The Sound of Broken Glass Read Free

K and P,” she chanted as he swiveled the pushchair and started back towards Notting Hill Gate.
    â€œK and P, eh?” He frowned, pretending to consider. “I suppose we could stop in for a bit. Maybe we’ll see MacKenzie and Oliver, eh?” Kitchen and Pantry, the coffee shop on Kensington Park Road, had become a regular weekday-morning refuge, as it was for many local mothers with small children. At least it gave Charlotte an opportunity to socialize, Kincaid told himself as he picked up his pace.
    Not to mention the opportunity it gave him for adult—and, he had to admit, female—company. He did his best to ignore the fact that his capitulation got easier by the day.
    â€œWe could have played Clerkenwell.” George looked up from tightening his snare drum, his round face already turning pink from the heat in the pub, his tone aggrieved.
    â€œHow many times have we played every bloody pub in North London?” Andy shot back. The fact that he knew he was in the wrong made him defensive. The gig they’d turned down had been at the Slaughtered Lamb, a good music venue with a reputation for launching up-and-coming bands. “It was time we did something different.” It sounded weak, even to him.
    Nick kept his head bent over the tuners on his bass, not looking at either of them. “It was time you did something different, you mean,” he said, the hurt in his voice evident whingeing.
    Members of bands tended to find separate personality niches. In theirs, George, despite his slightly chubby, jolly looks, was the moaner. Andy had the lead guitarist’s attitude. And Nick, the lead singer and bass player, had a bass player’s imperturbable cool. If Nick was angry, you knew you’d crossed a line.
    â€œLook, guys,” Andy began, but he had to raise his voice over the increasing racket from the Friday-night post-happy-hour drinkers. It was a good pub, but the band was obviously secondary to the food and drink and they were jammed into a small space at the back on one side of the bar. “Tam said this producer would be here—”
    â€œTo hear you,” said George, now in full scowl. “Not that anyone is likely to hear anything in this place. And do you know how far away I had to park the fucking van?” They’d unloaded their equipment at the White Stag, with the van on the double yellows. Then George had driven off to find a place to put his battered Ford Transit. It had been a full twenty minutes before he’d reappeared, damp from the rain and huffing. “We might as well be marooned on a desert island. Bloody Crystal Palace, I ask you.”
    Bloody Crystal Palace was right, thought Andy, and cursed himself. He’d known it was a bad idea, but Tam had been so persuasive. As managers went, Tam wasn’t a bad egg. He’d done his best for them, but lately Andy had begun to sense even Tam’s good-natured optimism flagging. Bands had a shelf life, and theirs was expiring. Chances were that if they hadn’t made it by now, they weren’t going to.
    The fact that they all knew it didn’t make it any easier, or mean that they talked about it. But Nick had enrolled in an accounting course. George was working days in his dad’s dry-cleaning business in Hackney. And Tam had been booking Andy more and more session work on his own. The truth was that he was better than they were, and they all knew that, too. But as much as Andy had groused about the band and about needing a change, he was finding the reality of it bitterly hard. They were mates. They’d been together, off and on, in various groups, for nearly ten years. Nick and George were the closest thing he had to family, and he’d only now begun to realize what it would mean to lose them.
    â€œLook, guys,” Andy said again. “It’s only one night, all right? Then we can—”
    â€œTam’s here.” George settled onto his stool and