‘The record company have sorted out a sublet apartment while we’re rehearsing. The tour lasts four months – Sweden, Europe, plus a few gigs in Asia. After that, we’ll see. I’d prefer to focus on my own music, but this is a good start.’

‘But I’ve ordered furniture for our apartment . . .’ Marie’s voice broke.

Joe removed his hand from Carina’s back and began to applaud.

‘Bravo, troubadour! Your plans make everyone else look like a bunch of losers. Rock star – there, my friends, you have a real fucking dream!’

He grinned, slipped his hand behind Carina’s back again, a few centimetres lower this time. She didn’t object.

‘And what have you done that’s so damn cool?’ Alex snapped. He’d finally realised what Joe was up to.

‘Hey, calm down, Mr Alpha Male.’ Joe held up his free hand. ‘We’re on the same page. I’m also insanely jealous of our troubadour.’ His other hand found its way to the base of Carina’s spine. She pushed him away, stood up on wobbly legs, went over to Simon and gave him a hug.

‘Congratulations – that’s amazing,’ she said. ‘Someone’s getting away from here at last!’

She sat down next to him; Tanya was still on the other side.

‘And when were you planning on telling us all this?’ Alex still sounded furious.

‘It’s only just been confirmed – the record company called me this afternoon.’

‘And you didn’t say anything?’

‘I need to digest it. Besides, I’ve told you now, haven’t I?’ Simon was getting irritated. The atmosphere had changed from relaxed to surprised to tense in less than a minute. Carina could feel Joe’s eyes on her. For a moment he’d lost control of the joke, been as wrong-footed by Simon’s revelation as everyone else, but now he was studying the five friends with a scornful smile on his lips.

‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s not that easy to be left on the sidelines when somebody else’s dreams come true, is it? Especially when it’s one of your closest friends.’

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Carina said. She realised immediately that she’d walked straight into the trap, been dragged into whatever psychological game Joe was playing.

‘Would you play us one of your own songs, Simon?’ Tanya asked.

‘I’m not sure . . .’

She leaned closer, placed her hand on his arm. ‘Please? For me?’

Simon blushed, glanced around then picked up his guitar.

‘OK. He ran the plectrum over the strings. ‘This is called “Lonely Waters”.’

He played a series of melancholy chords in a beautiful descending scale, then began to sing.

‘I saw a friend today, someone I knew long ago. But I still recalled her name . . .’

His voice drifted away from the fire, returned in a lovely echo from the surrounding rocks.