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Rory Kent sat hunched over an acoustic guitar, busily jotting down chords in a dog-eared notebook by her side. "Jamie!" she shouted.

"I'll be right with you!" Jamie Ludlow, Rory's flat mate, called from the kitchen. Close in age, the two young women, along with their respective younger sisters, shared a large comfortable flat in the fashionable Bloomsbury section of London. Courtesy of Rory's Uncle Trevor, the four girls were able to live well above their means in exchange for keeping an eye on his property.

"Hurry up, will ya? I think we've really got something here and I don't want to lose the momentum." Rory scrunched her face in concentration as she ran through the chord progression in her head, her long black hair falling forward to obscure her attractive features.

"Be right in, Ror'," Jamie replied, her voice touched with more than a hint of a Mancunian accent. "I'm just getting a coke. You want anything?"

"Not right now, thanks." Rory didn't even bother looking up as the front door of the flat went flying open. "Hiya, chickadees. How was the show?"

Two teenaged girls made their way into the room, both looking somewhat dazed. The smaller of the pair, a petite honey blonde in pigtails, was crying softly.

"Yeah, how was the show?" echoed Jamie, poking her head out of the kitchen, a bottle of Coca-Cola in hand. "What the...?"

The only response was a muffled sob from the diminutive girl as she buried her face in her hands.

"That good, eh?" Rory studied her sister Annie carefully. She didn't seem to be the worse for wear-- and she rarely needed a good excuse to cry-- but this time seemed more serious than most.

Annie's flaxen-haired, snub-nosed companion choked back a sob of her own, barely managing to keep her composure as she spoke. "The show was just fab." At nearly nineteen, Jamie's sister Sandy was more apt to keep calm than her best friend, Annie. If she was rattled, then something dire must've taken place.

"Well, why are you two blubbering then?" Rory demanded, propping her guitar against the sofa. "What's the matter? George Harrison didn't come into the audience and propose marriage to you as planned?" The barely eighteen-year-old Annie's obsession with the Quiet Beatle was legendary amongst her friends and family, not to mention a major point of ridicule from her older sister.

"Rory, don't be so cruel," Sandy admonished, putting a supportive arm around Annie as the younger girl burst into a fresh flood of tears.

"You mean he did?" Rory could barely keep the smirk off her face or the sarcasm from her voice.

Jamie laughed, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. "C'mon, Rory, you know if he had she'd hardly be back here with us. More like half way to Paris for a honeymoon!"

"Honeymoon?" Rory said archly, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "Don't bet on it."

"It-it wasn't anything l-like that!" Annie stammered, her lower lip drooping into a petulant pout.

"Then for fuck's sake, why are you crying, you dozy cow?" Her older sister glared at her in exasperation. Annie's emotional outbursts were never easy to deal with and when her favorite subjects, the Beatles, were involved, they were nigh on impossible.

"Yes, what are you lot carrying on about?" Jamie took a seat on the sofa and crossed her arms over her chest. "You'd think it was the end of the world."

"B-because b-because they were so b-b-beautiful," Annie bawled, digging a rumpled tissue out of her patent leather purse. "They were so good."

"Christ, Annie! That's what this is all about?" Rory's voice was thick with annoyance now. "Because the Beatles put on a good show?"

"N-n-no!" The smaller girl cowered against Sandy, shaking slightly.

"Then what the fuck happened?"

"Well, after the show we tried to wait by the stage door," Sandy explained diplomatically, hoping she wouldn't have to protect her friend physically. With Rory's hair-trigger temper, it was possible things could come to blows. "You know, to get autographs. But it was just an awful mess. Everyone was pushing and shoving and fighting to get close."

"And?" Rory asked impatiently.

"Some horrid boy pushed Annie off the kerb and into the street and then she fell-- she nearly got trampled by people fighting to catch a glimpse of them."

The older girl's expression softened. "You weren't hurt, were you, love?"

Annie shook her head, sniffling. "N-no. S-Sands came to look for me and, of course, by then they'd gotten into their car and left. We didn't even get to see them!" Her voice cracked into a plaintive wail. "It's not fair."

"We tried to be patient and look what happened." Sandy let out a frustrated sigh. "I really wanted to see Paul."

Jamie rolled her eyes in disgust. "What's so great about him anyway?"

"He's... he's... Paul!" She spoke his name with an air of reverence.

"Oh, come on, you two," Rory said with a sneer. "You shouldn't be standing around in queues trying to meet those wankers anyway."

"That's not what you'd say if it had been the Rolling Stones!" Annie snapped, casting a look of contempt at her older sister. While the nearly twenty-one-year-old Rory hardly behaved like a besotted teenager over her favorite group, they were definitely one of her preferred topics of conversation.

"Oh, bollocks, Annie. It's exactly what I'd say. You'd never catch me standing round like a lost sheep for any bastard no matter what band he was in," Rory said hotly, her violet eyes burning. "I want them to come to me. Just you wait until we've got a record in the charts-- then they'll all be desperate to meet us."

"That's what you keep saying, Rory, but.... " Sandy countered.

"But what?"

Jamie absently ran a hand through her dark golden brown hair. "Yeah, where are all these hordes of famous people waiting to talk to us?"

"They want to connect with us. They just don't know it yet," Rory said testily.

"And when will they know, then, eh? Nineteen seventy-two?"

"Aw sod the lot of you!" Rory gathered her notebook, pencil, and guitar in a huff, and stormed off into her bedroom with a loud slam of the door.

Annie's tears started fresh; Sandy glared at her sister before wrapping a protective arm around her friend and escorting her to their shared room.

Jamie looked from closed door to closed door, before giving a "why me" gesture to the ceiling. "What did I say?" she asked aloud. When only muffled sobs and discordant guitar strums answered her, she sighed, put down her drink, and went to find her sketchpad. Honestly, everyone else acted like they were perpetually on the rag these days. No wonder the band didn't seem to be getting anywhere.

Annie threw herself on her bed, wrapping herself around a battered stuffed bear. "W-we were so close, Sands. If it weren't for that awful boy, we could have touched them! I just know it!" Her voice sounded a little hoarse now, the consequence of crying as well as the screaming she and Sandy had done at the Beatles' show.

"I know, I know." Sandy settled on the edge of Annie's bed, rubbing her back gently to try to help her calm down. "But there'll be other shows. Perhaps we could manage the Christmas show...."

"P'raps." Annie blew her nose, and turned to look at her friend. "I don't know how much more I can take."

"You're not that desperate to meet George, are you?" Despite the fact that one of the walls of their shared bedroom was a veritable shrine to the Beatles guitarist, Sandy knew Annie was a bit more sensible than that. At least, she hoped so.

Annie's cheeks grew slightly pinker. "I'm not desperate at all. I'm just tired of battling all the hurtful comments from our sisters and your brother and our friends." She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then continued. "I just want to have done with it-- you know, see George up close, get his autograph, and perhaps get a smile from him. Then I can say I've done it, and then perhaps they'd leave us alone." She drew herself up into a small ball, clutching her knees to her chest. "Doesn't it bother you, Sands, what they say?"

"Oh, their teasing us about the Beatles isn't nearly as bad as what I get about Davy. Actually, I think everyone's glad I'm talking about some other bloke-- even if it's a bloke I'll never, ever have for real." She sighed. "Not that I'm so sure I'll ever have Davy again for real."

"You mustn't say that, Sands! You never know, the band might actually make it big enough to tour America and then you could see him. Or p'raps he'll get cast in another show over here."

"Perhaps." Sandy sat in silence for a moment, before forcing a smile on her face. "Let's plan for the Christmas Show, then, right? We'll camp out in front of the stage door the entire three weeks, if necessary. But we're going to meet them by the end of January! Deal?"

"Deal." Annie reached under her pillow and pulled out a teen magazine. "Have you seen this one, then? The newsagent just got it in this afternoon." She opened it up and spread it on the bed, before stretching out on her stomach to look at it. "George looks particularly dishy here... and look at Paul!" Sandy lay next to her; soon they were giggling over all the new Beatles photos and news.

Jamie looked up from her drawing as the door to Rory's bedroom cracked open. The raven-haired guitarist poked her head out, a sheepish look on her face. "Er, Jamie-- sorry 'bout that."

"Still want my help on that song?"

Rory gave a noncommittal shrug. "Nah, I've gone right off it for now. Fancy going out? I'm in desperate need of a drink."

"Where?"

"We could go to the Ship."

"Oh, and be ignored by all the other bands there? Again?"

Rory's face lit up with a wry smile. "I need my resolve boosted. How about you? Besides, there's nothing like getting pissed in the company of our peers, yeah?"

"All right." She put down her art and stood. "Let me freshen up first, eh? You tell the others." She smiled wickedly. "Perhaps they'd want to come along."

"They're more likely to date their favorite Beatles than to come along with us to that den of iniquity." Rory returned the grin, and then headed for her sister's room.

A tall, dark-haired young man sat at a low table near the crowded bar of the Ship, nursing a pint of Bass, and doodling in a small notebook. Every once in a while, a jotted phrase would work its way into the scribble. The casual observer would think that the young man was adding the words unconsciously as he doodled. And that's exactly what he wanted people to think.

In reality, Michael Ludlow was listening in on conversations between all the bands, picking up on audition news and other gossip to help his sisters' band. He managed them in his free time; booking shows, working to get news about them in the area music papers, and driving them and their equipment about to gigs. Since the other up-and-coming bands didn't bother letting the girls into their little social clique, Michael had taken to hanging out at the Ship to pick up on all the information the other groups passed amongst themselves so freely. The Soho area pub was the one most frequented by rock musicians, mainly due to its proximity to the Marquee Club and other hot venues, and therefore the best place for Michael to gather intelligence.

A derisive laugh floated over the crowd noise; Michael looked up to see his sister and Rory enter. He tried not to notice that Rory was looking particularly good tonight, her tall thin figure towering over Jamie's slighter, curvier one. It was kind of hard to miss them anyway-- at the moment there were very few women inside the smoky pub and all the others had escorts. After tucking his notebook in his jacket, he elbowed his way to the packed bar, ordered up two Basses and a Guinness, and met the girls halfway across the room.

"Cheers, Michael," Jamie said, taking a Bass from him.

"Ta, Mike." Rory grabbed the Guinness and let Michael lead them over to his empty table. "How goes the spy game?"

"It goes. Where are Sandy and Annie, by the way?"

Jamie wrinkled her nose. "At home, as usual. You didn't really expect them here, did you?"

"Not really... but stranger things have happened." Michael looked thoughtful for a moment. "Then again, no, they haven't. But I suppose they could."

"Besides, they were too traumatized from their big Beatles ordeal to deal with anything even remotely resembling fun," said Rory snidely.

"What's happened?" A hint of panic crept into Michael's normally calm and deep Mancunian voice.

"Nothing important, Big Brother," Jamie reassured him with a pat on his arm. "They just were all out of sorts because they couldn't get the Beatles' autographs after the show tonight." She knew her brother well enough to know there was no need to tell him about Annie getting pushed around. He'd only go tearing out of there and back to their flat to make sure both she and Sandy were honestly in one piece.

"Oh. Well, that's all right then." Michael seemed sufficiently mollified by his sister's explanation. "They had a good time otherwise?"

"Indeed." Rory let out a sharp laugh. "So, what's the latest gossip, then?"

"The Yardbirds and Freddie & the Dreamers are definitely playing the Beatles Christmas show.... Hmm, everyone thinks the new Stones single is going to be a huge bomb... it'll be out in a fortnight... and the Who will be starting weekly gigs the Marquee as of the 24^th."

"Those bastards," Rory muttered under her breath and took a sip of her Guinness. "We need to get in there."

"Where? To The Who's gigs or into the Marquee?" Jamie inquired.

"Both, really. The few times I caught 'em at the Goldhawk, they were brilliant. We should be that exciting on stage-- couldn't hurt to nick a bit of stage presence from anyone."

Jamie looked at Rory incredulously. "We can hardly afford to start smashing our instruments. Hell, we can hardly afford to do anything."

The other girl let out a sigh of frustration. "At this point I'd do fucking anything to get a long term gig somewhere even if it cost us money."

Michael squirmed in his seat and flashed his companions an apologetic look. "Well, I'm trying to get you a booking at the Marquee but...."

"No one wants to take a chance on an all-girl band," said Jamie and Rory in unison.

"Not even one with a bit of a following." He took a long quaff of his drink and continued, "I'll get you in somewhere. Something's got to break soon."

"I know...." Rory's voice trailed off as she stared across the crowded room, clearly in intent concentration.

"Rory, what are you doing?" Michael's expression reflected his utter confusion. "Jamie, what is she doing?"

"Hmm... if I didn't know any better, I'd say she was going for a pull." His sister glanced around, trying to locate Rory's latest victim. "All right, who is it?"

Never taking her eyes off her target, Rory finally spoke. "Okay, you see that bloke over there? The one with the crew cut, yeah?"

Jamie scanned the room, finally catching sight of a thin, moody looking young man with dark close-cropped hair nursing a beer at the far end of the bar. Standing on his own, he was conservatively dressed and looked to be about their age. "Him?" she indicated the boy in question with a slight cock of her head.

"Bingo."

"And who is he when he's at home?" Michael didn't recognize the face. "And more importantly, why is he so worth your interest?"

"That," Rory said emphatically, "is Eric Clapton. Of the Yardbirds."

"And we fancy him, do we?" Jamie didn't see anything extraordinary about the guitarist but then again, she and Rory rarely had the same taste in men. Well, not that Rory generally had any taste in that department at all, as far as she was concerned.

"I'd give him a tumble," the raven-haired guitarist conceded. "But that's not the point. He's in the fucking Yardbirds, he sits in with Spencer Davis at the Marquee... he knows people. And as your brother just pointed out, he'll be part of the Beatles' Christmas show. Wouldn't you like to be on that bill?" She narrowed her eyes a little bit and concentrated hard. "Look over here, damn you. Look. Over. Here." Despite her valiant efforts, the guitarist never even turned his head in their general direction.

"Oh come on, Rory. I hardly think that chatting him up is going to get us an opening slot at the Hammersmith Odeon," Jamie scoffed. "Why don't you just admit you're gagging for a shag and have done with it?"

Rory pulled a face. "I'd do it if that's what it takes-- he's certainly not hard on the eyes-- but that's not what I'm after. He's obviously got connections which, though I hate to point it out, we are most certainly lacking at the moment."

Michael looked wounded. "That's nowhere true. I'm working my bum off to get you a regular gig somewhere."

"You've been saying that since you started managing us, Michael. That's nearly six fucking months." She took another long sip of stout, wiping the foam off her lip in irritation. "Six fucking months."

"I've gotten you plenty of one-offs, you know. That's more than you managed when you were running things yourself."

"They're not the same," Rory said hotly, "and you fucking know it."

Jamie rolled her eyes. "Here we go again. You two have the same bloody argument every bloody week, almost. It's dead boring, it is."

"Look-- it's a buyer's market for bookings," Michael explained matter-of-factly. "There are so many good bands just bubbling under the surface right now that agents can pick and choose at their leisure. Even the novelty of being an all-girl band isn't going to interest most of them, not with the likes of the Who and the Yardbirds and the Small Faces and the rest of that lot about. I've got feelers out many places, you know. It's just going to take some time."

"Time is what we haven't got, Michael. If we don't break soon, we're not going to break at all."

"Rory's right," Jamie added. "I'm pretty sure Annie and Sandy are starting to lose interest-- and not 'cause they're busy stalking the Beatles, either. Annie has been talking about going full-time spring term."

"Has she?" Rory's eyes narrowed with annoyance.

Jamie nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. And if she goes, you know it's just a matter of time before Sandy packs it in for drama school."

"Right." Rory stood up, taking her stout with her. "Michael-luv, you're doing a good job, but I bloody well think we need to work as many angles as possible. Don't wait up for me, you lot." With that, she disappeared into the crowd.

"Christ, what's she doin' now?" Michael wondered.

Jamie shrugged. "Workin' the crowd, I guess."

"That's the last thing you need."

"I don't think she'd actually sleep with any of them. She's not that stupid."

"Sometimes I wonder."

"You're just jealous she won't work you."

"Jamie!" Michael tried to pretend his blush was the flush of anger.

She patted his arm again. "I'm only havin' you on, Mike. None of us want to become big just by spreading our legs. We want to earn it properly. Trouble is, it's not happenin' fast enough."

"Don't I know it?" He checked his watch then sighed. "I have to go-- have to be in at 7 tomorrow morning. End of month accountings, you know."

"It's nearly last call anyway." Jamie tossed back the last of her pint. "Can I have a lift home, then? The last thing I want to do is manage the tube by myself."

"Sure." He helped his sister out of her chair, then, scanning the room one last time for a glimpse of Rory, led Jamie out of the building.

"You know, if you break my heart, I'll go. But I'll be back again." Annie and Sandy serenaded each other along with the A Hard Day's Night LP playing on their small portable phonograph on the coffee table. Rather than go out to the pub with their elder sisters, the girls had opted to stay home. After their exciting evening and its traumatic aftermath, the last thing either girl had wanted to do was go back out into the cold November night, especially for the sole purpose of having a drink. Instead, they'd changed into their pyjamas, made a pot of cocoa and were now happily munching on biscuits and listening to records in the living room.

"I wish someone would write such a romantic song about me," Annie sighed as the record ended.

"Oh, me too," Sandy said with a faraway look in her dark brown eyes. "Me too."

"At least you have Davy to sing them to you on occasion," Annie helped herself to another chocolate biscuit. "I haven't even got that."

"Fat lot of good it does to me when he's 3500 miles away." Sandy's voice cracked slightly as she spoke.

"He'll be back soon, Sands," the younger girl gave her friend's hand a comforting squeeze. "I just know he will."

"We'll see."

"Actually, I want to be able to write romantic songs like that," said Annie, hoping to steer the conversation away to something cheerier. "I just wish I could be that clever."

"You're getting there," Sandy replied, her mood starting to lighten. "We all are... we just need more practice. The Beatles have been at it for years now-- they've had loads more time to work at it. Besides, I think you write really pretty tunes."

"My lyrics are just dreadful, though." Annie wrinkled her nose in disgust before taking another bite of her biscuit. "I can never write what I really want to say. Or make it rhyme properly."

Sandy swirled the cocoa in her cup and looked thoughtful. "That sounds an awful lot like Rory talking to me, Annie. I rather like your lyrics and I think you're just being too hard on yourself."

"I dunno. I think Rory's just trying to push me to be better. Well, as a songwriter anyway. Nothing's going to help me in the drumming department." The younger girl brushed crumbs off the front of her flannel nightie.

"You're a better drummer than anyone else in the band," Sandy said with a laugh.

This elicited an embarrassed smile from Annie. "Yes, but that's not saying much is it?"

"You really shouldn't listen to Rory so often. She doesn't know everything, you know."

"Compared to me she does-- I'm still a novice when it comes to pop music. Well, I'm a novice compared to everyone, aren't I?"

"I haven't been playing bass all that long either, now have I?"

"Well, no, but...." Annie's argument was cut off by the sound of the front door opening.

"Hello, girls," said Michael, entering with Jamie dogging at his heels.

Annie let out a surprised squeal and made a mad dash for the bedroom, nearly knocking over her cup of cocoa in the process.

"What was that all about?"

"Really, Michael. We're lounging about in our pyjamas. You could have given us a warning." Sandy tugged her nightgown down over her knees.

"It's not like I've never see you two in your jammies before."

"Ah, she's just being modest. You know Annie's still a little sweet on you," Jamie teased, gathering her sketchpad and pencils up off the couch.

"The only person she's sweet on is George bloody Harrison." Michael said the Beatle's name with a bit of disdain as he folded his long legs under him, plopping down next to Sandy on the floor.

"Not jealous, are you?" Jamie continued. "Oh, no, that's right, you want Rory, not Annie. Silly me."

Michael pointedly ignored her. "Is there any of that stuff left, then?" he asked his other sister.

"It's cocoa."

"Ugh, I'll take a pass, then."

"Do you want me to make you a cuppa?" Sandy offered.

Michael shook his head. "Ta, Sands. But it's not necessary-- I'll be fine."

"Didn't you say you had to get into work early tomorrow?" Jamie asked.

"If you're going to take that attitude, Jamie, next time I'll let you take the tube back."

Jamie stuck her tongue out at him and retreated into her bedroom.

"She's a right pill sometimes, isn't she?" Michael commented.

Sandy shrugged. "She's not so bad. Usually."

Annie reemerged, now wrapped in a fluffy white robe. "Where's my sister?"

"Ah, Rory decided to stay at the Ship. She said not to wait up."

"Another of her world famous disappearing acts, then?" Annie could barely understand her sister's motives most of the time, but Rory's propensity for vanishing for hours or some times days on end was beyond her ken completely.

"Sort of," said Michael uncomfortably. He didn't want to get into it with Annie-- they both disapproved of Rory's behaviour but there wasn't anyway to stop her from doing what she wanted.

"You two didn't have another row, did you?"

"Not really, Sands. No more than usual." There was an awkward pause. "So, erm, I hear you had a good time at the Beatles concert tonight."

Tears welled up in Annie's blue-green eyes again; Sandy squeezed her friend's hand and said, "Twas a fab show, Michael, really fab. We tried to get autographs afterwards but it didn't work out. Say, you haven't heard when tickets for the Christmas Show go on sale yet, have you?"

"Not yet. The Yardbirds and Freddie definitely are in it, though."

"Good for them," Sandy said.

"Wish it were us," Annie added regretfully.

"It will be you, someday." Michael pushed his fringe out of his eyes. "Don't say anything to Rora or Jamie, but well, you might be getting a regular gig. Three days a week-- lunchtime, though. I'll know for sure by Tuesday."

"That's wonderful!" Sandy gave her brother a big hug.

"Now, nothing's firm yet... it just looks very good, that's all." He reached in his pocket and passed over a key. "Here-- you take this, Sands. I don't know if I'll get off work in time to be able to let you in tomorrow. I'd hate you to face Rory's wrath if you couldn't get into your rehearsal space." He placed a fraternal kiss on the top of Sandy's flaxen head, then tugged on a strand of Annie's honey-coloured hair. "I have to get home. See you lot sometime tomorrow." He saw himself out.

"A regular gig, Sands!" Annie exclaimed, now beaming with excitement. "Think of it! P'raps the Beatles might actually hear of us then!"

"Not to mention we might actually get some respect!"

"And money!" Annie giggled.

"That, too. It would be nice to be able to afford more than the basics, wouldn't it?" Sandy checked the teapot, noting with a frown, "Cocoa's cold. Shall we turn in?"

"All right." Annie started taking cups out to the kitchen. "I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep though. I'm too excited."

"Really? I'm knackered," Sandy stifled a yawn. "I think all that standing round in the cold just drained me."

"I s'pose I should at least try," Annie conceded with a shrug. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day. I've got classes in the morning, then piano practice at my parents, then I have students in the afternoon and after that, there's band rehearsal. If I don't get some rest, I'll be completely shattered."

"Right. Let's get this mess tidied up and then we're off to bed."

A loud crash from the living room woke Annie up with a start. Despite her misgivings, she'd managed to drift off as soon as her head hit the pillow. Heart pounding, she forced herself into a sitting-up position. A glance at the clock told her it was close to 4 in the morning. The building was safe, there was no reason to think that anyone could have broken in... could they?

"S-sands?" she leaned over towards her roommate's bed, but the other girl was fast asleep. "Sandy wake up."

There was another crash followed by muffled cursing.

Sandy opened her eyes slowly. "Annie? What's the matter? What's that noise?"

"I-I don't know," Annie squeaked, trying not to hyperventilate.

"D'ya think we ought to check it out?" Sandy asked, her voice still husky with sleep. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

"What if it's a robber?!"

"That would be rather silly, wouldn't it? We haven't much in the way of things to steal."

"But he wouldn't know that until he went looking, now would he?" Annie tried to suppress a shudder.

There was another bang.

"Right. That's it. We're going to see what's going on." Sandy crept out of bed and headed towards the closed door. "Or at least I am."

"Sandy!" Annie hissed. "Don't."

"We can't just sit here and wait for something to happen. Come on."

"All right." Shaking like a leaf, the smaller girl padded over to her friend's side. They cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. A light was on in the living room and there was definitely someone moving around in there.

"Oh no...." Annie clutched at Sandy's arm. "Do you think we ought to ring the police?"

Sandy shook her head. "Not yet -- besides, the telephone is in the living room. We'd have to go in there to do it. Might as well just see what's happened."

"Sandy, we can't -- what if they've got a weapon?"

"II don't know. But we can't just let them ransack the place," was Sandy's stalwart reply.

At that moment, a figure came towards them out of the shadowy living room. Their immediate reaction was to scream at the top of their lungs.

"Jesus Christ-- wot the bloody 'ell are you two doin' up?" A drunk and disheveled Rory demanded, waving her arms at them. "You'll wake the fuckin' dead!" Her heavy makeup was smeared, as was her pale lipstick, and her jet hair was in desperate need of a comb.

"We thought you were a burglar!" Annie insisted.

"No, I'm not a fuckin' burglar," her sister said disdainfully, her voice slurred with drink, her speech sliding into something closely resembling a Cockney accent. "Wot made you think tha'?"

"All the noise you were making, for a start," Sandy sniffed.

"Oh." Rory's miffed expression turned to one of ashamed guilt. "Sorry. I couldn't see in the bleedin' dark. I tripped on the sofa an' the lamp."

"You're pissed," Annie glared at her older sister.

"An' your point is?"

"Nothing. Just stating a fact. Why are you home so late, anyway?"

Rory twisted her mouth up into a scowl. "Oi! I'm not in the mood for a fuckin' lecture from you, Annalynn."

"You scared us half to death. The least you owe us is an explanation!"

"Well, if you must know, I went to an after hours club in Soho wiv some blokes I know in hopes of drummin' up some gigs. Somebody's got to try an' do it... that gobshite Michael certainly ain't managed to."

"Rory, that's not fair. Michael's been working very hard for us." Sandy desperately wanted to throw her brother's bit of news about the lunchtime shows in the older girl's face, but she'd promised she'd keep quiet about it and Sandy always kept her word. Besides, if it didn't come through, Rory would only use Michael's failure as ammunition against him later.

"Michael's always workin' very hard and it comes to fuckin' nuffink. I'm sick to death of waiting round for soddin' shows that don't 'appen."

"And please enlighten us as to how a Soho pub crawl is going to change all that?" Jamie, dressed in man-tailored striped pyjamas, stood in the doorway of her bedroom, clearly irritated by the late night argument.

"At least I was tryin' to sell us to some people who might listen."

Jamie snorted derisively. "Oh, I'm sure you were trying to sell something, Rory, though I'm not sure it was us."

"Oh piss off, Jamie. I don't see you gettin' off yer arse to do anythin' about it," Rory hissed. "At least I got us some leads."

"Well, that would be a first."

"Don't let's argue. Please," Sandy begged. "Can't we all just go to bed and talk about it in the morning?"

"Bed sounds like a brilliant idea." Rory staggered towards her bedroom, leaning against the wall for support.

"I bet that's not the first time you've said that tonight," Jamie muttered under her breath.

Rory stumbled into the kitchen the following afternoon, as Jamie and Sandy were finishing up lunch. "The dead awakes," the elder Ludlow commented, smirking at Rory's unkempt appearance.

"Aw, piss off," Rory growled, pulling the refrigerator door open and wincing at the light. She rummaged around for a few moments before asking, "What happened to the juice, then?"

"Breakfast."

"Fuck." She slammed the door shut, wincing at the sound.

"How 'bout a cuppa?"

"Yeah, all right." Rory slumped into an empty chair and rested her head on the table. "And a large glass of water, too. Christ, my head," she moaned.

Jamie started to stand; Sandy patted her back into her chair, then took her dishes to the sink. Although she placed them gently on the counter, the rattling was enough to make Rory jump. "Sorry," the blonde said gently as she turned the flame on under the teakettle. She filled a glass with water and placed it in front of the raven-haired guitarist. "Have you taken any aspirin yet?"

"Wanted to eat first," Rory groaned, lifting her head up just far enough to be understood.

"Toast? Or something more substantial?"

"Better see how the toast goes first."

"Righto." Sandy reached for the bread, then noticed the time on the big chrome clock over the sink. "Oh, crumbs-- Jamie, could you take over? I have to get going if I want to get to the dance studio on time."

"Sure, sis." Jamie took the bread from her sister and headed for the toaster. Sandy smoothed her skirt down, adjusted her leotard, and grabbed her jumper. "See you lot at 5, then. Ta ta." She hurried out of the room; the outer door soon closed after her.

"How can she be so fuckin' chipper?" Rory muttered.

"Easy, really-- she stayed home last night."

"Speaking of staying home, where's Annie?"

"Long gone. Something about pianos and parents, I believe."

"Ah," Rory buried her head in her arms. "No doubt there'll be hell to pay for my not going with her."

"Ah, they'll get over it. They always do." Jamie was well aware of that Rory's relationship with her parents was rocky at best. The toast popped; she put it on a plate and plopped it none too gently in front of her flat mate. "Jam?"

"No." Rory took a bite and winced. "Christ! Even chewing's too fucking loud this morning."

"Afternoon."

"Really?"

Jamie pointed at the clock. "Really."

Rory glanced up and sighed; it was already after 1 p.m. "I have a headache bigger than the Profumo scandal right now."

"Hardly a surprise, considering how pissed you were when you came home this morning. What were you drinking?"

"Beer mostly. I think there might've been a few vodka tonics along the way."

"Ah." Jamie straddled a chair. "So was the hangover worth it? Did you actually get anywhere?"

"Umm..." Rory scratched her head, searching her fuzzy memory. "There's this new club opening, yeah? Chez Rain... Chez Rat... Chez something-or-other. Something in French. Don't quite remember the name right now. Anyway, I ran into the owner's cousin and two of his mates last night, went to an after-hours club with them I think I got them interested."

Jamie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You didn't um--"

"Of course I fucking didn't!" Rory snapped. "I drank two of 'em under the table, and just snogged the other geezer-- the cousin-- a bit. But nothing more. Jesus fuckin' Christ, Jamie, you ought to know I wouldn't drop my panties just for a potential lead!"

Jamie shook her head in exasperation. "All right, all right, don't get your knickers in knots."

"Christ, I'm not." Rory forced an amiable but pained smile onto her face. "Sides, I'd never give away the goods before they came through for us."

As usual, Jamie wasn't sure if Rory was just winding her up or not but refused to take the bait in either case. The teakettle whistled; she got up and fixed a teapot up. She placed the pot, a mug, and a small plate for the teabags in front of her friend. "Here you go, love. I have to go out for a while. You goin' to be all right by yourself?"

Rory reached for the sugar bowl and grimaced. "I'll manage. I'm not a fuckin' invalid."

"You're acting like one right now." Rory glared at her; Jamie shrugged the look off. "See you at rehearsal, then."

Rory listened for the front door to close, then laid her head on her arms. It was going to take all afternoon just to get conscious enough for rehearsal.

Sandy was unlocking the padlock from the rehearsal space door when her brother ran up to her. "Ah, there you are, Sands!" he said, a tad relieved.

"Michael! I thought you weren't going to be here on time." She opened the door, and allowed her brother to usher her in.

The rehearsal space was actually an empty warehouse owned by their father, Graeme Ludlow. Since he wasn't using it for commercial space at the moment, he'd decided it would be best put to use as a practise space for his daughters and their friends as well as a relatively safe place for them to store their equipment (a definite improvement over the back of Michael's recently-acquired van). While Jamie, Rory, and Sandy could manage their respective instruments on the tube or in the car if necessary, there was no way they could drag their amplifiers with them at the same time. It was also a near impossibility to expect the 5-foot high, 100 lb. Annie to carry her drum kit to and fro. There was no room in their cramped flat to store the drums, anyway. Here both the amps and drums were centrally located so Michael could load them into his van at one time. It made the whole situation much easier. Since he had the only key to the premises, and the windows were blacked out, no one was particularly worried about anything walking off without their knowledge.

"Yeah, well, slight change of plans. Where's everyone else?" He glanced around, as if expecting the other girls to appear out of nowhere.

Sandy gave a slight shrug. "I imagine they'll be arriving shortly. Annie had piano lessons all afternoon, and Jamie had something going on with some of her art school chums."

"And Rory?"

Sandy tried not to look too smug. "Ah. Hung over. Badly."

"Christ!" To her surprise, Michael turned several shades paler.

"What's wrong? It's nothing we haven't dealt with before. A hangover is second nature to Rory."

"Yes, I know but we haven't had a club owner in our midst while she was in that condition, now have we?"

"What?" Sandy grabbed her brother by the arm. "Club owner? What club owner?"

"Nigel Gribben, owner of Chez Vrai. The one I told you 'bout last night."

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "I thought you said you'd know about it on Tuesday."

He gave her an affirmative nod. "I thought that's what the plan was, but he rang me earlier today and said he wanted to see what you girls were all about as soon as possible. I don't know what put the bee in his bonnet but I could hardly say no to him, now could I?"

Sandy looked down at her clothing in dismay-- she was still wearing her dance rehearsal togs under her street clothes. "I'm hardly dressed for an audition, though, Michael. None of us will be!"

"It's not like I had any warning myself, Sands. He just rang up and told me he'd be here this afternoon." Michael glanced up at the partially open doorway nervously. "I hope the others show up before Mr. Gribben arrives. Especially Rory. I know how she loves to take her sweet time getting here."

"She was looking pretty rough when I left her earlier-- but don't worry about it. I'm sure she'll be just fine. What time is Mr. Gribben due?"

"I told him to come after 6:30. Figured that would give you enough time to work out a decent set."

Sandy looked at her watch. "Well, it's about 5:15 now. That should give us plenty of time provided no one gets stuck on the tube."

"Don't even think things like that, Sands. I'm nervous enough already."

Jamie and Annie arrived within fifteen minutes of each other from their respective engagements. Jamie, fresh from a lunch spent catching up with several friends from her art school, was in good spirits while Annie was definitely harried from running from her own piano practise to teaching after school piano lessons to several unruly children. Neither of them had gone back to the flat before rehearsal and neither of them had any idea as to Rory's current condition. Annie was actually happy that she'd been out of the house early enough to miss the entire episode, even if had meant making excuses to their parents as to her older sister's plans for the day.

By 6:00 pm, the three girls and Michael were beginning to get a little worried. Unless a train had broken down or been rerouted (either of which was possible given the unreliability of the London transport system), there was no reason for her to be this late. Except, of course, that this was Rory Kent and all members present knew that she came and went as she pleased, whether they liked it or not.

At 6:15, a dark haired figure clad in black and wearing sunglasses staggered through the doorway, car keys and guitar case in hand. "Okay, I'm here. Let's get rolling," she muttered, stuffing the key ring into the pocket of her trousers.

"Where the hell have you been?" Michael grabbed Rory by the shoulders and shook her, nearly knocking the sunglasses off her face. She looked pale, run down and slightly glassy-eyed.

"Oi! Leave off." She gave him a weary shove and readjusted her glasses. "I'm here, ain't I?"

"You're an hour late." Michael said testily.

"I got caught in traffic." Rory turned her back on him, stalking towards her amp. She owned a beat-up Ford gifted to her by her favourite uncle before he'd left the country on business. While the black sedan wasn't the most attractive car on the road, it was reliable and it got her where she needed to go.

"Why the bloody hell did you drive? You know what traffic's like at this hour! How could you be so stupid?" he continued, keeping one eye trained on the door in case Mr. Gribben came through.

"For fuck's sake, Michael, what's got you so wound up? The world won't come to a fucking end because I showed up a bit late," she sneered, angrily snapping the guitar case open. "Sides, I reckoned I'd give the girls a lift home on the way back. Figured we could play a little longer that way cos we wouldn't have to worry about catching trains at all hours."

"That's lovely of you, Rory, but you were supposed to be here at 5:00!"

She yanked her black Telecaster out of the case and fiddled with the strap. "And since when are you my keeper, you berk? I don't remember asking you to...."

"Rory, we've got someone coming to audition us." The sound of Annie's soft little-girl voice stopped the argument cold.

Rory turned around and gave her younger sister a stony stare. "And how was I to know this? Did anyone tell me? Did anyone ring me? Did anyone bother to send me a fucking telepathic message?"

"None of us knew," Sandy replied apologetically. "It was a last minute thing."

"Well, there you go then. I didn't have a clue, did I?"

"Well, considering the fact that we haven't got much time, maybe we should leave off this discussion for another time and get ourselves together? That club owner bloke is gonna be here any minute and we're not even tuned up yet, let alone ready to play." Jamie picked up her red Rickenbacker and slung over her head. "Or should we waste more time arguing about this?"

"No, you're right. We'd better sort all this rubbish out before Mr. Gribben arrives," Sandy agreed.

"Gribben?" Rory echoed. "I know a chap named Gribben. Del-- in fact, he was one of the geezers I was out on the piss with last night... he said his cousin was opening a new club and...."

"What?" Michael looked stricken.

"Yeah," she explained, a tinge of smug satisfaction creeping across her face. "Me and his mates went out on the town. Obviously my word in his shell-like had some effect. Unlike some people round here."

"Rory, I've been working on Nigel Gribben to give you a listen for some time now," Michael said through clenched teeth. "He's trying to set up a posh club with posh acts. Just what did you tell this Del?"

Rory rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Not that it's any of your business but I told him we had a band and that he ought to give us a listen some time. That I'd make it worth his while if he did."

"Christ." Clearly annoyed, Michael retreated to a spot near the door and slumped against the wall, arms folded against his chest and a scowl on his face.

"Guess he can't stand being one-upped, yeah?" Rory plugged her Telecaster into her Vox amp and started tuning.

Sandy said, hurt clearly registered in her voice, "We'll see who's one-upped, Rory." She stepped up to the microphone she shared with her sister and adjusted the height.

Jamie leaned towards Rory with a smirk. "Too bad they're brother and sister-- they'd be the perfect boring couple."

Rory pondered the concept and shuddered. "You're related to them, you know."

"I can always hope that I was adopted."

The taller girl smiled at the joke, then glanced at her own sister. Annie was pointedly ignoring the exchange, putting all her concentration into adjusting the drumheads on her toms. "Ready, Annie?"

"I s'pose," she responded quietly, settling on her stool and picking up her drumsticks. She tried out a drumming pattern, thought about it a moment, and finally nodded. "All right." Then looking up at her sister, Annie pulled a face and said, "You should take off your sunglasses. They look ridiculous."

"I dunno, it always works for Roy Orbison." Annie's only response was a disapproving shake of her head. Rory stuck her tongue out but she pushed the glasses up on top of her head all the same.

Jamie exchanged glances with Sandy, who shrugged and shifted the weight of her Hofner violin bass slightly. "What first?"

Rory rolled her head, stretching out a kink in her neck. "Ah, one of yours. I'm not quite up to speed yet."

"Um 'You Don't Own Me.' " Jamie gave the countdown, and the band launched into the song. Even patched through their tinny makeshift P.A., she sounded as soulful as Lesley Gore on the original version.

Part way through the second chorus, the warehouse door opened and an older gentleman stepped through. Slight in both build and height, he had close-cropped greying hair which was thinning on top, small, close-set eyes, and a long, sharp nose. His clothing and presence both hinted at his relative wealth and his firm opinions. Michael spotted him entering, and greeted him with an outstretched hand. "Mr. Gribben— good to see you again."

"Ludlow," Gribben acknowledged. He glanced over to where the girls were set up. "That's them, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Those are the Honeybears."

"I see."

"I'll introduce you after--"

"No need, just yet. I'll just observe for awhile, shall I?" He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the band closely as they started a version of "The Shoop Shoop Song."

Nigel Gribben was a self-made man who'd worked his way up as a London restaurateur. Tired of dealing with things culinary, he really wanted to get into the entertainment business and Chez Vrai was going to be his ticket to crossing over. He was well aware of the proliferation of rock 'n' roll clubs in London proper as well as the adjacent suburbs-- former jazz clubs like the Marquee or the Flamingo and newer venues like the Crawdaddy Club at the Station Hotel in Richmond or the Ricky Ticky Club in Windsor. Most of these places, however, catered towards the average teen, focusing on the quantity of people coming in rather than the quality. There were also a number of exclusive after-hours clubs that catered to a more refined audience, or at least a wealthier one-- places like the Ad Lib or the Scotch of St. James where nouveau riche popstars like the Beatles were rubbing shoulders with other names in the entertainment field and old-guard titled families. Nigel had deduced there was no reason why he couldn't combine both concepts and make a fortune.

Chez Vrai would be a club that featured pop music at lunchtime and in the evenings, but hopefully to a better class of clientele. Rather than catering to teenage riff raff, he was hoping for the privileged children of peerage (it didn't hurt to know that the Rolling Stones were reportedly fraternising with the likes of Lord Harlech's children and their friends) or at least well-groomed, well-paid young adults with an interest in pop music but not hooliganism. Judging by the size of club audiences as well as their wallets, Nigel knew that there was plenty of spare cash to be had. The Mods who were flocking to clubs like the Goldhawk (and presumably the Marquee based on their upcoming Tuesday nights with the Who) had plenty of disposable income for tailor-made clothing, import records and nights out. It was just a matter of harnessing and refining the audience to his liking.

And then, of course, there were the bands themselves to consider.

He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the quartet with keen deliberation. The four girls were all very pretty, something which couldn't hurt in terms of drawing young men into the club. It obviously had worked on his half-wit cousin Derek, considering the urgency of his phone call this morning. Derek had been so insistent about his checking out the Honeybears that he'd almost reconsidered auditioning them at all. In the end, his business sense prevailed. Young Ludlow was clearly hungry to get these girls a spot in a decent club and he could exploit that in his favour... provided they were any good at all.

The lead guitarist was tall, lithe, her black v-neck sweater and trousers hugging the curves of her slender body. Her hair was long, straight and black, framing her long face, high cheekbones and chiseled features. Her violet eyes, luminous and slightly almond-shaped, nearly obscured by long fringe, focused intently on the neck of her guitar, her playing clearly the most important thing the world.

The rhythm guitarist standing to her left was more compact, dressed casually in a red and white striped jumper over black stretch pants and white boots, bobbed golden-brown hair kept off her face with a white headband. Her face was triangular, with deep-set green eyes sitting above a finely sculpted nose and mischievous grin, finally ending in a pointed chin.

Sharing a microphone with her was the tow-headed bass player, about the same height and build but obviously younger. Her fair hair was twisted up into a French knot, which accentuated her sparkling brown eyes, pert nose and pouty mouth. She held her bass upside down, playing left-handed, and moved with a dancer's natural grace in a pink jumper over cream skirt and tights.

Finally, completing the quartet and almost obscured by her 5-piece Ludwig kit, sat the drummer, primly dressed in an aqua twin set and skirt, dark blonde hair pulled off her face and tied with a black velvet bow. Petite and fine-boned, she was clearly the most junior of the four, almost doll-like in her appearance. Her large round eyes, a vivid blue-green, were firmly locked on her drums, her bee-stung mouth set in concentration as she kept up a steady beat.

The song ended but the girls immediately launched into an energetic cover of "Heatwave," the bassist now taking over lead vocals. Despite the P.A., despite the acoustics, and despite their awkward stage presence, he was beginning to like what he saw and heard. He let them play several more songs, a mix of covers and some promising, unfamiliar tunes that were no doubt originals. Only when the lead guitarist called for a stop to adjust her tuning did Gribben step forward. "Good evening, ladies."

"Mr. Gribben-- let me introduce you." Michael hastily joined the club owner, pointing at each girl as he named them. "That's Rory, and Jamie, and Sandy, and Annie back there on the drums. Girls, Mr. Gribben is the owner of Chez Vrai."

"We've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gribben," Rory said, being her most charming.

"And I have heard a lot about you in particular, Rory," He took a bit of perverse pleasure at seeing her blink of surprise. "You were with my cousin Derek last night."

"Del? Great bloke."

"Yes... he said as much about you." Gribben folded his arms across his chest and gave a little sniff. "To tell you the truth, ladies, your manager here was doing a fine job selling you. He played your acetate for me, showed me your pictures, gave me a number of references.... I was pretty much set on signing you. Then Derek rang me this morning." He caught Rory's half-hidden smirk and frowned. "My cousin unfortunately likes to associate with... shall we say a lesser clientele than what my club will cater to. For that matter, Derek is a lesser clientele than what my club will cater to. And when he told me he spent most of the night at some after-hours establishment with a Honeybear, well, I all but abandoned the idea of booking your group."

He noted that the other three girls looked dismayed, and permitted himself a small smile before continuing. "However, I've decided to give you one last chance. Hence my appearance here tonight. Ladies, I liked what I heard, and am willing to give you a regular spot at my club given certain guidelines. No drinking, eating, or smoking on stage. No fraternising with the clientele between sets. There will be a strict dress code enforced. And, most importantly, I do not want to hear any further stories of late-night carousing. If you feel you can live up to these stipulations?"

"Of course, Mr. Gribben." Jamie jumped in before Rory could say anything.

"Good. Then you may start at lunchtime on Wednesday. Ludlow," he continued, turning to Michael, "Meet me at the club tomorrow evening at 6 when we will discuss final details."

"Yes, sir." Michael offered his hand. 

Gribben shook it, then gave a final cold look at the band. "You realise that this is a trial only. If I don't like what I see or hear, that's the end of it. I will see you four on Wednesday. Good evening." With that, he turned on his heel and left.

"We have a gig!" Jamie squealed, hugging her sister despite two guitars in the way.

"Yeah, a gig for a sniveling little rat-faced git," Rory sneered. "With a poker up his arse to boot."

Jamie gave her a jovial smack on the shoulder. "But it's still a gig! Won't those blighters down at the Ship be jealous?" She took off her Rickenbacker and placed it in its case. "Let's go there and celebrate! You in, Annie?"

The little drummer shook herself out of her thoughts. "Hmm, yes, of course. A real gig? Who'd have thought?"

"I'd have thought-- I've been thinking it all along!" Rory started packing up her gear.

"And you nearly blew it for yourselves, too, Rory," Michael pointed out.

"Oh piss off, Michael. Nobody likes a sore winner." She stuck her tongue out at him. "You're buying the first round, yeah?"

"All right." He waited patiently for the girls to finish packing up, and followed them out of the warehouse, locking up behind them.

Sandy lingered behind, and fell into step with him. "Michael? If we're gigging at lunchtime, are you going to be able to help us set up and things?"

"I don't see why not."

"But what about your job?"

"Well... I'll work something out, Sands. Don't you worry about me." He placed a hand on the small of his sister's back as he prodded her to catch up with the others.

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