“Listen, Byron Chesterfield is coming in tonight,” Curly said with a note of desperation. “He’s the most important promoter in London—in Europe, probably. You might get work from him—but not with that name.”

“Byron Chesterfield?” said Lenny, laughing. “I’ve known him all my life. His real name is Brian Chesnowitz. His brother’s got a stall in Aldgate Market.”

Curly said: “It’s your name I’m worried about, not his.”

“Our name is fine.”

“I can’t put on a group called the Guardsmen. I’ve got a reputation.” Curly stood up. “I’m sorry, lads,” he said. “Pack up your gear.”

Dave said: “Come on, Curly, you don’t want to piss off Hank Remington.”

“Hank’s an old mate,” said Curly. “We played skiffle together at the 2i’s Coffee Bar in the fifties. But he recommended me a group called Plum Nellie, not the Guardsmen.”

Dave was distraught. “All my friends are coming!” he said. He was thinking of Linda Robertson in particular.

Curly said: “I’m sorry about that.”

Dave turned to Lenny. “Be reasonable,” he said. “What’s in a name?”

“It’s my group, not yours,” said Lenny stubbornly.

So that was the issue. “Of course it’s your group,” said Dave. “But you taught me that the customer is always right.” He was struck by inspiration. “And you can change the name back to the Guardsmen tomorrow morning, if you want.”

Lenny said: “Naah,” but he was weakening.

“Better than not playing,” said Dave, pressing his advantage. “It would be a real comedown to go home now.”

“Oh, fuck it, all right,” said Lenny.

And the crisis was over, to Dave’s intense relief and pleasure.

They stood at the bar drinking beer while the first customers trickled in. Dave limited himself to one pint: enough to relax him, not enough to make him fumble the chords. Lenny had two pints, Geoffrey three.

Linda Robertson showed up, to Dave’s delight, in a short purple dress and white knee boots. She and all Dave’s friends were legally too young to drink alcohol in bars, but they went to great lengths to look older, and anyway the law was not enforced strictly.

Linda’s attitude to Dave had changed. In the past she had treated him like a bright kid brother, even though they were the same age. The fact that he was playing at the Jump Club turned him into a different person in her eyes. Now she saw him as a sophisticated grown-up, and asked him excited questions about the group. If this was what he got for being in Lenny’s crummy outfit, Dave thought, what must it be like to be a real pop star?

With the others he returned to the dressing room to change. Professional groups usually appeared wearing identical suits, but that was expensive. Lenny compromised with red shirts for everyone. Dave thought that group uniforms were going out of fashion: the anarchic Rolling Stones dressed individually.

Plum Nellie were bottom of the bill, and played first. Lenny, as leader of the group, introduced the songs. He was seated at the side of the stage, with the upright piano angled so that he could look at the audience. Dave stood in the middle, playing and singing, and most eyes were on him. Now that the worry about the group’s name was out of the way—at least for the moment—he could relax. He moved as he played, swinging the guitar as if it were his dance partner; and when he sang he imagined he was speaking to the audience, emphasizing the words with his facial expressions and the movements of his head. As always, the girls responded to that, watching him and smiling as they danced to the beat.