Free It Started With a Kiss by Miranda Dickinson Page A

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,’