It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

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.

      And so it was that, at ten fifteen pm on Christmas Day, my new blog was born.

      It Started With a Kiss

      Welcome to my new blog!

      I’ve never blogged before, but this is the first new experience for me in what I hope will be a year of discoveries.

      As the title suggests, all of this began with a man who stopped to help me when I most needed him. He was gorgeous and he kissed me – but he left and I didn’t get a chance to ask his name. I might be mad, but I have to find him again, if for no other reason than to prove that this amazing thing actually happened to me.

      So I’m going to spend a year looking for him. I don’t know his name, or where he lives: all I know is that I met him on the last Saturday before Christmas in Birmingham’s German Christmas Market, when I demolished a toy stall by the Town Hall (long story, I’ll explain later). He was amazing: gorgeously handsome, about six feet tall, with hazel-brown eyes and wavy, russet-brown hair. He was wearing a black coat and a green, cream and brown striped scarf, and he helped me to pick up the toys. We spoke for a while and then he gave me the most amazing kiss I’ve ever received, but he had to leave when his friend called him away.

      Were you in the Christmas Market on that Saturday? Do you remember seeing him?

      I’m not a desperate woman, or a crazed stalker. I just want to see him again, because I think he felt the same way that I did. So I’m setting myself this challenge in my last year of my twenties: I have between now and the next Christmas Eve to find him.

      If you can help – even if it’s just an encouraging word to reassure me that I’m not a complete nutter – please let me know.

      So, here goes the year of the quest … wish me luck!

      Love, Romily xx

      The next day, I met up with Wren for coffee. We wandered down the canal towpath from her apartment to George, the floating narrowboat café at Brindley Place.

      ‘I really am sorry about the other night,’ Wren said, dunking a cinnamon biscuit in the froth of her coffee. She looked so earnest it would have been impossible to be angry with her, even if I was – which I wasn’t.

      ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I smiled, watching two ducks float lazily past the window. ‘I think Jack had already guessed something had happened between Charlie and me anyway.’

      ‘And how is everything now?’

      ‘We’re getting there. To be honest, we haven’t spoken much over Christmas, but he texted me yesterday thanking me for his present and it was the normal Charlie-type text.’

      ‘Let me guess: another Yellowjackets album?’

      ‘Ooh, you’re good!’

      ‘Nope,’ she smiled. ‘You two are just predictable.’

      ‘Cheers.’

      ‘Welcome. And what about … the other thing?’

      I knew what she was referring to, but played dumb. ‘What other thing?’

      Wren’s cheeks reddened. ‘Oh please! The Phantom Kisser?’

      The mere mention of my handsome stranger sent a ripple of delight through me. Unable to contain myself any longer, I knew this was time to announce my plan to the world – even if, at that precise moment, that world consisted of Wren, an elderly couple at the table opposite and George’s waitress. Baby steps, I told myself.

      ‘I’m going to spend the whole of this year finding him. I’ve given myself a deadline, too. It’s an officially brilliant plan.’

      Wren stared at me. ‘Tell me more.’

      ‘OK, here it is: I have from now until Christmas Eve next year to find the man who kissed me. I know it’s crazy and I know chances are I’ll probably fail, but I want to try this because, unless I give it a go, I’ll never know if it’s possible. No matter how barmy I may sound right now, I honestly believe there’s a possibility I could find him.’ I could feel the adrenalin pumping through me as my heart picked up pace.

      Wren shook her head, auburn curls bobbling wildly around her porcelain cheeks. ‘Wow. So you’re actually going to do this?’

      ‘Yes I am. I’ve started a blog about it, too.’

      ‘No! When did all this happen?’

      ‘Christmas Day. Something Mum said really made me think.’

      ‘Blimey, I haven’t heard you say that before. What did she say?’

      ‘That it’s my twenty-ninth year and I should be making it count. And I thought about it and realised that spending the whole of this year looking for the guy from the Christmas Market might be a good place to start. Auntie Mags has been telling me that she was thinking about blogging her cake recipes and I thought a blog would be a great way of documenting the last year of my twenties.’

      Wren sat back in her seat, an amused smile wriggling across her lips. ‘Wow, Rom, I can’t remember the last time I saw you so fired up about something.’

      ‘I feel so positive about it, I really do.’

      ‘That’s great …’ Her smile faded and I knew there was a ‘but’ coming. ‘But what about Charlie? You’ve been telling me that he’s the love of your life for the past three years, Rom. How do you know you won’t change your mind about this bloke?’

      ‘I don’t. But that’s all part of the adventure, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if I decide halfway through the quest not to pursue it further. What will matter is that I tried in the first place.’

      Wren giggled. ‘You said “quest”, Rom.’

      ‘Well, that’s what it feels like.’

      ‘I can’t believe you just called it a quest, you crazy woman. I think you should go for it. Just promise me you won’t do anything silly, OK? And tell me everything. Someone needs to be looking out for you.’

      ‘Uncle Dudley’s offered to help,’ I offered, although it was immediately evident that this did nothing to allay Wren’s concerns.

      ‘Even more reason that you should tell