Page 3 of Two Hit Wonder

"I have many jobs! I'm very employable!" Cam shoved the phone into her bag with suspicious haste. "Anyway, we're not talking about me. We're talking about the band. We're talking about getting back out there and showing everyone that we're not just a one-hit wonder from fifteen years ago."

Iona thought about Mo, slamming her bedroom door this morning, the words still ringing in the air between them. She thought about her divorces. She thought about all the things she'd tried to be, wife, mother, artist, housewife, and how none of them had ever quite felt like enough. "It's a terrible idea," she said.

Cam's face fell.

"But," Iona continued, "I suppose I don't have anything better to do."

Cam's shriek of joy caused the waiter to eye them suspiciously, and even the divorce party next to them lapsed into concerned silence for a second. Then Ellie was smiling, really smiling, and Cam was laughing, and Iona was too, and for a moment they could have been nineteen again, young and stupid and convinced they were going to conquer the world.

They stayed another hour, talking logistics, making plans that would probably fall apart within a week. Cam checked her phone eleven more times and wouldn’t spill who she was messaging with. Ellie excused herself to call Jake and check on the kids, and came back looking tired but content.

And Iona sat there, surrounded by her oldest friends, and tried to remember the last time she'd felt this terrified about anything.

They parted outside the restaurant with hugs and promises to call tomorrow, to meet next week, to actually do this mad thing they'd agreed to do. The evening air was cool on Iona's face as she walked back to her car.

She was ten years too old and three dress sizes too big to be in a band. But Iona couldn't stop the faint flutter of a thrill in her heart when she thought about getting to play again.

Chapter Two

Maeve steeled herself to go out for the milk. If that damned sheep went for her again, she was just going to have to shoot it. Not that she had a gun. She might be able to rustle up a catapult from somewhere, though. One of Glinna's kids must have left something useful lying around.

She peered through the kitchen window. There it was. Lurking by the garden gate like a little woolly assassin. The sheep had appeared three weeks ago, having apparently decided that Maeve's herb garden was the finest dining establishment in the Highlands. It had also decided that Maeve herself was a nemesis of the highest order.

The first time it had gone for her, she'd been so startled she'd dropped a full mug of tea. The second time, it had actually drawn blood, a nip to the ankle that had required antiseptic and a truly impressive amount of swearing. By the third time, Maeve had started taking the confrontations personally.

She'd named it Eejit, which was what her grandmother used to call people who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag. The sheep seemed to take this as a compliment.

"Right," Maeve muttered to herself. "Milk. You need milk. You're a grown woman. You've survived worse than a sheep."

This was true. She'd survived a lot worse than a sheep. She'd survived being nineteen and stupid and convinced she was going to be a star. She'd survived watching that star implode spectacularly, mostly because she'd been too drunk to hold it together. She'd survived the long, awful years after, when getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest and staying sober felt like climbing it backwards, in the dark, while people threw rocks at her.

A sheep was nothing. A sheep was a minor inconvenience.

Eejit chose that moment to turn and look directly at the window, as if she knew Maeve was watching.

"I'm not afraid of you," Maeve said, narrowing her eyes.

She grabbed her jacket, checked that her boots were sturdy enough to withstand potential ovine assault, and opened the back door.

Eejit didn't move. She just stood there, watching, her rectangular pupils fixed on Maeve with an expression of malevolent calculation.

Maeve walked slowly toward the garden gate, keeping her eyes on the sheep. The milk was delivered to the end of the lane. She made it as far as the gate. Eejit made a rush for her, nipping at the hand that was closing the garden gate just as Maeve pulled it out of reach. She laughed in shocked surprise and victory.

"Not this time, mate," she said.

Eejit made a sound that was somewhere between a bleat and a snort, then lumbered away off toward the back garden. Probably to poo on something in retaliation. When Maeve returned with the milk, the sheep had relocated to the exact center of her vegetable patch and was methodically eating the kale.

"Oi!" Maeve shouted. "That's my dinner, you arsehole!"

Eejit looked up, chewed slowly and deliberately, and went back to eating.

Maeve retreated inside with the milk. Some battles weren't worth fighting before breakfast.

The cottage was small, stone-built, and older than anyone could remember. It had been a shepherd's hut once, back when Glinna's family had more sheep and fewer children. Now it was Maeve's, or close enough to hers. She'd been renting it for nearly fifteen years, which made it hers by squatter's rights as far as she was concerned.

Not that she'd ever claim those rights. The cottage belonged to Glinna, and Glinna could have it back any time she wanted. Maeve paid her rent on time and kept herself to herself and never caused any trouble, and in return, Glinna let her exist in this little bubble of solitude.

It was a good arrangement. A perfect arrangement, really.