Read Chapter 6: The Name on the Pass

The bar was called The Grapes, a cramped Soho pub that smelled of sour ale and desperation. Dex had chosen it for the pre-showcase handshake, and Mara had to admit the irony was not lost on her—a room full of old men nursing pints and yesterday's grudges, while she stood at the edge of something that could change everything.

Dex swept in with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted his place in a room. He was wearing a burgundy velvet jacket that clashed magnificently with his ginger hair, and trailing behind him was a man who looked like he’d been carved from a spreadsheet. Sharp suit, sharper jaw, eyes that scanned the crowd and found nothing worth his time—until they landed on her.

“Mara! There you are.” Dex kissed her on both cheeks, his hand already steering her toward the suited man. Polydor. Mara straightened her spine, a flicker of a smile finding its way onto her lips.

“This is the photographer I was telling you about,” Dex said, his voice dropping to the precise cadence he used when he was selling something. He gestured grandly between them. “Marianne, this is Gerald Finch, head of A&R at Polydor. Gerald, this is Marianne Ellis.”

Marianne.

The name hit her like a slap of cold water. She had built Mara Ellis from the ground up—from the scuffed Chelsea boots to the Leica hanging at her side—and Dexter had just swapped her out for a softer, sleeker version. Marianne sounded like a woman who wore pearls to breakfast and asked for wine lists with the right vowels.

Mara extended her hand. “Pleasure.”

Gerald’s grip was brief and dry. “Dexter speaks highly of your work. Though he didn’t mention you were so… young.”

“Youth is just a head start,” she said, keeping her voice even. She felt the flash of heat behind her sternum and pushed it down. She could be Marianne for one drink. She could be anyone, if it meant her name on that album cover.

Gerald’s mouth twitched toward a smile, as if she’d surprised him with something bright. Good. Let him underestimate her.

Dex ordered a round—something amber and expensive, because of course he did—and the conversation drifted through the band, the studio sessions, the showcase that would happen in under four hours. Mara contributed when necessary, telling Gerald about the Abbey Road shoot without mentioning Robbie’s stony silences or the way the one decent photograph had cost her every trick she knew.

“We’re calling it *Stray Signal*,” Dex said, leaning in with his elbows on the sticky table. “The title track’s got this fuzz on the bassline that’s going to be all over the radio by autumn. You’ll see.”

“I’ll wait to hear it live,” Gerald said, which was the sort of cautious answer that made Mara think he was the right man to be dealing with Lenny’s ilk. He tilted his head toward her. “And you’ll have prints ready for the executives?”

“They’ll be drying as the house lights go down,” she said. She’d have to sprint to Frank’s studio, develop, print, and still make the five thirty call time. Her pulse quickened just thinking about it, but she kept her face smooth. She’d learned long ago that panic reads on camera. “Showcase will be one for the archives.”

Gerald’s eyes flicked to her camera bag. “Is that an M3?”

“It is.”

“My father had one. Hell of a machine.” For the first time, something human broke through the corporate shell. “They don’t build them like that anymore.”

Mara nodded, and for a moment, the conversation felt almost real. But the name still sat in the back of her throat like a stone, and she excused herself once the round was done, muttering something about needing to check her equipment.

She stood at the bar, waiting for the barman to notice her, and tried to breathe past the fury that had been building since Gerald’s handshake. Marianne Ellis. As if her own name wasn’t good enough. As if she needed to be packaged and labeled before she could be sold.

Of course she did. That was the game. But knowing the rules didn’t make it easier to swallow.

“Marianne.”

The voice came from behind her, low and dry, and she turned to find Robbie leaning against the far end of the bar. He was wearing a leather jacket despite the warmth of the room, and his dark hair fell across his forehead in that way that made him look like he’d just walked out of a storm.

He had been there the whole time. Of course he had. Dex probably hadn’t introduced him to Gerald—the bassist wasn’t part of the sales pitch, not yet, not until they’d secured the deal and could present him as the finished product.

“It’s Mara,” she said, sharper than she intended.

Robbie’s eyebrow arched. He took a slow sip from the pint he had nursed, watching her over the rim. “It’s what it says on the pass for tonight?”

The laminated badge Dex had given her earlier that week, the one with the band’s logo and her name printed in block letters, flashed in her memory. MARA ELLIS, PHOTOGRAPHY. He knew.

“That pass says Mara,” she said. “And that’s my name. Marianne—” She stopped, the lie crumpling in her mouth. “That was Dex’s idea. Sounds more polished, apparently.”

“Polished.” Robbie said the word like he was tasting something spoiled. “And you went along with it.”

“What would you have had me do? Correct him in front of a Polydor exec? Tell him, ‘Actually, sir, my name is Mara, and I’m not your little Marianne’?” She heard her own voice rising and forced it back down. There were ears in this pub, and she wasn’t about to be the punchline of someone’s story. “I need this, Robbie. It was two syllables. I can live with two syllables.”

He held her gaze for a beat too long, and his own voice went quiet, a blade wrapped in cloth. “Who are you, really?”

The question hit her somewhere soft, somewhere she hadn’t expected. She had been bracing for another challenge, another volley of suspicion. Not this. His eyes were steady, curious, like he was seeing her for the first time as something other than an inconvenience with a camera.

The barman finally arrived, and she had to break eye contact to order a gin and tonic she didn’t want. She paid, took a sip, and let the cold fizz settle her nerves before she turned back.

“I’m the person who’s going to make your band look legendary,” she said. “That’s who I am tonight.”

Robbie’s mouth curved, almost against his will, almost a smile. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” she said, but the heat had gone out of her voice. There was something disarming about the way he’d asked, the way he’d stripped past her defenses without even trying. She took another sip and glanced out the window. The Soho streets were thickening with evening traffic. “Why do you care?”

Robbie shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “People wear names they borrow. I’m just trying to figure out who shows up when they’re not wearing one.”

It was the most honest he’d been with her since the first time he’d glowered from behind his bass. She thought of the scar on his wrist, the pale line she had glimpsed in the Abbey Road light, and the weight of everything unspoken passed between them.

“You first,” she said.

Robbie’s smile faded, retreating into his usual guarded stillness. “I already told you. More than you can imagine.” He pushed off the bar, leaving his pint half finished. “See you tonight, Marianne.”

The name stung, but she let it hang in the air between them. She watched him cross the pub and disappear through the door, and her chest tightened with something she refused to call anything at all.

She had a roll of film in her bag that could expose Lenny Marsh, a deal she hadn’t secured, and a bassist who kept peeling back her layers like he was looking for something she didn’t know she’d hidden. And she had four hours to develop the best photographs of her career.

Marianne Ellis could choke on her polish. But Mara Ellis had work to do.