Nineteen
Now
The hum of the tour bus engine vibrated right through the thin mattress of Ashley’s bunk, a low, rhythmic rumble that usually put her to sleep within minutes.
Tonight, it was useless.
Ashley shifted onto her back, staring up at the dark vinyl ceiling just inches from her face. She pulled the heavy privacy curtain back a fraction of an inch, peeking out into the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the bus.
Down at the far end, behind a matching black velvet curtain, Molly was probably fast asleep. She’d always had a talent for sleeping through anything back in the day. You could have lobbed a grenade into her bedroom, and she’d just turn and pull the duvet over her head.
Ashley let the curtain drop shut and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, letting out a long, silent exhale.
She turned onto her side, pulling the thin duvet up to her chin. The air conditioning was blasting, but her skin felt hot.
Five years. Five years of complete silence. And now Molly was ten feet away, breathing the same recycled air.
How the fuck did we get here?
The bus hit a dip in the motorway, swaying gently. Down the hall, a faint rustle of sheets echoed in the quiet, followed by the soft, unmistakable sigh Molly always made when she couldn’t get comfortable.
Ashley froze, listening. Her heart gave a sudden, ridiculous thud against her ribs. Molly wasn’t asleep. She was too stressed. Because this was stressful.
This wasn’t just a clever PR stunt. It was a pressure cooker. Ashley prayed not to get her arse cooked.
Five Years Ago
Ashley sat on a peeling vinyl sofa, nervously tapping her fingers against the battered case of her acoustic guitar.
She waited for Pete, a booking agent who handled emerging artists across a circuit of pubs, clubs, and small theatres.
If she impressed him, there was a chance of landing a support slot on a four-week regional tour with an up-and-coming indie folk band.
It wasn’t glamorous. But to Ashley, it meant the world. She’d be a professional musician.
‘Ashley Malone?’
Ashley looked up.
Pete stood in the doorway: jeans, band T-shirt, and an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Come through.’
The audition room was little more than a rehearsal studio. Grey carpet. Scuffed walls. A microphone on a stand. Pete sat behind a folding table with a notebook, while an assistant fiddled absent-mindedly with a laptop.
‘Nice and simple,’ Pete said. ‘One original. Imagine you’re opening a show.’
Ashley nodded, took a steadying breath, and unpacked her guitar. She stepped to the microphone. She remembered her last gig, her fear, her panic. And then… Molly.
She didn’t feel so scared this time.
‘This one’s called “Never You”.’
Her fingers found the opening chords almost automatically. She wasn’t thinking about impressing Pete anymore. She was simply singing.
You left the leather jacket on the peg by the door
With the creases where your shoulders used to be
You say the room gets small when the volume gets low
But you’re only looking for the sound of me
There’s a silver-plated crown in the back of your throat
And it rattles every time you tell me how to sing
You look at my hands like they’re extensions of yours
And you’re waiting for the bell to ring
But it’s never you on the poster on the wall
It’s never you when the curtain starts to fall
You’re just standing in the wings with your fingers in your ears
Trying to buy back thirty years
Yeah, you’re looking through the glass at a reflection that’s wrong
It was never your stage, it was never your song
And it’s never you
And on she played.
As she was finishing the final chords, the door opened quietly.
A woman in an immaculate navy suit slipped inside with another man carrying a coffee. They remained by the back wall, speaking in hushed voices. Pete acknowledged them with a brief nod.
Ashley thought nothing of it as the last chord rang until it faded into silence. Pete slowly lowered his pen.
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
Ashley smiled politely and began packing away her guitar.
Behind her came another voice.
‘Play another.’ It was the woman in the navy suit.
Ashley looked to Pete. Pete nodded, sighing. Ashley played ‘True Blue’.
When she finished, the woman said, ‘Got any more?’
‘Dozens,’ Ashley said.
Suit woman turned to Pete. ‘Pete. Outside. Now.’
Pete frowned. ‘Can it wait?’
‘No.’
The pair stepped into the corridor, pulling the door almost shut behind them.
Ashley remained where she was, awkwardly holding her guitar. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it couldn’t be helped.
‘...I found her.’
‘...don’t be ridiculous...’
The volume dropped below Ashley’s auditory range for a bit then. Until Pete’s voice jumped back up.
‘You seriously think she’s ready for that?’ More mumbling. Then Pete sighed. ‘Damn it.’
A few seconds later, the door opened. Pete walked back in, shaking his head with an expression somewhere between irritation and amusement.
Behind him came the woman. She smiled warmly. ‘Ashley?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Claire.’ She walked over to Ashley and held out a hand. ‘I head up international touring.’
Ashley shook it uncertainly.
‘I apologise for hijacking Pete’s afternoon.’
Pete chuckled bitterly. ‘She does this more often than she’d admit.’
Claire ignored him.
‘I was passing, and I heard you,’ she said. ‘I represent a band that’s about to begin their first international headline tour, Rocket Monkey.’
Ashley had never heard of them but nodded politely, unsure where this was going.
‘The problem is,’ Claire continued, ‘their support act withdrew yesterday. Family emergency.’ She paused. ‘So, what do you think?’
Ashley blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I want you to open the tour.’
Ashley actually laughed. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’ve never played outside England.’
‘Pete said.’
‘I’ve never even played a proper venue. Only pubs.’
‘I know.’ Claire smiled. ‘The band doesn’t need another polished performer. They need someone authentic enough that an audience actually listens before the main act walks on.’
Ashley stared.
Claire continued. ‘The itinerary is four months. The UK first, then mainland Europe, followed by North America.’
Ashley’s mouth went dry. ‘...International?’
Claire nodded. ‘Hotels, transport, crew, rehearsals, visas. Everything’s covered.’
Pete folded his arms. ‘I was hoping to keep you for my little regional run,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘But I can’t compete with this.’
Ashley looked from Pete to Claire and back again. Four months. Not pubs. Not clubs. An international tour.
Only that morning she’d been hoping for enough money to move out of her dad’s place. Now someone she had never met was offering her the chance to play before thousands of people across three continents.
It should have been the easiest decision of her life.
Instead, all Ashley could picture was Molly.