Onstage, four girls from the East End were tearing through a cover of Please Please Me. Esther McKenzie was a blur behind the kit, hair pinned back, sticks flying. Eileen McLean stood stage left, eyes down, fingers working the fretboard like she was solving a puzzle no one else could see. Catherine Shaw had the mic stand pulled close, all black velvet and sharp cheekbones, grinning like she knew a secret.

And at the back of the stage, half in the shadow of the speaker stack, was the newest Ladybug. The bassist. Still getting used to the weight of the thing slung across her shoulders.

The song hit its final chorus. Catherine leaned into the mic, one hand thrown up, and the whole ballroom screamed back at her.

Then silence, and the clatter of sticks being set down. Esther wiped her face with the back of her wrist and stood up from the stool, squinting out into the lights.

Halfway down the hall, a door on the left cracked open.

A man stood in the doorway. Tall, sharp-suited, dark hair swept to one side. Behind him, sprawled across two chairs in a cramped dressing room, sat four lads in matching collarless jackets.

One of them — the one with the rings on his fingers, grinning around a cup of tea — raised his eyebrows at the girls in the corridor.

It was unmistakably them. Even smeared with sweat and half-lit by a single bulb, they were unmistakable.