Thirty-Four
She felt like a complete idiot. She’d spent the entire afternoon wandering aimlessly around Birmingham, trying to pluck up the courage to tell Ashley how she felt, only to realise hours had slipped away.
But once the nerve was (kind of) worked up, she realised she had no idea where Ashley’s tour bus was parked.
And calling her wasn't an option. When they’d split five years ago, it had been over a cold, pixelated FaceTime call, and Molly refused to let history repeat itself.
She needed to be in the same room as her, somewhere that the temptation to hang up didn’t exist. So, the plan now was to catch her heading into the backstage entrance.
Molly walked round to the loading bay doors, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her heart thumping against her ribs. She could have been home by now, reading her script like a professional. Instead, she was stalking her ex at her gig.
Was this stupid? Definitely. Was she going to do it? Probably. Possibly.
She rounded the corner just in time to hear someone yell, ‘This way, Miss Malone,’ and see the heavy stage door click shut. Fuck, had she missed her?
Okay, new plan. Catch her inside.
The backstage entrance was guarded by a massive bloke in a high-vis jacket, leaning against a concrete pillar and looking thoroughly bored.
‘Alright,’ Molly said, strolling up with all the swagger she could summon. ‘I need to get through. I’m with the tour. Molly.’
The guard didn’t move an inch. He looked down at her bare wrists. ‘Pass?’
‘I don’t have one. I left earlier and then... Well, anyway. Just ask someone. Anyone from the band or management. They’ll tell you.’
‘Sorry, love,’ the bloke said. ‘No pass, no entry.’
Molly swore under her breath, turning away. Nothing for it. She would have to make a call.
She pulled out her own phone. It was completely dead. She couldn’t even check the time, much less call Ashley and profess her love via 5G.
There followed some more standing around, being useless and conflicted.
It lasted until she heard the bass from the support act rattling the brickwork. Her nerve seemed to rev itself up again.
She needed a tout.
Or she could take the universe's hint and fuck off home, contact her later?
No. The tout. Because she needed to do this now.
If she waited, if she went to London, she’d chicken out.
She’d convince herself that she didn’t need to do it, that it was all just a mad blip, and she’d go back to being the girl who braced for rejection.
She’d never figure out how to love someone, least of all Ashley Malone.
‘Ticket? Anyone need a ticket? Circle standing,’ a voice shouted near the burger van.
A bloke in a hooded trackie was hovering by some wheelie bins, holding a crumpled piece of A4 paper with a barcode printed on it.
‘How much?’ Molly asked, marching straight up to him.
‘Seventy quid,’ he said, squinting at her. ‘Sold-out show, innit.’
‘You take card?’
He gave her a look.
Molly sighed. ‘I’ve got forty-two pounds cash and a half-eaten packet of Polos,’ Molly said, digging into her coat and pulling out her money.
The bloke looked at the cash. He snatched the forty quid and shoved the paper into her hand. ‘Keep the Polos.’
Molly looked at her piece of paper, pretty sure she’d just allowed herself to be mugged. But she walked back and joined the end of the massive line anyway.
***
Molly was genuinely surprised to see the barcode beep green. The security girl didn’t even look in Molly’s bag before ushering her through the turnstile and into the sweltering body heat of the main foyer.
By the time Molly pushed through the double doors into the auditorium, the Ashley Malone show was in full swing.
Ashley looked tiny from here. Molly was stuck at the absolute back of the stalls, penned in by the love of a crowd for the woman at the front. There were at least three thousand people between her and the stage, a solid mass of raised arms and glowing phone screens.
Ashley was wearing her stage gear, the heavy boots and leather jacket that made her look like she didn’t have a single doubt in the world. She was Ashley Malone, pop star.
Molly wondered, yet again, what the hell she thought she was doing. Ashley wasn’t going to see her in this throng, even if she could get to the front.
She knew that and kept moving forward. There was no other direction to go anymore.
But the crowd was a solid wall of human meat.
Every time she tried to squeeze past a group of teenagers, they shoved her back with their elbows, annoyed that she was ruining their view.
She couldn’t see Ashley’s face, just the sharp outline of her chin in the spotlight and the flash of her hair when she moved.
The set went fast, a blur of loud drums and flashing strobes that made Molly’s head spin. She still wasn’t even close.
‘This is the last one,’ Ashley’s voice echoed through the PA, sounding slightly breathless. ‘Thank you, Birmingham.’
The crowd went feral. Molly looked at the exit signs glowing red in the darkness, then at the massive distance between her and the front barrier. There were security guards every ten yards along the sides, their arms crossed.
The realisation hit her like a bucket of cold water. She wasn’t going to get to her. She’d run here, spent her last forty quid on a dodgy piece of paper, and she was going to end up watching the encore from the middle, like a stranger.