Free It Started With a Kiss by Miranda Dickinson

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