Eleven
Now
Ashley forced herself to stop laughing at the man’s fright-wig.
Across the small table, Molly was still vibrating with that manic, beautiful energy she always had when she was terrified. The emerald-green dress was stunning, but Molly looked like she was fighting it, her shoulders pinned back in an imitation of high-society poise that didn’t fit her at all.
Ashley felt the familiar, treacherous urge to reach out and smooth a stray curl behind Molly’s ear.
She pinched her own thigh under the table instead.
Simon’s lecture from this afternoon rang loudly in her head: Keep it light, Ashley.
Keep it brief. Get the photo and let the press run the ‘spotted together’ narrative.
‘Right,’ Ashley said, her voice dropping into a polite, professional register. ‘We should probably order. I’m sure you have other places to be.’
‘Yes, absolutely. Busy, busy,’ Molly said instantly, snatching up the heavy, leather-bound menu like it was a shield.
When the waiter appeared, Ashley took the lead, keeping her eyes firmly on the print to avoid looking at the way Molly was biting her lower lip. ‘I’ll have the pan-fried turbot with the sea beet and champagne velouté, please. And a glass of the Chablis.’
The waiter turned expectantly to Molly.
Molly’s eyes darted frantically across the page.
‘I’ll just have the... um. The burger?’ Molly said, her voice lilting upward into a question.
‘But, like, can I get it without the truffle aioli? Just normal mayonnaise? Or ketchup. Ketchup is fine. And chips. Not the triple-cooked ones, just... normal fries if you have them?’
The waiter’s eyebrow twitched a fraction of a millimetre. ‘Of course, madame. And to drink?’
‘Diet Coke. With ice.’
Ashley kept her expression perfectly blank, but a sharp ache of affection hit her dead in the chest. It was so painfully Molly. Give her a Michelin-starred menu in the heart of Soho, and she would still try to turn it into a pub lunch.
‘So,’ Ashley began, flattening her hands on the table and channelling the tone of a distant cousin at a family wake. ‘Where are you living now? I assume not the old flat?’
Molly blinked, sharply thrown into remembrance. ‘Oh Christ. The flat. No, I’m in my own place in Pinner.’
So that was where she was. Ashley had always wondered where she’d landed.
She couldn’t imagine Molly moving somewhere pretentious like Knightsbridge, where Ashley lived.
Pinner, Ashley thought, was exactly the sort of place you ended up if you’d moved up in the world but didn’t want to change your accent to prove it.
‘You keep in contact with any of them, your old housemates?’
Molly snorted. ‘I barely spoke to them when I lived there. It was more of an extremely broke ships-passing-in-the-night type of vibe.’ She sighed. ‘Though sometimes I do miss fighting the trucker for the washing machine.’
‘And your mum? See her much?’
‘Oddly, she started making a lot more pop-ups after the first series of Off Season aired.’ Molly gave a weak chuckle.
Ashley felt something about that, but she simply nodded, her smile tight and polite. ‘Right. Well, pass on my worst.’
‘How’s your dad?’
‘I haven’t seen him in years, and as long as I don’t miss a payment, I probably won’t have to.’
‘Keeping the old man afloat? Does he deserve that?’ Molly asked.
‘Not really. But I’m rich now, so who cares?’ Ashley said. She was immediately embarrassed. What a pathetic brag. She needed a redirection, fast. But why she chose the topic switch she did was a mystery. ‘So, how’s your love life?’
Molly gave a thin smile. ‘Casual and infrequent.’
‘Oh. No one special?’
‘Nope.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Well, finding a good one is tough. As you know.’
Ashley gave a rueful smile. ‘Ah. You’ve heard about my producer problems, then?’
‘She wasn’t your girlfriend?’ Molly asked coolly.
‘I guess. Briefly.’ Ashley didn’t know why she was playing it down like this. Reva had been a real girlfriend, albeit a terrible one.
The silence that followed was suffocating, but food arrived quickly for a small mercy. Ashley cut into her turbot carefully, while Molly systematically dismantled her gourmet burger, eyeing the single leaf of rocket inside it with deep suspicion.
Ashley swallowed a bite of fish that suddenly tasted like cardboard. She couldn’t stand being this bloody polite. She’d rather have argued with Molly.
But they didn’t do that anymore. So all Ashley could say was something true, yet mannerly.
‘The green suits you.’
Molly looked up from her fries, startled. ‘Thanks. It’s a bit tight. I feel like a sausage.’
That caught Ashley off guard, and she laughed wholeheartedly. And then she made the catastrophic mistake. ‘I missed you,’ she said without thinking.
Molly froze, a fry halfway to her mouth. She slowly put the fry back down on her plate. ‘Ashley,’ she said quietly. ‘Please don’t say things like that.’
Ashley’s stomach dropped. Oh god, she was angry. And she had every right to be. Absolute idiot. It wasn’t just a breach of the rules; it was an unfair, selfish thing to say on a fake date meant for public relations.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ashley said instantly, her face burning. She checked her watch. ‘We should go soon. It’s late, and Simon said he tipped off the photographers half an hour ago. We should get it over with.’
‘Right,’ Molly said, her voice completely flat. ‘The photos.’
Ashley threw down a credit card before the waiter could even ask, signalling for the bill with a desperate gesture. Within three minutes, they were standing in the dimly lit foyer, pulling on their coats. Ashley’s hands were shaking as she tied the belt of her trench coat.
‘Ready?’ Ashley asked, not looking at her.
‘Born ready,’ Molly muttered.
Ashley pushed the heavy oak door open, and it started: ‘Ashley! Over here!’
‘Molly! Are you and Ashley Malone in a relationship?’
The paparazzi were a small, aggressive pack of men in dark puffa jackets, their cameras raised like weapons.
Ashley felt the instinctual urge to duck her head, but Simon’s voice echoed in her mind: Smile. Look natural. She forced a soft, relaxed smile onto her face and, without thinking, reached out and slotted her fingers through Molly’s.
Molly’s hand flinched, then gripped back loosely.
‘A cab’s coming,’ Ashley whispered through her teeth, her smile fixed as she spotted the glowing orange ‘TAXI’ sign turning the corner.
The black cab pulled up to the curb with a light screech of brakes. Ashley moved first, pulling Molly along behind her. She slid onto the back, Molly jumping in after her.
‘Where to, girls?’
‘Just start moving,’ Ashley said.
Off he went.
Their hands detached the second the cab pulled off, and they moved to opposite sides of the wide backseat, staring out of their respective windows.
After a minute of that, Ashley couldn’t take anymore.
‘Driver,’ Ashley said. ‘Just pull over up here on the corner, please.’
The cab pulled to the curb. Ashley turned to look at Molly. There was so much she wanted to say, so many apologies she wanted to offer for the mess of the evening.
‘Take this cab home,’ Ashley said softly, sliding two twenty-pound notes into the little plastic tray in the partition. ‘I’ll get out here and hail another.’
Molly looked at the money, then up at Ashley. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. ‘Oh. Fine.’
‘Molly…’
‘Yes?’ Molly asked nervously.
Ashley swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you.’
Molly’s smile was obviously and devastatingly fabricated. ‘No, thank you.’
Ashley pushed the heavy cab door open. She stepped out into the drizzle, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t look back as the black cab pulled out into the dark, carrying Molly away, leaving Ashley alone to find her way home.
Five Years Ago
Somehow, Ashley had gone from hiding in a pub toilet and seriously considering abandoning the gig altogether to being on a coffee date with a very attractive woman who appeared to have voluntarily chosen her company. The whole thing had happened in the space of about an hour.
The strangest part wasn’t that Molly was charismatic, cute, funny.
Or that she seemed to move through the world with a wild and natural confidence.
It was that Molly had met Ashley at what was, objectively, one of her less impressive moments.
Curled up in a toilet cubicle, halfway through a panic spiral.
Molly had seen all of that, talked her down through a locked door, and then carried on as though she’d discovered Ashley in a completely normal context.
There was no pity or careful handling. If anything, Molly seemed to find the whole thing endearing.
Ashley wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or concerned.
‘So… do you make money at it yet?’ Molly asked. ‘The music?’
‘Nope.’
‘Day job?’
‘Barista.’
‘Ha. Naturally.’
Ashley smiled. ‘You meet a lot of musician/barista’s?’
‘Not exactly. But I’m an actor/barista.’
Ashley was delighted. ‘Oh. An actor.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Why is it unfortunate?’
‘Because no one wants to hire me to do anything other than make oat milk lattes.’
Ashley laughed. ‘You’re in the long and storied tradition of London cafes staffed entirely by struggling actors and musicians.’
‘And one guy writing a screenplay.’
‘There’s always one guy writing a screenplay.’
‘It’s usually about a hitman with feelings,’ Molly said.
Ashley snorted into her coffee.
The waiter arrived with Molly’s latte and set it down between them.
Ashley gave it a look.
Molly caught her. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, what?’
Ashley glanced at the cup.
‘The milk’s slightly over-textured.’
Molly stared at her. ‘You can tell that by looking at it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s insane.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘It’s my job too, and I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’
Ashley smiled despite herself. ‘See those bigger bubbles around the edge?’
Molly leaned forward obediently. ‘Ummm… No?’
Ashley tutted.
‘You’re making this up,’ Molly said.
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. You’re like one of those wine people who says they can taste oak and cacao beans.’
Ashley grinned at her. She took another look at the cup. ‘The pour’s off too.’
‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ Molly said with a smile.
Ashley laughed.
‘You’re a handful, aren’t you?’ Molly asked, delighted.
‘You better believe it,’ Ashley replied.
And Ashley, who didn’t believe in destiny and never had, felt like something was happening that was supposed to happen.