Thirty-Eight
A Few Years Later
The BA flight from Berlin was forty minutes late landing at Heathrow, which meant Ashley had exactly one hour to get into her fancy duds, fix her hair in the back of an Uber, and make it to the Grosvenor House Hotel.
Her PA, a sensible woman named Sarah, was currently in the front seat aggressively typing on a laptop, verifying the soundcheck times for the Madrid arena the following night on her Fuck Your Expectations tour.
Privately, the band called it the ‘Fuck You, Simon’ tour.
Leaving Simon and the giant label had been a bloodbath.
When Ashley announced she was walking, they’d thrown their legal team at her and threatened to sue her for millions—until Ashley calmly pointed out that she had text proof that her manager (with the label's complicity) had forced her into staged PR relationships to boost sales.
Faced with a public relations nightmare, the label backed off and cut her loose.
Though she’d originally intended to go completely independent, Ashley had ended up signing with a tiny boutique label run by two music-obsessed nerds who let her make whatever she wanted and were just thrilled to have her on their roster.
She made a fraction of her old money, but she owned her masters, she was genuinely happy, and her original band was still behind her—now officially billed on venue marquees as Ashley Malone and the Echoes.
They were not pop. They were soft indie.
Most songs were written by Ashley, with some a collaborative effort by the band, who had now lost interest in each other and focused only on the music.
Without Simon’s radio-bait formulas, her audience had altered. The teens mostly vanished, replaced by a slightly older, more discerning crowd, while the diehards—now older—stayed fiercely loyal. Her gigs were strictly eighteen and over now.
The love of performing finally came back to Ashley. The stage stopped being a duty, especially on the nights Molly joined her on the road. Watching Molly stand in the wings made the music feel like music again instead of an obligation.
‘Madrid is looking good, just a few i’s to dot.’
‘Huh? Oh, cool. Thanks, Sarah,’ Ashley said absent-mindedly.
She was staring at her phone, at a photo Molly had texted her two hours ago of a massive, elaborate chocolate fountain in the pre-awards reception room.
I’m about to embarrass myself with this bad girl, the caption read. Ashley smiled.
Freshly Laundered had wrapped its third season in November, and tonight Molly was up for Best Actress in a Comedy-Drama Series. Ashley was determined to be there to see her collect it.
It wasn’t a fairy-tale setup; it was a constant, deliberate effort.
Ashley’s tour schedule was nowhere near as gruelling as it used to be, but their careers still meant navigating time zones, red-eyes, and long stretches away from each other.
Sometimes their work meant being parted for months at a time.
But distance didn’t trigger the old panic anymore.
If someone was wobbling, they talked it out.
Sometimes they cried it out. Sometimes they yelled it out.
Sometimes they banged it out. But in the end, both said, ‘I love you,’ and both knew they meant it.
And in between the global bouncing, they lived together in Molly's terrace in North London now. Molly loved every squeaky floorboard and overgrown garden plot of the place, and Ashley—who had never cared enough about her own hollow, minimalist apartment—had been more than happy to pack up her guitars, move in, and let Molly’s home swallow them both whole.
***
Ashley made it into the ballroom just as the soup course was being cleared. She slipped into the empty seat next to Molly, her breath still slightly short from running up the stairs in shoes meant more for appearances than walkability.
Molly didn’t look around immediately, but her hand slid off her napkin and found Ashley’s under the heavy white tablecloth, her fingers instantly locking into the familiar gaps between Ashley’s knuckles.
‘You smell like coffee,’ Molly whispered, her eyes fixed on the stage where a presenter was reading out the nominations for the comedy categories.
‘I had two double espressos at the gate because the Berlin flight was a shambles,’ Ashley muttered back. ‘I’m practically vibrating. Did I miss your category?’
‘No, it’s next.’ Molly’s grip tightened. ‘I’m about to have a minor stroke. If they say my name, don’t let me trip on this dress.’
Three minutes later, the presenter opened the gold envelope, and the screen behind the podium flashed with a clip of Molly standing in a laundrette with a gun in her face, looking furious and brilliant.
‘And the winner is... Molly Sullivan.’
The ballroom erupted into the polite applause of the British television industry, but Ashley was standing up, cheering loud enough to rattle the wine glasses on their table.
Molly looked completely stunned, her mouth opening into a small, silent ‘O’ before she smoothed down her gown, kissed Ashley quickly on the cheek, and marched up the steps to accept the heavy bronze trophy. She remained upright the entire time.
Her speech was short, sharp, and characteristically hilarious, thanking the director for teaching her to make sad faces properly.
She didn’t make a grand, dramatic declaration about Ashley to the room, but she looked directly at the table when she mentioned the people who helped her run lines in hotels.
By midnight, they were in a room at the Connaught, the bronze award sitting on top of the mini-bar next to a half-empty bottle of wine.
Ashley had her iPad open on the bed, the screen glowing with a massive, colour-coded calendar grid that stretched into years.
Molly was already out of her dress, wearing an oversized Ashley Malone and The Echoes tour T-shirt and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the mattress with her phone out, cross-referencing her shooting schedule for the new film in Dublin.
‘Right,’ Molly said, her thumb clicking against the glass. ‘If I finish on the Friday of the second week, I can get the 6:15 a.m. Aer Lingus to Düsseldorf. That gives us thirty-six hours before your show in Cologne.’
‘The Cologne venue has a guest flat backstage,’ Ashley said, typing a blue block into the iPad. ‘Sarah says we can use it. Then I’ve got four days off before Munich. Can you stay for Munich?’
‘No, I’ve got costume fittings in London on the Tuesday. But I can fly back out Thursday night.’ Molly looked up from her screen. ‘It’s going to be tight.’
‘It’s always tight,’ Ashley said. She flipped the iPad face down.
‘Tighter than a nun's chuff,’ Molly muttered to herself.
‘Charming,’ Ashley said with a half-smile.
She moved across the mattress, pulling Molly down by the waist. The calendars and the flight numbers disappeared into the dark as they always did.
The sex was passionate, familiar, and slightly frantic with the knowledge of the 8:00 a.m. flight to Germany hanging over them, but there was no fear in it anymore.
They both knew exactly who they belonged to.
At 6:30 the next morning, the grey London light was just starting to filter through the heavy curtains. The Uber was already confirmed, five minutes away.
Ashley was fully dressed in her travel joggers and hoodie, her bag zipped up by the door. Molly was buried under the white duvet, her face half-hidden by the pillow, her eyes bleary as she watched Ashley check her pockets for something.
‘The passport's in your pocket,’ Molly told her.
‘I know that,’ Ashley said.
She opened a small front zip and pulled out a plain, unpolished silver band. No diamonds. Just a heavy piece of metal she’d bought in a small shop in Paris three weeks ago.
She didn’t get down on one knee. She just sat on the edge of the mattress, took Molly’s left hand from under the duvet, and slid the ring onto her third finger.
‘What’s this?’ Molly asked, her eyes widening as she looked down at her hand.
‘It’s a contract,’ Ashley said, her mouth twisting into a small, nervous grin. ‘But there’s no expiry date on this one. I want to marry you. Do you want to do it?’
Molly stared at the silver ring, then up at Ashley’s face, which looked exactly like it had in the Birmingham photo pit—terrified but completely certain.
Molly pulled her hand back under the duvet, her mouth settling into a firm, happy line. ‘Very yes.’
Ashley kissed her hard, the taste of morning coffee and hotel mints between them, before grabbing her bag and slipping out into the corridor. The door clicked shut with that heavy, expensive hotel thud, but it didn’t really separate them.
There was no distance between them that could mean a damn thing anymore.