Page 25 of Two Hit Wonder

When they reached the end of the song, Iona's heart was pounding. She put down her guitar and realized her hands were shaking.

They looked at each other. Cam was grinning like she'd just won the lottery. Ellie had actual tears in her eyes, though she'd deny it later. And Maeve…

Maeve was smiling. Just slightly. Just at the corners of her mouth. But it was real.

Iona took a breath, then another, the oxygen not filling her lungs properly, not like the music had.

Then Cam whooped and pumped her fist in the air. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it, her expression shifting briefly into something private before she tucked it away. "Sorry, just need to…" She was already heading for the door. "Back in a minute. Don't make any major decisions without me."

Ellie watched her go with a knowing look. "She's been doing that a lot lately."

"Secretive," Iona agreed.

"Since when does Cam have secrets?" Maeve asked. There was genuine curiosity in her voice, underneath the customary grumpiness. "She used to tell us everything, whether we wanted to hear it or not."

"People change," Ellie said quietly.

"Yeah," Maeve said. She sniffed, shrugged, then looked up at them both. "Okay," she said.

"Okay?" asked Iona.

"Yeah. Okay. Let’s do this." Her voice was grudging, almost comically reluctant. "One album. That's all."

Iona laughed. It burst out of her without warning, full and bright and surprised. Then Ellie joined in, then Cam came back and looked at them in confusion, and even Maeve laughed then.

One album.

The Stage Girls were back.

Chapter Ten

The hotel room was tiny. Maeve sat on the edge of the bed, which was the precise texture of a firm handshake from someone who didn't like you, and stared at a framed print of a bridge. Not even a famous bridge. Just a bridge. Some bridge, somewhere, doing bridge things. The artist had signed it with a flourish, as if that made it meaningful. Why a bridge? Maybe there was some kind of underlying meaning there that she wasn’t getting.

She'd been in London for a day. It felt like seventy years.

Her phone rang, and she answered without looking. "I hate it here."

"Good morning to you too," Glinna said cheerfully. "And what's wrong with it now?"

"The shower has two settings. Scalding and dribble. The bed is haunted."

"Haunted."

"By the ghosts of middle managers. I can feel their mediocrity seeping into my bones. At least I hope that’s what it is. It is a hotel bed, after all. I dread to think what might be seeping out of it."

Glinna laughed, which was irritating. Maeve had been hoping for sympathy. "You've been there a day, Maeve."

"Twenty-four hours too long." She stood up and walked to the window, which offered a view of another building's window. Someone had hung a plant in it. The plant looked depressed. "I should come home."

"You should not come home."

"The cottage—"

"Is being renovated, as you well know. Unless you want to sleep in a construction site with no running water." Glinna's voice gentled. "Be open-minded. Remember what we talked about. Things that are good for you don't always feel good at first."

Maeve pressed her forehead against the glass. It was cold and slightly greasy. "That's very wise. Did you get it from a tea towel?"

"I got it from watching you dry out, actually. And from drying out myself, of course."