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Zippy .
    The ball was in her court now. Maybe she’d call. Maybe not. He left the room whistling, first “Maggie May,” which morphed into “Jolene,” then finally changed into the song he was writing. He headed back to the Chelsea, where his guitar was waiting for him.
     

 
    Chapter 3
     
    Band practice was its usual disaster of poorly tuned guitars and bickering over which song to start with. Lou walked in and took control. “Bluto, tune that bloody guitar. Alasdair, your bass doesn’t work unless it’s plugged in. Put down the vodka, Chiz, and pick up your sticks. Paolo, get your lips off the girl. Banshee, go find a quiet corner to sit in.”
    She pulled up a chair and gave them her severest frown. “Let’s start with “Barlinnie Blues.””
    “Can we do it reggae style?” Alasdair suggested excitedly, while the rest of the band groaned.
    “No, we can’t. It’s a bitter condemnation of the Scottish prison system, not a holiday in the Caribbean.”
    Alasdair, as always, fell into a sulk. Lou sighed. She should never have lent him her rocksteady reggae collection.
    Bluto kicked into the opening riff, and Lou sat back. Was Zippy still sleeping in her bed?
    Chiz missed his entrance. Bluto stopped playing. Alasdair turned his back on the band, continuing his almighty sulk.
    Lou scowled at Chiz. “How much vodka?”
    “Not much, Lou, I swear.”
    “Let me see the bottle.”
    Chiz held it up slowly. “See, still half a bottle left.”
    How the hell had she managed to bring them this far? Chiz with his drinking. Alasdair forever wanting to do something different. Bluto and his careless laziness. Thank goodness for Paolo. He was waiting patiently for his band mates to get their shit together.
    “Okay, let’s start again.”
    Bluto started the opening riff again and this time Chiz hit his mark. Lou sat back. Would the Zipman try to see her again? What should she do if he did? Bluto hit a bum note, but kept going. Chiz was playing sloppy. Alasdair seemed to be trying to insert a rocksteady reggae beat into a bluesy rock number. Paolo was waiting for his moment. Bluto opened his mouth to sing the opening line. Then promptly forgot the words. He mumbled them until he suddenly remembered. Lou rolled her eyes. They were playing like a bunch of amateurs. This was going to be a long practice.
    “Lou. Can I talk to you?” Banshee had pulled her chair next to Lou’s.
    “Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
    “It’ll just take a minute. I’ve written some songs, you see. And I wanted to ask your opinion. You know, get some advice.”
    Chiz dropped one of the sticks, then fell off his chair as he tried to retrieve it. “Not now, I said,” Lou yelled at Banshee. Bluto launched into the chorus, but instead of singing “Barlinnie,” about Glasgow’s notorious prison, he sang “Balvenie,” an equally famous brand of whisky.
    Banshee tried to shove some papers in her hand.
    Lou shoved them back. “Will ye please just go the fuck away!”
    The band jangled tunelessly to a halt. Lou looked at them.
    Paolo had held out a hand and kept them silent. “Apologize, Lou.”
    “What?”
    “Apologize to Banshee. Now.” Paolo gently put his guitar back in its stand. “You’ve been rotten to her for no good reason from the moment you met her. Apologize.”
    “But—”
    “Last chance!”
    They stared at each other. Paolo, always so calm and patient, was furious with her. “I’m trying to manage—”
    “You’re no a manager, Lou. You’re a fucking dictator. A little Mussolini. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it!”
    Lou glanced at the other band members. None of them would meet her eyes.
    “I’ve got you this far—”
    “Aye. Singing your songs the way you want them played. Wearing clothes that you want us to wear. Naming us stupid bloody Guyville. Picking out our instruments. And now. Now! You want to pick my girlfriend for me. I’m sick of it.” He walked over to her and paused a moment,