Ella's phone rang.

She waved a hand, signalling to cut the music. In the glass booth, her manager, Sarah, pulled a face. Ella didn't blame her; she didn't have time at the recording studio today before she had to leave for an interview to promote her upcoming album, Backstage Girl — and traffic was a nightmare in the afternoon.

Still, Ella always made time for Max; even if her boyfriend did have terrible timing.

She punched the button. "Hi, babe. Shouldn't you be flying?"

"Oh. Er." There was a pause. "This is Oliver, actually."

"Ollie!"

Ella ran through a number of creative words in her head. She pushed back her headphones, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. Oops. "Sorry," she said quickly. "It was a UK number, so I just assumed—"

"It's fine. I get it."

"Right." She crossed her ankles. "How are you?"

"I'm good." A pause. "Actually, that's a lie; I'm in a bit of a situation. Do you have a minute to chat?"

Ella glanced up at the booth. Sarah was now tapping her wrist with an expression that suggested she would very much like to storm into the room and strangle Ella with her headphones. She swallowed.

"Of course."

"Good." Footsteps echoed. "Great. Okay. This is a little awkward, but I need some advice." A long pause. "About a girl."

"Oh."

Ella waited for a pang of jealousy. To her relief, however, she only felt a twist of something like sympathy. She fiddled with the microphone cord. "Does this happen to be the same girl that I've seen in the tabloids?"

"Since when do you read tabloids?"

"Since my boyfriend left to go visit you," Ella said dryly. "And now I'm alone in Los Angeles. And bored."

"Right. Well, yes. That's her."

"And what's the problem?"

Oliver filled her in. He told her about Alicia's ex-boyfriend, Greg. About how he had lied to her about who he was. About the disastrous golf tournament. By the time Oliver had finished speaking, Ella had cut off all circulation to her finger with the microphone cord. How the hell could that much stuff happen in the span of a month?

Glassware clinked. "And now Alicia's not answering any of my phone calls or text messages. None of them."

"Well, maybe she's scared of confronting you."

"Oh, no," Oliver huffed. "She's not like you; Alicia wouldn't try to spare my feelings. Trust me." Something whistled. A kettle, maybe. "She once laughed in my face after I gave a dance performance. In public."

"Oh, dear."

"But I liked it." Water being poured. "I mean, I like her. A lot."

Ella smiled to herself. She personally thought Oliver felt a lot stronger towards Alicia than just liking her, but she wasn't about to point it out. Not if the idiot couldn't recognize it himself. "And you're scared that she'll reject you."

"No."

"Yes, you are." Ella pinched the microphone cord. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? That's why you called me."

There was a very long pause.

"I just..." Oliver's voice was very quiet. "You really messed me up, you know? I thought you were in love with me, and the next day you turned around and broke my heart." The speaker crackled. "Like it was nothing."

Ella closed her eyes. "It wasn't nothing, for the record. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do." She pictured him standing in a suite, his hair rumpled, a mug of tea in his hands. "I'm really sorry about it, Ollie."

"Don't be." He took a breath. "If you hadn't broken my heart, I wouldn't have met Alicia. And she makes all the difference."

Ella glanced at the yellow roses in the corner — a gift from Max — and smiled to herself. "You don't need to be afraid, you know; the right kind of love is as natural as breathing. They give you all of the parts of yourself that you didn't know you were missing."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Ella shifted the phone. "Although I suspect you'll find that out soon enough." In the booth, Sarah tapped the glass impatiently, and she sighed. "Look, Ollie, I have to go, alright? But don't be a stranger."

"I won't be."

She was about to hang up when Oliver spoke again.

"Ella?"

She paused. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for the advice."

"Always," she said, her throat tight. "Always, Oliver."

Alicia stared at the website.

She had almost forgotten that she bookmarked it, all of those weeks ago, but here it was, smirking back at her. A green banner across the top read, "Junior Ladies Golf Tournament Qualifiers — Sign Up Now!" Then, it gave the last day to sign-up: June 30.

Today.

Alicia sighed, rubbing at her face. Her nose was basically healed now, although it still gave a small twinge as her fingers passed over it. There would be no lasting damage though, save for a newfound addiction to chocolate ice cream.

She glanced at her golf clubs. They were covered in a fine layer of dust now, dull from days of disuse. They looked sad. Forgotten about. Like an old coin shoved under a sofa, rediscovered years later only to have been rendered worthless by the changing world.

And something inside of Alicia snapped.

"Mum!" She pushed back her chair. "Mum! Are you here?"

Her mother raced into the kitchen, a bundle of knitting in her hands. Her dark eyes skipped around the room. "What is it, mija? What's happened?"

"I want to sign up for the golf tournament."

"You do?"

She nodded. Her mother gave an ecstatic shriek, dropping her knitting to pull Alicia into a tight hug. A moment later, a disgruntled Tess appeared in the kitchen doorway, her dark hair sticking up on one side of her head.

"Why is everyone screaming?" She glowered, plopping into a chair. "It's not even eight o'clock yet. That's criminal."

"Morning, Tessie."

"There better be a fire," she groused. "A large, lethal fire."

Her mother pulled back. "Your sister's signing up for a golf tournament."

Tess blanked. "Good god. Is this the part where you tell me that I have another sister?"

"Oh, shut-up, Tessie."

"Seriously, Leese." Tess grinned. "I'm proud of you." She clutched the blankets more firmly around her shoulders. "I'd be even more proud of you if you told me where the coffee filters were."

"What is going on in here?"

Hattie strode into the kitchen, hopping up on the counter. She was already dressed in running kit, and her neon orange shoes dangled above the ground. Her blonde hair was sorted into plaits. Alicia arched an eyebrow.

"Since when do you go for runs?"

"Since I can't go to the gym." Hattie pulled a face. "That place is crawling with paparazzi. I'm on a mission to avoid them."

"Well, I'm not."

"What?"

"I'm not avoiding the press." Alicia shut her laptop. "I've spent my whole life running from one thing or the other, and I won't do it anymore; I'm sick of it." She braced her hands on the wooden table. "I'm signing up for this golf tournament. I'm taking Greg to court. And I'm going to the god damn grocery store to get my own chocolate ice cream, if I want to." She set her chin. "They can't stop me."

There was a stunned silence.

Then Hattie darted forward, throwing her arms around Alicia. The sour stench of sweat and day-old socks assaulted her senses. She pulled a face, trying to shove her friend off, but Hattie only clung tighter.

"Let me hug you."

"Hattie!" She squirmed. "You smell."

"Oh, Leese," Hattie sighed. "Don't be silly." She bopped her on the nose. "You're not running from things anymore, remember? Not even me."

In the afternoon, Alicia went down to the driving range.

St Andrews was a strawberry sundae this evening; the red sun melted into the fluffy white clouds, staining them pink. Students sat on outdoor patios, celebrating the end of their exams with dodgy, neon yellow drinks. No one turned to look at her. In fact, Alicia made it all the way to Greyfriars Garden before the first photographer spotted her.

"Alicia!"

Heads snapped towards her. Dozens of cameras began to click, insect-like, crawling towards her with long, spindly lenses. She took a steady breath. Calm. She had to remain calm. Still, she couldn't stop her legs from speeding up slightly.

Don't run.

"Alicia, where's Oliver? Did you break up?"

She passed a small bookshop. Then the Old Course. A photographer shoved a camera in her face. "Who was that man that attacked him?"

"No comment."

Unfortunately, Alicia realized too late that this was a comment, and it only egged the press on. Their shouting increased, a cacophony of probing questions and ear-splitting shouts, and it was only when she reached the driving range — private property, thank god — that they stopped following her.

She sighed. At least all of the paparazzi seemed to have scared Greg off; he was self-aware enough to realize that a picture of him harassing a girl splashed across the headlines of international papers wasn't a good look. Thank god.

Alicia set up shop in an outdoor bay. The range was quiet today, but she could still see camera lenses poking through the trees. Her hands shook as she placed a ball on the tee. Then she whacked the ball into the air.

More cameras clicked.

"Ignore them," a voice called. "I generally do."

She spun around. Antony was leaning against the wall, watching her with those lazy golden eyes. His hair was damp, and he ran a hand through it, spraying fat droplets. Slowly, she set down the club.

"How was my swing, then?"

"Improving." Antony grinned. "But then, you've had a good teacher."

"I can't argue with that."

"May I?"

He held out a hand. Alicia passed him an eight-iron, and he took it, setting up a number of golf balls in the bay next to her. The club was too short for him, and it looked almost comically toy-like in his hand. Like a giant holding a toothpick.

She bit her lip. "Antony, I'm really sorry about the tournament."

"Why?" He cast her a sideways look. "That was the most exciting competition I've been to in ages. Like a golf soap opera."

"You placed twentieth."

"That's not bad, is it?"

"But you should have placed higher," Alicia said. "I ruined it."

She knew this for a fact; Antony had choked on the eighteenth hole, and then played dismally the next day, hacking up the course with an almost impressive consistency. Mary had found him another caddy for the last few days of play, but it was too late; Antony was well and truly done for.

Antony swung. Alicia watched as the ball popped up in the air, whizzing towards the range. He really was a beautiful golfer, she thought; even now, weeks later, she was in awe of the way he moved the ball. Like dancing with a partner.

Antony set down his club. "There will always be other tournaments, Alicia. Other competitions to win. But you know what?"

"What?"

"There's only one of you." Antony's face was serious. "And believe it or not, I've become pretty fond of you, sugarplum." He set the club back in the bag. "I don't mind losing this one. Not if it means that you're safe."

Her throat swelled. Even now, it astonished her that strangers could be so kind; Antony had only known her for a few weeks, but he was going out of his way to comfort her. She leaned against her club.

"Thank-you," Alicia said. "For everything." She put another golf ball on the tee. "You must be going back to America soon."

"Why?" He smirked. "Eager to get rid of me?"

"Obviously."

"I leave tomorrow." Antony rested against the metal sheet separating the bays, hooking his feet at the ankles. "I wish I could stay, though. If only to see you compete in the qualifiers for the Ladies Junior Open."

Her head snapped up. "You heard about that?"

"I hear about everything, when it comes to golf."

"And?"

"And I think you'll kick ass." Antony shrugged. "Obviously." He watched as she swung her club, sending the ball careening down the field. "Look, I promised Ollie that I wouldn't say anything, but screw it. I want to tell you before I go."

She paused, the club hovering in her hands. "Go on."

"It was Ollie that suggested I pick you as my caddy for the tournament. Not that you didn't deserve it," Antony added quickly, seeing her face. "I would have picked you regardless, based on your talent. But it hadn't even occurred to me until he brought it up."

"He really did that?" She lowered the club. "It was his idea?"

Antony nodded.

Alicia put the club back in the bag. A mix of emotions warred in her chest — surprise, joy, confusion — and she wasn't sure which one was winning out. Why would Oliver go out of his way to help her and then ignore her this week? What the hell was he playing at?

She sighed. "I suppose this is it, then." She shifted the bag to her back. "This will be the last time that I see you."

"Oh, don't be dramatic, sugarplum."

"What?"

"This isn't goodbye," Antony said, as if this should be perfectly obvious. "I expect to see you at many tournaments in the future." He winked, clapping her on the shoulder. "And I expect to see you winning."

A/N: Aww things are looking up!

What did you think of Oliver and Ella's conversation? I almost included something like this at the end of "Backstage Girl," but I'm happy that I saved it until now!

Affectionately,

J.K.