It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ