Missy held court in a small café at the end of Bold Street. She would sit in the corner by the door to the toilet; a glass of espresso on the table in front of her, a smoking cigarette staining the fingers of her left hand a nicotine yellow. Once upon a time, during the days of the Mersey Beat, Missy had been somebody famous, somebody glamourous. Now she was a faded star, a once-was.

She still attracted attention from those who remembered her and from those who had been with her during her moments of glory. But those days were long past, and Missy's fame and beauty had followed suit. So, Missy would sit and reminisce out loud to anyone there, whether they were listening or not. And every year her audience grew smaller: some would die, some would move on and some would forget.

Today there only three people in Missy's corner - Missy herself and two companions who had chosen to sit with her that day. The rest of the café was filled with art students from the university at the top of the hill. They sat at the tables and the counter, talking in loud voices about the meaning of this and that while nursing mugs of cheap filter coffee.

Missy glared at the students and took a drag on her cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the steam-filled atmosphere. "We was livin it," she said in the nasal tones of a Scouse accent. "We was really livin' it. Every night we'd be down in the Cavern on Mathew Street, listenin' to the bands. And then we'd go back home, only to do it the next night. We di'n't sit around talkin' about it. Not like these WANKERS!" She spat the word towards the students at the front of the establishment.

The viciousness of her voice cut through the café chatter. For a moment there was silence. A few heads turned in the direction of Missy, the expressions on their faces blank and unreadable.

"I'm talkin' about YOU!" Missy shouted. She stood up and pointed around her. "You lot don't know SHIT!"

One of her companions reached out to pull Missy back into her seat. The other beckoned the barista over. "Turn the radio up. Please," he whispered.

The man behind the counter nodded and reached for the radio. The strains of guitars filled the air, smoothing over the awkwardness of the moment.

"There you go," the barista said to Molly. "They're playing your song, and after all these years too."

Missy nodded and took a sip of her espresso. "Yeah. Still good, after all these years." And she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.