Free How To Choose a Sweetheart by Nigel Bird

up her hand as if she’s the conductor and they all stop singing at once. “That’s very good.”
    “And we haven’t even practiced.” Chris is unrepentant.
    Max doesn’t want the spotlight. He quickly gets back to safer ground. “I quite fancy Jenny’s floor cushions.” He knows he’ll look an arse, but it’s better than the alternative.
    “Max!” Jazz looks shocked.
    Max blunders into a change of subject. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”
    “We thought you were up for a quiet evening.”
    “Not any more. I feel like a session.”
    “What about the hangover?”
    He drinks what’s left in his glass. “I’ve just found the cure.”
    “You feel better then?”
    “On the whole I’d rather be in bed, but this’ll do.”
    Chris rubs his hands together at the prospect of another session. “We could stay here and get up to The Pits later on.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Now you’re talking.”
    Jazz turns to Alan and they have a quiet conversation, then she leans into the group as if she’s about to tell a big secret and looks over to Max.
    “Some madman called us in the middle of the night.”
    “No way!” If Angela’s mouth opens any further, it might easily be mistaken for a tunnel.
    Alan leans in now. “Only a madman called Max.”
    “I couldn’t exactly make it out,” Jazz goes on, “but it was something about the beauty of the Moon and the joy of howling, then some banging on the piano.”
    Chris burst out laughing, a fine spray of beer misting up the air above the table. “That sounds like the evening in a nutshell.”
    Max drops his head sheepishly, feels the warmth in his cheeks and the need to pee. Alan and Chris just laugh.
    “Don’t worry,” Jazz says, putting her hand on his to give a little squeeze. “It’s no big deal. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
    What a dick he is. Phoning up his ex like a saddo. The least he can do is apologise. “I’m sorry,” he says, really meaning it.
    Chris doesn’t bother waiting for the response. “Your round Angela.”
    “And you’re a bloody square. Same again?”
    Everyone nods and Angela goes to the bar.
    Chris stands and calls after her. “I’ll give you a hand.”
    As he passes Max he gives him a wink, then puts his arm around Angela’s waist as they walk over to bring home the bacon.

THIRTEEN
    A lan, Jazz, Chris and Angela are gathered on a pavement outside The Pits. The music is loud with the vibrations of a Violent Femmes bass line dominating all else. The street is busy with people dressed in summer clothes in spite of the chill in the air. 
    Max is on the other side of the road. He’s been waving his arms at cabs for five minutes, but none of them have stopped.
    At last a car pulls over to the kerb. It’s one of the box-shaped cars that should really be a van, but has seats in it. 
    When Max opens the door and tells the driver where they’re going, his friends pile over in a knot of arms and legs. They’ve obviously been in joke-telling mode as Alan has a go at the punch-line as soon as the door closes.
    “Indigo!  Indigo!  That’s terrible,” Alan says.
    “That’s the only one I can remember.” Chris is being defensive, but Max knows that Alan’s right even if he doesn’t want to agree.  Angela leans forward and stares at the driver. “God, he looks like Mel Gibson.” The girl has no idea about personal space.
    “No way,” Jazz says.
    It doesn’t stop Angela’s flow. She leans in even closer to the driver so that she’s practically shouting in his ear. “Do you know you look just like Mel Gibson?
    “So I’ve been told,” he says, slipping the car into fourth gear and answering as if he’s got his communication system set on to automatic pilot.
    “See?”
    “You look more like JFK,” Jazz goes on. She must be having a laugh.
    “Yep, him too.”
    Max throws in a spanner. “Chaplin?”
    “Every once in a while.”
    “A big mouse?” Chris asks.
    “You takin’ the Mickey?  It’s a