It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

in the city’s streets and houses the only exception to the dimness. After a frustratingly slow journey stuck in endless traffic queues, I finally arrived at the old shoe factory where Tom rents a rehearsal studio. Charlie and Jack were already there, huddled on the curved steps of the peeling Art Deco entrance with identically grumpy expressions.

      ‘Let me guess, we’re waiting for Tom?’

      Jack grimaced. ‘Correct.’

      ‘How long have you been here?’

      ‘Twenty-eight minutes,’ Charlie said, pointing at his watch.

      ‘Trust me, he’s been counting,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve had updates every minute. It’s like standing in a doorway with CNN.’

      A frigid wind sprang up, blowing sheets of rain into the entrance. I shivered and pushed my hands deeper into my pockets, reprimanding myself for forgetting my gloves this morning. ‘I would have been here sooner, but the traffic was horrendous.’

      ‘I wouldn’t worry, Rom. It’s not like you missed anything. Wren’s running late, too, but no surprise there … Oh finally,’ Charlie announced, looking over my shoulder. I turned to see Tom sprinting through the puddles on the road towards us. ‘Leave your watch at home, did you?’

      ‘So-o-o-rry!’ Tom chirped. ‘Romily, charming as ever.’ He kissed my cheek and hugged me, then raised his hand at the lads. ‘Jack, Charlie, respect.’ Quickly, he unlocked the double doors and propped them open. Clapping his hands together, he grinned at us. ‘Care to load in, gentlemen?’

      Jack laughed but Charlie strode back out towards his car, muttering unmentionables as he went. Tom pulled a face.

      ‘I see you brought Sarky Git Charlie with you today. I don’t like that one. Whatever happened to Nice Friendly Charlie?’

      Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.’

      Once all the gear was safely out of the rain, we took turns filling the old service lift, Charlie and I walking up two flights of stairs to unload guitars, drums, amps and cable bags on the first floor, then heading back down to repeat the process.

      Thankfully the sheer logistics of getting all the gear to its destination removed the necessity for talking; a blessed relief for me, given that the sight of Charlie had inexplicably brought butterflies to my stomach.

      By the time everything was on the first floor, Wren had arrived. We each grabbed a piece of equipment and headed along the high, steel-gabled dusty corridors and towards the heavy riveted steel door into Tom’s rehearsal room.

      Over the years that The Pinstripes have been performing, we have seen our fair share of rehearsal spaces, ranging from tiny ‘sound-proofed garage’ affairs to dodgy-looking back rooms in music shops where the mic stands are bolted to the floor. Tom’s rehearsal room is a palace by comparison: a sharp contrast to its stark industrial surroundings once you step through the thick steel door. Draped with long white curtains suspended from the ceiling, the room resembles a second-hand furniture shop, with three enormous, incredibly squashed sofas arranged around an old Chinese-patterned rug and a 1940s sideboard that serves as a sound desk stand. A fading rose-painted tray on the gaffer-taped tea crate houses the all-important kettle, mismatched mugs, coffee, tea and dubious-looking scrunched-up sugar bag. Fairy lights are strung up all round the room and a jumble of shaded table lamps illuminate the floor. Tom shares the rent of the room with a heavy metal band called Disaffection and it’s a source of great amusement to Wren and I to think of highly tattooed, gruff rockers thrashing out their stuff surrounded by fairy lights and homely soft furnishings.

      While the band set up I made tea – something Jack jokily calls ‘The Vocalists’ Saving Grace’, largely because being the singer in a band invariably involves an inordinate amount of standing around while the other band members set up their equipment.

      Jack summoned our attention. ‘Right, as usual our D’Wayne has been about as useful as a fart in a hurricane and hasn’t deigned to enlighten us about what the New Year’s Eve wedding organisers want set-wise, apart from the rock’n’roll medley of doom. So I vote we stick to the usual set and add “Auld Lang Syne” for authenticity, followed by the ultimate cheese of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” for post-midnight.’

      ‘At least it’s a bit funky,’ Charlie conceded, ignoring Wren who was miming slashing her wrists.

      Tom ripped open a packet of chocolate Hobnobs and handed them around. ‘Cheese is a necessary evil when it comes to New Year,’ he grinned. ‘Even more so when it’s a wedding on the last day of the year. And anyway, any artistic integrity we once had is a distant memory now. Face it, brothers and sisters, we are whores for our art.’

      Even considering Tom’s legendary lack of tact and decency, this was close to the bone. ‘That’s terrible, Tom!’

      ‘Yes, but sadly true, Romily. We prostitute our musical selves for the sordid enjoyment of others.’ He looked around the room, pleased with the despairing reaction this elicited from the rest of the band. ‘OK, Jack, first song in the set?’

      ‘“Love Train”. Count us in, Chas.’

      Charlie inserted his earphones as Wren and I did the same, watching him for the beat. ‘Two, three, four …’

      My mum can never understand why we need to rehearse before every gig. ‘If you play the same songs every time, shouldn’t you know them by now?’ The fact is that unless we run through the arrangements, medleys and set orders, things can go horribly wrong during the gig. Like the time we played at a particularly raucous wedding where Tom nearly caused a riot by getting stuck in the second verse of ‘Love Shack’ when he forgot the words for the male vocal part and kept missing the link into the breakdown section. We ended up going round in circles several times until Jack jumped in and brought it to an end. After that, we made it band policy to always rehearse, no matter what.

      We took a break between rehearsing sets one and two and Tom produced a tin-foiled parcel from his rucksack while Charlie made coffee.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have cake!’ Tom announced, as we crowded round to witness the unwrapping.

      ‘Please tell me it’s your mother’s amazing Christmas cake,’ Wren said, clapping her hands and whooping when the slab of rich fruitcake nestled within pale marzipan and pure white royal icing was revealed.

      ‘The very same,’ Tom grinned. ‘Enjoy!’

      I wandered over to the jade-green sofa and checked my phone for messages. I was scrolling through my emails when Jack flopped down beside me.

      ‘So.’

      ‘So what?’

      He patted my knee. ‘So tell me about this guy.’

      One look at him confirmed my worst fears. Glancing at Wren, who was engaged in animated debate with Tom, I felt my heart sink. ‘When did she tell you?’

      ‘Yesterday, after she’d seen you.’

      ‘Wonderful.’

      ‘She’s just concerned about you.’

      My hackles were rising. ‘Yes, well I wish she’d keep her concerns to herself.’

      ‘Hey, chill. As far as I know, she’s only told me. And Sophie, obviously. But that’s all.’

      ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Only half of my friends know about it.’

      ‘A yearlong search, eh?’

      I fixed my eyes on my mobile. ‘Yup.’

      Jack gave me a gentle nudge. ‘I think it’s a good thing.’

      ‘You do?’

      ‘Definitely. For one thing it’ll take your mind off declaring your undying love to Charlie last week.’

      ‘She told you that, too?’

      ‘Nope.