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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.’

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