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She pushed the oak door and tripped on the mat.

The maître d’ walked over. He looked past her head, pretending he hadn’t seen her nearly hit the deck.

‘Table for Malone?’ Molly said, voice high.

‘Right this way, Ms Sullivan.’

She hated the staff knowing her name before she said it. It felt like bumping into your stalker.

The room was dark. Wood panels, amber bulbs, people clinking heavy forks. It took Molly a second to find Ashley. She was in the corner behind a large plant. She wore a baggy black blazer and a plain white T-shirt. She was looking at her phone.

Molly felt sick. She considered turning around, walking out into the rain, and taking whatever tiny crap role she could get.

But then Ashley spotted her.

Molly forced a grin and walked over. ‘Well, well,’ she said, too loud. People turned around. ‘London’s finest pop star.’

‘Molly. Hey,’ Ashley said, uber cool.

‘Don’t get up,’ Molly said, sliding onto the leather seat. Her hands were shaking. She picked up the napkin and started folding it into a tight square. ‘Fancy place. I feel like I’m auditioning for a period drama.’

Ashley put her phone on the table. She looked at Molly. ‘You seem a bit—’

‘I don’t seem anything. Making chat. It’s what you do on a fake date for the papers.’ Molly gave a short laugh. She kept folding the cloth. ‘Karen said if this fails my next job is a naked corpse in a river. And I said—’

‘Molly.’

Ashley put her hand over Molly’s hand.

Molly stopped. Ashley’s hand was warm and calloused and familiar.

‘Breathe,’ Ashley said.

Molly pulled her hand back. She put both hands under her thighs. ‘I’m not nervous. It’s just weird, Ash.’

Whoops.

‘...ley,’ Molly added quickly.

‘I know,’ Ashley said. She sat back. ‘It is weird.’

‘Yeah,’ Molly said. She looked past Ashley’s shoulder. ‘Weirder than that bloke’s wig.’

Ashley turned. Behind her, an old man sat with a young woman. On his head sat a thick, jet-black toupee, lifted slightly at the front like a small wedge of turf.

Ashley laughed. It was her real laugh.

Five Years Ago

Molly had tried to talk herself out of talking to Ashley again after the gig. It hadn’t worked,

The set was the problem. The girl from the pub toilet wasn’t just good-looking; she looked stupidly hot with a guitar.

Ashley came off the small stage, zipping up her guitar case. Without the microphone in front of her, she looked smaller.

‘Told you,’ Molly said.

Ashley stopped. She looked exhausted.