The Spice of Life playbill listed my lot as the Better Quartet, but they didn’t really look much like jazzmen to me. Bassists are famously steady but Max—really Derek—Harwood was an average-looking white guy in his mid-thirties. He was even wearing a diamond-patterned Marks & Spencer V-neck sweater under his jacket.

“We already had a Derek in the band before last,” said Max. “So I went by Max to avoid confusion.” He took a subdued sip from his beer. I’d bought the first round and was feeling suitably gouged. Max was an integrated systems specialist for the London Underground—something to do with signaling systems, apparently.

The pianist, Daniel Hossack, was a classically trained music teacher at Westminster School for the terminally privileged. He had receding blond hair, round Trotsky glasses, and the sort of sensible kindness that probably led to him being savagely lampooned by the spotty wits of the lower sixth—that’s year 12 in the new money.

“How did you guys meet?” I asked.

“I don’t think we met as such,” said James Lochrane, the drummer. Short, Scottish, belligerent, and taught seventeenth-century French history at Queen Mary’s College. “It would be more accurate to say that we coalesced—about two years ago …”

“More like three,” said Max. “At the Selkirk Pub. They have jazz on Sunday afternoons. Cy lives down there so it’s sort of his local.”

Daniel nervously tapped his fingers on his glass. “We were all watching this terrible band who were making a fist of …” He stared off in the direction of the last decade. “I can’t remember what it was.”

“ ‘Body and Soul’?” I asked.

“No,” said James. “It was Saint Thomas.”

“Which they were murdering,” said Daniel. “And Cy said, loud enough for everyone, including the band, to hear: ‘I bet any of us could play better than this.’ ”

“Which is not the done thing,” said Max. All three shared a sly smile at the transgression. “The next thing I knew we were sharing a table, ordering rounds and talking jazz.”

“As I said,” said James. “We coalesced.”

“Hence our name,” said Daniel. “The Better Quartet.”

“Were you better?” I asked.

“Not noticeably,” said Max.

“Worse, in fact,” said Daniel.

“We did get better,” said Max and laughed. “We practiced at Cy’s place.”

“Practiced a lot,” said Daniel and drained his glass. “Right, who wants what?”

They don’t do pints at the French House so James and Max split a bottle of the house red. I asked for half a bitter—it had been a long day and there’s nothing like Latin declension to give a man a thirst.

“Two maybe three times a week,” said Max.

“So you were ambitious?” I asked.

“None of us was that serious really,” said James. “It’s not like we were kids and desperate to make it big.”

“That’s still a lot of practice,” I said.