“Dad would be proud of you,” Mum reassures me.
Her words only make the ache in my chest worse.
I turn to her, wrapping my arms around her middle like I used to when I was small. She’s soft and warm, the familiar scent of her rose moisturiser calming my racing heart.
As we pull apart, my hair snags on her silver hair clip.
“Ow! Sorry—” I let out a pained laugh as I untangle our blonde waves.
“Careful!” Mum cries as the clip falls. “That was—”
I catch it before it hits the ground.
“An anniversary gift from Dad,” I finish, handing it back to her. The lastone he would ever give her.
It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.
She fixes it back in place. “Right then—shall we head inside?”
The guitar case bumps against my leg as we move through the crowd. No one gives it a second glance, but I feel like an imposter carrying it.
As we wait in the check-in line, a Fiji Airways poster of a luxury resort with palm trees draws my attention. It’s the kind of place any Aussie in their right mind would go to escape our June winter.
I picture myself there, lounging by the pool, soaking up the sun, and sipping cocktails like I haven’t a care in the world…
And then gunning it across the ocean on a jet ski loud enough to drown out the thoughts planted in my head by my ex-boyfriend.
“Wishing you were going somewhere warmer?” Mum asks, following my gaze.
I release a breath. “Just a little. Did you see the forecast? It’ll be raining in Whitstable.”
“That’s the English summer for you,” she says lightly, squinting at her phone. “Let’s see…Oh, look! It’s not so bad. Next weekend’s supposed to have a top of 18°C.”
“Yay?”
She’s trying her best to stay positive, but we both know I didn’t book this trip for sunshine.
I’m flying to England for a man more than a decade older than me. A complete stranger.
Ahandsomestranger, if the publicity shots still floating around online are anything to go by. Sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of face that probably made artists take him seriously without him having to say much.
But his looks are irrelevant. I’m not going for love. I’m going for music. For a chance to get my creative spark back.
With his mentorship, maybe I will.
At the counter, I’m handed the boarding passes for my flights. Two for me. Two labelledEXST—extra seats for my guitar. I couldn’t stand the thought of it getting thrown around like another suitcase.
“At least you won’t be travelling alone,” Mum says brightly, smiling at my guitar. “Come on. There’s plenty of time to get breakfast before you go through security.”
We slide into the booth of an airport café, the air thick with the scent ofburnt espresso and microwaved croissants.
By the time our pancakes arrive, Mum’s earlier optimism takes a nosedive. I think being deep within the airport is bringing back memories of Dad.
She toys with a strawberry distractedly. “Don’t you want to know a bit more about where you’ll be staying?”
I shrug, swirling maple syrup around my plate. “I looked it up on Google Maps. It’s a cottage by the sea—two storeys, weatherboard walls, a little garden out the front. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” I pull out my phone and turn the screen to show her a row of pastel-coloured Edwardian houses in pink, blue, and yellow. “Can’t tell which one it is, though.”
Mum leans closer, squinting at the photo. “Hopefully the pink one.”
