It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

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?’

       CHAPTER FOUR

       We are family

      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.

      I’ve always been the kind of person who believes things are possible before I embark upon them, so searching for my ‘Phantom Kisser’, as Wren had named him, didn’t seem like as big a step of faith as it probably would to other people. In this respect, I am very much like my Uncle Dudley. He’s the most positive person I know, always thrilled by the opportunities that life presents and never afraid of a challenge. I sometimes wonder if I should have been his daughter instead of my dad’s, whose idea of a risk is something backed up by pages of careful calculations – so not really a risk at all. Uncle Dudley’s philosophy of life is that everything turns out well in the end, eventually. His health isn’t brilliant, he and Auntie Mags have had to cope with quite a tough series of life problems (including discovering quite early on in their marriage that they were unable to have children – something that I know devastated them both) and they never seem to have quite enough money to be able to fully relax in their retirement, but they are, without a doubt, the happiest couple I know.

      Nearing my destination, I crossed over a small humpback bridge spanning a canal. Once on the other side I left the road and turned on to the towpath towards the permanent moorings. The spicy tang of woodburner smoke tickled my nostrils as I dismounted and wheeled past narrowboats with names I knew by heart: Taliesin, The King, Barely-A-Wake, Adagio, Titch, Llamedos. Beside each narrowboat a thin plot of grass revealed a snapshot of the owners’ personalities, from a fully stocked vegetable plot to a brick-built barbecue with a greening old picnic table beside it, and what can only be described as a garden gnome shrine. At the end of the row of brightly coloured vessels, stood Our Pol – a magnificent 60ft green and red narrowboat crowned with traditionally painted enamel jugs, basins and planters stuffed with winter pansies.

      A chirpy whistling from inside made me smile. I knocked three times on the cabin door. ‘Anyone aboard?’

      The whistling stopped abruptly and the door flew open as Uncle Dudley emerged, blue cap perched at a rakish angle and face in full beam. ‘Hello, you!’ He ducked his head back inside briefly. ‘Mags my love! There’s a red-faced cyclist here in need of a cuppa!’

      ‘I’ll put the kettle on!’ Auntie Mags’ disembodied voice replied.

      ‘Hi, Uncle Dud,’ I smiled. ‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced?’

      ‘Of course not, bab! We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Chuck your bike up above and come on in.’

      Uncle Dudley has been in love with narrowboats for as long as anyone can remember. Dad says that his younger brother’s favourite toy as a child was a small wooden canal boat (a present from my great-great grandfather), which he insisted accompany him on every outing and family holiday. Uncle Dudley had his first taste of being aboard the real thing during his time as an engineer on the production lines at Leyland and Rover, when his long-time workmate Eddie bought the rusting hulk of an old coal boat and gradually restored it to full working order. From that moment on, Uncle Dudley’s sole ambition was to own a narrowboat, and when, at the age of fifty-two, he elected to take early retirement, he finally realised his dream and bought The Star from Eddie’s cousin, which he renamed Our Pol after Auntie Mags’ beloved aunt.

      The other great love of his life, Auntie Mags, was consider ably less enamoured of the whole idea than her husband, but because it was his dream and because – despite her protestations to the contrary – she dearly loves Uncle Dudley, she went along with it. And continues to go along with it every weekend and holiday or whenever Dudley gets the itch to check on ‘the old girl’. Auntie Mags finds spending time on Our Pol much more frustrating than she would ever let on to her husband, but it comes out in subtle ways – most notably in her baking. As a simple guide, the level of stress she is experiencing is directly proportional to the amount of baking she produces from the small wood-fuelled oven in the narrowboat’s galley.

      Judging by the cake tins balanced precariously on every flat surface in Our Pol’s interior, Auntie Mags was having a particularly bad day today.

      ‘Spot of baking, Auntie Mags?’ I grinned as I entered the warmth of the cabin.

      Mags pulled a face. ‘Just a tad. Come here and give your poor old landlubber aunt a hug!’

      I’ve always loved hugs from Auntie Mags. She has one of those strong yet soft embraces that makes everything seem better. Not like Mum. My mother’s idea of a hug is an air kiss with minimal bodily contact. Causes less creases in one’s clothes and removes the need for any embarrassing public displays of affection. Not that I’m a massively ‘huggy’ person, but hugs from my aunt class as delightful exceptions to the rule – generous treats to be savoured and enjoyed (much like her baking).

      There was a whimper and the diminutive, shaking frame of Elvis, my aunt and uncle’s rescue poodle, appeared at our feet. Elvis is even less of a fan of being on the water than Auntie Mags and whenever he is spotted aboard Our Pol he is not much more than a shivering, terrified bundle of curly grey fur.

      Breaking the hug, I reached down to pat his poor terrified body. ‘Hey Elvis, how’s it going?’ Elvis gave my hand a hesitant lick, then fled to the safety of his faded tartan dog bed by the cooker.

      Auntie