Page 65 of The Ex Factor

The text she’d sent Ashley thirty-six hours ago sat there, stark and humiliating against the grey background: ‘Good luck with the LA radio interviews today x. Call me when you can, miss you.’

No reply. Not even a read receipt.

Molly’s thumb hovered over the screen, the familiar sting of rejection blooming in her chest. Ever since that disastrous, abrupt phone call a week ago—where Ashley had snapped at her about a production runner bringing her a bloody coffee—the silence had been deafening.

The rational part of Molly’s brain tried to argue. She’s across a time difference, doing press, probably running on too little sleep. But the rational part of her brain was losing the battle against a deeply rooted, ever louder insecurity.

Five weeks. That was the reality of what they’d had. They had known each other for just five weeks before Ashley packed her guitar and flew away. It was nothing. A drop in the ocean. How could five weeks of a dingy London romance possibly compete with the glittering universe Ashley was currently occupying? Out there, Ashley was loved by huge audiences on a nightly basis.

She’s forgetting you, the voice whispered. You were just a temporary comfort before she got what she actually wanted.

Molly gripped the plastic edge of her phone, her breathing shallow. She hated how easily her mind drifted to the worst-case scenario. But she knew exactly where that rot had started.

Molly’s mother was a woman who would vanish for days on end, leaving little Molly to scavenge through empty kitchen cupboards, wondering what she had done wrong to be left behind. It had taught her early that people’s attention was fickle, that if you didn’t constantly fight to keep yourself visible, you simply ceased to exist to the people who were supposed to love you. And Ashley had never even said that. Neither had Molly. She’d kind of hoped Ashley would break that ice. Right up to the airport goodbye, she’d prayed to hear it.

But no.

Molly had foolishly let herself hope she might be safe. She had put on a brave face, smiled through her heartbreak, and told Ashley to conquer the world because she didn’t want to be a burden. She had promised she’d be waiting.

But as she stared at the unread text, a devastating realisation washed over her. It didn’t matter if she was waiting. If Ashley didn’t want to look back, Molly was just a ghost an ocean away, slowly fading into the background.

‘Molly, we’re ready for you on the marks!’ the first assistant director shouted, clapping his hands.

Molly swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden prickle of tears in her eyes. She quickly locked her phone, shoved it into the pocket of her costume wardrobe, and forced her face into the bright, cheerful expression of a girl who didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Coming!’ she called out, stepping back into the lights to play her part.

Twenty-Three

Now

They had done Glasgow, Leeds, and Liverpool now. Manchester was the fourth stop.

Ashley walked out into the empty arena space at the Manchester Academy just after eleven in the morning. The room was cold, and she was alone. This was her ritual. A minute alone in the space before anyone turned up. To feel it.

She stood in the centre of the bare stage and struck her low E string three times. The unamplified sound bounced off the high, curved ceiling and came back flat.

She was pissed off. But not about the acoustics.

The PR strategy had been clear from the start: Molly was supposed to be visibly supporting Ashley from the VIP boxes at the bigger shows. But if a venue didn’t have one, Molly simply didn’t come to the gig at all. And when the venue did have luxury boxes, Molly suddenly developed a blinding migraine. The one night she’d been in the building, she’d had noise-cancelling headphones on. Ashley was doing her best not to find that bruising.

Three cities in, and Molly hadn’t watched a single minute of a show. With no VIP box at the Academy tonight, she wouldn’t even need to make an excuse.

Ashley didn’t understand why Molly was avoiding the gigs so aggressively. Was she really that uninterested in the music? She knew it wasn’t Molly’s cup of tea; it was aimed at teenagers.

Still, it hurt.

Every time Ashley had looked over at the left wing during the middle of the set last night, her eyes went straight to the dark space behind the monitor desk, on the off chance. It was never Molly. It was always just a guy named Dave chewing and looking at an iPad.

***

After Ashley had finished her quiet moment, she walked back out to the bay where the tour bus was idling. She never liked checking into hotels on tour. She preferred the predictable rumble of the bus and the routine of sleeping in her own bunk. But that meant Molly had to stay there too, trapped in the same cramped metal tube night after night.

It was getting smaller by the day.

Ashley climbed aboard, kicking her boots off in the narrow corridor, intending to rest ahead of tonight’s gig.

She had just sat down to doomscroll her phone when it rang. Simon was calling from London, his voice carrying that loud, clicking echo it got whenever he used his car speakerphone.