She nods. “Like you said in your email—maybe a change in scenery is what I need.”
“Indeed. I think you’ll like Whitstable.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“And if not, we can always learn karate.”
She chokes out a laugh.
Our gazes meet, and for the briefest second, a glimmer of recognition sparks, like a distant memory of joy.
I’m the first to look away, staring at the road, and we fall into silence.
As if conjured by the quiet, Nova leans close, her voice a silken whisper in my ear.“Careful, Mister Sexy Mentor. She’s looking at you like you hung the stars.”
Not true. Not possible.
“Isn’t it? Well, I really hope you don’t let her down.”
I shoot Nova a disapproving glare in the rear-view mirror. Her voice was always sharpest when she wanted to dig under my skin.
“Are you alright?” Lily-Anne asks.
“Yes, I—”
I’m saved from answering when her phone buzzes.
“It’s Mum asking me about my flight. Do you mind if I call her?”
“Not at all.”
She lifts the phone to her ear, and after a few rings, Catherine’s voice carries faintly in the car.
They speak briefly, Lily-Anne assuring her she’s fine, that her luggage arrived, and “Yes, we’re already on the road.”
I keep my eyes ahead, letting their conversation wash past like the rain on the windscreen.
When I overhear Catherine ask for our ETA to Whitstable, I speak up. “A little over two hours to go.”
Lily-Anne relays the information, then she lets out a quiet exhale as another stream of questions comes through. “I’ll text you when I arrive, Mum. Yes, I’ll tell him.” She glances my way, mouths, “she says hi.”
I’m guessing that’s the abbreviated version, and I ask Lily-Anne to pass on my regards, too.
After a long volley of drawn-out goodbyes that would satisfy any Brit, the call ends. Lily-Anne slumps back in her seat with a sigh. “Sorry. Mum worries a lot. Ever since the helicopter crash—” Her voice cracks, and when she finally regains her smile, it’s too quick, too bright. A mask, I realise. “She never flies anymore, not even locally.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say in a low voice. “It would have been a shock.”
“I saw the footage,” she whispers.
I tense, recalling it too. As if losing someone isn’t enough, to have it replayed for strangers is a cruelty I’m familiar with.
Jeremy was on a helicopter tour over Sydney Harbour with clients when mechanical failure brought the chopper down. A tourist climbing the Harbour Bridge caught the terrifying moment it plummeted from the sky.
My voice comes out low. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—for you and your whole family.”
She nods. “It was on the news for a while. Especially the local news. Online was worse—the algorithms seemed to think I wanted to see news stories and ads for tour charters. That was when I quit social media.”
“Understandable.”
