Page 38 of The Ex Factor

Molly followed, forgetting about the length of her dress. Molly’s heel caught the back hem of it, hard.

There was no graceful way to recover. With a short, sharp ‘Oof!’ Molly completely lost her footing. She didn’t just stumble; she launched forward in a spectacular, slow-motion dive.

At that moment, Ashley turned, no doubt drawn around by the noise of the clown show happening behind her.

Molly, still falling, flailed her hands wildly, looking for anything that could save her. She felt the hard edge of a nearby camera lens that was there and gone. She kept falling, kept flailing. And her fingers caught the front of Ashley’s tailored cream suit jacket.

But Molly didn’t stop; she kept falling down, down, taking the jacket buttons with her, and Ashley was dragged violently forward by the sheer momentum of Molly’s descent.

A horrified gasp went up from the crowd. The machine-gun clicking of the cameras reached a psychotic speed.

Molly hit the midnight-blue carpet face-first, her arms sprawled out like a fallen skydiver.

For three seconds, the entire British film industry seemed to stop breathing.

Molly lay there, her cheek pressed against the rough, industrial carpet, and she thought, ‘Great. I’ve embarrassed myself completely and irrevocably.’

But it was somehow worse than that.

Because surrounding her were three large, ornate buttons.

No, no, no…

Molly forced herself to look up at Ashley, who’d managed not to go down with her. But it might have been better if she had. Because she was standing there with her cream jacket, now buttonless, pulled wide open to reveal a very generous view of her chest. She was looking down at Molly, agape.

Molly let her face fall back into the carpet with a groan.

Five Years Ago

Molly had never quite worked out how to describe the house without sounding like she was apologising for it.

It was a cavernous old four-story terrace in an unfashionable bit of North London, the sort of place that collected people who were on their way to better things, but not quite there yet. Every square inch was spoken for: an art student, a trainee nurse on night shifts, Deacon the tube violinist, a recently divorced trucker, a girl who did crafts on YouTube, and an actress trying not to fuck it up with the most intriguing person she’d ever met.

The lounge downstairs was a story of neglect. Stains that had long since given up being identifiable, much less remediable. A sofa so warped it had become an accidental recliner. Molly didn’t bother taking her in there.

She led Ashley up two flights, taking the stairs two at a time to move quickly through the public areas. The house narrowed as they went up, like a pyramid of broke-as-fuck Londoners, with Molly at the acme.

Not that Molly’s room offered much respite from the chaos. Clothes everywhere, mugs littered every surface. A cheap bookshelf that looked ready to give out at any moment. The bed looked like it had collapsed at least once and been Frankensteined back into use with nails and hope. And there was the Cate Blanchett poster—lopsided, slightly peeling at one corner—having survived more than one move.

Molly glanced at Ashley standing in the doorway, that careful half-smile that people wore when they were deciding whether something was charming or a fire hazard.

‘Home sweet shithole,’ Molly said. She didn’t want to apologise for herself. Somehow, it felt better to say, ‘We got this far honestly. Take the rest and do what you will.’

Ashley stayed by the door a second too long. Hands in her sleeves.

‘You want a drink?’ Molly said.

‘Yes,’ Ashley said.

Molly nodded and found a bottle and two mismatched glasses. One had a chip near the rim. The consummate host, she gave that to herself.

Ashley stepped further into the room but didn’t sit. Probably because she didn’t know where to.

Molly moved things. A shirt off the bed. A mug off the floor.

‘It’s a bit… yeah,’ Molly said.

Ashley gave a small shrug. ‘It’s fine.’