Page 9 of It Started with a Kiss
It sounded about right, though, considering the second personality that had descended as soon as the music had begun. As I stood there and looked to my right, a beautiful, familiar-looking girl with crazy pink hair walked by me almost in slow motion. The smoky, smudged make-up round her grey eyes made them stand out as they locked on mine. A smile slowly formed on her full lips just before she turned and carried on walking through the crowd.
Then she was gone.
Had I imagined her in my post-stage-debut haze?
Turning back to my friends, I fell back to earth with a crash as a drink was thrust into my hand. ‘Here you go, mate. You look stunned! It’s hilarious! It’s like you were some kind of clone of yourself up there.’
Finally finding the words I needed, I shook my head. ‘I know... I know. What the hell was I thinking?’ I laughed at myself as I brushed a hand through my hair and gulped down the shot of clear liquid that burned as it made the journey to my stomach.
More compliments came forth from the guys. ‘Hey, Hunter, you were astounding, mate. You should be in a band or something.’
‘Yeah, eat your heart outBritain’s Got Talent. Edinburgh’s got Fin Hunter!’
They all laughed and the back slapping began again.
6
Star
You know that song, ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To’? Yeah, well that was suddenly my anthem. Everything had changed in a matter of days and I had plenty to be depressed about. My twenty-fifth birthday came around without much of a fanfare, and that was all my own doing. You see, in light of the week’s events, I was feeling homesick for the first time. For starters, my stupid-ass boyfriend, Mick, had given me the whole, ‘It’s not you it’s me’ speech—feel free to insert dorky voice—saying he needed his space, to be alone for a while and that we were moving too fast.Prize asshole. The shit-head dumped metwo daysbefore my birthday, but then I saw him out with some brunette from the bar where he worked. They were kissing in a shop doorway when I was on my way home from work. And from what I saw, there wasn’t much ‘space’ between him and her double-Ds.
Then add to this that Mr McYummy was now married.
Married.
He would’ve been married a whole week by now and was probably off sunning himself on some tropical beach with his new, perfectly mani-pedied bride. I couldn’t help myself, though. I still looked for him every morning, but of course, he didn’t come by for his coffee. And—regardless of how stupid it was—I worried I would never see him again. Let’s face it, just because he’d married the love of his life, didn’t mean he’d stop needing his morning caffeine fix now, did it? Unless Mrs McYummy was in charge of that area of his life after the wedding.
Ugh! Ihatedher.
I hated a woman I had never met but who was good enough to capture the heart of that shy, handsome Scotsman. I hated the crazy sinking feeling in my gut when I thought of him with her. I hated the fact that he’d found someone and that no doubt she would be prim, well-spoken, and perfect. Of course, I didn’t know any of this for sure. All I knew for definite was thatnotseeing him sucked and my mornings had got a little duller.
Okay, alotduller.
On top of all this was the fact that I missed my parents terribly, meaning I didn’t feel much like celebrating. Grandma had baked me a birthday cake and offered to cook me a birthday meal but she was really struggling with her legs and I didn’t want to burden her more. I spent a few hours with her as she regaled me about her birthdays as a younger woman. She made everything sound so glamorous. Afterwards I decided I was going home to sulk and dwell on how unglamorous my life was.
Alec, of course, had other ideas. ‘Come on, Twinkle. You’re only twenty-five once, and you have to bloody forget about that wanker. He wore crap clothes and his hair was always a mess. You can dosomuch better.’
Okay, so he was right. Mick had never been long-term boyfriend material, but being dumped was never fun. Alec eventually convinced me that I needed to get out, and so I agreed to go toDeBasement. It was our usual drunken haunt in the city where we’d get up and sing a duet of ‘Dead Ringer for Love’—Alec insisting, as always, that he sang the Cher parts—or some other old rock song that we could murder together. It never failed to make me laugh, even when I really didn’t think I was in the mood.
It was Friday night, and I dressed in my long purple tie dye skirt with my clunky black boots, I topped off the ensemble with a black t-shirt that I had slashed the neck of, so it fell casually off one shoulder. My pink hair was left to dry in natural waves and then messed up a little with product. A glance in the mirror told me I appeared a little like an 80s Madonna crossed with Stevie Nicks, and a little Debbie Harry thrown in for good luck.
We made our way to the bar to meet up with some of our friends—Alec’s on and off boyfriend, Gil, short for Gilbert, being one of them.
Alec opened the door for me like a real gentleman and I spotted the group immediately. Waving frantically, I dashed through the throngs of people and was enveloped in a group hug and treated to a very loud and raucous rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ whilst hoisted up on the shoulders of two of my male friends, Slater and Conch—Bruce Conchola, in case you were thinking,‘Huh?’His mom was from Texas and his dad was Glaswegian—go figure.
Anyway, I felt better already.
The drinks were flowing nicely, and Alec even ordered a bottle of champagne. I was more of a Jack and Coke kind of girl, but it was sweet of him to buy it so I helped drink it anyway. Well, it would’ve been rude not to. Conch and Mindy, his girlfriend, got up to sing Meatloaf’s ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’ and the place erupted as they camped up their performance. Conch dabbed at his face with a white napkin—bits of the paper towel getting stuck to his forehead as he did so. It really was hilarious. But the thing I loved about the place was the eclectic music on offer. It wasn’t your run of the mill Bette Midler, Whitney Houston and Abba kind of karaoke. You could literally sing anything you wanted—so long as it was rock or indie.
As the night wore on, we all got more and more drunk, and I was working my way up to my big duet with Alec when a guy walked onto the stage. His head was down so I couldn’t see his face, but he looked completely out of place up there—in the club too, if the truth be told. Grey slacks, white shirt, short blonde hair and a tie that had been loosened half way down his chest. Most of the club’s regular clientele donned black and were covered in tattoos. He took the mic from Pedro, the club owner and M.C. and stuck it in the stand, then rolled up his shirt sleeves just as the intro began to play.
I recognised it immediately. Now, I know you should never judge a book by its cover and all that, but to say I was shocked at the song choice would be a major understatement. He lifted the mic from its stand once again and began to sing but didn’t lift his face to the crowd. His gravel-filled voice sent shivers down my spine. The guy could sing, that’s for sure. A rarity in that place. But it was what happened next that had me almost passing out right there on the spot.
As the words fell from his lips and the song began to build, he slowly lifted his face and my mouth fell open. My eyes widened and my heart almost stuttered to a halt.
It washim.
It wasMr McYummy, the blonde bombshell from the coffee shop.
