapter Nineteen: Stuck in the middle

Chapter Twenty: Let there be love

Chapter Twenty-One: It had to be you

Keep Reading …

Character Fact Files

Deleted Scenes

Cake Therapy by Auntie Mags

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

The most wonderful time of the year

When it comes to telling your best friend that you love him, there are generally two schools of thought. One strongly advises against it, warning that you could lose a friend if they don’t feel the same way. The other urges action because, unless you say something, you might miss out on the love of your life.

Unfortunately for me, I listened to the latter.

The look in Charlie’s midnight blue eyes said it all: I had just made the biggest mistake of my life …

‘Sorry?’

Perhaps he hadn’t heard me the first time. Maybe I should say it again?

‘I said I love you, Charlie.’

He blinked. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Yes.’ I could feel a deathly dragging sensation pulling my hope to oblivion.

Gone was the trademark Charlie grin that had been so firmly in place only moments before. In its place was a look I didn’t recognise, but I knew it wasn’t a good alternative.

‘H-how long have you …?’

I dropped my gaze to the potted plant beside our table. ‘Um – a long time, actually.’ Maybe I should have worn something a bit more ‘potential girlfriend material’ today? But then this morning when I pulled on my trusty jeans and purple sweater dress I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation. And judging by the look of sheer horror on Charlie’s face, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had been sitting opposite him in a designer gown and diamonds. This was such a mistake …

‘But … we’re mates, Rom.’

‘Yeah, of course we are. Look, forget I said anything, OK?’

He was staring at his latte like it had just insulted him. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to do that. You’ve said it now, haven’t you? I mean it’s – it’s out there.’

I looked around the busy coffee shop. It was overcrowded with disgruntled Christmas shoppers huddled ungratefully around too-small tables on chairs greedily snatched from unsuspecting single customers. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that none of that lot heard anything.’

As attempts at humour go, it wasn’t my finest. I took a large gulp of coffee and wished myself dead.

Charlie shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. I heard it. Oh, Rom – why did you say that? Why couldn’t you just have …?’

I stared at him. ‘Just have what?’

‘Just not said anything? I mean, why me? Why put this on me now?’

I hated the look of sheer panic in his eyes. He’d never looked at me that way before … In my perennial daydream about this moment it had been so very different:

Oh Romily – I’ve loved you forever, too. If you hadn’t told me we could have missed each other completely …

‘We’re fine as we are, aren’t we? I mean, if it’s good then why change it? I can’t believe you actually thought this would be a good idea.’

Well, excuse me, but I did. Somewhere between my ridiculous, obviously deluded heart and my big stupid mouth, my brain got pushed out of the picture and I – crazy, deranged loon that I am – found myself persuaded that I might be the answer to his dreams. That maybe the reason for the many hours we’d spent together – cheeky laughter-filled days and late night heart-to-hearts – was that we were destined to be more than friends. Everyone else noticed it: it had been a running joke among our friends that Charlie and I were like an old married couple. The ‘Old Folks’ – that’s what they called us. We’d lost count of the number of times complete strangers mistook us for partners. So if it was this blindingly obvious to the world, how come Charlie couldn’t see it?

Of course, I couldn’t say any of this to him. Sheer embarrassment stole the clever arguments from my mind so that then and there, in the crowded café packed with people who couldn’t care less about what I was saying, I found that all I could say was:

‘I’m sorry.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘I did not see this coming. I thought we were friends, that’s all. But this – this is just weird …’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlie.’

He stared at me, confusion claiming his eyes. ‘I-I didn’t mean … Heck, Rom, I’m sorry – you’ve just got to give me a moment to get my head round this.’

I looked away and focused on a particularly harassed-looking couple talking heatedly at the next table over enormous mugs of cream-topped festive coffees. ‘You don’t appreciate me,’ the woman was saying. Right now, I knew exactly how she felt.

‘The thing is,’ Charlie said, ‘you’ve always been just Rom – one of the guys, you know? You’re a laugh, someone I can hang out with. But now …’ He was digging an impossible hole for himself and he knew it. He gave a massive sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really not sure how to deal with this.’

This was awful – I’d heard enough. I rose to my feet, intense pain and crushing embarrassment pushing my body up off the chair. I opened my mouth to deal a devastating parting shot, but nothing appeared. Instead, I turned and fled, stubbing my toe on a neighbouring customer’s chair and tripping over various overstuffed shopping bags, almost taking a packed pushchair with me as I beat an ungraceful retreat from the coffee shop and out into the bustling street beyond.

Outside, Birmingham’s famous Christmas Market was in full flow, packed with shoppers grabbing last-minute Christmas shopping and crowding around the wooden beer stalls. The coloured lights strung overhead glowed brightly against the greyness of the December afternoon sky and Christmas music blared relentlessly from speakers along the length of New Street.

‘Rom! Where are you going? I’m sorry – please come back! Rom!’ Behind me, Charlie’s shouts blended into the blur of crowd noise and Christmas hits of yesteryear. I picked up my pace, making my way blindly against the tidal flow of bodies, their countless faces looming up before me, unsmiling and uncaring. I had humiliated myself enough already: the last thing I needed was for Charlie to come back for Round Two …

As I passed each shop front the sale signs began morphing into condemnatory judgements of my actions, screaming at me from every lit window:

Insane!

Stupid idiot!

What were you thinking?

As the jostling crowd propelled me involuntarily towards the marble pillars of the Town Hall, Paul McCartney was singing ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ like it should have an ironic question mark at the end. Unable to wriggle free, I found myself moving along with the throng. But I felt nothing; my senses were numbed by the faceless bodies hemming me in, and my heart too beset by ceaseless echoes of Charlie’s words to care any more. At a loss to make sense of the total catastrophe I’d just caused, I surrendered to the irresistible force of the crowd and, quite literally, went with the flow.

What was I thinking telling my best friend in the whole world that I loved him? I hadn’t even planned to say it at all – and now I couldn’t quite believe I had blurted out my biggest secret seemingly on a whim. One minute we were laughing about last week’s gig, his smile so warm and his eyes lit up in the way they always do when he’s talking about music; the next I was confessing the feelings for him I’ve been carrying for three years. What on earth made me think that was a good idea?

Maybe it was the impending arrival of the ‘Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ (thanks for nothing, Andy Williams) or the deliciously festive atmosphere filling the city today that had caused me to reveal my feelings to Charlie like that. Perhaps it was the influence of watching too many chick-flick Christmas scenes that had tipped my sanity over the edge and made the whole thing seem like such a great idea (Richard Curtis, Nora Ephron, guilty as charged).

Dumped unceremoniously by the crowd at the base of the grand stone staircase in Victoria Square, I managed to squeeze through a gap in the tightly-packed, slow-moving shoppers and emerged breathless into a small pocket of pine-scented air by the barriers around the base of the huge Swedish Christmas tree. Tears stung my eyes and I swallowed angrily in a vain attempt to keep them at bay. What was the matter with me? How did I get it so devastatingly wrong?

All the signs had been there, or so I had thought: hugs that lingered a moment too long; snatched glances and shy smiles during nights out with our friends; moments of unspoken understanding during conversations begun in the early evening and ending as birdsong heralded a new day. Then there were his unexplained silences – times when I felt he had something more to say, when unresolved question marks sparkled magnificently in the air between us and the room held its breath – ultimately in vain. There had been more of these lately, peppering almost every occasion we spent together with an irresistible spice of intrigue. If they didn’t mean what I thought they meant, then what on earth were they all about?

My mobile phone rang in my bag, but I couldn’t face answering the call, so Stevie Wonder continued his tinny rendition of ‘Sir Duke’ unhindered by my usual intervention. Reaching into the crummy depths of my coat pocket, I retrieved a crumpled shopping list and read down the list of scribbled names: my ‘To-Do’ list for the afternoon. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and my final chance to buy everyone’s presents. Christmas shopping waited for no one, it seemed – not even thoroughly embarrassed owners of newly-shattered hearts.

Mum & Dad

Wren

Jack & Soph

Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags

Tom & Anya

Charlie

Charlie. My breath caught in the back of my throat as my eye fell on the last name. No need for that one to be there now, I hissed under my breath. I think he’s had quite enough surprise gifts from me this year. I stuffed the list back into my pocket and prepared to dive back into the undulating ocean of people.

‘Rom!’

My head snapped upright in horror to see Charlie pushing his way through the crowd, further back down the street. No, this was absolutely not going to happen now. I couldn’t face it – the lead-heavy mortification gripping my insides was already too much to bear. Turning on my heels, I pushed back into the crowd and ran on again.

‘Oh come on, Rom! Just stop!’ Charlie called behind me, closer this time.

Looking over my shoulder, I shouted back. ‘Go home, Charlie!’

I saw him stop, throw his hands up in the air and turn back into the horde of shoppers behind him. Furious with myself for creating this awful situation, I wanted to put as much distance between me and the scene of my worst ever decision. Tears filled my eyes as I put on another sprint, rushing through the swarming mass of bodies. Part of me wanted Charlie to be following me, to catch me and say that he’d overreacted, that I hadn’t been mistaken, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen and I hated myself for wanting the impossible. Angrily, I wiped the tears from my eyes – just in time to see the gaudy wooden stall laden with soft toys appear directly in front of me a split second before my body slammed headlong into it.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd of shoppers as I tumbled, helpless limbs flailing, in an ungracious slow-motion sprawl. Bears, rabbits and reindeer spun in the air around me like a shower of oversized plush snowflakes and, for a moment, it was as if all noise ceased as I descended. The clamour of the crowd and the Christmas music receded and my senses were now aware only of the sensation of moving through the air. This feeling was short-lived, however, followed as it was by the inevitable gut-wrenching crack as my body hit the unforgiving block-paved ground and I skidded to a halt amid a sea of stuffed animals on the frosted pavement.

It took a moment for me to catch my breath, my ears buzzing from my head’s heavy meeting with the floor, but then it was as if someone flicked a switch and all the light, noise and music of the Christmas Market roared back into life – along with the shock of an intense flood of pain along my back and the appearance of one very angry stallholder.

His beetroot-red round face appeared directly over me as I lay there, but instead of helping me up he launched into a tirade of thick German-accented abuse.

‘Crazy woman! Look at this mess! It is ruined, ruined!’

Thoroughly embarrassed, I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my bruised limbs creaked and groaned back into an upright position.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, grabbing armfuls of toys and wishing I could disappear.

In true British fashion, the crowd around me didn’t offer to help – the spectacle of the woman who trashed the toy stall frantically trying to reconstruct it far too much fun for them to intervene. The disgruntled stallholder didn’t help either, standing by the remains of his stall with pudgy arms folded tight across his squat body as he watched me. As if I wasn’t morbidly mortified enough already, I was vaguely aware that some of the onlookers had produced mobile phones and were now happily filming the scene. Great. All I needed after the events of today was to become the unwitting star of the latest YouTube viral sensation. I was cold, aching, unspeakably embarrassed and all I wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. Christmas was ruined now anyway: Charlie wouldn’t want to see me and when the rest of the band found out what had happened, everything would be awkward there, too. Only Wren would understand – and no doubt even she would have a strong opinion on it.

I bit back tears as I reached out to scoop more of the fallen bears from the pavement …

… and that’s when I saw him.

As my fingers closed around a toy penguin, I was suddenly aware of a gloved hand reaching out for a polar bear hand puppet next to it. Lifting my eyes I came face to face with quite the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. His hazel eyes caught the light from coloured Christmas lights above, while wavy strands of his russet-brown hair picked up the twinkling blue light from the fairy lights that framed the toy stall roof. A slight shadow of stubble edged his jawline and I noticed that his cheekbones were quite defined.

‘Hi,’ he said, his warm smile and kind eyes momentarily numbing the sting of my bruises. ‘Need some help?’

I smiled back. ‘Please.’

We slowly moved around each other, gathering up the scattered stock. As we did so I was aware that he was watching me, his shy smile appearing whenever our eyes met. And I can’t explain why, but the sudden arrival of this kind stranger after the utter awfulness of the afternoon felt like a blissful reprieve – as if everything I had experienced was merely instrumental in bringing me to this moment, this meeting.

Once we had retrieved all of the toys from the wide circle they had been flung to, I turned to the stallholder and apologised again.

‘Whatever,’ he shrugged, disappearing inside his wooden stall and slamming the door.

Spectacle over, the onlookers dispersed back into the crowd and the stranger and I were left alone by the stall.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. I noticed tiny crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

For a moment, we stood in silence, our breath rising in puffs of Christmas-light-washed steam. It was clear that neither of us knew what to say and the awkwardness of the silence brought my earlier humiliation flooding back.

He’s obviously just being polite, I reasoned, my heart sinking, and now he’s looking for an excuse to leave.

‘Well, I’d better …’ I nodded in the direction of the Town Hall behind us, as though this would be some universal indicator of the Christmas shopping I still had to do before I could go home. Thankfully, he seemed to understand, nodding and looking down at his feet.

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks again.’

He raised his lovely eyes once again to mine. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas.’

As I hurried away, I felt like screaming. Not content with merely ruining my friendship with Charlie and making a complete idiot of myself in full view of a large section of city shoppers, I had now embarrassed myself in front of a really good-looking bloke. Nice work, Romily.

My shoulder was complaining vociferously as I reached into my coat pocket again for the list. At times like this, practicality was the only way forward. I headed towards the white lights of the craft market section. My aunt loves hand-painted glass and I vaguely remembered seeing a glass ornament stall earlier that day. Forcing my conflicting thoughts to the back of my mind, I wove my way through the dawdling shoppers until I found it.

Two middle-aged ladies wrapped up against the bitter December air were chatting animatedly behind the stall, oblivious to everything else. The voice of Nat King Cole was crooning from the speakers of a small CD player on the counter.

‘Gotta love a bit of old Nat, eh?’ the taller of the two was saying.

‘Tell me about it. Our Eth won’t listen to anything else at Christmas.’

‘Not even Bing or Frank?’

‘Nope. It’s Nat or nothing. Him and his chestnuts roasting on an open fire.’

‘Always thought that sounded a bit painful myself,’ the taller lady sniggered as the shorter one giggled.

I relaxed a little as their jovial banter continued, casting my gaze across the glass baubles of all shapes and sizes, suspended on delicate silver thread from white-painted twigs set in plant pots. A gentle breeze had sprung up, making the hanging glass shapes shiver and spin slowly, so that they caught the light from the white fairy lights woven around the stall edge and the coloured strings of Christmas lights swinging high over the market. One particular bauble near the front of the display immediately caught my eye: a large, teardrop-shaped ornament adorned with tiny painted silver stars – delicate brushstrokes that sparkled from the glass surface. It was beautiful, a real work of craftsmanship, and I knew my aunt would adore it. I reached out and felt the icy coolness of the glass against my fingers.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ a deep voice said behind my right ear, making me jump and only just manage to save the bauble from falling from its twig. Leaving it safely spinning, I turned, my eyes first meeting a green, brown and cream striped scarf and then heading north to reach the shy smile of the stranger who had helped me. My breath caught in the back of my throat and I nodded dumbly at him.

‘I’m sorry to … er … I just wanted to check you were OK?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks again for helping me.’

‘You’re welcome. I couldn’t believe all those people were just watching.’

I smiled, despite the blush I knew was glowing from my cheeks. ‘I think they thought I was part of the entertainment.’