Читать книгу It Started With A Kiss - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 11

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 Mags grabbed my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mmmm. Oh dear. You’ve something serious going on in that mind of yours. There’s only one thing I can recommend.’

She wandered over to the pile of old Roses tins hap hazardly stacked on the benches and compact table in what Uncle Dudley refers to as ‘The Grand Dining Room’, and began to search through them, lifting lids and discarding tins until she located the one she was looking for.

‘Ah! Here we are.’ Brandishing the tin, she thrust it under my nose. ‘Coffee and walnut. That’s what you need.’

And, like countless times before, she was right.

Maybe it’s because she bakes so often – or maybe (as I secretly suspect) she actually has some mystical culinary-based second sight – but Auntie Mags’ ability to prescribe exactly the right sweet treat to meet your need is practically legendary. Broken heart? ‘Lemon drizzle, pure and simple.’ Anxious about something? ‘Bakewell tart. It’s the only thing that will work.’ Tired? ‘Triple-layer cappuccino cake – that’ll perk you up, chick!’

‘You’re a genius, Auntie M,’ I smiled, as Uncle Dudley poured the tea and Auntie Mags cut an enormous wedge of cake with an ancient, yellow bone-handled butter knife that could only have come from one of my uncle’s many car boot sale visits.

‘Nonsense. Everybody knows that coffee and walnut cake is vital for making important decisions. Isn’t it, Dudley?’

Uncle Dudley nodded sagely. ‘Absolutely.’

Dubious as their reasoning may have been, I found myself grinning like a loon. ‘And what important decisions do you think I have to make?’

‘Cake can’t tell you everything,’ my aunt replied, wagging the butter knife at me. ‘Enlighten us, darling niece.’

I feigned a protest, but inside I was delighted she had asked. The fact was, I needed their advice – and my aunt and uncle were quite possibly the only people I knew who had the ability (and inclination) to fully understand.

They listened intently as I relayed the events of the fateful day, stopping me every now and again to ask questions.

‘Why were you running through the Christmas Market?’

‘Because I’d just told Charlie I loved him.’

They exchanged raised-eyebrowed glances. ‘Oh.’

‘But that doesn’t matter because it was a mistake. The point is, the guy who kissed me changed everything.’

‘He kissed you?’

‘Yes. It was only for a moment, but …’ I stopped, suddenly unsure whether this was appropriate territory for a niece to approach with her aunt and uncle. But their mirrored expectant expressions – instantly reminding me of the two china Staffordshire dogs that guard each end of Mum’s mock-alabaster mantelpiece – urged me to continue. ‘It took my breath away.’

Uncle Dudley patted his wife’s hand excitedly. ‘Magic! It’s just like me and you, love!’

Rolling her eyes, Auntie Mags gave a loud tut. ‘Ignore him, Romily, he’s deluded. Carry on.’

‘That’s all, really. I know I should just chalk it up to experience – one of those heart-stopping, fleeting moments that will always give you a thrill. But I keep thinking …’

‘The attraction of possibility,’ Uncle Dudley chipped in. ‘No matter how unlikely, you can’t shake the feeling it might happen.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s it exactly!’

‘And you want to find him again,’ Auntie Mags nodded. ‘But you don’t know where to start.’

‘I love you guys. So what do I do?’

Uncle Dudley rose to refill the kettle. ‘I reckon you should go for it. What’s the worst that could happen, eh?’

‘Humiliation, disappointment and an unwanted reputation as a desperate woman?’ I ate a forkful of cake and stared at my aunt, who was deep in thought.

‘Pah, that’s nothing,’ Uncle Dudley said. ‘I’ve had worse than that in my life and I’m still smiling, aren’t I?’

‘You were called a desperate woman?’

‘Eh? Oh, good one. Our Romily’s sharp as a needle, eh, Magsie?’

‘Quiet, Dudley, I’m thinking.’ She placed her elbows on the table, folded her hands and rested her chin on them.

My uncle clapped his hands in delight. ‘Ooh, I know that look, Romily. You’re in for a proper treat now if your auntie’s got that face on her.’

We waited in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the canal waters against the side of the boat and the distant chug of a slowly approaching narrowboat, until the shrill ascending whistle of the kettle broke through.

‘If you’re going to do this, you need to think about how best to let people know you’re looking,’ Auntie Mags said, finally. ‘The more people you can involve in your search, the greater your chances of finding him.’

Uncle Dudley clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant, our Mags!’

‘That’s what I’ll do then. But how do I begin?’

Uncle Dudley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, bab. You just leave it to your Uncle Dudley.’

Just as I was about to leave home for the band’s annual Christmas party, Mum rang.

‘I just wanted to check you’re still coming for Christmas Day,’ she said. I could hear the theme music of The Great Escape drifting into the background where Dad was no doubt glued to the television for its umpteenth showing. Rather apt, I thought, given the topic of conversation.

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ I lied, putting on my heels as I held the phone against my ear with my shoulder.

‘Good. I thought you were going out with your musician friends this evening?’

‘I am,’ I replied, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

‘You’re leaving it awfully late, aren’t you? It’s seven fifteen already.’

I smiled to myself. Mum clearly doesn’t know that many musicians.

There are many wonderful skills that my musician friends possess, but accurate timekeeping is not one of them. I can’t tell you how many band rehearsals have started with two or three of us waiting for over an hour for the others to roll up. Jack and I are usually there pretty much on time, but Charlie, Wren and Soph can be anything from twenty minutes to well over an hour late. And we almost always start without Tom, who has been known to turn up with only three-quarters of an hour of the rehearsal session remaining.

Every year, the band and their partners meet for a Christmas meal, usually at The Old Gate, a pub and restaurant near Jack and Sophie’s house that sells excellent food and locally-brewed ales. This year, however, Jack had left booking the meal to the last minute and, unsurprisingly, discovered that the pub was fully booked. To rescue a few scraps of credibility (although you could lay money on the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to forget this indiscretion ever), he and Sophie hastily arranged a meal at their house, begging dining room chairs from family and friends and bringing in the white plastic picnic table from their garden to extend the dinner table in order to accommodate us all. In response to their valiant efforts (and because, despite the constant mocking, we love them both to bits), the rest of the band had divided responsibility for bringing food and drink, each agreeing to bring a component course of the meal. Thankfully, I’d been nominated to provide dessert, which was easy as my mother’s beloved Waitrose was only a short drive away from their house.

I picked up two large New York baked cheesecakes and a tub of raspberry compote, remembering to bring a couple of bowls of ready-prepared fruit salad for Sophie, who seems to be permanently on a diet.

True to form, even though I arrived just past nine pm, I was still the first guest at Jack and Sophie’s. A grave-looking Sophie met me at the door, apron on and tea towel slung over one shoulder.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ she said, giving me a huge hug and ushering me inside. ‘Jack’s being a total nightmare.’

‘Oh no. What’s up?’ I followed her down the hall to their dining room.

‘Just my boyfriend doing his best impression of a total muppet. Honestly, you’d think he was entertaining royalty the way he’s been carrying on. I swear he’s cleaned the kitchen three times, even though it’s too minuscule for any of us to spend any time in there tonight.’

‘I heard that,’ Jack said, emerging from the archway that led to the kitchen. ‘I’m just making sure our home is presentable, that’s all.’

‘I wouldn’t mind, but all he’s cooking for the meal are some sausage rolls,’ Sophie grimaced. ‘It’s hardly cordon bleu, is it?’

‘They’re pork and herb sausage filo wraps, actually.’

His serious expression sent us into a fit of giggles. Sophie threw the tea towel at him. ‘Ooh, get you, Gordon Ramsay.’

Jack folded his arms and scowled at us. ‘Oh, you mock now. But just you wait until you taste them. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.’ He leaned in for a kiss. ‘Romily, looking gorgeous as ever. Loving the dress, lady.’

I grinned and did a little twirl so that he and Sophie could get a good look at my black sequinned mini-dress and electric blue heels. I had decided to wear something that made me feel fabulous tonight to combat my nerves about seeing Charlie – and so far it was working.

Twenty minutes later, a raucous knocking at the front door heralded the arrival of Charlie, Wren and Tom, who had shared a taxi in order to, as Tom put it, ‘be free to quaff muchly’. Charlie and I greeted each other politely, carefully avoiding eye contact, as Wren, resplendent in a bright yellow cocktail dress that looked amazing against her hair, took centre-stage with her witty banter. I knew exactly what she was doing and I loved her for it.

Five minutes later our manager, Dwayne McDougall, appeared bearing a case of red wine, which was welcomed by the assembled Pinstripes with noticeably more warmth and enthusiasm than he was. It isn’t that we don’t like him – we do immensely – but the band likes to remind him that managing us is very different from running his event management business that helped him make his money. For a start, the events he organises for his eldest brother’s hotel tend to stay in one place, unlike we do.

‘Hello, Pinstripes!’ he boomed as he entered the dining room where drinks had already been handed out. ‘How’s my favourite wedding band tonight?’

‘Don’t you mean your only wedding band, Dwayne?’ Wren asked.

Dwayne’s confident countenance faltered slightly. ‘It starts with one, Wren,’ he mumbled.

It’s the cause of much hilarity in the band that Wren (standing at barely five feet two inches tall) can reduce Dwayne (over six feet in stature and a former member of the England judo squad to boot) to a blithering wreck so easily. Fortunately for Dwayne, Wren wasn’t looking for a fight this evening. She merely winked at him before wandering into the kitchen to talk to Jack. Quickly recovering his swagger, Dwayne dug in his leather jacket pocket and produced a slim silver business card case. ‘Before I forget, I’ve had some new cards done. You should all have one, in case of emergencies.’ He handed cards out to us all.

Tom was the first to laugh. ‘Hang on a minute: are you taking a stage name now, “D’Wayne”?’

One by one, each of the band read the name on the business card in front of them and laughter began to break forth like a wave.

‘Changed it by deed poll last week, actually. It’s classy,’ he protested. ‘That name will get us openings we’ve never had before. Top-class stuff. The calibre of engagements that might just take care of all those pesky bills of yours …’

The room fell silent. All joking aside, the promise of well-paying events was what kept us all going, and Dwayne – sorry, D’Wayne – knew this better than anyone.

‘Yeah, but it’ll still make you sound like a prat,’ Jack added, his dry remark reducing the room to unbridled hilarity once more.

Just over a year ago, The Pinstripes decided we needed a manager to take care of our promotion and bookings. I’m still not altogether sure how we managed to find D’Wayne McDougall – but, knowing how most of the band’s decisions seem to be made, it was probably through a recommendation from some random musician that one of us met in the pub. Whoever recommended him should, by rights, be given a swift kick up the proverbial, as D’Wayne had so far yet to prove himself in band promotion. And band management. And taking bookings, for that matter. What he had excelled at was giving the impression that big things were just a conversation away and taking the credit for gigs that the band ended up planning ourselves in order to save the booking. (That and having the most impressive array of shave patterns cut into the sides of his shiny black Afro hair which, this evening, appeared to be flames surrounding a large italic D.) Still, The Pinstripes were nothing if not hardened optimists, so we all held out hope that tonight our manager was going to come up trumps.

As we all sat down for our multi-component meal, I watched the interactions between my favourite group of people in the world. Tom, with his dark hair and cyclist physique, always launching into completely improvised impromptu comedy routines at any opportunity; Wren, flame-haired and elfin-framed, confounding the boys with her lightning-fast wit and (it has to be said) utterly filthy sense of humour; wise-cracking, tall Jack, with his green-blue eyes, closely-cropped brown hair and a laugh so loud and distinctive that we can tell if he’s in a room long before we enter it; Sophie, quiet and contemplative but a great listener, her long blonde hair always piled up on her head in one of those messy-chic hairstyles that look effortless but probably take hours of careful pinning to achieve; and Charlie, chestnut-brown haired with midnight blue eyes that seem to change depending on what colour he wears, sharing increasingly obscure jazz references with Jack. Even though my heart was torn by the sight of him, my embarrassment still raw, I still felt comforted by his presence together with my friends. In their company I have always been able to be myself – fitting in as comfortably as putting on a beloved pair of slippers, sharing the jokes and joining in the light-hearted music trivia debates. The situation with Charlie had definitely brought an edge to it all, but thankfully the others appeared to be completely unaware of it all for the time being.

After the four-course meal of canapés (a.k.a. Jack’s posh sausage rolls), baked salmon fillets with lime and fenugreek for the fish course from Charlie, a fantastic rustic pot roast with crispy herb potatoes from Tom (no doubt influenced by Nigel Slater, whose recipe books he worships at the index of), my desserts and coffee with mints provided by Wren (whose idea of culinary skill is knowing where to find things in an M&S food hall, but she gets away with it because we love her so much), we all decamped to the living room.

I love Jack and Sophie’s house. An old Edwardian villa, its rooms are spacious, high-ceilinged affairs with original coving, carved plaster ceiling roses and picture rails. They have rented it for the past four years and it’s a place we all end up at some time or other each week. I often visit on Saturday afternoons if we aren’t gigging or weekday evenings after work whenever Jack is cooking and the offer of a hearty home-cooked meal is too tempting to resist.

Thankfully, Jack had offered me the use of their spare bed for the night, so I was enjoying the luxury of being able to drink a little more than usual this evening.

Jack chose a Yellowjackets album to play as Sophie and I set out bowls of chocolates, nuts and biscuits on the low wooden coffee table. Charlie and Tom claimed the sofa as usual, with Wren perched up on one arm, and D’Wayne settled himself in the old threadbare armchair that Sophie has made several unsuccessful attempts to retire over the past four years.

‘Now we’re all together, I want to let you know what I’ve secured for you next year,’ D’Wayne said, pouring himself a large glass of red wine and consulting his iPhone.

Tom brushed biscuit crumbs from his jeans. ‘This should be interesting.’

Wren jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Shush.’

D’Wayne shot him a look. ‘Prepare to be impressed, my friend.’

‘Oh, I’m waiting for it, mate.’

‘Right. As you know we have the New Year’s wedding at the Excelsior in Solihull next week. I think maybe the rock’n’roll medley should be thrown in?’ This was met with loud protests from all of us, which D’Wayne lifted his large hands to still. ‘I know you hate it but it’s what the punters want. Most of the guests at the party are Baby Boomers. You’ve got to work with your demographic, guys.’

‘But it’s like death on a G-string,’ Tom moaned. ‘Six songs with identical chord structures. I might as well get Jack to sequence it and just go to the bar for the whole medley.’

I laughed. ‘Any excuse, Tom.’

‘What can I say? It’s a vocation.’

‘Maybe we should be looking for gigs that cater for a younger crowd,’ Jack muttered, as Wren and Charlie groaned. This was a frequent source of disagreement within the band and was unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

‘Older crowds have more disposable income,’ Sophie said, topping up her wine glass. ‘If you go for younger crowds all the time you’ll have to do more gigs to make it financially viable.’

‘Which is fortunate, then, that all the gigs in the diary for next year are going to pay well,’ D’Wayne interjected, clearly pleased with himself. ‘So do you mind if we return to next year’s programme?’

Tom shrugged and took a handful of nuts. ‘Don’t let us stop you, Duh-Wayne.’

‘Thank you. In January we have a fiftieth birthday gig on the 14th and on the 21st there’s a winter wedding at Elstone Farm Estate down in Somerset – smaller crowd but they’re all booked into the accommodation onsite so should be in the mood for a party. In February I’ve managed to get you playing at an exclusive Valentine’s Night bash at a venue to be confirmed – two forty-five-minute sets before the DJ comes on and they’re happy to pay a premium to secure us, so that should be around £250 each.’

A murmur of surprised approval rippled through the room. February is traditionally a dead month as far as gigs are concerned and, after the usual shock of post-Christmas bills in January, any money coming in during that month is a definite bonus.

‘March-wise, bit quiet at the moment but I’ve almost secured a medieval banquet wedding gig in Northumberland. Bride and groom both work for a big City law firm in London, so it should be more than worthwhile. I’ll have more on that next month, hopefully.’

‘Ah, the madrigal set then, guys,’ Jack quipped.

Tom laughed. ‘Must dust off my mandolin.’

‘Usual set, actually,’ D’Wayne countered. ‘And the type of younger crowd you’re looking for, Tom.’ He finished his wine and flicked through the list on his phone. ‘Two weddings in April, then May is more or less booked for weddings – three Saturdays and a Sunday, including a very nice one at a Scottish castle near Fort William. There’s a Regency wedding in June, a summer ball for a major accountancy firm in London in July and possibly a late July beachside wedding in Devon, so we might blag a free weekend break out of it. Obviously there are more I’m working on but it’s all good stuff, I think you’ll agree.’

‘It’s a start,’ Charlie said. ‘But ideally I think we need to be trying to gig most weeks from May to end of September.’

D’Wayne raised his eyebrows. ‘Hey, feel free to do better if you think you can.’

‘Actually, I already have,’ Charlie replied, his coolness disguising the irritation I knew he was experiencing. We all turned to look at him, including our manager, who looked slightly winded by this. ‘My sister’s getting married at Combermere Abbey in Shropshire, on the second weekend of September, and she’s booked us for the whole day. She’s hired a string quartet for the ceremony and wants some smooth jazz for the afternoon reception, so I suggest that Rom, Jack and I do the American Songbook set we put together for Soph’s mum’s fiftieth last year, and then we’ll have the whole band set in the evening. We get £250 each plus travel, two nights’ accommodation and expenses. Added to that, the event planner at the venue is an old school friend of hers and is interested in taking us on to her recommended entertainment list, so there’s definite potential for repeat gigs. That OK with you, Mr McDougall?’

D’Wayne’s voice was small and resigned when it came out. ‘Fine. Well done.’

‘You kept that quiet, Charlie,’ Sophie said. ‘Did you know about this, Rom?’

I shook my head, my heart sinking at the fact. Usually, I would be the first to know. After what happened on Saturday, was this how things were going to be between us from now on?

‘They’re not really talking at the moment,’ Wren interjected.

Horrified, I stared at her. ‘Wren!’

‘I’m just saying.’

All eyes swung to me, then Charlie, who was looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

‘Why? What’s up?’ Tom demanded.

Charlie’s gaze dropped to the carpet. ‘Nothing. We’re fine.’

Jack pulled a face. ‘Awkward!’

I considered throwing out a lame excuse to leave the room, but it would only further fuel my friends’ interest. So I remained rooted to the floor, hoping against hope that nobody would pursue it. Luckily for me, Tom had a bigger bombshell to drop.

‘Forget Pinstripes’ domestics, I can trump your gig, Chas.’

Relief washed over me as all attention switched to our guitarist.

Clearly happy to be let off the hook, Charlie laughed. ‘Oh really? Pray tell.’

‘I was chatting to my boss Julian last week about the kind of events we do. It was just a bit of small talk on the last day of work and I didn’t expect anything to come of it. But yesterday he called me and asked if we would be interested in playing for his daughter’s wedding in June. Point is, the guy’s loaded – we’re talking multi-millionaire – and he’s booked an amazing stately home in London not far from Kew Gardens. We had the most mental conversation. He was casually reeling off names of some of the guests who have already accepted, and we’re talking major celebs.’

It took us all several minutes to process this. It was D’Wayne who finally broke the silence.

‘How much?’

Tom’s smile was confidence personified. ‘Five grand for the full band, and he’ll throw in accommodation in Central London.’

‘Wow,’ Wren breathed. ‘That would make a major dent in my credit card debt. And staying in London, too? I’m thinking shopping …’

‘So much for settling the credit cards, Wren,’ I laughed.

‘How many sets?’ Charlie asked.

‘Two one-hours with a break for the evening buffet in the middle.’

‘Ah, music to my ears,’ grinned Jack.

Sophie leant forward. ‘When you say “celebs”, what calibre are we talking?’

‘Put it this way: the happy couple have sold their wedding pictures to Hello! magazine for several million pounds. Reckon we could tempt you out of retirement to play some wicked sax for us, Soph?’

Sophie whooped and threw her arms around Tom. ‘Yes! Please!’

‘How definite a booking is it?’ I asked.

‘As definite as us saying yes. He listened to the demo tracks on our website and decided we were perfect. Which of course, we are. So I said yes. Was that OK?’

All of us agreed together, even D’Wayne, who was looking decidedly deflated by the news.

Later, I stood in the kitchen with Jack making hot chocolate as the hum of excited conversation drifted through from the other room. Even though he’s two months younger than me, Jack’s always assumed the role of an older brother, watching out for me at every opportunity. My mother heartily approves of him, I think because he runs his own business (a successful local recording studio) and for several years through my early twenties she wrongly assumed that we were destined for each other – even when I explained that he was already settled with Sophie. As for me, I’ve always loved the easy friendship we’ve built, completely free of any kind of romantic undertones. Unlike Charlie and I …

‘This could be huge for us,’ Jack said, as the milk started to steam in the pan. ‘If we get recommended to society people it could mean serious money.’

‘I know.’ I hardly dared to believe it. ‘I could certainly use the money.’

‘Tell me about it.’ He shook several handfuls of Belgian chocolate flakes into the milk while I stirred. ‘So what’s going on with you and Charlie?’

‘Nothing. Just a misunderstanding. But we’ve sorted it now.’

‘Are you sure? Only neither of you seemed yourselves tonight.’

‘We’re fine, Jack, don’t worry. Give it a bit of time and things will be back to normal, you’ll see.’

‘Right. I don’t believe you, but if you say it’s fine then so be it.’

In truth, I was no more convinced by my assertion than he was, but I hoped with all my heart that it was true.