Nine
Now
The silence that followed Molly’s greeting was far more terrifying than the ringing had been.
Ashley cleared her throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet her flat was. ‘Look, I’m sorry to just call out of the blue like this.’
‘It’s fine,’ Molly said, her voice carrying that familiar, breezy rhythm. ‘I’m thirty now. I can handle an unscheduled phone call.’
‘Right.’ Ashley paced the living room. ‘I’m actually calling because of Simon. My manager. He told me he talked to your agent, and I wanted to apologise.’
A short pause. ‘Apologise?’
‘For the... ya know,’ Ashley said, throwing her free hand up in the air.
‘The PR thing. Simon has the emotional intelligence of an iPad, and he saw stuff about us on the internet and immediately started calculating ticket sales. I told him it was a horrible, manipulative idea, and I wanted to make sure you knew it didn’t originate from me.
I’d never weaponise... you know. The past.’
‘Oh,’ Molly said.
A terrible silence followed.
‘I appreciate you telling me,’ Molly said quietly.
‘I’m sorry. Truly. I’ll make Simon drop it.’
‘Actually...’ Molly hesitated. Ashley heard the distinct sound of a sigh. ‘Don’t make him drop it just yet.’
Ashley froze. ‘What?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Molly said, the words coming out a little faster now. ‘The sitcom is dead, Ashley. Officially. And the jobs my agent offered were... Frankly, they sucked shit. Drama directors apparently think I’m strictly a punchline.’
‘Molly, you’re a skilled actress. You don’t need a fake relationship with an underperforming pop star to prove that.’
‘Maybe not permanently. But a few photos? A couple of outings where people happen to see us?’ Molly sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than Ashley. ‘It might help. Both of us.’
Ashley listened, her heart hammering against her ribs. Molly was rationalising it perfectly. Cutting it down to a practical solution to a problem.
But deep down in the parts of herself Ashley refused to look at, the willingness to entertain the idea had absolutely nothing to do with selling extra concert tickets.
It was a loophole. A legally sanctioned, manager-approved excuse to sit across a table from Molly Sullivan again, to look at her, to hear that laugh again.
However, Ashley was excellent at denial. A real hall of famer.
‘I mean... if you’re looking at it like that,’ Ashley said, her voice dropping into a carefully constructed, casual drawl. ‘I guess it doesn’t need to be a big deal.’
‘Nope,’ Molly agreed instantly.
‘No big deal at all,’ Ashley repeated, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane. ‘We just go out, get a meal, let someone take a grainy photo of us and call it a day.’
‘Exactly. We’re just two professionals using the system.’ Molly let out a tiny, sharp laugh. ‘We can do that, right?’
Ashley didn’t respond to that directly. ‘So, how do we want to play this? Do you want to do a “spotted leaving a restaurant” type scenario?’
‘It’s a classic for a reason.’
‘I know a place in Soho,’ Ashley said, already creating a mental list of things she shouldn’t wear so she didn’t look like she was trying too hard. ‘I’ll have Simon coordinate with Karen.’
‘Perfect. I’ll be there.’
‘See you, Sullivan.’
Ashley hung up the phone and stared at the screen until it went black. She walked back over to the guitar and picked it up gently.
She wasn’t doing this because she wanted to see Molly. She was doing this for her career.
Ashley struck a chord, letting the sound fill the empty room, ignoring the voice in her head that told her she was a terrible liar.
Five Years Ago
Ashley tuned her guitar near the tiny stage. Checked the capo. Retuned the guitar. Checked the capo again.
The pub owner wandered over. ‘You alright?’
‘Yep.’
‘Starting in two.’
‘Yep.’
He nodded like he didn’t believe her. That was fair. She probably looked ready to bolt. She felt ready to bolt.
Ashley sat on the edge of the stage and looked around the room.
A couple near the bar. Three teenagers pretending to be legally allowed to drink. An older bloke who seemed to attend every gig in the city regardless of genre.
But no Molly yet.
Ashley was annoyed with herself for even thinking about it.
She put her guitar strap over her shoulder. Adjusted it. Adjusted it again.
Then Molly appeared from the corridor.
It was as Ashley had feared. Molly was extremely attractive. Not in the way Ashley usually went for, which ran more to the prim yet glamorous type. Molly was a totally fresh kind of sexy.
Strong, expressive brows. A wide, electric mouth that seemed permanently on the verge of saying something inappropriate.
Her jade-green eyes, sitting underneath a flattering choppy fringe, were warm, bright, and utterly alert.
Big dark curls bounced carelessly. She was wearing a faded, oversized cardigan slouched over a slip dress that looked like it might be pyjamas, paired with scuffed boots.
She’d barely made any effort, which only made her more appealing.
Ashley looked away. Then looked back just to confirm. Still charming. Still had an excellent face.
Worse, she seemed like the sort of person who didn’t know how charismatic she was. Or knew it but didn’t care. Ashley wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.
Molly headed for a table near the front, joining her buddy, who said something to her. Molly laughed and tipped her head back.
Ashley looked away so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash.
The pub owner appeared beside her. ‘Ready?’
‘No.’
‘Great.’
Then he walked onto the stage and introduced her before she could argue. Ashley hated him.
Seconds later, she was sitting on a stool under a spotlight that seemed unnecessarily bright for a room this small. She adjusted the microphone.
‘Hi.’ The microphone squealed. ‘Great start.’
A few people laughed.
Ashley stared at a point above everyone’s heads. That was usually the trick. Not looking directly at people. People got weird when they realised they were being perceived.
She played the first chord of ‘Blurry Picture’. It wasn’t her best, but she always opened with it. It existed mainly to get her through the first three minutes without fleeing.
Halfway through the second verse, she accidentally glanced towards Molly’s table once more.
Molly was watching intently. Ashley immediately looked somewhere else. The wall. The amp. Literally anything.
She finished the song. People clapped, including Molly. Unfortunately, Molly appeared to be keeping her earlier promise about enthusiasm.
‘WOO!’
Ashley nearly dropped her pick. A few people laughed. Molly looked entirely unapologetic.
Ashley shook her head and moved onto the next song. The second song went better, ‘True Blue’. The third, ‘Hole in the Fabric’, better still.
Something always happened around that point. Her brain eventually got bored of being scared. She stopped thinking about whether people liked the songs and started playing them.
When she looked up again, she forgot not to look at Molly.
Molly smiled. Ashley immediately forgot a lyric. There was a long pause. Someone coughed. Ashley found the line again.
By the fourth song, Ashley had developed a system. Look everywhere except Table Three. Table Three contained problems.
The set finished twenty minutes later. People clapped. It sounded like they meant it.
Ashley stood up awkwardly.
‘Thanks for coming.’ She paused. ‘All twelve of you.’
That got a laugh.
Then she escaped. Or attempted to. She made it approximately six feet off the stage before hearing someone say, ‘You were good.’
Ashley turned. Molly was standing there with her flatmate, a guy with a scruff of beard and a man-bun, which Ashley had believed was aesthetically behind them as a culture. After she’d written him off, she looked at Molly.
Molly looked like she knew what Ashley was feeling, like she knew what was going to happen, like she wasn’t afraid.
But Ashley was very, very afraid of Molly.