There was only one day until her farewell party and then days until she flew to America. Princeton waited with its ivy-covered walls and promise of reinvention. She should be excited. Everyone told her how lucky she was. Bright future. New beginnings. Fresh start. But here she was. Waiting. Waiting for Shane. Again.
This was their place. Their city. The anonymity Manchester gave them meant they could slip unnoticed into hotel lobbies, dissolve into the crowd of commuters and weekenders. No risk of running into anyone. No curious glances. Reducing the village mentality of knowing everyone’s business and the chance of bumping into someone who might recognise them. And if they did, there was a wealth of excuses at their disposal. Visiting The Opera House, The Halle Orchestra, The Arena, The Printworks, the Christmas markets… the list went on.
Molly knew every detail of today’s lie, like she’d know all the others and there were many. That they’d arrive separately, check in, wait. And wait she did. With a heavy sigh that came from boredom more than anything, she stood and walked tothe mirror. Her reflection stared back. She studied herself with detachment. Sleek brown hair, her natural colour enhanced thanks to the glory of a Wella colour and her favourite, uptown stylist. Glossed lips, gleaming blue eyes and the curve of her sun-kissed shoulder beneath the silk strap of her vest top that covered full breasts that as yet, didn’t require silicon reinforcement. Yet in her own view, she still looked like a girl.
But Shane didn’t see her that way. He had helped her grow up. That’s what she told herself and tonight, regardless of all the doubts raised in the past forty-eight hours, she had to hold on to the dream. Otherwise the evening would end in ruins and she didn’t want that. Couldn’t bear it.
Tonight had to be something she carried into the future as a treasured memory, a staging post for the future. Big smiles, maybe a few tears, then leave separately. A full stop and a neat line. Over and done. No rows about Kye. No interrogations about other women. What was the point? She knew Shane would say he was protecting her from someone he deemed not good enough. And blame the rumours about other women on jealousy or some such human failing.
Needing a distraction she went to the shopping bags on the chair by the window and pulled out the lingerie. Usually it was wrapped in a layer of tissue in a classy bag from Selfridges. This was an alien purchase. Red lace. Barely there. String and nylon. Bought with trembling hands and flushed cheeks from a trashy shop she would never normally set foot in. Shane had pointed it out to her a while back, half-joking, he’d told her it was one of his fantasies.
Never having stepped foot in an Amsterdam brothel, or so he said, the outfit was what his dreams were made of and seeing as it was their last real night together, Molly was going to give him a treat and, to make her feel better about herself, add it to hertick list of ‘things I tried out’. All in the name of growth and self-realisation.
She didn’t open it yet. Instead, she turned and lay down across the width of the bed, the sheets cool against the back of her legs.This is it, the last time,she thought.Our final night.
That was the plan. That was the agreement. Once she left for America, it would be over. She would delete the messages and his other number. The photos. The secret email address. They would erase each other. But even now, she wasn’t sure she believed that. Or wanted to.
What if she met someone else? What if she didn’t? Would he move on? Would he forget?
The thought of him with someone else knotted her stomach. Not jealousy exactly. Something darker. Possessiveness. Rage. The idea of him smiling at another woman the way he smiled at her, hands on her hips the way they had been on Molly’s… it made her skin crawl.
She’d always known he was hers. From the moment it began. She could still remember the heat of his breath that first night. The way he’d whispered her name. He would never feel that way about anyone else. Surely not.
And yet, the storm she sensed brewing at home felt like a harbinger. Her mum was acting strange. And Shane’s temperament had a different edge, quieter, brooding. She felt bad for Dee. Poor sweet Dee, caught between all of it. But selfishly, Molly was glad she would be gone before the fallout. She sat up again, restless. Checked her phone. Still no message.
She opened the bag. Slipped out the nylon lace. She made herself walk to the bathroom. It was spotless. Gleaming white. Marble and chrome and the faint scent of citrus. She turned on the shower, steam beginning to cloud the mirror. Her reflection disappeared in the mist. She peeled off her clothes slowly.Folded them on the counter. When she looked at herself again, her image was soft at the edges, ghostly.
He always said she was perfect. That her skin was smoother, younger, like velvet. He used words like unspoiled, pure. His. She told herself it was love. It had to be. Who else could she be this version of herself for? Who else would touch her like she was both a secret and a trophy? He called her his wild thing. His grown-up girl. His precious one.
She stepped into the shower. Let the water beat down over her skin. Tried to wash the sadness from her chest. And behind the steam, through the rising fog on the mirror, she imagined him watching. Always watching. Because even when he wasn’t in the room, he was inside her head. And she was terrified he always would be.
Chapter Eighteen
Dee had her AirPods in, listening to a playlist on low, that jumped from Billie Eilish to Olivia Rodrigo, the kind of sad-girl soundtrack she usually reserved for rainy days or when her mum and Shane were sucking the joy out of life by just being in the same house together.
She heard Magda before she spotted her, the buzz of the scooter carrying on the summer air. There she was, zooming along the opposite side of the road, colourful plaits like a rainbow tail streaming from beneath her daisy-covered helmet. She waved, both feet briefly off the stand like a circus act, and Dee grinned, lifting one hand in return.
Magda always made her smile. She was the best part of coming home. Everything at the house ran better when Magda was there. It felt like it had when her dad was alive. Calm. Warm. Predictable. Magda had routines and secret stashes of biscuits and cake. She knew when to be a silent companion and when to tease. She made hot chocolate from scratch and folded Dee’s laundry with scented pouches tucked in the corners.
Dee couldn’t really remember her dad that well anymore. Not properly. Just flashes. The way he’d lift her up so high her stomach dropped. The sound of his laugh. But she wasn’t sure if those memories were derived from the photos dotted around the house and in her room. Or the videos Molly had collated for her and were in one big album on her phone. And then there was Magda.
Magda told stories. About how Ronnie had given her and Erik jobs even though they spoke barely a word of English when they arrived. How he’d helped them find a flat when he found out they were living in a shared house with three other families. He’d loaned them the rent and deposit and then again for their first car when they had no credit. All the workers at ClearGlass respected Ronnie because he was self-made and knew his business from the ground up. Erik still worked there, a senior foreman who said he owed Ronnie for giving him a chance and a new life.
Dee loved the part of the story where Magda had become friends with Julia and was thrilled when she was asked to be housekeeper. It made Dee proud. Part of a good, kind family, something to aspire to and maybe one day she’d be able to do nice things for people, too. It gave her a warm feeling inside knowing everyone adored her dad. Especially Molly.
Molly had that shelf in her room. Like a shrine. Photos and souvenirs and that one jumper she refused to let anyone wash because she said it still smelled of him which Dee reckoned was impossible. There weren’t many pictures of Ronnie downstairs anymore. Not since Shane moved in. Dee understood. It must be weird, trying to live up to a dead man everyone talked about like a saint.
She reached the end of the road, where the tall hedges curved back to reveal the electric gates. They were already sliding open, silent and smooth, like a magician’s trick. The house sat behindthem. It had been designed and built by her mum and dad. They had knocked down the one that stood there before and built their new home from scratch. Every window glinted in the last of the sun. It looked peaceful. Dee’s stomach unclenched a little. She was tired and was looking forward to a shower and some comfys, then an evening with her mum like she’d promised.
Just as she stepped through the gates, she spotted Shane. He was by his car, throwing his overnight bag into the boot with a force that told her he was angry. His posture was stiff. Maybe he was running late. Or maybe he’d had a row with her mum after all.
Dee hesitated. He turned and saw her. The frown melted. Replaced by that smile he always gave her. The one that made her feel so special.
‘Hey, DeeDee,’ he said, walking toward her. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, but the question slipped out before she could stop it. ‘What’s wrong?’
His smile stayed in place, but it thinned. ‘Nothing serious. Your mum’s just… had a bit too much wine. I put her to bed so she can sleep it off.’
