‘And I’ve never listened to them. That’s the point I’m making. Neither have you. This is why – I’m trying to pass on my wisdom here, you know. Woman artist to woman artist. You and me, we have something deep inside us that drives us that other women have lost, I think.’

There was an image nudging away in Siobhan’s head. Some bins, a street light.

‘Clio. I’m forty-two, with over twenty years in the music business behind me. I’m not that much younger than you and I’m not a wee lassie any more. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel now. I’m bloody exhausted, is how I feel. I told myself this shit for years, too; that I’d managed to make it through the machine, the way it grinds you up, because I was in some way hardier or smarter than the other girls. Then I got to forty and the interest started drying up because fewer people want to fuck a pudgy wee woman who can’t shift the baby weight—’

‘It’s not shit,’ Clio was saying, her voice getting louder, as a pair of hands planted themselves on the sides of the booth, fencing them in to a tiny space together.

‘Ladies. What are we drinking?’

He just wouldn’t go away, would he? Siobhan glared at him. Clio gave him a quick look.

‘Gin and white wine, Neil. Thanks.’

‘Not all together, I hope?’

Neither of them laughed and he backed away towards the empty bar, nodding, looking for purpose.

‘So you’re telling me,’ Siobhan said, enjoying the space between her words but speaking quickly enough that Clio couldn’t start in again, ‘that you’ve never found yourself subjugated or disadvantaged by being a woman?’

‘Not in here, no.’ She tapped the coiled, pinned arrangement of hair. ‘The outside world can say what it wants; I can rest easy knowing that I’ve stayed true to me. I’ve never had to compromise my sense of self for a sniff at fame or anything. It’s made me hard and good, and I’m fucking proud of that is all I’m trying to say.’

Siobhan remembered the noise that journalist guy had made in that alleyway, all those years ago. That groaning that men did. It wasn’t even a very logical argument, when she thought about it, but it was obvious that Clio needed to tell herself this story, had needed to rewrite her past to get herself to this moment. Maybe she genuinely didn’t remember? Maybe it didn’t suit her to remember. Who knows, Siobhan thought, what bits of my history are hiding from me? Let her have it. On her birthday. Let her be.

Three glasses were plonked down on the table, an announcement of presence.

‘So. Ladies. Having a good night?’ he said.

IDA

Euston–Oxenholme, 2011