Chapter Twelve
A week of rehearsals, and they still sounded like four people who happened to be in the same room at the same time.
Maeve stood at the microphone, watching the others take five, and tried to pinpoint exactly what was wrong. Technically, they were fine. Better than fine, actually. Cam had mostly stopped speeding up. Ellie's bass lines were solid. Iona's guitar work was as good as it had ever been, maybe better.
But it wasn't right. There was no spark. No moment where the music stopped being four separate parts and became one thing.
She'd spent years writing songs for other people to sing. She knew what a song was supposed to feel like when it worked. This wasn't it.
Iona was fiddling in the studio’s little kitchen corner, humming something under her breath. She looked up and caught Maeve watching her. Smiled. Maeve looked away.
That was the other thing. Fifteen years, and Maeve had thought she knew Iona.
Sunshine girl. People pleaser. The one who smoothed things over and made everyone feel better about themselves.
But Iona had got married. Twice. Had a child.
Built an entire life that Maeve knew nothing about.
And she'd done it all while Maeve was hiding in a cottage arguing with a sheep.
What else didn't she know? What other secrets were tucked away in those fifteen years?
"Tea?"
Maeve blinked. Iona was standing in front of her, holding out a mug. Steam rose from it in lazy curls. "What?"
"Tea," Iona repeated patiently. "It's a hot beverage. You drink it."
Maeve took the mug automatically. Looked down at it. Black. No milk. She took a sip. Three sugars.
She hadn't told Iona how she took her tea.
Not this week, anyway. Not in the last fifteen years.
But Iona had remembered. After fifteen years of marriages and divorces and a whole life Maeve hadn't been part of, she'd remembered three sugars and no milk.
Maeve wrapped her hands around the mug. It was warm against her palms. She didn't say anything.
"You're welcome," Iona said, and went back to her guitar.
Maybe they knew each other better than Maeve thought. Or maybe Iona just paid attention to things. That was the kind of person she was. The kind who noticed. The kind who remembered.
The kind who'd looked at Maeve fifteen years ago and seen something worth kissing, even when Maeve had been a disaster in human form.
Maeve took another sip of tea and tried not to think about that.
The problem wasn't the technical execution. The problem was that they weren't playing together. They were playing separately, in the same space, at the same time. Four solo acts pretending to be a band.
And whose fault was that?
Maeve had brought her songs. Her arrangements. Her ideas about how things should sound. She'd walked in like she was still the leader, still the voice, still the one who got to decide.
Maybe that was the problem.
"We should try something different," she said.
Cam looked up from her phone. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Something that isn't one of my songs. Or not just my song, anyway."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Maeve had heard all week.
"Sorry," Cam said. "Did you just suggest not doing one of your songs?"
"Don't make a thing of it."
"I'm not making a thing. I'm just checking I heard correctly. Because for the last week, every time anyone's suggested anything, you've shot it down like a clay pigeon at a shoot up at the big house."
Maeve opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. That was exactly what she'd done. "Fine. Maybe I've been a bit controlling."
"A bit?"
"Cam."
"Sorry, sorry. Continue. This is fascinating."
Maeve gritted her teeth. "I'm saying maybe we should try something else. See if it works better. That's all."
"Finally," Cam said with feeling.
Something hot flared in Maeve's chest. "If you had a problem, why didn't you just say so?"
"I did say so. We all did. You ignored us."
"I didn't ignore you. I just disagreed."
"You disagreed loudly and at length, and then did exactly what you wanted anyway."
"That's not…"
"Maeve." Ellie's voice cut through, calm and steady. She'd put her bass down and was watching them both with an expression Maeve remembered from years ago. The look of logic, of the only sane adult in the room. "She's got a point."
"I'm aware she's got a point," Maeve said. "That's not the issue."
"What's the issue?"
Maeve opened her mouth. Closed it again. What was the issue? That she'd been controlling? She'd just admitted that. That Cam hadn't spoken up? Cam had, apparently, and Maeve had bulldozed right over her.
"I don't know," she admitted finally. "I don't know what the issue is. I just know we're not clicking and I don't know how to fix it."
Ellie exchanged a look with Cam and Iona. Some kind of silent communication that Maeve wasn't part of. "Can I be honest?" Ellie said.
"Please."
"We've all been walking on eggshells around you."
Maeve stared at her. "Why?"
"Because you're Maeve Maureen MacDonnell," Cam said, rolling her eyes. "Lead singer. Songwriter. The one who made us famous. The one who…" She stopped.
"The one who fell apart," Maeve finished flatly. "The one who drank herself out of the band."
Nobody said anything.
"You can say it," Maeve said. "It's not a secret."
"We're just not sure how to treat you," Ellie said. "You disappeared for fifteen years. You came back. You're clearly different, but we don't know how different. We don't know what's okay to say. We don't know if you're fragile or fine or somewhere in between."
"So you've been tiptoeing around me instead of telling me when my ideas are rubbish."
"Essentially, yes."
Maeve let out a breath. This was absurd. They'd known each other since school. They'd shared everything once. And now they couldn't even tell her when her songs were crap because they were afraid of hurting her feelings. "Right," she said. "New rule. I want you to insult me."
Cam's eyebrows shot up. "Come again?"
"Insult me. Tell me what you really think. Get it out of your systems. I can take it." She looked fiercely from one to the other.
"Um, are you sure about this?" Iona asked.
"Positive. Go on. Tell me I'm a control freak. Tell me my songs are boring. Tell me whatever you've been holding back all week."
Silence. They all looked at each other.
"Someone has to go first," Maeve said. "Cam. You're the least filtered person I know. Start."
Cam considered this. "Your new songs are technically perfect and emotionally constipated."
Maeve blinked. Slightly more direct than she'd expected. "Okay. Good. What else?"
"You hum when you're thinking, and it's really annoying."
"Fair."
"And your accent gets thicker when you're upset, which would be endearing if it wasn't also a warning sign that you're about to bite someone's head off."
"Also fair. Ellie?"
Ellie looked uncomfortable. "This feels mean."
"That's the point. Go on."
"You never ask how anyone else is doing. You just assume we're fine because you're too busy worrying about yourself."
That one landed harder than Maeve expected. She nodded. "True. Iona?"
Iona was studying her guitar strap. "You've never once asked about my life." Her voice was softer than the others.
"I know about your life. Two marriages. Daughter. Pottery that doesn't sell."
"That's facts. That's not asking." She looked up and her eyes were stoney.
Maeve didn't have a response to that.
"My turn again," Cam said. "You also dress like you're auditioning for the role of Depressed Victorian Governess in a period drama."
"I do not."
"You're wearing three shades of gray right now."
Maeve looked down at herself. Black cardigan. Gray shirt. Charcoal trousers. "That's not Victorian."
"It's giving 'woman who writes poetry about dead birds.'"
"I don't write poetry about dead birds."
"You could, though. That's the vibe."
"What's wrong with gray?"
"Nothing, if you're a battleship. Or a cloud. Or clinically depressed."
"I'm not clinically depressed."
"The wardrobe says otherwise."
"Right, my turn again," Iona said. "You're terrible at accepting compliments. Whenever someone says something nice, you look at them like they've just spat in your tea."
"I don't do that."
"You're doing it right now."
Maeve rearranged her face into something she hoped was less hostile. "Better? And if that was a compliment, then god help us."
"Worse, actually. Now you look like you're planning a murder."
Ellie snorted. Actually snorted. Cam was cackling. Even Iona was biting her lip, trying not to laugh.
"Your songs are good, though," Cam added. "When you let them breathe. Which you never do because you're too busy strangling them into submission."
"Thank you. I think."
"And you make terrible faces when you're concentrating. Like you're trying to solve a cryptic crossword in your head."
"That's not true."
"You're doing it right now."
Maeve realized she was frowning. She tried to stop. Probably made it worse. "Okay," she said. "I think that's enough insults for one day."
"I had more," Cam said.
"I'm sure you did."
But something had shifted. The tension that had been sitting in the room all week had cracked. Ellie was smiling. Cam was grinning. Even Iona looked lighter, like she'd put down something heavy.
"Pick up your instruments," Maeve said. "Let's try again."
They ran through one of the new songs. Maeve's song, but she held back, tried not to control every element. Let the others find their own way into it.
Cam came in slightly wrong on the second verse. Too early. Ellie followed her instead of correcting, adjusted her bass line to match the shifted rhythm. Iona heard it, changed her picking pattern.
It sounded different. Unexpected. Better.
They all stopped playing and stared at each other.
"That was an accident," Cam said.
"I know."
"But it sounded…"
"I know."
Maeve wanted to say it was wrong. Wanted to point out that the timing was off, the structure was compromised, her carefully crafted arrangement had been violated.
She could feel the correction sitting on her tongue, ready to launch.
But it had sounded good. It had sounded alive.
For the first time all week, it had sounded like music instead of homework.
"Do it again," she said, and the words felt like pulling teeth.
They did. And it worked. The mistake became a feature, the happy accident became intentional.
The song opened up in ways Maeve hadn't imagined.
This was how they used to work. Together.
Building on each other's ideas, following each other's instincts.
Not four solo acts, but one thing made of four parts.
"We're going to be ready for Manchester," Cam said when they finally stopped.
Maeve didn't answer. Manchester meant a stage. A real stage, with real people watching. She'd thought she was ready for that. She'd told herself she was ready for that.
But what if she choked? What if she got up there and her voice wouldn't come out and she stood frozen in front of an audience while everything she'd built in the last fifteen years crumbled around her?
She was still thinking about it when they started packing up. Still thinking about it when Iona said goodbye. Iona put a hand on her shoulder. Just briefly. Just a touch, warm through the fabric of Maeve's cardigan.
"You sounded good today," Iona said. "Better than good."
Then she was gone, and Maeve was left standing there with her shoulder burning and her heart doing something inexplicable.
Hot. That was the word. She felt hot.
She was probably coming down with something.