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Michael pushed a pint of Guinness toward Rory as she sat at his small table. "Thanks for coming, Rory."

"I almost didn't, you know." She slid her chair closer and pulled appreciatively at her stout.

"I'm sorry I sounded as if I were being condescending last night. I'm just trying to get you a steady gig, that's all."

"You certainly go about it like some great twat."

Michael's eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed momentarily. His voice sounded unnaturally calm as he continued, "Call me what you like, Aurora, but I'm the one going to be negotiating with Mr. Gribben, and I'm the only one of legal age to sign a contact. Unless of course you'd like to bring your parents into it?"

"You know I don't want to do that." She slid even closer to him, placing a hand on his leg. "All right, Michael, here's the deal. No written morals clause."

"In general or just off-premises?"

"What I do off-premises is no one's business but my own-- wouldn't you agree?" Her hand inched up his thigh, squeezing gently. Michael tried to shift away, but she wouldn't let him. Instead, she settled in his lap, making sure his face was positioned well within her cleavage. She gave him a predatory smile. "I'm always discreet."

"So you say," Michael managed, flushing horribly.

"I have no objection to keeping to myself on club time. I'm sure it's too posh a place for the likes of me. But I can clean up well enough to play there."

"Then you have no objections to dressing up? You won't be able to wear trousers or stretch pants, I'm sure."

"I'll wear whatever you want, Michael. Or nothing at all, if you'd prefer," she said silkily, tilting his chin up to plant a serious kiss on his lips. She kept her mouth clamped on his until she noted the inevitable stirring in his nether regions. Breaking off the kiss, she breathed, "I never disappoint."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, sounding more in emotional pain than physical.

"To prove a point." She wiggled her bottom as she stood, then ruffled his hair roughly and added, "You'll have to go live up to what you are before that meeting... you bloody wanker." Without a further word, or even a look back, Rory disappeared out the front door of the pub.

Michael sighed. He'd give things a few moments, and perhaps walking over to Chez Vrai in the cold would take care of the rest. If he could just get the sensation of Rory's lips on his out of his mind....

"Hallo," Annie called as she dragged herself through the front door of the flat, her book bag in hand. "Anybody home?"

"Nobody here but us chickens," Jamie responded lightly.

"Where's my sister?"

"Out tormenting my brother, last I heard," the older girl giggled. "She should be back soon. How were the brats?"

Annie taught piano lessons to a few local children in order to make some extra money on the side. She was also gaining course credits through her school, which made the twice-a-week ordeal even more attractive. "They were all right, I s'pose. I'm just dead knackered." She let the book bag fall, then struggled out of her coat, hanging it carefully on the wooden coat rack standing by the door.

"Well, you might as well grab a bite to eat and then change your clothes. We've still got rehearsal tonight, you know."

The small drummer nodded wearily. "How could I ever forget?"

"Hiya!" Sandy came into the living room. "You look as exhausted as I feel," she commented as soon as she caught sight of Annie.

"I think I could sleep for a week," Annie sighed. She settled on the settee, curling her slight body up into a small ball.

"Well, neither of you'd better get too comfortable," Jamie reminded them. "We've got a lot to do between now and tomorrow lunchtime."

"Like?" asked Sandy.

"Rehearsal. Set list. Find something to wear that will make Mr. Gribben happy." Jamie ticked off each one on her fingers as she spoke.

"I know we need to rehearse," said her sister with a grimace. "I do hope Rory gets home soon so we can get that out of the way."

Jamie pulled a face of her own. "Forget about getting it out of the way-- you know she's gonna run us into the ground tonight to make sure we're note perfect. Tomorrow's not just any old gig, you know."

"True enough," Sandy conceded. "I'm sure this means we'll be arguing about a set list for hours as well."

"Probably. I'm pretty concerned about that, too. I want us to make a good impression."

"We always do."

"Yeah, but tomorrow's different, isn't it? All our other gigs were just one-offs. This one could make or break our future, now couldn't it?"

"I don't think we've got that much to worry about."

"Well, it is a big deal. We're the premiere band there-- it's all riding on our shoulders, isn't it?"

"I'm sure we'll be just fine. It's not like we haven't been practising day in, day out for weeks now."

"Y'know, you're incredibly calm considering everything."

Sandy shrugged nonchalantly. "You know I don't get stage fright. I prefer to think of each gig or show or what have you as a challenge. It keeps me fresh."

"Speaking of stage fright...." Jamie turned to look at Annie. "You're not going to freeze on us again, now are you?"

Annie, who'd remained unduly quiet during the discussion, raised her head and stared at Jamie, her blue-green eyes wide with what the older girl suspected was fear. "N-no. Why should I?"

"Because you've been known to do it in the past and the last thing we need is you panicking on us."

"I w-won't," she stammered, gripping the arm of the settee tightly and fidgeting in her seat.

"Are you okay, Annie?" Sandy noted her friend's increasing discomfort.

"I-I'm fine." The Ludlow sisters exchanged concerned glances; the little drummer hardly looked like she was anything close to fine.

"You should probably eat something," Sandy suggested cheerily. "It's going to be a long night."

"I know but I-I'm not very hungry." Annie's voice trailed off as she grew visibly paler. "Oh no!"

"What's the matter?"

"I've got class tomorrow morning!"

"Well, you'll just have to skive off for once. You'll never get it together in time otherwise," Jamie insisted.

"I c-couldn't!" Annie's voice quavered. "Besides, I think we've got an exam tomorrow. I've got to review my notes too."

"Bring them along to rehearsal. You can probably go through them while we're working on the set."

The younger girl stood up and started going through her book bag, frantically pulling things out in search of what she needed. "I'll never remember all this now!"

"Oh, calm down, Annie. Even if you failed the bloody quiz, it's not that big a deal."

"Not that a big a deal to you, Jamie Ludlow, but to me it is." Annie snapped. "If my marks drop, I could lose my scholarship!"

"Don't be so bloody overdramatic. You'll be as right as rain."

"How do you know?" Tears started to roll down her pale cheeks and her voice took on a panic-stricken edge. "We've got to rehearse and we've got to figure out a set list and we've got to decide what to wear and I'm certain I've got nothing in my closet that's good enough to please my sister let alone Mr. Gribben and there's no way in the world I'll be able to go to class ready to go on stage and I can't exactly put makeup on while I'm on the Underground and what if something breaks down and I get there late." She turned several shades whiter and then a distinct shade of green. "Excuse me!" She made a mad dash for the bathroom and promptly threw up.

Jamie turned to Sandy and shook her head. "Oh shit."

Michael trudged down Shaftesbury Avenue toward Chez Vrai, hoping the night air would help clear his head and his mood before he got to the club. For the past four years, Rory had been tormenting him and for the past four years, no matter what he'd tried to do to stop her, she still got to him each and every time. Ever since he'd first laid eyes on the then-bleached-blonde-and-bouffant-haired-girl over the fence dividing their families' properties, he'd been alternately fascinated and repulsed by the bold, beautiful and often times bizarre creature named Aurora Kent. She was nothing like the kind of girl he usually fancied-- she wasn't quiet or studious or even remotely refined-- and everything she did in life seemed to be geared to frustrate or irritate him. He couldn't even count the number of times she'd embarrassed, chastised and insulted him both in private and in public. Yet, despite everything, after four years, he still couldn't get her off of his mind.

No matter how often he protested that he had no interest in her whatsoever, down deep he knew it was true. Of course, tonight was typical of her aggravating behaviour. She always knew which buttons to press-- how to wind him up and how to rattle him when he least needed to be. Well, if he wound up bollixing up negotiations with Mr. Gribben and losing the girls money tonight because he was so distracted, she'd only have herself to blame.

He arrived at the club's narrow doorway and walked up the flight of stairs to the main level. A pair of young men were rearranging furniture, directed by Nigel, who was taking the placement of the black leather and chrome chairs as seriously as a matter of state. Overall, the club's interior was very modern, with low tables and chairs scattered around the room and pop art prints hanging on the walls.

"Ah, Ludlow, there you are!" Nigel looked pleased. "Boys, you can just leave that for a bit. Take a break. Have yourselves a beer. But just one!"

His two helpers looked relieved and quickly disappeared into shadowy recesses of the club.

"Come with me, Ludlow." The slight club owner dabbed at his balding pate with a handkerchief and led him through a maze of chairs and tables, past the bar, and into a small office situated in the back. "Have a seat." Nigel indicated a folding chair which sat in front of an antique wooden desk. He shuffled through a few stacks of paper, eventually finding what he was looking for. "Sorry about the mess, Ludlow. We're still moving in."

"That's all right, sir," Michael said politely, settling into the rickety chair.

"Right." Nigel studied the document in front of him for several moments before speaking. "Well, I suppose we need to talk about money and all that rot, haven't we?"

"Well, erm, yes," Michael squirmed in his seat, trying to keep a calm demeanor.

"I like those girls. I like those girls very much. And I think they'd be an asset to my club." There was a pause. "But...."

"But?"

"As I said the other night, I want this to be a posh place. A respectable place. Which is why I'm enforcing such strict rules for all the bands. It's especially important for those girls to follow them because I don't want anyone mistaking this venue for something seedier. It's difficult keeping boys in line but I will not have my customers thinking that this is some sort of front for a brothel or the like."

"Mr. Gribben, I can assure you that none of the girls would even think of behaving in any way that might embarrass you or themselves."

Nigel let out a little snort. "After what my cousin Del told me about his late night adventures with-- Rory, was it?-- it does make me wonder."

Michael blanched. "Rory likes the odd bit of fun, Mr. Gribben but I promise you it won't happen again. Even if it means locking her in at night myself."

A little bit of a smile played around the edges of his thin lips. "I'm sure she's not that bad. Del's a good lad but he's not too bright, if you know what I mean. He's out there right now giving me a hand. I don't mind him trying to help out, but I certainly don't want him or his chums coming round here and thinking they have run of the place. Or the entertainment."

"I understand completely. And I meant what I said. I'll make sure the girls keep in line."

"Right. So how does £10 a day sound to you? I'd like them to play Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so that's thirty quid a week-- with a promise to up the pay if you start bringing in an audience. And they'll get lunch and soft drinks afterwards."

"Ten pounds?" Michael's dark eyes grew wide. He hadn't expected that much money as a starting figure.

"It's all I can offer you right now. Wish I could make it more."

"N-no, that's very generous of you." He knew he was probably supposed to negotiate more, but it was a much higher sum than he'd ever believed he would get as an opening offer, and he didn't want to insult the little man by asking for more.

"Well, I believe in your girls and I think they could be a real benefit to Chez Vrai if they behave themselves. I'm probably offering you more than I ought to, but I don't want you building up a good reputation on my shoulders and then jumping ship at the first sign of more money."

"No, of course not. We wouldn't."

"Well, here are the contracts-- take them home, fill them out and then bring 'em back with you in the morning." Nigel handed him a stack of papers. "They're to be here tomorrow at 11:30 sharp for a sound check. Remember, no eating, drinking, or smoking on stage, and no fraternising with the clientele. No swearing either. And I want proper attire. No blue jeans, no trousers, nothing too wild. If the Beatles can look like gentlemen in their suits, then the least your girls can do is look like ladies when they get here."

"Of course." Michael grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. "Thank you so much, sir. Thank you so very much."

"Just don't disappoint me, Ludlow."

"I won't. I promise you with all my heart they won't."

"I'm back, chickadees!" Rory shouted as she barreled through the door. "We nearly ready to get our arses in gear? We've got to get to rehearsal! Chop chop!"

"Erm, well, we are," Jamie said, exchanging guilty glances with her sister.

Rory looked around in surprise. "And where's Annie then?"

A very loud retch coming from the bathroom was her answer.

The sound caused the black-haired guitarist to bury her head in her hands. "No! No no no fucking no! How long has she been at it?"

Jamie shrugged. "Maybe an hour?"

"For fuck's sake, if she doesn't get her arse out here in ten minutes, I'm going to fucking kill her," Rory seethed. She stalked over to the bathroom door and attempted to open it. As she expected, it was locked. "Annie!" she bellowed.

There was no reply.

Angrily, she pounded on the door. "Annalynn fucking Kent, open this fucking door! Now! I've got to use the bloody loo!"

Jamie put a restraining hand on the taller girl's shoulder. "C'mon, Rory, give the kid a break. Tomorrow is a big day."

"Funny, you weren't saying that before, Jamie," muttered Sandy.

Rory shook Jamie off. "She is not going to fucking screw this up for us. I'll fucking kill her first!" She kicked at the door again. "Annie, open the bloody door before I break it down!" More retching and loud sobs came from the other side of the door. "Annie, I'm fucking warning you!"

"Rory, don't shout. You'll ruin your voice for tomorrow," Sandy said softly.

"Well, what am I s'posed to do, Sandy? Just coddle her and let her carry on like a complete twat?"

"No. But shouting at her isn't going to make it any better."

"Besides," added Jamie, "if you kill her we'll still be short a drummer!"

Rory sighed. "You're right. I just am not in any fucking mood to deal with this right now."

"Well, we'll still be short a drummer if we can't get her to come out of there." Sandy screwed up her face in a grimace. "But she won't listen to me either."

"I'm all out of ideas-- about the only thing I can think of is sliding about six pounds of chocolate under the door and then coaxing her out with the promise of more," Jamie replied with a smirk.

"Fucking hell," Rory spat. She looked pensive for a moment and then asked, "Either one of you got a hair pin?"

"Yeah," replied Sandy, pulling one out of her hair. "What do you need it for?"

Her face lit up in a sly grin. "You'll see." She bent back the pin and crouched in front of the lock, concentrating as she jiggled the pin inside the lock. After a few minutes, there was a satisfying "click." "Done."

"How the hell did you do that?" Jamie asked incredulously.

"Old trick of my Uncle Pat's," Rory replied with a wink. "Now to drag Little Sister back into reality." She grabbed the door knob and swung it open, revealing a miserable looking Annie hunched over the toilet.

Annie, her face pale, waxy and streaked with tears, gave a squeal of terror and cowered.

"Right. You. Out. Now," her older sister ordered.

"I'm not going," Annie protested. "I'll be sick again."

"No, you're fucking not. You're going to get yourself together, get your arse out of this flat, and into the car even if I have to drag you there myself. And if you puke in my car, you're a dead woman. Simple as that."

Fresh tears welled up in the younger girl's eyes. "I'm not going. I can't." Her voice cracked with fear. "I can't!"

"Why the fuck not, you stupid cow?" Rory started to advance toward her.

"Rory!" Jamie grabbed her by the arm and held her back. "Don't."

"Because I can't! I've got classes tomorrow! I've got exams!"

"I told her to skive off the bloody class," Jamie said between clenched teeth.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, you can miss one bleeding class. I'll get you a doctor's note to cover you," Rory insisted.

"H-how?"

"I've got loads of stationery from Uncle Martin's surgery. I'll just forge you a fucking note and it'll be all taken care of easy peasy. Now let's go."

"No!"

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you, you dozy mare?!" Rory bellowed.

Annie began to cry in earnest now. " I can't do it-- I just can't do it! I'll just mess everything up be-because I'm such an awful drummer and everyone will l-laugh at me and I'll r-ruin everything for you!"

"You will fucking not. You've never done at any other gig so why should it happen now?"

"I did too! At the Eldorado! I f-froze up and f-forgot everything."

"So fucking what? That was a long time ago. None of us even remembered about it."

"J-jamie did!"

Rory glared at the brunette guitarist who flashed her a sheepish smile. "I was only trying to make sure she'd be okay tomorrow. I didn't mean to set her off."

"Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant, James."

"Sorry, " Jamie murmured.

"I still don't understand what the bloody problem is. Come on, Annie, performances are just like shagging. It's awkward, scary and uncomfortable the first time but after that it's brilliant. You just have to get through it."

Annie hardly looked comforted by the analogy.

"You've done plenty of things with your school orchestra and piano recitals and all that and you've been fine," Jamie added.

Rory nodded in agreement.

"How would either of you know?" Annie shot back. "You've never been."

"Well, I certainly don't remember hearing about any great cataclysm taking place at any of those things!" Rory countered, trying not to look guilty at her sister's accusation.

"I-It was different. I was with a big group and it wasn't like our lives ever depended on anything."

"Your fucking piano recitals were not with a big group," Rory reminded her. "You managed those all right, now didn't you?"

"It's not the same thing and you know it."

"How? It was you alone with a fucking piano. That's got to be scarier than playing in some dark little club with a band."

"Yes, but I can play piano! I can't drum to save my life. You've said so yourself. Repeatedly!"

"Oh Christ, Annie-- and you actually believe me when I tell you that shite? Nobody else does!"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Please shoot me. Please shoot me now," Rory moaned. "The night before the most fucking important gig of our fucking lives and this stupid cunt is carrying on like a fucking baby over fuck knows what!" She kicked at the wall with impunity, leaving a large dent in the plaster.

"Come on, Annie," Sandy said softly. "It's just a rehearsal tonight. If we're prepared for tomorrow, there won't be anything to worry about at all."

"I-I know. I just don't want to let you all down."

Rory glared at her. "You won't let us all down if you get your fat arse out of there."

Annie choked down a sob then blew her nose into some toilet paper. "I can't do it."

"You can and you fucking will," Rory insisted. "Do you know how unfair you're being to us with your fucking weeping and wailing?! Where are we supposed to dig up a drummer at last minute's notice?! Or are you that fucking selfish that you don't give a toss about us?"

"I'm s-sorry!" Annie buried her head in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh good going, Rory." Jamie crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the taller girl. "Now what?"

"The fuck if I know." Rory kicked at the bathroom door idly. "Anyone else have any brilliant suggestions?"

"Let me try talking to her alone. Or at least try to calm her down." Sandy let out a huff of frustration. "I told you shouting at her would only make it worse."

"Be my guest." Rory bowed with a flourish. "Maybe you can talk some sense into that thick skull of hers."

Sandy rolled her eyes and headed into the bathroom to console her weeping friend.

While Sandy worked on coaxing Annie to go to rehearsal, Rory went to her bedroom, Jamie at her heels.

"So what happened with my brother?" Jamie finally asked, watching Rory sift through piles of papers and notebooks in search of lyric sheets and music.

"Ah, I just messed with him a bit. He'll be fine."

"Nothing too evil, I hope?"

"Nah. Nothing a cold bath won't cure." Rory chuckled and stuffed several loose papers into a bag. "It'll teach him not to start with me for a bit though. Now where did I...?" She leaped up and grabbed her brass slide off the dresser and threw it into her bag.

"I just hope all this hysteria is worth it. I may not be as mad as Annie but I am a bit nervous myself," Jamie admitted.

"Ah, we'll be as right as rain," Rory replied coolly. "Even Annie will be once we get her sorted out. Speaking of which...." She opened a drawer, dug under a pile of clean but rumpled underwear and pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted pills of different shapes and colours.

Jamie's eyes grew wide. "Christ, are you planning on drugging her into a stupor?"

"Something like that," Rory said impassively. She pulled out a few white tablets, checking them carefully before shoving them into the pocket of her jeans. Then she thought for a moment, took another one out of the bag and dry-swallowed it whole.

Jamie winced. "What are those?"

"Just some valium. But as far as Annie's concerned, it's something to settle her tum, yeah? She's never going to be fit to play tonight or tomorrow if we don't get her calmed down. Even if Sandy manages to talk her through it, you know she'll be in a state again first chance she gets. At least this way, the daft bitch'll be quiet."

"But what if it affects her playing?" Jamie wasn't opposed to taking pills as a concept-- she'd done plenty of pilling at Art school and on nights out herself-- but taking them before a gig was another matter entirely.

The older girl shrugged. "It's low dosage so it shouldn't. Besides, I'd rather have her playing slow than not playing at all."

"True enough," Jamie conceded. "But why are you taking them?"

"So I can deal with Annie without strangling her." Rory flashed her a wry smile. "As you said, if I murder her, we'll be short a drummer and that, my dear James, is something we cannot afford to do right now."

Sandy had managed to get a cold cloth on her friend's forehead, and had her sitting on the toilet seat. "Deep breaths, Annie, deep breaths."

Annie replied by snuffling a little and starting the hiccups.

"Everything's going to work out all right, you'll see."

"If I survive Rory's wrath. And my exam. And the Underground." Annie grabbed a wad of toilet paper and blew her nose. "It's hopeless."

"Oi!" Rory's voice came from down the hall.

"Completely hopeless."

"Nonsense." Sandy pulled her friend off the toilet. "Come on. The sooner we go, the sooner it's over with."

"The sooner I'm dead."

"Here we are," Sandy called brightly, leading Annie to their sisters. "Well enough to travel, I think."

Rory gave the bassist a disbelieving smirk before addressing her sister. "Hold out your hand." Annie put her right hand out. Rory turned it palm up and dropped two white pills into it.

"What are these?" Annie eyed her sister suspiciously.

Rory looked at her sternly, a model of sisterly concern, with a touch of indignation thrown in for effect. "They'll help your tummy. Go take 'em now. I don't want you puking in my car."

"All right." She popped back into the bathroom for some water.

"Hurry up! We don't have all fuckin' night!" Rory prompted.

Michael had already arrived at the warehouse and had checked the set-up by the time the girls arrived. He sat in the corner with his gold-plated ballpoint, reading over the contract. He looked up as they entered. "Hallo."

"That the contract, then?" Jamie asked, pausing to try to read it upside down.

"Yes."

"How badly do we have to sell our souls?" Rory asked.

"No written morals clause, but you do have to behave yourself on and off premises-- especially with that Del bloke. He seems a right tattletale."

The raven haired guitarist shrugged. "I can live with that."

"Oh, and you have to 'dress like ladies' as he put it."

"Skirts and dresses, I take it," Sandy said.

Michael nodded, then dug his key out of his trouser pocket. "Here you go, Sands. I still have to go over to our parents tonight, and I don't know if I'll get back in time."

"No big loss if you don't," Jamie muttered, as she headed for her Rickenbacker.

"I love you, too, James."

Rory chuckled, picking up her Telecaster and giving it a test strum. Annie wandered over to her drum set, keeping quiet but seemingly no longer near hysterics. She set about adjusting the cymbals.

Sandy tucked the key in her coat. "I hope you're not going over there just on my account."

"I owe them a visit, and since I get to sleep in tomorrow--"

"What do you mean, sleep in?"

Michael lowered his voice. "I'm calling in sick tomorrow."

"What?!"

"It was the only way I could see that I could get your gear to the club and keep an eye on the session. I spent the day today pretending to come down with a cold."

"Won't you get in trouble for it?"

"I hope not. I'm going to call in sick the rest of the week."

"And what about next week?" Sandy's concern permeated her voice.

"Hopefully I'll have another idea by then." He folded up the contract papers, tucked his pen away, and reached for his coat.

"Oi! Michael! How much is Gribben gonna pay us?" Rory called.

"10 pounds a session, plus lunch and soft drinks afters. You've got Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays." He buttoned up, and stuffed the papers in his pocket.

"The Who are getting 12."

"No, they're just telling other bands they're getting 12. They're really getting 7. Besides, they only have one gig a week, and you have three." He flung his scarf around his neck, and added, "Sound check is 11:30 sharp tomorrow morning. I'll be there with your gear-- you just worry about getting yourselves there in a presentable form."

"Jah vol, mein führer," Jamie threw him a Nazi salute.

Michael gave her a hard look before leaving.

Rory chewed her lip for a moment, then nodded, smiling. "10 quid a gig. Fan-fucking-tastic. I guess Michael isn't as big a wanker as I thought."

"My brother is not a wanker!" Sandy insisted, flinging off her jacket and grabbing her violin bass.

"All men are wankers, Sands. They can't help it. It's how they're wired." Rory looked back at Annie. "You ready to-- what's wrong now?"

Annie's eyes had grown wide. "My class lets out at 11," she whimpered. "I'll never get there in time."

"Skive off," Jamie said.

"Not with an exam!"

"Don't start that again!" Rory warned. "Let's get through the rehearsal, and worry about tomorrow afterwards. We'll start with "Shop Around," yeah?"

Michael pushed the bowl of stew away, only to have his mother swoop it up for a refill. "No, Mum, really--" he said hastily, using both hands to motion her to stop. "I'm full!"

"Are you sure, love? There's plenty more, if you're still peckish."

"I'm fine."

"Then you'll take some home."

"I'm not going straight home. It'll spoil."

Dorothy frowned. "It's a work night, Michael. No time to be out at the pub."

"The girls are rehearsing. I have to make sure they get back to the flat all right."

"I suppose you do at that." She put the bowl by the side of the sink, wiped her hands on her apron, and ruffled her son's dark hair. "You're such a good boy, Michael."

"I try to be." He really hated how his mother tended to treat him like a 12-year-old, but he knew she meant well, so he usually didn't complain.

Dorothy took off her apron and tucked a loose blonde hair back in its bun. "You go in to your father, love. I'll pop upstairs and see if I can find Our Sandy's gloves." She kissed him on the top of his head, then shooed him into the sitting room.

Graeme Ludlow sat in his favorite easy chair, reading the latest issue of The Economist with a glass of scotch and water at his side. He regarded his son over the rims of his glasses. "You didn't wear that to work, did you?"

Michael automatically glanced down at his clothes-- dark pants, white shirt, brown and green striped tie. "I did wear a jacket."

"Good, good." Graeme marked his place in the magazine and laid it aside. "Staying long?"

Michael shook his head. "I have to get back to rehearsal. They start a regular gig tomorrow, you know."

"So your mother says. I'm glad you're taking such good care of your sisters. This music idea-- you know I'm not fond of it. I shudder to think what your grandfather would think of it."

"I don't think he would have minded much. It was painters he didn't like."

"He wasn't keen on any sort of art or artists toward the end."

Michael merely nodded, keeping his thoughts of the relative senility of his grandfather in the year or so before his passing to himself.

"So tell me all the latest in the exciting world of the Rank Organisation."

Michael settled on the settee and proceeded to bore himself by talking about his job.

Dorothy rummaged through Sandy's old closet on her hands and knees. She had found three pairs of dance slippers, two jumpers, and an old school uniform, but no sign of-- no, there were the gloves, stuffed into a knit beret. Sandy could use all of these things, really-- silly little miss for forgetting them. Dorothy rolled everything together, found an abandoned tote to put them in, and stood. Brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt, she returned downstairs to "her boys."

She paused in the sitting room doorway, taking in the sight of father and son. Michael had really started to resemble Graeme in the past several months-- the same lankiness, the same dark eyes and hair (although Graeme had begun to go grey and Michael wore his hair so much longer), even the same facial expressions. It warmed her heart so to see how well her only boy child had turned out. Now, to get him settled down, perhaps a father himself. She shook the thought off, but not the smile, as she entered the room. "Here you go, Michael-- gloves and several other things Our Sandy will need."

Michael took the bag. "Thanks, Mum."

"I still don't understand why she didn't think of them herself when she was here at lunch."

"It didn't dawn on her until afterwards, I guess."

"You know, love-- you should find a girl who will take care of you. That way, you won't have to take care of your sisters."

"Mum!"

"Dorothy!"

Both Ludlow men spoke at once, with similar starts of protest.

Dorothy merely chuckled. "I'm sounding like a broken record, I know, but I really think you ought to find yourself a girl."

"Dorothy, he's just 22, he has plenty of time," Graeme groused.

"Oh, all right-- but a girlfriend, surely? You know, Annie Kent would be ideal."

"Mum!"

"Dorothy!"

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. "Can't fault a woman for trying." She pulled Michael's hand, urging him to his feet. "Time for you to get along, love-- you don't want to keep your sisters waiting in a drafty old warehouse." She pulled him toward the entranceway and fussed over him as he put on his outerwear. He barely got a "Goodbye, Dad-- Goodbye, Mum!" out before the door was shut behind him.

Dorothy smiled to herself before joining her husband in the sitting room. "I feel truly blessed today, Graeme. I've seen all three of our children."

"And no doubt have nearly nagged their ears off with all your motherly concern."

"That's what I'm best at."

"Perhaps if you didn't harp about things so, my love, you'd find they'd manage just fine. Apples don't fall far from the tree, you know."

"It's a mother's right." She reached for her knitting. "Anything good on the telly tonight?"

Rory reviewed the list she had scribbled out, as her fellow bandmates sat around her. "I think this will do for tomorrow," she said at last. "We can always refine it for Friday. In fact, we'll have to come up with a couplah different ones once we start getting a crowd so we don't bore them to death. But I think we've got plenty of time for that, eh?" She passed the paper and pen to Jamie. "Here, James, you have the best handwriting. Start copying."

"Righto." Jamie bent over the notebook.

"Now, as to what to wear...."

"That's going to be the hard one, isn't it?" Sandy said. "It's not like we have that much in common, the four of us. Although if you wanted to borrow one of Annie's twin sets...."

Rory made a face. "If that was supposed to be funny, Sands... as if I could fit into anything she owned." While Rory was thin, the half a foot difference in height between the two made sharing nearly anything impossible.

The tow-headed bassist shrugged. "Can't blame me for trying."

"True." Rory glanced at her sister. Annie, who had been pretty quiet and mellow during rehearsal, now looked like she was ready to nod off. Perhaps she had given her too many valium. Still, those two little pills shouldn't have had that much effect. "Oi! Annie!"

"Hmm?" Annie shook herself more awake.

"You have anything for dinner?"

"Um no. I don't think so."

Rory looked to Sandy for confirmation. "None of us did, Rory. We were too busy trying to calm Anna down."

"Then it's soup for everyone when we get home."

"Yes, Mummy," Jamie muttered, still engrossed in her work.

"Aw for fuck's sake, James!" Rory began.

"Look," Sandy said, "We're all a little anxious about tomorrow. Let's just discuss what we're going to be wearing, all right?"

Rory didn't look too appeased, but merely said, "All right. Do we have anything in common?"

"Perhaps if we all wore the same style, not necessary the same exact outfit? That might do until we have enough to go shopping on."

"Which should be end of next week, if we don't buy anything else."

"Like chocolate?" Annie threw in, sounding worried. She rubbed her eyes. "I could use some right now."

Her sister rolled her eyes. "So noted. We should probably wear dresses, yeah? Skirts and blouses might not be ladylike enough for ol' Ratface."

"Who?" Sandy asked.

"Gribben. He looks like a little rat to me."

Sandy thought about it and nodded. "I think you're right."

"Well, I'm not wearing a dress suit either. The only one I've got is too heavy and I'll die of heat prostration," Jamie commented.

Rory nodded. "Yeah, we can strike that off the list as well."

The warehouse door opened, and Michael trundled in. He tossed the tote bag to Sandy as he joined them. "Here you go, Sands. Gloves and probably a ton of other things, too."

"Ta, Michael." She started pulling things out of it.

"So, did you survive the Mummish Inquisition?"

"Pretty much, James. Other than her trying to fatten me up and marry me off--"

"Spare us the boring details," Rory snapped. "We're trying to figure out what to wear that will be ladylike enough Gribben's high standards."

Sandy held up her old school uniform. "Why did Mum send this along?" she wondered.

Rory looked at it, did a double take, then started to grin wickedly. "That's it!"

"What's it?" Jamie asked, starting another copy of the set list.

"Nothing more lady-like than school uniforms, yeah?"

"School uniforms?" Jamie parroted.

"You still have yours?"

"I think so. Why?"

"It's the one thing we have that matches."

"But that's a little... I don't know... young?" Sandy wondered.

"Oh, all the boys like a girl in a uniform." She leaned toward Michael and gave him a coy wink. "Isn't that right?"

"Erm, I guess so," he answered, inching away slightly.

Smiling at his reaction, Rory continued, "We can leave the jackets and boaters at home. But everything else. Yeah, that's gonna be great!"

Jamie looked dubious. "If you say so."

"Let's get home and get them pressed. And get some grub into us." Rory stood. The Ludlows followed, Jamie tucking the pen into the spine of the notebook as she did so. Annie, however, slumped over, mouth opening slightly as she breathed the breath of the sleeping.

"Annie!" Sandy shook her friend gently, but the little drummer didn't wake up.

"Aw, fuckin' 'ell," Rory breathed, exchanging looks with Jamie.

"How are we going to get her home?" Sandy wondered.

"I'll take her in the van," Michael said. "You lot bring her things, all right? Sandy, you're in charge of locking up." With that, he reached down and scooped Annie up, carrying her out of the warehouse as if she were a tot.

Since Rory drove at her usual speed and Michael drove slower than usual, the other girls beat him back to the flat. Michael parked his van behind Rory's car and went around to open the side door. Annie still snoozed, her head resting on a ratty old football. Michael sighed, then lifted her off the bench seat.

She stirred at the movement, and woke up enough to wrap her arms around his neck as he slammed the van door shut with a foot. He carried her up the stairs carefully; she snuggled up against him, sighing contentedly. Pushing through the open flat door, Michael surveyed the living room, decided she would be better off in her own bed, and carted her to the small back bedroom.

Sandy was already in the room, checking through her closet for the blouse that went with her uniform. She glanced up and paused. They looked startlingly good together, even with Annie mostly asleep. She could finally see why her mum was always harping on them becoming a couple. She shook the thought off, though-- silly, really-- and said, "Want some help?"

"Could you get her shoes off and undo her covers? She really needs to be tucked in bed."

"Sure." Sandy quickly folded the bedspread, blanket, and sheet back, then slipped off her friend's flats.

Michael eased Annie onto the bed, and gently unwrapped her arms from him. As Sandy rushed to tuck her in, he remarked, "She must have had some day to be this tired."

"She spent a good hour in hysterics before rehearsal."

"Really?"

"Nerves."

"Ah. Typical."

"You going to stay for some soup?"

He shook his head. "I'm going to go home and turn in. I'm going to have a lot to do tomorrow morning."

"All right. Oh, wait--" She handed over the warehouse key. "You'll need this."

"Ta. See you tomorrow, Sands." He slipped out of the room.

Sandy threw the deadbolt on the front door a few moments later, then made her way into the kitchen. "Well, Annie's tucked in."

"Did our icky brother help put her in her jammies?" Jamie asked. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot full of soup.

"Oh, I bet he'd like that," Rory added. "Closest he's ever going to get to seeing a real girl naked."

"Can't you ever lay off him?" Sandy demanded as the phone rang.

"You get that, eh, Sands?" Rory gestured toward the living room with a jerk of her head. "You're already on your feet."

Sighing, Sandy left the room. A moment later, she called out, "Rory, it's for you. It's someone named Del."

"Wanting to collect a reward for getting you the booking?" Jamie wondered smugly.

Rory pulled a face. "I fucking hope not." Reluctantly, she went into the living room to take the call. "Hallo?"

"Rory? It's Derek."

"So I've heard." She stretched out on the sofa, her long legs dangling over the edge. "What can I do for ya?"

"Fancy going out on the town tonight?"

"Wot for?"

"I think we've got reason to celebrate."

"Oh?"

"Nige's told me he's signed you on for luncheons. That's got to be worth something, hasn't it?"

"I'd say so, darlin'. But sadly, not tonight. This bird needs 'er beauty sleep," she feigned exhaustion that she really did feel, her voice slipping into East London patois.

"Oh, c'mon, Rory, that doesn't sound like the girl I know."

"Sorry, mate. It's the truf."

"Surely you can come out for a little while. Just a couple of drinks. Unless of course you want to stay out later?" She had to give Derek points for directness but at the moment, it wasn't what she needed to hear.

"Not tonight, dear. I've got an 'eadache."

"This isn't because of Nigel, is it? He read me the riot act in terms of fraternising with his bands and all that but I never figured you'd be the kind of person to actually believe that rot."

Rory laughed. "It ain't your bleedin' cousin at all. As far as I'm concerned, that tosser can just get stuffed. But it's been a bloody long day and we've got the gig tomorrow and I need to do a lot more before I can get to bed. As much as I'd love to go out on the piss wiv you, it ain't gonna 'appen. I've got to 'ave my wits about me in the morning, especially if I got to keep my sister from goin' off the rails again."

"Rory, come on, just one little drink," he urged.

"Derek, I said no," she said in exasperation. "Look, I'll be more than 'appy to go out wiv you on the weekend-- I'll even make it worth yer while," she added coquettishly. "But not tonight. I'm completely shattered. I'd be no good to you at all."

"Oh all right," he conceded with more than a hint of petulance. "But you're not getting out of it for the weekend."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she cooed. "I'm sure we can paint the town several shades of red then."

"I like the sound of that," Derek chuckled. "S'all right if I come round the gig tomorrow though? Nigel didn't say I couldn't come see you --I just can't speak to you, apparently."

"I wouldn't 'ave it any other way, darlin'. See ya then?"

"Right. See ya."

Rory slammed down the phone and let out a cry of aggravation. Jamie came racing in, a look of concern on her face.

"What was that all about?"

"I've got an admirer," Rory sneered. "Fuckin' 'ell. Wot is it wiv these geezers? Show 'em some interest and they automatically fink you're at their beck an' call."

"That Derek bloke?"

She nodded, closing her eyes and grimacing. "Spend one evening in 'is company an' the bastard finks he can run my fuckin' life."

"Men," Jamie nodded in agreement. "So, Rory, what's with the mockney, anyroad?"

"Oh. That." Rory sat up, looking slightly sheepish. "Well, you know, the punters just love it when you get all lower class on 'em. That whole Eliza Doolittle fing-- makes 'em feel like they're raising ya up from the gutter, don't it? Sides, my mum's whole family is East Enders."

Jamie stared at her in dismay. "Yes, but you're not."

"Ealing's still closer than where yer from, you Manc tart," Rory chuckled, tossing a soft cushion at her playfully.

"True enough-- Southerner." The smaller girl caught it and threw it back. "Soup's on. I managed to salvage some bread as well. We should probably have some food and then think about getting some kip. You know tomorrow morning's going to be a nightmare-- especially if Annie wakes up on time."

"I'm praying that she's out for the count until the very last moment. Not that it doesn't take her ten fucking hours to get herself together, that is."

"And you don't?"

"Well, that's different. I've got it down to a science. I don't drive everyone mad for four fucking hours changing my mind as to what to wear or how to do my hair or what have you. I just fucking do it and that's it. Take me as I am."

"And from what I gather, that's exactly what this Del-bloke was hoping to do," Jamie teased.

"Why, Jamie Ludlow," Rory blinked in mock surprise. "I'm simply shocked that you would think of me that way."

Jamie smirked. "As if I could think of you any other way."

Rory threw her a two fingered salute which she pointedly ignored.

"Come on, let's eat before it gets all cold and grotty."

The girls returned to the kitchen, and ate their light supper with nary a word between them. Sandy knew better than to make idle chatter when the other two were in a mood, so she limited her conversation to wondering who would get to use the iron first the next morning.

After taking care of the dishes, they all headed to bed. Sandy claimed the bathroom first; she took care of her business, then popped into her room. She checked on the soundly-sleeping Annie before crawling under the covers. She turned out the light, wrapped an arm around her favorite stuffed lion, and fell sleep almost immediately.

Her sister, however, wasn't so lucky. Jamie kept thinking of all that could go wrong with the gig the next day, all the mistakes she could make, all the indifference the audience (if there were an audience, even!) could show. She spent the night in a quasi-sleep, tossing and turning and waking up every hour or so with her mind continuing the exact same thoughts. The only reason she knew time passed at all was because the luminous dial on her alarm said it did. About 4:30, she heard Rory's guitar picking away at the lead riff to "Heatwave" and decided to throw in the towel. She grabbed her own acoustic and headed to her friend's room, pushing the door open, startling the dark haired girl in the process.

"Fuck, James," Rory said, breaking off the music. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"I couldn't sleep either. Want to do 'Heatwave' again, or try something else?" Jamie plopped herself down on the end of Rory's double bed.

Rory thought for a moment and then said "Let's start from the top of the set, yeah?"

The guitarists went through the set twice, encouraging each other that it didn't really sound as crap as the other thought it did. About 6:45, Jamie flopped back on the bed, moaning, "I'm going to have to play with plasters on my fingers, they're so sore."

"I think I'm getting a blister on my pinkie," Rory agreed. She sprawled next to her friend. "But we're gonna sound ace, ain't we?"

"We're gonna sound good. I don't know about our rhythm section, though."

"Ah, they'll be fine."

Jamie raised her head in surprise. "You don't really think that, do you? You spend so much time telling them they're awful--"

"Aw, I just do that to get them to try harder. Annie plays tight and fast--"

"That's why Norman broke off the engagement, isn't it?" The younger girl quipped with a smirk.

Rory glared at her. "I don't think the word 'fast' will ever apply to my sister and I don't want to think about the other thing at all."

"You're no fun anymore," Jamie replied playfully.

"As I was saying, Annie plays tight and fast-- just the way she should. As long as she doesn't puke before the set, she should be a bit of all right. And Sandy outdoes everyone else in the clubs on the bass."

"I still outplay her," Jamie insisted.

"Well, yeah, you do. 'cause you've been." Rory yawned, and rolled on her side, tucking her arm under her head. "practising longer, and...."

Jamie waited for her to finish, found herself nodding off, and shook herself awake long enough to say, "And what?"

Rory didn't answer; from her breathing, Jamie could tell her friend was fast asleep. She sighed, thought about going back to her own room, and decided she needed to rest a moment or two before getting off the bed.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

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