Page 44 of Two Hit Wonder

The words landed somewhere in Maeve's chest and sat there, warm and uncomfortable. She didn't know what to do with them. "Don't get soppy on me."

"I'm not being soppy. I'm being factual. You could have stayed here. You could have kept hiding. You didn't. That matters."

"I'm just doing a job."

"You're living a life. There's a difference." Something beeped in the background. "Right, I've got to go, something's on fire. Call me if you need anything. And Maeve?"

"What?"

"It's okay not to know. About feelings, about any of it. You don't have to have it all figured out. You just have to keep showing up."

She hung up before Maeve could respond, which was typical Glinna. Always had to get the last word.

Maeve set her phone down and looked at the bridge painting again.

Keep showing up. Right. She could do that.

THE REHEARSAL SPACE was the temperature of the sun's core.

"Is the air conditioning broken?" Cam asked, sprawled dramatically across a folding chair. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and she was fanning herself with a takeaway menu she'd found somewhere. "Tell me the air conditioning is broken, and this isn't just London trying to murder us."

"The air conditioning is definitely broken," Ellie said. She was sitting very still in the corner, conserving energy like a sensible person. "The building manager said someone would look at it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll all be dead. We'll be little puddles of band. They'll have to mop us up."

Maeve had taken up her usual position by the window, which was cracked open approximately two inches and providing a thin stream of air that smelled faintly of bins. It was still better than nothing. Iona was tuning her guitar, her fingers moving automatically, her mind clearly somewhere else.

The door banged open.

Mo slouched in, headphones around her neck, phone in hand, wearing an expression of profound teenage indifference. "Mum," Mo said, not looking up from her phone. "I'm bored at Dad's. He's on conference calls all day. Can I stay here?"

Iona sighed. "Mo, how did you get here? And we're rehearsing."

"Are you, though? And I took the bus. I’m not an infant." Mo glanced around the room, taking in Cam's dramatic death pose and the general lack of music happening. "Looks more like you're all just sitting here sweating."

"The air conditioning's broken," Cam said. "We're in mourning."

Mo shrugged and dropped onto a stack of equipment cases in the corner. "Cool. I'll just sit here then. Pretend I'm not here."

Nobody seemed capable of pretending Mo wasn't there. The girl had a presence, somehow, despite her studied disinterest. Maeve found herself watching as Mo pulled out her headphones and then, instead of putting them on, tucked them away again. Her eyes were on Maeve.

"What?" Maeve said.

"Nothing." Mo shrugged. "Just wondering something."

"Wondering what?"

"How do you write a song?"

The question was so unexpected that Maeve almost didn't process it. She'd been bracing for teenage disdain, for an eye-roll or a pointed comment about how boring old people were. Not this.

"That's a broad question," she said.

"So give a broad answer."

Maeve narrowed her eyes. Mo met her gaze steadily. There was something sharp in that look, something almost challenging. Something that reminded Maeve very much of Mo’s mother. "It depends," she said slowly. "Sometimes you start with lyrics. Sometimes melody. Sometimes it's just a feeling you're trying to capture and you have to figure out what shape it wants to be."

"How do you know when it's done?"