Chapter Twenty-Three
Maeve stared at it in the mirror. The fan had been so pleased with herself.
Young, maybe twenty-five, with a Stage Girls tattoo on her forearm and tears in her eyes when she'd pressed it into Maeve's hands backstage.
"I read an interview where you said this was your favorite," she'd gushed.
"From before. I've been saving it for years, waiting for a chance to give it to you. "
From before. As if Maeve's drinking years were a charming vintage era rather than a slow-motion car crash.
She should have refused it. Should have said something kind but firm about being sober now, about the gift being thoughtful but impossible to accept.
Instead, she'd smiled and taken it because the girl looked so hopeful, and Maeve had never been good at disappointing people to their faces.
Only at disappointing them later, spectacularly, when they least expected it.
And the girl had looked a little like Iona. There was that, too.
She hadn't opened it. Hadn't even considered opening it. The seal was intact, the ribbon still perfectly tied. It was sitting on the dressing table because she'd put it down to take off her stage makeup and was intending to hand it over to Cam. At least someone should get some enjoyment out of it.
And then Iona had walked in.
Maeve watched it happen in the mirror. The way Iona's face changed when she saw the bottle. The flicker of something that looked like hope dying, replaced by doubt, then fear, then something worse. Something that said: I knew it. I knew this would happen. I knew you couldn't be trusted.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of sobriety, of meetings and sponsors and white-knuckling through every bad day, of rebuilding herself from the ground up. And one unopened bottle was enough to erase all of it.
Iona didn't say anything. She just picked up her gear and left.
Maeve sat very still for a long moment after the door closed.
She could feel her walls going up, brick by brick, the old familiar architecture building itself around her heart.
Fine. If that was what Iona thought of her, fine.
She'd been an idiot to think things could be different.
She'd been an idiot to come to London at all.
Then the door banged open, and Cam burst in, still buzzing from the gig. "Where's Iona? I've got champagne and a guy who wants to interview us for some podcast, he's got like three million listeners, we need to…" She stopped, taking in Maeve's expression. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"That's not a nothing face. That's a something face. That's a big something face, actually."
Ellie appeared behind Cam, quieter, watchful. "Is Iona still here?"
"I don't know where she is." Maeve stood up, grabbed her jacket. "And I don't care."
"You definitely care," Cam said. "You're doing the thing with your jaw. The clenchy thing."
"I'm leaving."
"Maeve."
"I said I'm leaving."
She pushed past them both and didn't look back. The corridor was still crowded with people, fans and friends and industry types all wanting something from her, but she kept her head down and her shoulders squared and made it to the back exit without anyone stopping her.
Outside, she hailed a taxi, gave the driver her hotel address, and spent the entire ride staring out the window at nothing.
HER PHONE RANG the moment she walked into her room. She checked the screen, expecting Cam or Ellie, but it was Glinna. Of course it was Glinna. The woman had some kind of sixth sense for when Maeve was about to spiral.
"You're calling late," Maeve said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I had a feeling." Glinna's voice was calm, practical. "The children are finally asleep and Neil’s watching something about tractors. Talk to me."
Maeve opened her mouth to say she was fine, that nothing was wrong, that Glinna should go back to her tractor documentary. But the words wouldn't come. It had been fifteen years, after all, she knew the process better than that, she knew that she had to talk, had to let it out.
"A fan gave me a bottle of whiskey," she said. "I didn't open it. I wasn't going to open it. But Iona saw it, and she looked at me like I was already drunk. Like nothing I've done matters. Like I'm still the same person I was fifteen years ago."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Are you at risk right now?"
"No." Maeve paused, made herself think about it properly. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm angry. And hurt. And when I'm like this, I make stupid decisions."
"Good. That's honest." Glinna's tone shifted, becoming brisk. "Now listen to me carefully. Iona's fear isn't about your present. It's about her past. She watched you destroy yourself once. She's terrified of watching it happen again."
"That doesn't make it fair."
"No. It doesn't. But since when has fear been fair?" A pause. "You have a choice to make, Maeve. You can let one moment of doubt erase everything you're working on right now. Or you can remember that she's scared because she cares, and scared people don't always react well."
Maeve said nothing. Her throat felt tight.
"There's a meeting tomorrow morning," Glinna continued, Maeve could hear her clicking on her laptop, looking it up. "Eight o'clock, church hall on Westbourne Grove. Go."
"I don't need—"
"Go anyway. Call me after."
She hung up before Maeve could argue.
THE MEETING WAS in a drafty church hall that reminded Maeve of her old school gym.
She sat in a plastic chair near the back and listened to strangers talk about their worst days.
A man who'd lost his wife. A woman who'd crashed her car into a playground fence at two in the afternoon.
A kid, barely twenty, who'd woken up in a hospital with no memory of how he'd gotten there.
She didn't share. She never shared at meetings she didn't know. But she listened, and she remembered, and by the time it was over, something had loosened in her chest.
Outside, the morning was gray and damp. London in its natural state. Maeve stood on the church steps and finally breathed.
Iona had known the old her. The drinking her.
The one who'd lied and broken promises and let everyone down.
Of course she'd jumped to conclusions when she saw that bottle.
Of course her first instinct had been fear.
Maeve had given her years of reasons to be afraid.
That didn't mean Maeve had to accept it. But it meant she could understand it.
She pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from Cam, two from Ellie, nothing from Iona. And one text from an unexpected number.
maeve. the girls at school don't believe i know you. they think i'm lying. it's very annoying. like, even my mum’s famous but they don’t think that counts.
Mo. Maeve felt herself smile for the first time in hours.
She typed back: What would help?
The reply came immediately: idk. they’re idiots.
Maeve thought for a moment. Then she started making calls.
AT GOING HOME time, she pulled up outside Mo's school in a stretch limousine.
It was ridiculous. Completely, absurdly ridiculous.
The limo was white, the kind of thing you'd hire for a hen party or a prom, and Maeve felt like an idiot sitting in the back of it.
But the driver had been professional, the rental company had been discreet, and the look on Mo's face when she emerged from the school gates was worth every penny.
"Oh my god." Mo stopped dead on the pavement, staring. "Oh my god."
"Get in," Maeve called through the open window. "Before your teachers start asking questions."
Mo scrambled into the car so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. The door slammed behind her, and she sat there, wide-eyed, taking in the leather seats and the minibar and the little TV screen. "This is insane. This is actually insane. Is this real?"
"It's real."
"Can we drive past the gates again? Slowly? So everyone sees?"
"That seems petty."
"Please?"
Maeve sighed. "Driver, one more loop around the block."
They circled the school at approximately four miles per hour while Mo waved regally out the window at a group of girls who looked like they were about to pass out from shock. Maeve tried very hard not to laugh.
"This is the best day of my life," Mo announced, finally settling back into her seat. "I mean it. Nothing will ever top this."
"I'm glad I could be of service."
Mo pulled out her phone and started typing furiously. "I'm posting this everywhere. Instagram, TikTok, everywhere. They're going to die."
"Is that healthy? The desire to make your classmates die?"
"It's a figure of speech." Mo grinned at her, and for a second, she looked exactly like Iona. The same bright, uncomplicated joy. "Thank you. Seriously. You didn't have to do this."
"It sounded like you needed it." Maeve couldn’t believe herself that she’d done it. But then she’d remembered being fourteen, and it had seemed the greatest idea in the world.
"Yeah, but you could have just sent a selfie or something. This is…" She gestured around at the limo. "This is extra. In a good way."
They drove through London, Mo chattering about school and music and which of her classmates she particularly wanted to impress. Maeve found herself relaxing, the tension from last night slowly unknotting.
"Can I ask you something?" Mo said eventually, her tone shifting.
"You can ask. I might not answer."
Mo fiddled with her phone case, not meeting Maeve's eyes. "My mum. Is she happy? With the band and everything?"
Maeve considered the question. "I think so. Why?"
"It's just… Dunno." Mo shrugged, teenage discomfort radiating off her.
"She's never really happy. Not properly.
She tries, and she's good at pretending, but there's always something missing.
Like she's looking for something she can't find.
" She glanced up at Maeve. "I thought maybe the band would fix it. Like, she’s missed playing.
But I don't know if it has. I think she was pretty depressed after Calinda left and all. "
Maeve didn't have an answer for that. The words sat heavy in the silence between them. "I think," she said carefully, "that your mum is figuring things out. Same as the rest of us."
Mo nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess."
THE LIMO DROPPED them outside Iona's building. Maeve walked Mo to the door, ignoring the curious stares from neighbors.
"Thanks again," Mo said. "For the limo thing. And the talking thing."
"Anytime."
Mo reached for the buzzer, pressed it. Footsteps in the hall, getting closer.
The door opened.
Iona stood there, her face caught somewhere between relief and uncertainty, her eyes flicking from Mo to Maeve and back again.
Nobody said anything.