It Started With a Kiss (6 page)

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.