“Rach,” I yell from my open bedroom door. “Have you seen my lucky bra?”

I know she’s heard me because she’s in the living room and from my vantage point I can see the top of her head over the back of the sofa.

“Rach, I know you can hear me. Just because I said no to filling in for the support band tonight, doesn’t mean I deserve the silent treatment.”

Silence.

I huff out a breath, turn to grab my robe from the hook on the back of my door and step out into the hallway.

“Rach, please don’t be mad at me. I can’t keep doing gigs at Aurora. It looks like you’re giving me preferential treatment because I’m a member of staff and your best friend.”

That gets a reaction.

“I’m not giving you special treatment,” she snarks as she sits bolt upright on the sofa. “The punters love you. It makes good business sense to rebook acts that keep the customers happy, and there’s always such a buzz after you’ve played a set.”

I sigh as I make my way towards her.

“But you’re biased. You have to like my music.”

“And you’re so unaware of how talented you are that it makes me want to scream sometimes. Which is why-” she turns her head to look at me over the back of the seat “-I’ve taken this hostage.”

Her hand lifts and I see a flash of lemon silk and lace.

“My lucky bra!”

“The one and only.” A smug grin causes her eyes to crinkle underneath her dark framed glasses. “If you want it back in one piece you just have to agree to do a set for me later tonight.”

“Rach…”

“Nuh-uh, no complaining. Two hours on stage and you can have this pretty back.” She waves it around her head for emphasis, and I step forward ready to pounce.

“Don’t take another step or the lucky bra gets it.”

Her other hand rises to show me a pint glass full of what looks like either red wine or blackcurrant cordial.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I bloody would,” she replies while edging my beautiful boulder holder towards the dark liquid.

“Do it,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll let the girls run free.”

She smirks again, eyeing the way I slide quietly forward on the balls of my feet.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d do that. Miss ‘I only have a handful. I need all the padding help I can get’ – your words not mine.”

I glance at my lemon lovely and how it hangs precariously close to the lip of the glass, and debate on the chances of finding another one just like it. Lucky bras are irreplaceable, though, and Rachel bloody knows it.

She slightly tilts the full glass to motivate me, and I watch a trickle of liquid as it splashes over the rim and slides down her creamy skin.

“Okay, okay,” I say in surrender. “I’ll do an hour. Sixty full minutes for you tonight. Just hand me back my precious.”

I reach out for my underwear and she tuts and shakes her head.

“No deal. Two hours.”

I narrow my eyes and assess the chances of saving my bra if I pounce on her mid-negotiation.

“Don’t even think about it, Richards. I can see every thought you have displayed on your face. You can’t hide anything from me.”

“Ninety minutes,” I throw back while taking another small step towards her.

She eyes me speculatively, and I wait for her to open her mouth before I pounce.

“Okay- oomph.”

The word dies on her lips as I swan dive over the back of the sofa with outstretched arms. My fingertips graze the lemon fabric of the hostage item as the full glass slips from her already wet fingers, momentum flipping it over to rain down on the both of us. With a squeal, Rachel flings my bra over the back of the sofa just as the glass hits the floor and smashes.

“Why did you do that? I was about to accept your offer,” she grumbles, wiping what I now know to be blackcurrant from her face by the fruity smell.

“Because,” I huff out, using my robe to wipe my face and neck. “In the films, they always tell you to never negotiate with terrorists. And you-” I prod her in the ribs earning me a yelp ‘-are a bra-orist.”

“You can’t back out now. You offered me ninety minutes and I was just about to accept.”

“Nuh-uh,” I reply, pushing myself to my knees on the plump and now soggy cushions to look over the back of the sofa. “If my lucky got damaged in any way, all previous agreements are null and void.”

She spins herself around to look over the sofa at the same time as me, and there, on the wood floor, is my lemon bra in perfect, unstained condition.

“I’ll see you on stage later tonight,” she says with equals amounts relief and smugness.

“Are you ever gonna let me say no? Tell me now, and it’ll save me a lot of hassle in the future,” I gripe as she pushes herself up off the sofa, avoiding the broken glass, and makes her way into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a mop and a dustpan and brush.

“Well, are you?” I ask as I lean over the back and drag my bra towards me by my fingertips.

Once it’s securely in my grasp, I plonk myself down on my soggy seat and sit cross-legged while she cleans up the mess.

When she’s satisfied that the floor is pristine, and no more glass remains, she kneels to look over at me.

“Why would I let you say no when doing so would deprive everyone else of something I get to see every day?”

The look on her face tells me she’s serious and her words aren’t a tease or a joke.

“You don’t see it, and that’s fine, but one day someone is going to come along and show you just how amazing you are, Halle Richards, and until that day, I am duty bound as your best friend to fulfil that role. And…” she continues with a mischievous smirk. “If I’m forced to use underhand tactics to achieve that goal, so be it. Nothing is safe. Not even lucky bras.”

“I’m not trying to get spotted or be a star, Rach. I love my music, I love writing songs but being in the spotlight isn’t something I aspire to, you know this.”

“And I think that’s a shame, but even songwriters need to get their big break, and that’s not going to happen if you only ever work behind a bar, Hal.”

She slowly rises from the floor and looks at me with a seriousness that’s unusual for my best friend.

“Some talents are given to people to be shared. Your music, your words, they touch people. They’ve touched me. I’m happy living my life, I’m satisfied with my job, hell, I’m even happy being single right now. Can you say the same? Are you happy Halle?”

I open my mouth to say yes, and she stares me down. Rachel has seen me at my lowest. She knows there are still days when I feel alone. Lost. Unworthy.

“I’m not unhappy.”

It’s the truth. I’m not. I have been, for almost all my life, but right now I’m not.

“No, I know that,” she concedes. “But you are coasting, and settling for something because you don’t believe you deserve more. And you do, Halle. I see it, Zoey sees it, everyone sees it except you.”

Then she bends to place a kiss on the top of my head before leaving the room and calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the club later. Wear the pale blue dress because I know you’ll have a breakdown deciding what to wear, so I just made it easier for you. You can thank me later.”

I salute her order, even though she’s gone and can’t see me, and I sit for a long moment fingering the lace at the edge of my lucky lemon bra and mulling over Rachel’s words.

They’re no different to other pep talks she’s given me, but this time I allow them to settle, to take shape and form roots. What would it be like to write full time? Could I make a career out of my music without having to be the one in the spotlight? It’s hard enough to make it as an artist but to break out as a songwriter is a whole other level of difficulty.

The truth is, I may have dreamed about it, but if life has taught me anything it’s that dreaming is foolish and dangerous.

I’d rather be the girl that coasts than the girl that dreams.