It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

in the air between us and the room held its breath – ultimately in vain. There had been more of these lately, peppering almost every occasion we spent together with an irresistible spice of intrigue. If they didn’t mean what I thought they meant, then what on earth were they all about?

      My mobile phone rang in my bag, but I couldn’t face answering the call, so Stevie Wonder continued his tinny rendition of ‘Sir Duke’ unhindered by my usual intervention. Reaching into the crummy depths of my coat pocket, I retrieved a crumpled shopping list and read down the list of scribbled names: my ‘To-Do’ list for the afternoon. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and my final chance to buy everyone’s presents. Christmas shopping waited for no one, it seemed – not even thoroughly embarrassed owners of newly-shattered hearts.

      Mum & Dad

      Wren

      Jack & Soph

      Uncle Dudley and Auntie Mags

      Tom & Anya

      Charlie

      Charlie. My breath caught in the back of my throat as my eye fell on the last name. No need for that one to be there now, I hissed under my breath. I think he’s had quite enough surprise gifts from me this year. I stuffed the list back into my pocket and prepared to dive back into the undulating ocean of people.

      ‘Rom!’

      My head snapped upright in horror to see Charlie pushing his way through the crowd, further back down the street. No, this was absolutely not going to happen now. I couldn’t face it – the lead-heavy mortification gripping my insides was already too much to bear. Turning on my heels, I pushed back into the crowd and ran on again.

      ‘Oh come on, Rom! Just stop!’ Charlie called behind me, closer this time.

      Looking over my shoulder, I shouted back. ‘Go home, Charlie!’

      I saw him stop, throw his hands up in the air and turn back into the horde of shoppers behind him. Furious with myself for creating this awful situation, I wanted to put as much distance between me and the scene of my worst ever decision. Tears filled my eyes as I put on another sprint, rushing through the swarming mass of bodies. Part of me wanted Charlie to be following me, to catch me and say that he’d overreacted, that I hadn’t been mistaken, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen and I hated myself for wanting the impossible. Angrily, I wiped the tears from my eyes – just in time to see the gaudy wooden stall laden with soft toys appear directly in front of me a split second before my body slammed headlong into it.

      A collective gasp rose from the crowd of shoppers as I tumbled, helpless limbs flailing, in an ungracious slow-motion sprawl. Bears, rabbits and reindeer spun in the air around me like a shower of oversized plush snowflakes and, for a moment, it was as if all noise ceased as I descended. The clamour of the crowd and the Christmas music receded and my senses were now aware only of the sensation of moving through the air. This feeling was short-lived, however, followed as it was by the inevitable gut-wrenching crack as my body hit the unforgiving block-paved ground and I skidded to a halt amid a sea of stuffed animals on the frosted pavement.

      It took a moment for me to catch my breath, my ears buzzing from my head’s heavy meeting with the floor, but then it was as if someone flicked a switch and all the light, noise and music of the Christmas Market roared back into life – along with the shock of an intense flood of pain along my back and the appearance of one very angry stallholder.

      His beetroot-red round face appeared directly over me as I lay there, but instead of helping me up he launched into a tirade of thick German-accented abuse.

      ‘Crazy woman! Look at this mess! It is ruined, ruined!’

      Thoroughly embarrassed, I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my bruised limbs creaked and groaned back into an upright position.

      ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I mumbled, grabbing armfuls of toys and wishing I could disappear.

      In true British fashion, the crowd around me didn’t offer to help – the spectacle of the woman who trashed the toy stall frantically trying to reconstruct it far too much fun for them to intervene. The disgruntled stallholder didn’t help either, standing by the remains of his stall with pudgy arms folded tight across his squat body as he watched me. As if I wasn’t morbidly mortified enough already, I was vaguely aware that some of the onlookers had produced mobile phones and were now happily filming the scene. Great. All I needed after the events of today was to become the unwitting star of the latest YouTube viral sensation. I was cold, aching, unspeakably embarrassed and all I wanted was to get home as quickly as possible. Christmas was ruined now anyway: Charlie wouldn’t want to see me and when the rest of the band found out what had happened, everything would be awkward there, too. Only Wren would understand – and no doubt even she would have a strong opinion on it.

      I bit back tears as I reached out to scoop more of the fallen bears from the pavement …

      … and that’s when I saw him.

      As my fingers closed around a toy penguin, I was suddenly aware of a gloved hand reaching out for a polar bear hand puppet next to it. Lifting my eyes I came face to face with quite the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. His hazel eyes caught the light from coloured Christmas lights above, while wavy strands of his russet-brown hair picked up the twinkling blue light from the fairy lights that framed the toy stall roof. A slight shadow of stubble edged his jawline and I noticed that his cheekbones were quite defined.

      ‘Hi,’ he said, his warm smile and kind eyes momentarily numbing the sting of my bruises. ‘Need some help?’

      I smiled back. ‘Please.’

      We slowly moved around each other, gathering up the scattered stock. As we did so I was aware that he was watching me, his shy smile appearing whenever our eyes met. And I can’t explain why, but the sudden arrival of this kind stranger after the utter awfulness of the afternoon felt like a blissful reprieve – as if everything I had experienced was merely instrumental in bringing me to this moment, this meeting.

      Once we had retrieved all of the toys from the wide circle they had been flung to, I turned to the stallholder and apologised again.

      ‘Whatever,’ he shrugged, disappearing inside his wooden stall and slamming the door.

      Spectacle over, the onlookers dispersed back into the crowd and the stranger and I were left alone by the stall.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. I noticed tiny crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

      For a moment, we stood in silence, our breath rising in puffs of Christmas-light-washed steam. It was clear that neither of us knew what to say and the awkwardness of the silence brought my earlier humiliation flooding back.

      He’s obviously just being polite, I reasoned, my heart sinking, and now he’s looking for an excuse to leave.

      ‘Well, I’d better …’ I nodded in the direction of the Town Hall behind us, as though this would be some universal indicator of the Christmas shopping I still had to do before I could go home. Thankfully, he seemed to understand, nodding and looking down at his feet.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Thanks again.’

      He raised his lovely eyes once again to mine. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas.’

      As I hurried away, I felt like screaming. Not content with merely ruining my friendship with Charlie and making a complete idiot of myself in full view of a large section of city shoppers, I had now embarrassed myself in front of a really good-looking bloke. Nice work, Romily.

      My shoulder was complaining vociferously as I reached into my coat pocket again for the list. At times like this, practicality was the only way forward. I headed towards the white lights of the craft market section. My aunt loves hand-painted glass and I vaguely remembered seeing a glass ornament stall earlier that day. Forcing my conflicting thoughts to the back of my mind,