A sudden invitation to showcase at the legendary Grammy week in Los Angeles forces the girls to patch over their differences. However, the shiny allure of Hollywood presents a new kind of danger when a ruthless American label executive tries to drive a permanent wedge between them.
The air in Los Angeles didn't smell like London. It didn't have the damp, diesel-soaked grit of Wardour Street or the cold, industrial ozone of Mick's railway arch. It smelled of expensive sun cream, exhaust fumes, and artificial vanilla.
"My thighs are sticking to the leather," Roxie complained, peeling herself off the seat of the glossy black SUV that Simon Finch had hired to ferry them from LAX. She looked out the tinted window at the palm trees rolling past under a blinding, oppressive blue sky. "Why is it so bright? It feels like we're living inside a television."
"It's called sunshine, Roxie," Cassie said dryly, though she was busy applying a fresh layer of sunscreen to her nose.
The silence that followed was heavy with the unresolved fallout from Wembley. They hadn't spoken about the backstage shouting match. Instead, Finch had bundled them onto a first-class flight to California less than twelve hours after the curtain fell, desperate to capitalize on a sudden, frantic wave of American interest. Rocket Fuel had climbed into the Billboard Top Ten on import sales alone, and now the biggest players in Hollywood wanted to see the British phenomenon up close.
"Listen up, my little cosmic terrors," Finch said, turning around from the front passenger seat. He looked completely absurd in a Hawaiian shirt, neon sunglasses, and his signature creased suit trousers. "Tonight is the Capitol Records showcase. Every major executive, producer, and actor who wants to look trendy is going to be in that room. The American market doesn't care about our little indie struggles in the mud. They want a show. They want scale. And most importantly, they want to see if you're actually real."
Their hotel was a sprawling, mid-century palace on Sunset Boulevard where the paparazzi were already camped out behind the manicured hedges. Inside their penthouse suite, a mountain of designer clothes sent by American brands was waiting for them.
"They want us to look like characters," Eleanor murmured, lifting a metallic gold jumpsuit that looked like it belonged in a low-budget sci-fi film. "Look at this. They’ve literally labeled the hangers. 'The Rocker One' for Chloe. 'The Proper One' for Cassie. 'The Posh One' for Tasha."
"They're trying to package us," Chloe said, dropping her guitar case onto the marble floor with a heavy thud. She walked out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette and staring out at the hazy sprawl of the Hollywood Hills. "They want to turn the sisterhood into a cartoon."
Maya joined her on the balcony, leaning her elbows on the warm stone railing. "We did that to ourselves a bit, Chlo. We leaned into the archetypes to get noticed."
"Yeah, but we knew who we really were when the music started," Chloe said softly, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the pristine California air. "Now? I look at Cassie, and I don't see the girl who helped us steal those tapes anymore. I just see a girl terrified of missing a count. And I don't know if I can keep playing pop star if we're just pretending to like each other."
Before Maya could answer, the suite door opened, and a woman with an flawless, blindingly white smile walked in. She was flanked by two assistants carrying clipboards.
"Hi, girls! I'm Meredith Vance—no relation to your old manager, thank goodness," the woman laughed, her voice a sharp, high-efficiency weapon. She was the Senior Vice President of A&R for Atlantic Records US. "Simon Finch is a doll, but he’s very... British. We want to talk about your global strategy. We think Space Girls is a billion-dollar brand. But to do that, we need to streamline the presentation."
Meredith walked around the room, her eyes calculating as she scanned the six girls. She stopped in front of Maya, her smile widening.
"Maya, honey," Meredith said, reaching out to touch Maya’s shoulder. "Your vocal on the bridge of the new track is sensational. Truly world-class soul. In America, audiences like a clear narrative. They like to know who the leader is. We’re thinking of re-tracking the next single to give you eighty percent of the lead vocals. We think you're the breakout star here."
The room went instantly, freezing cold.
Chloe stepped back inside from the balcony, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. Roxie stopped chewing her gum. Eleanor stood up from the sofa, her protective, maternal instincts kicking in instantly.
"We don't have a leader," Eleanor said, her voice hard and level. "We blend. That's the whole point of the group."
"Of course, of course, the group is the foundation," Meredith said smoothly, not breaking eye contact with Maya. "But let's be realistic, ladies. Some voices carry a stadium, and some voices are... texture. Maya has the international appeal. We just want to position her where she belongs."
Maya looked at Meredith’s perfect, corporate smile, then looked over at Chloe, whose knuckles were white where she was gripping her guitar strap. She looked at Tasha, who was suddenly looking down at her shoes, her fragile confidence taking another invisible hit. The American label wasn't just trying to promote them; they were trying to partition them. They wanted to divide the empire before they even built it.
"Thanks for the advice, Meredith," Maya said, her voice dropping into that low, gritty alto that had defined their sound from day one. She deliberately stepped out from under Meredith’s hand, walking over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Chloe and Eleanor. "But if you want our music in America, you take the whole recipe. We don't do solo acts, and we don't do texture. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a soundcheck, and we need to practice moving like a collective nightmare."
As Meredith’s smile finally cracked, revealing the cold corporate steel underneath, Maya caught Chloe’s eye. A tiny, familiar spark of that old Woking defiance passed between them. The Hollywood glamour was a trap, and the pressures were only going to get bigger, but for the first time in weeks, the Space Girls were standing on the same line.
