Miranda Dickinson - It Started With A Kiss

For the past five years I’ve worked here writing jingles for the radio adverts that pepper the station’s schedule. I’m never likely to win any Brits or Ivor Novello Awards for my daily compositions, but my work never fails to keep my friends entertained.

The Bat Cave was noticeably more pungent than normal today, the stale remnants of late-night curry, sweat and acrylic carpet fug from the soundproofing fabric that covered its doors, floors and walls meeting my nose as I walked in.

Mick, the department’s studio engineer, looked up from his already grease-stained copy of the Mirror. ‘Romily! How the devil are you?’

‘Good thanks. What died in here, though?’

He let out a thundering laugh. ‘That’ll be our esteemed colleague Nev Silver. Apparently he had another row with the wife last night – I found him on the sofa in his sleeping bag this morning.’

I hung my bag up on the rickety coat stand in the corner and filled a mug with coffee from the filter machine. ‘Not again. Does that mean he’ll be staying over Christmas?’

Mick sniffed. ‘Probably. So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this morning?’

‘I need to finish the mixes for the New Year campaign so they’re ready for next week. Anything else in?’

‘Bits and bobs for the new schedule – nothing particularly earth-shattering, I’m afraid. Jane Beckingham wants a new jingle for her morning show, if you don’t mind. Oh, and Amanda’s on the warpath. Again.’

News that my department manager was upset about something didn’t surprise me. Amanda Wright-Timpkins is so uptight she makes a coiled spring look relaxed. The twinkle in Mick’s eye revealed all I needed to know about his opinion on the matter – there is very little love lost between him and the woman who takes her persistent frustration at being ‘sideways-promoted’ to our department out on us whenever possible. ‘What is it this time?’

‘She reckons she’s been overlooked for another promotion,’ Mick replied, folding his newspaper and rolling his chair over to mine. ‘Apparently she was going for the producer job on the Breakfast Show.’

‘Ah.’

‘Exactly. So best to keep your head down, eh?’

The morning passed slowly. As I composed the music for Brum FM’s New Year, New You campaign, my thoughts strayed back to my conversation with Charlie. What would the year ahead bring for us?

Squeezed into the vocal booth a couple of hours later, I was recording the vocal parts for the jingles when one of the lines struck me:

This could be the year when all your dreams come true.

Instantly Charlie left my mind as I remembered my handsome stranger. Maybe he was the start of my dreams coming true – after all, hadn’t he turned up exactly when I needed him? Unlike Charlie. Maybe all the time I had spent waiting for Charlie to notice me was actually preparation for meeting this man. Let’s face it, if I hadn’t been running away from Charlie, the chances were we would never have met. But was it possible to find him again? I wasn’t sure, but I was determined to try. All I had to do was to figure out how …

‘Er, Rom, whenever you’re ready?’ Mick said in my headphones as I bumped back to reality.

‘Sorry. Let’s do that line again …’

All day, the first sparks of possibility glowed brighter in my mind. It had to be possible to find the stranger – even in the sprawl of England’s second city. Compared to the situation with Charlie, which I could do no more about, looking for the man who kissed me seemed an enticing alternative. After all, what could be more positive than searching for someone who clearly thought I was beautiful?

‘Positivity is key,’ Wren said that evening, when she joined me for dinner in my little house in Stourbridge, ‘or else you’ll never go through with it. Still can’t work out where you should start looking, though.’

I handed her a glass of red wine. ‘Me either. But I’ll think of something.’

‘So, things with you and Charlie are a bit better?’

‘I’m not sure they’re better, but at least we’ve talked about it. One thing I do know is that I definitely made a mistake. He’s only ever seen me as a friend.’

‘Yeah right,’ Wren muttered into her Merlot.

‘Sorry?’

‘Who can fathom the minds of men, eh?’ she replied dismissively. ‘Charlie will sort it out eventually.’ She looked over to my Christmas tree in the corner of the room and smiled. ‘I see the bauble has pride of place.’

I followed her gaze and felt a shiver of excitement as I watched the reflections of the tree lights passing smoothly across its surface, remembering the stranger’s voice by my ear. ‘Yes. It’s lovely. Makes me feel Christmassy – I was worried I wouldn’t feel like that this year after what happened with Charlie.’

‘Everyone should feel Christmassy, no matter what,’ Wren said, raising her glass in a flamboyant toast. ‘It should be law. Or at least a tradition.’

‘Talking of traditions, are you looking forward to the band Christmas meal tomorrow night?’

‘Of course, wouldn’t miss it. You?’

I shrugged. ‘It should be OK. I think Charlie and I will be putting on a united front. Hopefully nobody will notice any difference.’

Wren took a rather large gulp of wine. ‘Absolutely. And it will be good to hear about the gigs Dwayne has booked for next year.’

‘They’d better be good. He hasn’t exactly been successful with bookings this year.’

‘Don’t pick on him; he’s still learning about the business. He hasn’t managed us for that long, remember,’ she replied, frowning at me. ‘Dwayne tries his best. And he needs our support. Anyway, from what he’s said, he has some great gigs lined up.’

‘You’re too nice to him,’ I smiled. ‘He has to prove himself tomorrow night, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Hmm,’ Wren replied, her sly expression clear behind her half-empty wine glass. ‘And he won’t be the only guy there who’ll be proving himself, will he?’

Next morning a thick fog shrouded the city centre as I wheeled my bicycle out of the train station. After all the emotion of the past few days I needed to clear my head. A long ride was just what the doctor ordered.

Even in the dim December light, the rolling fields and picturesque villages huddled alongside the road were impossibly gorgeous. I had taken the route to Kingsbury many times since Jack first persuaded me to join the unofficial Pinstripes’ pursuit of cycling. He, Charlie and Tom have been bike nuts since university, grabbing any opportunity to tackle increasingly demanding off-road terrain. Following much cajoling and pro-cycling propaganda from the Terrible Three, I had finally surrendered and subsequently spent a very amusing day shopping for bikes with Jack, who spent the whole time skipping like a child in and out of endless cycle shops. While I’ve still to fully appreciate the delights of mountain bike trails, I’ve fallen in love with road cycling – especially on days like this when I hadn’t a particular schedule to stick to. Plus, this particular route had one distinct advantage: it inevitably involved generous helpings of cake with two of my most favourite people in the world.

As I passed through the lovely village of Shustoke, a single thought played on my mind: the stranger from the Christmas Market. The thrill of his body so close to me, and the glorious memory of his lips on mine, had visited my dreams every night since Saturday and it was beginning to drive me mad. I needed to find him … but how? After all, we had met in the middle of a bustling Christmas Market on the busiest trading day of the year, surrounded by countless people I would never recognise again. Those kind of odds would make even John McCririck wince. Still, as my old maths teacher Mr Williams used to say, odds of any kind indicated a possibility, however remote.