It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson
quarry was considerable. I resisted the urge to laugh, marvelling at Wren’s impressive attention-commanding skills. ‘I wonder if you remember my friend?’
The lanky boy’s greasy brows lifted as he surveyed me, clearly congratulating himself at his obvious irresistibility to English women. ‘For sure I would like to remember you,’ he replied, giving me what he judged to be a devastating look.
‘No, you don’t understand. My friend knocked over your toys yesterday.’ Wren pointed animatedly at the drop-down display area.
‘Oh, I heard that, ja. But I was not here then: it was my brother. He said toys were everywhere.’
Wren clapped her hands as I tried my best to ignore the creeping warmth flushing my face. ‘Brilliant! So did your brother tell you about the man who helped my friend to pick up the toys?’
The teenager’s expression muddied and then he nodded. ‘For sure. There was a guy who was the only one to help.’
Instantly, I forgot my embarrassment. ‘That’s it! Did he say what the man looked like?’
‘I dunno.’ He shrugged. ‘He just said a young man. That’s all I know.’
Wren nodded at me. ‘Right, I see. And when will your brother be back on the stall?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t work this stall. He’s one of the organisers here. He was just looking after it for the day.’ He winked at Wren and went in for the kill. ‘So, you want a beer with me after we close tonight? Birmingham is a beautiful city but a little lonely …’
‘It’s tempting, but I can’t, I’m afraid. Have to get my Christmas shopping done, you know how it is …’ She linked her arm through mine and we walked away, leaving the gawping German youth behind us. ‘OK, after that thrilling encounter I need a coffee.’
We made our way slowly through the crowds, pushing through the flow of people to the very coffee shop where I had made my devastating confession to Charlie. I was thankful that the large leather sofa at the back of the coffee shop was available so I didn’t have to sit by the window where everything had changed.
Wren arrived with two enormous cups of frothy cappuccino and two slabs of sticky chocolate cake. ‘Caffeine and sugar – just what you need!’ she announced, unwinding her long black scarf and removing her coat before sitting beside me. ‘So, he’s real, then.’
‘I told you he was real. At least now you believe me.’
‘I do. Actually, I’m starting to think that maybe he might not be a psycho after all.’
‘Well, thank you. What changed your mind?’
Wren leaned back, her elfin frame almost disappearing into the sofa altogether. ‘I was thinking about it as we were retracing your steps: he was the only one to help you put the toy display back together and even when you said you were fine he still followed you to make sure. If he was some idiot after a cheap thrill, I doubt he’d have been so committed. And he was obviously memorable enough for the ladies at the bauble stall to remember him – albeit vaguely. I just can’t work out why he didn’t stick around.’
‘I told you, he was called away.’
‘Yes, but who by? Can you remember whether the voice was male or female?’
‘Male.’
‘Right. So, best case scenario: mate. Worst case scenario: boyfriend.’
I spluttered into my cappuccino. ‘Come off it, Wren, he wasn’t gay.’
‘How do you know? I mean, good looking, well dressed, tidy … He might have been kissing you for a bet or having a quick “swing the other way”… OK, OK, I’m joking. But he could have a girlfriend or, worse, a wife.’
I twisted to face her. ‘Then why did whoever called him away let him kiss me?’
She shrugged and speared a large chunk of chocolate cake with her fork. ‘Maybe that’s why he was calling him away …’
I didn’t want to consider the possibility, yet I found myself trying to recall whether I had seen a ring on his left hand as he helped me retrieve the scattered stock from the damp pavement. Frustratingly, I couldn’t. But he couldn’t be married, could he? The way he looked at me, the way he kissed me – it was as if he was seeing a woman he wanted to be with for the first time. I felt … cherished, strange as that sounds; it was as if he were cradling a precious jewel he had no intention of letting go.
But he had let me go, hadn’t he?
Wren pushed her curls behind her ears. ‘Anyway, forget all that. Tell me about the kiss.’
So I told her, replaying the detail of our brief encounter that had been on ceaseless repeat in my mind all night and throughout today: how I felt so utterly safe in his embrace, how soft and warm his lips were on mine; how the whole city seemed suspended in time around us; and how I never for a moment questioned what was happening because it felt so right …
‘Like you were coming home, eh?’ Wren finished my sentence with a wistful look in her eyes.
I nodded. ‘That’s exactly how it felt. And I know it sounds cheesy but it didn’t feel contrived or cheap at all. I was just sharing this amazing moment with someone my heart knew. Does any of this make sense?’
She smiled. ‘Absolutely, hun. Although personally I wouldn’t have let him leave after a kiss like that.’
I felt my shoulders drop as I took a slurp of frothy coffee. ‘I know. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind and I still can’t work out why I didn’t just hang on to him until he gave me his number. Or at least his name. But I couldn’t move for a moment – I think I might have been in shock – so by the time I realised I had to go after him he’d disappeared. And now I have nothing to remind me of him other than my memory.’
Wren patted my hand. ‘Well, not exactly,’ she said, reaching into her coat pocket, producing a pink and white striped paper bag and handing it to me. ‘I thought this could serve as a memento of a momentous experience.’
Surprised, I opened the crumpled paper and slowly unwrapped the yellow tissue-papered object inside. To my utter amazement, I gazed down to see the beautiful teardrop-shaped bauble from the glass ornament stall, its tiny silver painted stars sparkling in the coffee shop lights.
‘Oh Wren, thank you!’
Wren put an arm around me and squeezed my shoulders. ‘You deserve it, sweets. Let this remind you that there is at least one amazing bloke in the city who thinks you’re beautiful – although with those sea green eyes of yours and gorgeous smile I’d hazard a guess that he’s not alone.’
I laughed at this. For as long as I’ve known her, Wren has been obsessed with the colour of my eyes, despite being one of the most amazing-looking women I know. Her own cocoa brown eyes and fiery red ringlets are stunning, but she’s always said how she’d love eyes ‘the colour of the sea in summer’, which is how she describes mine. We’re quite different in our style – Wren is every bit as flamboyant in her clothes as she is in everything else she does. Yet somehow her crazy, unique way of pairing colours together always works. If I tried to carry off some of her looks, I’d look like some kind of strange hippy, but Wren makes it look arty and gorgeous. We work well together, each a visual foil to the other. My shoulder-length hair has been several colours over the years (blonde, red and even black in my teens) but the dark blonde I’ve settled on now works best, I think. While Wren spends hours internet shopping for kooky, one-off fashions, I love my high street shops – and I know that we love each other’s style. But it’s funny how we’re never satisfied with what we’ve been given looks-wise. ‘You’re good for my ego, Wren.’
‘And you’re good for mine. That’s why you need my help to find this chap of yours.’
‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’
‘I don’t know. But