I was twenty-three when I was turned into a vampire. In school I wanted to be a fireman—vampire wasn’t even on my list of possibilities. I didn’t get anywhere close to becoming the fireman of my dreams. I wasn’t fit enough or driven enough. I went to college but only because my mates Josh and Steve did—then I got a job in a supermarket just to keep me going until I found a real job.

I didn’t ever find a real job, but my best mate Josh turned me. I hadn’t a clue he was a vampire. All right, he’d been acting weird for a while, but he steered clear of garlic anyway and had never really been religious. He didn’t have a tan, either. He jumped on my friend and me in a club. It wasn’t until we were back at Josh’s flat with some rather attractive girls that he told us.

It hadn’t sunk in until the next day. I was living with my eighty-year-old gran at the time. I’d lived with her since I was ten and she was my whole family. It was as I sat down to breakfast with her that I realised I was no longer human. I was a monster and Gran would kill me if she knew—literally—she had strong, Catholic beliefs and did not hold with anything that Father O’Mally wouldn’t approve of. I decided then and there that Gran could never know about my condition.

“Eat up your breakfast,” she said, slapping a huge mug of tea on the table in front of me. “You’re a growing lad. Are you working today?”

“No, Gran,” I replied, “it’s my day off.” I tried to eat a piece of bacon, but as I raised it to my lips the smell from it knocked me sick.

“Well, you could come to Mass with me then,” she said, turning around from her position at the sink. “Father O’Mally would be so pleased to see you.”

“I can’t, Gran,” I said, feeding my bacon and sausages to Billy, our old, half-blind dog.

“Why not?” she snapped. “What could possibly be more important than the saving of your immortal soul?”

I wasn’t sure I had a soul. I wasn’t much into horror flicks or reading, but something told me that vampires were well known for lacking in the soul area. I couldn’t tell Gran that, though, so I scrabbled for an excuse.

“I promised Josh I’d take him over to his Gran’s grave,” I quickly lied. “It’s the anniversary of her death, you know.”

“Aww.” Gran turned from the sink and clasped the tea towel to her heart. “The poor boy. Well, that’s very kind of you, Kyle. I’m sure the good Lord is proud of you.”

Gran’s sweet smile was enough to break my heart. I hated lying to her. I sighed. I would have to get used to it.

“Oh, deary, don’t upset yourself.” Gran shuffled over to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. “She’s in a better place now.”

“I know,” I said, glad Gran had assumed the reason for my sad face instead of asking me to explain. “I’m glad I’ve got you, Gran. You’re the best.”

“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, you’re such a sweetheart. Don’t ever change.”

But I had and there was no way back. Gran left for church after washing my plate and mug. She had her Sunday best hat on and took her best walking stick from the rack in the hall. She was a very proud lady and always wanted to look her best for church. ‘God judges the inside,’ she’d tell me, but that Hilda Sullivan would judge the outer and she’d be damned if she’d give her anything to gossip about.

I have to walk past Ho, Ho, Ho! every day and I don’t understand it. It’s the middle of July and the window is filled with Christmas trees, tinsel and snow. It’s been like that since last Christmas and will be like that next Christmas and it won’t change much in between. Funny thing is that tourists and locals alike flock to that place all year round.

They’ll laugh when they go past, maybe even exclaim their shock, but moments later they’ll be in there and, nine times out of ten, they’ll exit with a holly-patterned bag in hand. I’ve never been in. I hate Christmas at Christmas time and I sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of its existence every damn day, but to get to my quirky vintage boutique I have to walk past the place. I find it depressing.

Most people accept it because the shop used to be empty and an empty shop in Lincoln is not to be tolerated. It looked scruffy and locals did not like that one bit. I don’t count myself a local, though. I only moved into the area a year ago, from the far less glamorous Wirral. All right, so I come from Birkenhead, but thankfully I don’t have that Scouse screech – my parents brought me up a whole lot posher than that. In their world, we lived in Cheshire – after all, that’s what the postcode indicated.

I’d visited Lincoln with my mum on one of those weekend coach trips. I’d treated her for her sixtieth birthday and I’d fallen in love with the place. The cathedral is dramatic and dominant, as is the castle, and everything in between is so quaint and ‘olde worlde’. The high street is less picturesque, but I avoid going down that end of the hill as much as I possibly can.

Yes – there is no escaping the hill, I’m afraid, and many people huff and puff and come to a stop outside my window on Steep Hill, pretending to be interested in my stock when really they just want a breather before they take on the rest of the slope. I find that it works out very well for me, since many of these people actually come in and purchase something once they’ve got their breath back.

I love the range of people I meet in my little boutique. It never ceases to amaze me how many people from all over the world I have buying things in my shop on a weekly basis. I can virtually guarantee I’ll see a German, an American, someone who’s Chinese and a Scottish person every week – close to every day, in fact. Lincoln is a massively popular tourist destination.

As I opened up on that bright, sunny morning, I smiled. I loved my job. I sourced clothing from all over the country, along with jewellery and knick-knacks with a vintage feel. I get to pick and choose things I like and fill my shop with them. I don’t sell a thing that I don’t love and that makes for one very happy shopkeeper, I can tell you.

I say shop like it’s something impressive but it’s not a particularly huge one. The building is pretty ancient – not quite as old as some of the other buildings along this cobbled street, but still old enough to have been around when Shakespeare was bigger than X Factor. I felt the age of the place like a comforting blanket the first time I came to visit. I knew I wanted it the moment I walked in the door and, although small, it’s perfectly formed for what I need.

I’m lucky – my parents gave me capital to set up my business. However, I pay them back a significant sum each month and so I have to work hard to ensure I make enough money to pay them and keep a roof over my own head – which, believe me, is hard work.

I set about sorting out my stock and putting a float into my till and all the other daily routines I do.

I like routine. I like everything to happen just so and at the right time. I’m not a fan of surprises; I’m not terribly impulsive. All of which probably explains why I haven’t been on a date in more years than I care to remember, and why I was lonely. I was. I was mostly happy on my own. I could do what I wanted, how I wanted and when I wanted, but some nights I did just long for somebody to snuggle up to. Someone to share my dreams with.

Fiona was knackered after another long day at work. She was hungry, it was late and she didn’t want to cook. Her decision made, she walked past her car towards the red, white and green of Roberto’s restaurant sign. The beautiful summer’s evening and the mellow sunlight made even the urban sprawl of Manchester’s city centre seem beautiful and romantic. The hint of pink heralding good weather for the next day brought out the deep rouge of the red bricked buildings that she passed and drew dark swirling patterns on the tarmac below her feet.

From the moment she walked into the restaurant she was enveloped by the warmth of exuberant cooking. She could smell it, almost taste it on the air and could hear the gentle click and clunk of pans being shaken on the hob. She was instantly comforted.

“Ah, mia bella, would you like a table?” a loud voice called and was followed by a striding man. He was round, curly-haired and red-faced. His smile stretched the length of his impressive moustache. Roberto was larger than life and Fiona adored him.

“Ah, Fiona. I have just the perfect table for you, follow me.”

She followed him past tables of laughing, joking people to one in the corner, near the kitchen. He placed an open menu in front of her as she sat down.

“What would you like to drink tonight?”

“Just a glass of water, please Roberto.”

“No vino? That is criminal on a Friday night.”

“I’ve had a long day and I have to drive home. Water will really hit the spot, thank you.”

“Ah, a wise lady, a wise lady indeed. My mama would have loved you.”

“Why, thank you.” Fiona chuckled.

He always managed to make her smile. She was completely charmed by the effervescent man and the homely interior of the restaurant. There were postcards on the walls, sweet tourist ornaments on shelves and a lovely higgledy-piggledy arrangement to the tables. It was like visiting a favourite family member. She felt comfortable dining there.

“It is busy here tonight, mia bella, but I will have Carlo look after you. He is a good lad.”