Page 51 of Two Hit Wonder

Maeve bent to pick it up before he could. "You dropped this."

She glanced at it automatically, the way you glance at anything that lands in your hands. It was addressed to Shepherd, something about a meeting with the headteacher, something about Mo's recent behavior. The words "concerned about" and "pattern of disruption" jumped out at her.

And then, at the top of the form, the full name of the student in question.

Maureen Faith-Nixon.

Maeve's heart stopped.

Chapter Eighteen

The knock came at half past nine.

Iona had been doing nothing productive. She'd turned the television on and then off again, scrolled through her phone until the screen made her eyes hurt, made a cup of tea she hadn't drunk, and was now sitting on the sofa staring at her guitar case in the corner like it might offer life advice.

Shepherd’s news has given the band the oomph that they needed, but Maeve had been off all afternoon, Ellie had begged off early again, and Cam had spent so long on her phone that she might as well not have been there at all.

The music was coming together. But they weren’t. They as in the people. It just… wasn’t how it used to be. But maybe that was too much to ask. Maybe she was expecting too much. She sighed.

Mo was at Shepherd's for the night, which meant the flat was quiet in that particular way that made Iona want to fill every corner with noise or crawl out of her own skin.

Then came the knock.

She opened the door and found Maeve on her doorstep. Maeve, who had never been to her flat, who didn't even know where she lived. Maeve, looking like she hadn't brushed her hair in three days and was red-cheeked from running from the Tube and… just Maeve. Beautiful, wild, un-put-together Maeve.

"Shepherd gave me the address," Maeve said before Iona could ask. "I hope that's alright."

"Of course it's alright." Iona stepped back. "Come in. Do you want tea? I've just made some, actually, though it's gone cold, so I'd have to make more, but I can do that, it's not…"

"Iona."

Iona stopped talking. Maeve was standing in her hallway now, tall and angular and completely out of place against Iona's cheerful clutter. There was a dried flower arrangement on the hall table that Mo called "depressing" and a coat rack that held at least twenty coats because Iona could never quite commit to getting rid of any of them.

"Sorry," Iona said. "Come through. Sit down. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong." Maeve followed her into the living room but didn't sit. She stood by the window instead, looking out at the street below, her reflection ghostly in the glass. "Things are just… confusing."

"I was thinking along the same lines. Confusing how?"

Maeve turned. In the low light of Iona's single lamp, she looked beautiful and fragile and like someone who had come a very long way to get here. "I'd like a little honesty. If that's possible."

Iona sat down on the arm of the sofa, because standing felt too formal and sitting properly felt too relaxed, and she needed something in between. "Honesty. Right. Like when we all insulted you during rehearsal? I’ve got to admit, that was pretty cathartic."

The corner of Maeve's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Not quite like that."

"Shame. I had some excellent material prepared about your hair."

"My hair is fine."

"Your hair is spectacular and you know it."

Maeve looked at her for a long moment. Then she said, "Is there anything you'd like to say to me? Or ask me?"

The question landed like a stone in still water. Iona felt the ripples spread out through her chest, her stomach, the backs of her knees. There were a thousand things she wanted to say. A thousand things she'd been not-saying for fifteen years. She looked at Maeve properly. The sharp lines of her face, the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she was bracing for a blow. Beautiful. Fragile. Real. Honesty. Yes. Maybe that was what was lacking.

"Why did you drink?"

Maeve's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. "That's what you want to know?"