Miranda Dickinson - It Started With A Kiss

‘Of all the times to experiment with it, your father – of course – chose the very night I was preparing the glazed bacon joint. We had the windows open in the kitchen all night to get rid of the smell of burning meat. This after our butchers had closed for the holidays, so no chance of replacing the joint before Christmas. I told him, Romily, I said he’s only himself to blame if there’s no ham left for supper.’

Dad shrugged. ‘I never said I liked the cold meat thing anyway. And besides, we’ll have enough cold turkey to last us till March with that organic bird we practically had to remortgage the house to buy.’

‘Oh, and as if we don’t already have precious little time to enjoy the fruits of our labours, you have to complain about one extravagance I asked for! Never mind that I work seven days a week to keep the family business going. Never mind that the closest thing I get to a night out these days is my book group on a Thursday night at Moriarty’s …’

I looked over at Gran, who had obviously switched her hearing aid off and was now giggling at the Christmas film on television, blissfully unaware of World War Three raging around her. If only I’d brought my clear plastic earplugs that I use for rehearsals with the band …

As the main course ended and dessert was served, Mum decided to take a quick break from berating my father, turning the maternal spotlight on to me instead.

‘I suppose work is still bearable?’

‘Not too bad, thanks. The station manager sent my department a bonus for our work this year.’

‘Cut-price double-glazing, was it?’ Dad sniggered, clearly pleased with his rapier wit.

‘Contrary to popular belief, I don’t just write jingles for double-glazing companies, you know,’ I protested. But of course this fell on deaf ears (and I’m not just talking about Gran’s).

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ Mum continued, handing round a bowl of over-whipped cream to add to the impossibly stodgy Christmas pudding slumped resignedly in our cut-glass dishes. ‘But writing silly little advertising songs for the “third most popular radio station” in Birmingham is hardly a glittering career choice, is it?’

I had been waiting for this topic to arrive all day and was actually quite impressed that my mother had held back until nearly four o’clock. Being a disappointment to your parents is an occasional hazard for most people. For me – a radio jingle-writer and weekend wedding band vocalist with no sign of anything resembling a five-year career plan – it is practically a vocation. My mother, determined to wear me down over time like water dripping on to solid rock, never varied her tactics: it was always the same, every time I visited.

‘The point I’m trying to make is that you are now about to embark on the last year of your twenties, so you should be thinking about a serious career. You know there will always be a place for you at the family firm. Your father has already said he’d happily fund your accountancy training …’

‘Did I?’ Dad’s expression changed instantly – no doubt encouraged by the swift meeting of Mum’s foot with his shin under the table. ‘Er, of course, happy to oblige.’

‘You need to think about what you want to do with your life, that’s all I’m saying. Thirty is a milestone and you’re heading towards it faster than you realise. You should use this time to make a decision about who you want to be.’

Though I hated to admit it, Mum’s words had a profound effect on me. Maybe it was because there had been so much soul-searching over the past few days, what with my encounter with the handsome stranger and the intense awkwardness with Charlie, but the thought of making my twenty-ninth year count began to take centre-stage in my mind.

Later that evening, safe in the peaceful surroundings of my home with the soothing tones of Bing, Frank and Nat in the background and the softly twinkling fairy lights from my Christmas tree casting a gently pulsating glow around my living room, I poured a long-overdue glass of red wine and looked at the teardrop-shaped bauble in my hands. Perhaps the events of this week were more significant than I first thought: what if they were part of an as yet unseen pattern leading me to a year that could change the course of my life? The more I considered it, the less convinced I became that it was all a series of unconnected coincidences. Was the universe trying to tell me something?

I grabbed my laptop and logged into Facebook to see if any of the band were online. Nobody was, but one message caught my eye, from an old school friend I had only recently reconnected with:

This time next year, things will be different.

I’m going to make it count.

I took a long sip of wine and stared at the screen. Suddenly, the words seemed to be suspended in the air before my eyes, their sentiment striking a chord. That was it! I was going to make next year – my last year of my twenties – count. I had no idea how this was going to happen or what it would entail, but in a blinding flash of inspiration I realised what I had to do. My journey had to begin with the kiss that had changed everything. I was going to find him.

I checked the time – nine thirty pm – and decided to call my uncle and aunt. I was pretty sure that they would still be up on Christmas Day evening and besides, I needed to share my newfound idea with someone who would understand.

‘Hey! Merry Christmas, our bab! Hang on a tick, I’ll just pop you on speakerphone …’ There was a muffled sound as Uncle Dudley fiddled with the controls on his new phone and then I heard the happy greeting of my aunt. ‘Right, we’re with you, sweetheart! How’s your Christmas been so far, eh?’

‘Bearable with Mum and Dad. Gran managed to fall asleep in her cheese and biscuits though.’

My uncle’s unbridled guffaw reverberated around the room. ‘I’ll bet she did! Poor Nancy – I hope she did her trick with the hearing aid again.’

‘Of course. Good job as well, Mum and Dad were on top form this afternoon. It would’ve been so much more fun if you two had been there.’

‘I don’t doubt it! So how are you feeling now you’ve seen Charlie again?’

I wasn’t sure I felt any easier about the situation, but for the time being my new idea was taking the edge off my concerns. ‘I’ve decided to set myself a task for next year,’ I told them. ‘Starting with finding the man who kissed me.’

I heard my aunt’s whoop. ‘That’s a wonderful idea, Romily! I was just saying to your uncle that I hoped you would.’

‘I just think if I could see him again, it could be the start of something.’

‘Just like that Hot Chocolate song – “It Started With a Kiss”!’ Uncle Dud sang, doing his best impression of Errol Brown. ‘I reckon you should set yourself a deadline, chick, and keep a diary of your search for the mystery kisser!’

My aunt giggled. ‘Ooh, you’re so twentieth century, Dudley! Why don’t you start a blog, Romily? There must be so many other women out there heading towards thirty and looking to make their twenty-ninth year meaningful. I reckon you could encourage lots of people with it. My friend Oonagh has a blog and she gets comments on it from all over the world. I’ve been thinking of asking your uncle to set one up for me to share my cake recipes on, even though computers scare me rigid.’

It was a brilliant idea (perhaps made more outstanding by the second large glass of red that I had inadvertently sunk during our conversation). ‘That’s it! I’ll start a blog and give myself until Christmas Eve next year to find the man of my dreams!’

Cheers from the other end of the line warmed my ear as my equally merry aunt and uncle roundly applauded my new idea.