Page 18 of The Good Girl

Chapter Seventeen

The Edwardian Hotel in Manchester was a building designed to impress.

It loomed with elegant grandeur, its sandstone facade glowing in the late afternoon sun.

Inside, it smelled of leather, fresh flowers, and something richer – expensive perfume perhaps, or history, old wood and the money ingrained in its fibre.

The marble floors gleamed beneath Molly’s feet as she passed through the lobby, her high heels treading a path she’d walked before.

The room – their room – was on the top floor.

One of the executive suites. Stylish and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed a canvas of the city below, industry, revolution, innovation and hustle.

Beyond the glass, the skyline blurred against the pale blue sky, a flock of pigeons wheeling above the rooftops.

Inside, it was all softness and order. A handcrafted mattress dressed in pure cotton bed linen, a bathroom filled with natural Noble Isle products, towels thick as blankets.

It was the kind of space where real life couldn’t intrude.

Where wrongs and secrets couldn’t touch them.

Molly sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, phone on the bedspread beside her, untouched.

Her eyes moved restlessly to the door, then back to the window.

The sun caught the glass buildings across the street.

It was beautiful. Perfect. The best way to end things, on a visionary and sensory high.

But she felt sick. Not with guilt. Not exactly.

With nerves. Anticipation. Dread. The closer it got to leaving, the more she feared being found out.

Imagine keeping a huge secret only to be discovered on the cusp of it being a thing of the past. Like a bank robber being caught with his stash of cash and diamonds just before the plane taking him to the high-life, took off.

A murderer thinking they’d outsmarted the ruthless detective and being thwarted by a tiny speck of forensic evidence.

It made Molly’s chest tighten, just the thought of it.

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 to the 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 her tick 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.