"Courtenay! Wake the fuck up!"

The Count. Did I mention how much I hated him? I'm not overly fond of anyone at – I glanced at the clock – six fifteen in the fucking morning, but the Count just knew how to wind me up that much tighter than everyone else.

It was my birthday. I had a right to sleep in. "COURTENAY! TWENTY-SIX YEAR-OLD WOMEN ARE USUALLY AWAKE BY NOW!" What was he using to make his voice that loud? Did he have a megaphone, or had he lugged the studio mike all the way up to my cabin?

"FUCK OFF!" I yelled back. "Twenty-six year old birthday girls usually sleep in."

I could just lie there and put up with his yelling at me, but that would probably annoy me more than it did him. I sat up and pulled on a pair of shorts and a jumper. If they were waking me up this early, it meant they'd actually done something for my birthday. Probably Felicity had cooked breakfast.

Bacon sandwiches. Ha-ha. I tiptoed to the door then flung it open, hoping to catch the Count but missing rather badly. It bounced off the wall and I caught it before it hit me instead. "Morning," I said to the entire crew of DJs that stood outside my door. They had carted the studio mike down to my cabin, and all the other radio equipment. John was broadcasting on one mike, Simon on the other, and they all looked at me expectantly. I took Simon's mike.

"Morning, world," I said lightly. "It's a beautiful day to turn twenty-six, and thanks, everyone who sent me letters and squashed chocolates and things, they were very much appreciated. This is the only broadcasting I'll be doing today, so… thank you all so much, I love you dearly, and Simon, I'd love you to play Bread in celebration…" I smiled at him hopefully. He grinned back and flicked the switch on the record that was already on the turntable. Truckin' started playing. I hugged him.

"So now that you're awake," the Count said, grinning smugly and putting his megaphone down carefully. "Can we finally eat the breakfast we've been smelling?"

I beamed. "Breakfast would be… lovely."

Sure enough, the boat smelled of bacon from the bottom of the kitchen stairs. I sniffed gleefully. So did Dave. "Happy birthday, Court," he said, with enough enthusiasm to almost make me suspicious. "I love the way you love the same food I do."

"And I love the way she's still about a third of your size, mate," Angus chipped in.

I loved that too, but I just laughed and boarded the stairs. Felicity gave me a 'happy birthday' and a sumptuous bacon sandwich.

We ate breakfast together for once, and throughout the whole affair I got the feeling that they were holding something back, trying to keep it from me. I put down my knife and fork with finality. "What?"

They all looked up in mock-surprise. "What… what?"

"What… no!" I said loudly, about to get caught up in the game. "You're all acting funny." I looked at the Count, usually the ringleader, and for some reason, he looked at Carl. The boy's eyes widened and he raised his hands innocently.

"What are you looking at me for?" he asked indignantly. I raised an eyebrow. He met my gaze for a few seconds, showing unusual resolve, then relented. "All right," he said finally. "There's a surprise for you in the downstairs cabin."

I was pleasantly surprised. "Really?" He nodded. "What kind of surprise?"

"A nice one, hopefully," Carl replied nonchalantly, picking up his plate and standing up. "Shall we go check it out?"

I followed suit; so did everyone else, which drew my attention again to how many of us there were. I glanced around. "Who's broadcasting?"

"We taped a show last night, I'm just playing it back," Simon offered, shrugging. "I wanted to see this."

I smiled again. It sounded like some surprise. "All right. Let's go."

The downstairs cabin was dark, only half-light daring to show through the high portholes on the far side. I flicked on the electric light, flinching automatically.

I don't know what I was expecting, but the room wasn't full of balloons or chocolate, and nothing exploded with the flick of the lightswitch. A quick glance around showed everything the way I'd left it late last night. A flicker of disappointment shot through me.

Then I saw it, leaning casually against the threadbare sofa, the picture of perfection with the word Courtenay undulating beautifully up its side. "Oh, my God," I breathed, "it's beautiful."

It was a guitar, and it looked like an expensive one, too. "It was Carl's idea," he said modestly. "He came to me and said he'd thought of something for your birthday but he couldn't afford it on his own. So we all chipped in. Chose the model together and picked out the letters to stick on before they shipped it over."

I was almost speechless. They'd never done anything more than a cake and a packet of cigarettes for my birthday before. Now here was this guitar with almost tasteful vinyl letters spelling my name across it. "Thank you," I said, turning to face them all. Dad had turned up, too, and was leaning against the doorframe. I threw myself onto Carl and hugged him. "It's the best present ever."

After everyone had been hugged and wished me a happy birthday in turn, the Count gestured towards it expectantly. "Are you going to play it?"

I picked it up reverently and sat down on the sofa. I plucked out the first line of Happy Birthday. "I don't have any music," I mused, experimenting with a chord progression, trying out the sound. It was better quality than the one I borrowed off Tim the possessive jerk.

"Ah, well, that's where I come in," Dad said happily, stepping forwards. "I went through your record collection – sorry – and then found the music for the songs you play most often."

He tossed a wrapped package carelessly onto the sofa next to me. I opened it; sheet music for Bread, the Beatles, Cat Stevens, the Kinks, the Monkees, the Beach Boys… all of my favourite songs spilled out across the old brown couch. I picked up If You Want to Sing Out and struck up a C chord.

It was one of the best birthdays I'd ever had; certainly the best I could have hoped for. Later that afternoon I sat in the cabin playing Truth or Dare with the rest of the DJs when Dad cleared his throat ostentatiously. He stood on the stairs with John at his side. John looked anxious and was holding an ominous-looking chart.

"Courtenay, I have one more surprise for you before the day is out, but I'm afraid it's preceded by some not-so-nice news." I looked up from where Mark was unbuttoning his shirt (Dave had just dared him to remove it) to look Dad in the eyes as he spoke about advertising.

"This chart," John held it up, realised it was upside-down, and turned it right-way-up, "thank you, John – shows what's happened to our advertising revenue in the last few weeks." I winced. The chart showed a steep decline down to almost nothing. Someone behind me said 'ouch' and I heard a few sharp intakes of breath. "So, I've had to stir myself from my traditional… languor,: I flashed him a grin, "and do something to make the station more attractive to new commercial partners.

"Two years ago, something terrible happened, and we lost the greatest DJ Pirate Radio has ever known to America, ambition, and alcoholic poisoning." Dave and Simon made gestures of heartbreak and respect. I shared a glance with Carl. He had to mean Gavin.

"And then something wonderful happened and we got, in return, from America, a man who proved more than capable of filling those enormous shoes." I grinned at the Count; he raised a hand to wave this away.

"I do my humble best."

"And now, my friends, I have good news." I found myself leaning forwards in my seat as Dad shot me a smile. "Very good news."

I took Carl's hand in mine and squeezed it; he squeezed mine back as the same thought crossed both our minds. "Gavin Kavanagh," he said, and I felt Carl shift in his seat beside me, "has decided," he was dragging this out, prolonging my pain, but it could really be only one thing he was going to say next: "to return."

I let out a squeal; it was happening! It was actually happening, just when I'd written it off for good. "Three weeks today," Dad continued as the boat went into a state of general uproar, "and Gavin Kavanagh returns to rock on Radio Rock."

I was so caught up in celebrating as Harold picked me up and piggybacked me round the cabin that I didn't notice the Count, still sitting in his armchair looking thoroughly put out.

Dad bent to leave the room, then stopped and turned back to me. "Just promise me you won't sleep with him," he said softly.

Three weeks flew by quicker than the blink of an eye; I'd offered to move in with Felicity and give Gavin his old room back, so in between moving all my stuff, broadcasting and playing my guitar, I'd had plenty to do. I was just stacking the last of my record collection off Gavin's shelves when Angus popped his ginger head in the doorway.

"Courtenay," he said excitedly, "he's here!"

I almost dropped the Beegees record I was holding. He was finally here, my hero, the one and only Gavin. I picked up the stack. "Thanks, Angus, I'll be there in a minute," I replied, and followed him out of the room.

We stood there in single file all the way along the deck as if we were a line of soldiers waiting to stop an intruder, not welcome one of our own. I was buzzing; I tried not to grab Carl's hand again. I didn't want him to get the wrong idea. I grabbed Felicity's instead.

To the sound of Jumping Jack Flash from the radio, the tip of a hawks-feather protruded over the deckrail, followed by the biggest hat I'd ever seen, and then finally, a blonde, weather-beaten head with a sharp nose and an arrogant pout. Eventually, a sharp purple suit-jacket made it into my line of sight and Gavin Kavanagh stepped onto the deck of Radio Rock, kissing two fingertips and waving at the cheering crowd.

He wasn't exactly what I'd expected. I mean, you couldn't listen to his broadcasts and not expect him to be a little bit arrogant, but this was excessive. He had the air of a man who not only expects adulation, but demands it like a petulant child on the rare occasion it wasn't given automatically. I clapped and cheered him anyway, letting go of Felicity's hand, as he shook hands with Dad, hugged Harold, fondled Bob's beard, kissed Dave and was jumped on from behind by Simon.

Then he reached the part of the line where the Count stood, slightly behind everyone else, dragging innocuously on his cigarette. "And you must be the Count," he said expectantly.

The Count stepped forwards as if stepping up to a starting line in a race. "I am he."

A twitch of a smile crossed Gavin's admittedly quite attractive face. "I wonder what that makes me, the King?" I glanced at Carl; he had the same look on his face as I must have had. Definitely not what we expected.

He came to stand in front of Felicity and I, hands on his hips. "Rules have changed, then?" he asked, throwing the question over his shoulder at Quentin, who gave me a stern look. I gave it right back; I honestly had no intention of sleeping with Gavin now.

Well, only a little bit. "Oh, no, I'm a lesbian," Felicity supplied.

That half-smile again. "Always, or… mostly?"

Felicity's smile became fixed and awkward. "Absolutely always."

I saw his hand travel down behind her. "So you say," he whispered. She avoided the obvious butt-squeeze, now looking at me like it was my fault. Then he turned to me. "And you're lesbian too?"

I cringed. "Uh, no, but I'm Quentin's daughter, so I'm equally off-limits."

He raised an eyebrow. "Quentin's daughter?" he looked back at Dad, who gave him a touch-her-and-you-die look. "So you're Courtenay." I beamed inwardly that he knew who I was; did that mean he'd listened to my show?

"You prefer hard rock or soft?"

"She's a softie," Dave called back.

He took a step closer to me and I tried not to step away; I wanted Gavin, too, to accept me without Dad's help. "Don't worry," he said in the same sensual, husky whisper he used on Felicity, "I can be hard enough for both of us."

I grimaced. "Thanks, Gavin," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay. "That's comforting." He grinned.

"Now, take me to my microphone," he said, raising his voice theatrically, "I need to broadcast."

We filed inside after him. Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Remember your promise," he said.

I gave him my best sarcastic glare. "Okay," he admitted. "I agree. But women seem to like it."

I thought about this. "They don't have to live with him," I said finally. "They can just shag him and not worry about tomorrow."

Dad nodded. "Fair enough."

Carl walked past us, an odd smile on his angular face. 'I've just remembered something," he said happily. "It's my birthday in two weeks."