Page 23 of Two Hit Wonder

"I'm glad you called."

The line went dead before Maeve could respond.

She sat there for a long moment, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to nothing.

Then she let out a breath, closed her eyes, and tried very hard to convince herself that the warmth spreading through her chest was just nerves.

Chapter Nine

The rehearsal space had a new smell today, like someone had died in it. Which, Iona thought, was exactly the impression they wanted to give. Like something was already dead. Her hands were sweaty, and she wiped them down her jeans. She felt like she’d been staring at the door for the last twenty minutes. Her guitar was in her lap, but she hadn't played a note. Neither had Ellie or Cam. They were all just sitting there, waiting. Anticipating. Dreading perhaps.

"How did you do it?" Cam asked for the third time. She was perched on her drum stool, twirling a stick between her fingers. "Seriously, Iona. What did you say to her? Did you threaten her? Bribe her? Sleep with her?"

"Cam." Ellie's voice was sharp.

"What? I'm just asking!"

Iona shook her head. "I didn't do anything. She just called me and said she was coming. I don't know why. I was as surprised as you, I swear." Which was true. The phone call had come out of nowhere. She still didn’t really believe it. Maeve had been so sure about saying no.

Ellie looked at her with that calm, measured expression that had always made Iona feel like she was being gently x-rayed. "What did you have to promise her?"

"Nothing. I swear. I was as surprised as anyone." Fifteen years of silence and then suddenly her phone was lighting up like a grenade with the pin already out. "She said she wanted to try. That's all."

Cam stopped twirling her drumstick. "That's it? No demands? No list of conditions? No 'I require a bowl of green M&Ms and the blood of a virgin'?"

"Just… she's coming to try. No promises."

"That's very Maeve," Ellie said thoughtfully. She shifted on her stool. "Leaving herself an exit strategy."

"Can you blame her?" The words came out before Iona could stop them. She thought about how they'd all scattered after the band fell apart. How none of them had really tried to stay in touch. How easy it had been to let the silence grow until it felt permanent. "We weren't exactly beating down her door for the last fifteen years."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable in the way only old friends could make silence uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that had too much history packed into it. The kind of quiet that happened because there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew how everyone felt and putting words on it would be pointless.

Iona's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, grateful for the distraction, and saw Shepherd's name on the screen.

School called. Mo's in detention again. Something about graffiti in the toilets? She'll be late home. Tried calling you but it went to voicemail. Let me know if you need me to pick her up. S.

Iona stared at the message. Graffiti. Brilliant. Just brilliant. As if she didn't have enough to worry about, her fourteen-year-old was apparently developing a side career as a vandal. Mo had been pushing boundaries for months now, testing limits like it was her full-time job, but this was new. This was escalation. A few weeks ago, it had been answering back to teachers. Before that, skipping homework. And then, of course, the eff off that had shaken Iona’s little world. Each incident small enough to dismiss on its own, but together they were forming a pattern that made Iona's stomach knot.

She wondered what the graffiti said. Probably nothing good. Probably something that would require a very serious conversation that Iona didn't have the energy for right now.

She started typing a reply. Thanks for letting me know. I'll sort it when I'm—

The door opened.

Every thought about Mo evaporated from her head.

Maeve stood in the doorway, backlit by the corridor lights. She was wearing jeans and a jumper that had seen better days, her red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. No makeup. No attempt at presentation. No effort to look like she'd come to impress anyone. Just Maeve, raw and real and herself.

She was thinner than Iona remembered. Sharper around the edges. But the eyes were the same. That fierce, cutting green.

Fifteen years.

And now here she was, standing in a dingy rehearsal room in South London, looking like she wanted to bolt.

Nobody moved.

Iona wondered if they’d ever move. Or if perhaps they’d stay like this forever, frozen and then dead and then mummified. It’d confuse archaeologists, she thought. What would they think?