We made good time to Tim’s house. I’d driven over there, but Mark insisted he’d drive back.
“For the first time you’re going to be able to have a drink when we go out somewhere, and besides, I think staying off the alcohol will help my voice.”
“If you’re sure,” I shrugged, not that bothered about sticking to soft drinks.
We’d barely gotten out of the car before the front door opened and a smiling Tim was coming to greet us.
“It’s great to see you both again,” he said.
“Glad to see you, too,” I replied.
We were ushered into the house. It was cluttered but scrupulously clean. There were paintings hung on every wall, and in the back room, the one that held Tim’s upright piano, there was a whole wall of shelving containing books, LPs, CDs and musical scores. Photo frames with a young
