Page 9 of The Ex Factor

God, that laugh.

Ashley walked out.

Four

Molly Sullivan was pretending to find what some guy had said hilarious. She hated herself for it.

But she couldn’t let Ashley know how much she’d shaken her up with her surprise appearance. Ashley was the definition of a homebody. She didn’t go anywhere she didn’t have to. She stayed at home and read. Or played. Or composed. Or went down on you for an hour without coming up for breath.

Not that Molly thought much about that last part—if she was careful. Or that Reva creature who had been splashed everywhere of late. Though she’d turned out to be a trainwreck, it transpired. Molly didn’t care either way about that. She only googled it seven times. The very definition of causal interest.

‘Hey, I think I’m gonna go home,’ Molly said.

‘Oh, great,’ the guy said.

‘Solo,’ she added.

His face dropped. ‘Oh. OK. Well, maybe I could get your number?’

‘You can find me on Insta,’ she said, already leaving.

She wasn’t giving that guy her number. She was going home to process. Or watch TV and eat a sliced apple with finely spread peanut butter on it. That was as close as she could get to pigging out. She was working tomorrow. Bloat wouldn’t do.

‘Jade, I’m leaving,’ she called to her friend.

She didn’t hear her. She was snogging someone with a passion that was entirely inappropriate for a public function. Molly shook her head and left.

***

‘Cut!’ yelled Valeria.

Molly was grateful for a moment's respite. This episode’s script was poor. Which, given that it was the season finale, was indefensible.

‘Hey, that was great, everyone,’ Valeria lied. ‘Maybe we can try one with a little more energy.’

Tell that to the writers, Molly thought but would never say. She knew her place.

Molly headed back to her mark while the crew reset the scene. A lighting technician adjusted a practical lamp behind reception. Someone from props hurried over to replace a stack of brochures that had been knocked sideways during the last take. Around her, the familiar machinery of television continued without pause.

The sitcom itself wasn’t a dreadful idea. Three siblings inheriting a struggling hotel on the Yorkshire coast had been a solid enough premise when the show began. The first few series of Off Season had even been funny. The problem was that success had stretched the concept far beyond its natural lifespan. Every conflict now felt recycled from one that had come before it. The details changed, but the shape remained the same.

Today’s plot centred on a double booking. Trevor’s character had accidentally promised the ballroom to both a wedding party and a funeral reception. So lazy.

When Valeria called action, Molly pushed through the reception doors with as much purpose as she could muster. ‘Please tell me you’ve got good news.’

Trevor looked up from behind the desk with the expression of a man who knew he was about to spend three pages explaining the week’s misunderstanding.

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Whether the deceased are willing to share.’

The audience laughed politely.

Molly felt a flicker of irritation. Not at Trevor, who was doing his best, but at the line itself. It was exactly the sort of joke the show had begun relying on: harmless, predictable, and engineered to produce a reliable response rather than a memorable one.

As Trevor launched into the explanation, Molly found herself drifting into the detached state that arrived, more and more, during bad material. One part of her performed the scene. Another stood outside it, observing the mechanics. Setup. Punchline. Reaction. Escalation. Every beat arrived precisely when expected.