Chapter Five
The directness shouldn't have surprised her. This was Maeve, after all. No small talk, no easing into things. Just the question, delivered with all the warmth of a tax audit.
Iona took a breath. Her hand throbbed under the bandage, a reminder that even the wildlife here wanted her gone.
But she'd come all this way. She'd survived the train, the bus, the walk, and the sheep.
She could survive this conversation. She could be in a room with Maeve MacDonnell for ten minutes.
"Cam's broke," she said.
Maeve's expression didn't change. "And?"
"And she wants to get the band back together.
" The words came out faster than Iona had planned, tumbling over each other like they were afraid of being caught.
"A reunion. One album, maybe a tour. Nostalgia is huge right now.
Everyone wants to relive their youth. We could actually make real money, Maeve. Enough for all of us."
"No."
Iona finally took a breath. "You didn't even think about it."
"I didn't need to." Maeve pushed off from the counter and moved to the window, looking out at the gray Scottish sky. "The answer is no."
The Aga ticked in the corner, radiating heat that did nothing to warm the chill in the room. Iona studied Maeve's back, the tension in her shoulders, the way her bare feet were planted firmly on the stone floor like she was bracing for impact.
"Can I at least explain properly?"
"You just did. Cam's skint. You want money. You need me to get it." Maeve turned around, arms crossed over that ancient jumper. "Did I miss anything?"
"The part where this could actually be good," Iona said. "Not just the money. Playing together again. Making music. Remember what that felt like?"
Something flickered across Maeve's face. There and gone, quick as a heartbeat. "I remember a lot of things."
"So do I."
The words hung between them, weighted with fifteen years of silence. Iona felt her cheeks warm and looked down at her bandaged hand, pretending to examine the gauze.
"The answer is still no," Maeve said, but her voice was infinitesimally softer.
"Why?" Iona was aware that she sounded like a child, but couldn’t help it.
"Pick a reason." Maeve ticked them off on her fingers. "I'm sober. Twelve full years now. Do you know how hard that was? Do you know what it took to build something stable? I'm not going back to that world. The parties, the pressure, the bottles everywhere you look."
"It doesn't have to be like that."
"It was always like that."
"We were kids, Maeve. We were barely nineteen. Things are different now."
"Are they?" Maeve's voice was flat, but there was something underneath it.
Fear, maybe. Or something older. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly the same.
Cam's made terrible decisions with money, you've come running to fix it, and I'm supposed to drop everything to bail everyone out. Just like before."
That stung. Iona felt it land somewhere between her ribs and stay there.
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair. I thought you'd have figured that out by now."
Iona stared at her. "That was unnecessary."
"Really? Because you’ve always been the Sweet Summer Child, Iona. Have you still not figured out that the world will eat you if you let it?"
Iona closed her eyes for a second. In the fifteen years of memory she’d forgotten that Maeve could be like this, could do this, could cut to the heart of her in just a few words.
She took a breath and opened her eyes again.
"Look," she said, changing tactics. "Ellie's in too. She wants this. We all do."
"Good for Ellie."
"She misses you, you know. We all missed you."
"Then you should have written a postcard."
The accusation was quiet, almost offhand.
Iona opened her mouth to respond and found she had nothing.
Because Maeve was right. They hadn't written.
They'd let her disappear into the Scottish wilderness and they'd told themselves it was for the best, that she needed space, that she'd come back when she was ready.
She'd never come back. And they'd never gone looking. Not until now, when they needed something from her.
"You could have written too," Iona said finally, weakly.
"I was busy not dying of alcohol poisoning."
"That's fair."
"I know it's fair. I'm always fair." Maeve's delivery was so dry it could have kindled a fire. "Ask anyone."
"I'm asking you. To just… think about it. Come to London. See the others. Play with us once. If it's terrible, you can come straight back here and live with your sheep and never speak to us again."
"She's not my sheep."
"She seems very attached to you," Iona said doubtfully, looking out to where the sheep was standing watch by the garden gate.
"She's attached to my garden. Specifically, to eating it. And biting anyone who isn't me." Maeve paused. "Although she has attempted to bite me as well. We have an understanding now."
"What kind of understanding?"
"She doesn't bite me too hard, and I don't call the council to have her forcibly relocated." Maeve shrugged. "It's a work in progress."
"Right." Iona couldn't help it. She smiled. "Very healthy relationship."
"The healthiest I've had in years."
That sat awkwardly in the air for a moment. Iona didn't know what to do with it. She wasn't sure Maeve knew either. "Shepherd says he'll represent us," Iona tried. "But only if you're involved."
"Shepherd can take a long walk off a short cliff path."
"Shepherd’s the best agent in the business."
"He wants money the same as all the rest," Maeve's voice was carefully neutral. "Don’t blame him, but that’s his job."
"You were the heart of the band. You know that. We all know that. Without you, we're just three women making noise in a room." Iona paused. "Not very good noise either," she added, wanting to be truthful.
"Flattery doesn't work on me."
"I know. But I’m being honest with you."
Maeve was quiet for a long moment. Outside, the sheep bleated. Iona waited, barely breathing, hope flickering despite everything.
"I have a life here," Maeve said finally.
"It's small. It's quiet. Nobody expects anything from me except my landlord and the sheep.
I write songs for other people to sing, and I stay out of trouble, and I don't miss any of it.
The fame. The attention. The feeling that everyone is watching, waiting for you to fall apart. "
"I understand."
"Do you?" Maeve turned to face her fully, and there was something raw in her expression.
"Because I spent a long time falling apart, Iona.
I hurt people. I hurt myself. I nearly destroyed everything.
And then I came here, and I put myself back together, piece by piece, and now you want me to risk all of that because Cam bought too many Ferraris or something? "
"She invested in cryptocurrency, actually."
"Of course she did."
"And there was also a club in Ibiza."
"Naturally."
They looked at each other. The moment stretched thin enough to see through.
"I'm sorry," Iona said. "For not writing. For not checking on you. For showing up after fifteen years asking for something instead of just… showing up."
Maeve's expression shifted, softened for just a second. Then she shook her head. "Go home, Iona."
"Maeve…"
"Go home. Tell Cam to find another singer. Tell Ellie I hope she's well. And don't come back here expecting me to save anyone." She walked to the door and opened it. Cold Scottish air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and heather. "I'm done saving people. I couldn't even save myself."
Iona stood. Her legs felt unsteady. She'd known this was a long shot, but somewhere, stupidly, she'd hoped. She always hoped. That was her problem.
"What if I came back?" she asked. "Not for the band. Just to see you."
"Don't."
The word was final. A door closing.
Iona walked past her, out onto the ancient stone steps. The sheep was there, watching from the garden with yellow eyes that seemed distinctly smug. It had won. They'd both lost.
"Goodbye, Maeve."
"Goodbye, Iona."
The door closed behind her. Iona stood there for a moment, looking at the cottage, the hills, the gray sky. Then she started the long walk back to the village.
THE TRAIN WAS nearly empty. Late afternoon on a Tuesday, heading south. Iona had found a seat by the window and was staring out at the passing countryside without really seeing it, replaying the conversation in her head. All the things she should have said. All the ways she should have said them.
"Excuse me?"
Iona looked up. A woman was standing in the aisle, somewhere in her early forties, with sensible hair and a nervous smile. She was holding out a napkin and a pen.
"Sorry to bother you, but… are you Iona Faith? From The Stage Girls?"
Iona blinked. People still recognized her sometimes. Not often. But occasionally. Of course, most of the fans who used to wait by stage doors had all grown up, moved on. Gotten jobs, gotten married, gotten lives that didn't involve screaming at pop stars.
"I am," she said. "Or I was. A long time ago."
"I knew it! I had your poster on my bedroom wall. I played I Wanna Be a Star about fifty times a day."
Iona smiled and felt a weight in her chest. A fan.
A whole, all grown up, adult fan. A girl that had once danced around her bedroom and was now asking a stranger on a train for an autograph.
Practically an old woman. Another decade or so and she’d fade into the background, just like all women did when they reached a certain age and the world deemed them unimportant.
And Iona’s heart hurt. Like she was any different.
Sitting here on a train with a daughter at home and two marriages behind her and idiotic ideas of re-forming a rock band.
She sighed and signed the napkin with a hand that didn't quite feel like hers. Smiled the smile she used to give to cameras. Said all the right things.
The woman thanked her profusely and retreated to her own seat, clutching her prize like it was made of gold instead of paper.
Iona turned back to the window.
Maybe Maeve was right. Maybe she should let the past go.
But how was she supposed to tell Cam? How was she supposed to face Ellie, who'd been so quietly hopeful?
And then there was the other thing. The thing she couldn't quite name.
The way her chest had felt when Maeve opened that door. The heat that had bloomed somewhere beneath her ribs when their eyes met. The ridiculous, inconvenient flutter that had no business existing after fifteen years of silence.
She wasn't Mo's age. She wasn't a teenager with a crush. She was a grown woman with a grown daughter and two ex-spouses and a pottery studio full of wobbly vases that nobody wanted.
This was all a crazy idea. Stupid. Doomed from the start.
She should have stayed in London with her pottery wheel and her complicated daughter and her small, safe life.
She should have let Cam figure out her own financial disasters.
She should have kept Maeve where she belonged, locked away in a box labeled "the past" and buried under fifteen years of moving on.
The train rattled on toward London. Outside, Scotland gave way to England, green hills to gray suburbs. A conductor announced the next stop in a bored monotone.
Iona pressed her forehead against the cold glass and tried very hard not to think about red hair and green eyes and the way Maeve had said her name like it hurt.
She failed.