We smile. Then her tone changes, the edge returning. “Are you sure you want to stay with this man?”
“I’m not stayingwithhim. It’s a separate flat upstairs. And you’ve already met Brandon.”
“Yes, butyouhaven’t. You were on that school trip when he came round for dinner. Aren’t you nervous to meet him?”
“Not really,” I lie.
This whole trip was a spontaneous decision, but now that it’s real with my boarding pass printed and bags checked, I’m not sure if I’m brave or naïve.
All I know is that he’s there.
Brandon Ward. The quiet family friend from England who spent his twenties managing artists and even worked with Dad’s record company in Sydney. He’s thirty-three now, and based on his emails and everything I’ve read online, he’s stepped away from the music industry entirely.
Technically, we’ve met before. He flew back for Dad’s funeral, but I don’t remember him or much of anything from that day.
I hadn’t thought of him at all until a few weeks ago. Grief carried me through our quiet house and into Dad’s office, where I sat scrolling through his old work emails, one after another, without really reading. Brandon’s name kept popping up.Steady.Grounded.Reliable.That’s how he described Brandon to colleagues, painting a picture of a quiet force in the industry who helped artists find their spark again.
Which is exactly what I need. With no one else to turn to, and my music slipping out of reach, I foolishly reached out…
Only to be amazed when he actually replied to my rambling, dog’s breakfast of an email. It gave me hope.
“If anyone can help me reconnect with my music, it’s him,” I tell Mum.
“I know. But I’d feel more comfortable if Ellenor were going with you.”
Me too.But my older sister is a hotshot city lawyer, too busy working herself to the bone. I don’t know how she does it—trying to fix other people’s lives. It’s hard enough trying to fix my own.
Mum sighs, forlorn. “Oh, my baby girl. Going overseas all by herself…”
“I’m twenty-one,” I interject, then soften. “But yes, I’m still your baby.”
“What if the two of you don’t get along? He and Ellenor didn’t exactly hit it off when we had him over for dinner all those years ago.”
I snort softly. Ellenor is combative by nature. But she supports my going, even if she thought Brandon was dull.
I don’t agree. From the few texts we’ve exchanged, he seems to have a sense of humour.
Like the photo he sent the other week of a half-renovated bathroom coated in plaster dust, asking what colour I’d like the walls painted. I jokingly suggested neon green.
He replied, promising to deliver an ‘exciting beige’. I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or just British enthusiasm, but he received a laughing emoji from me, anyway.
It felt strange to be bantering with someone again, like the humour had been bottled up inside me for years. Stranger still to imagine some Englishman on the other side of the world working hard to get things ready for my stay. It makes me feel…welcome.
I reach across the table and squeeze Mum’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
She searches my face, then nods and tries for a cheerful smile, though she’s never been as good at faking it as Dad and Ellenor. Like me, she wears her heart on her sleeve.
I smother my last pancake with maple syrup, hoping it will douse the nerves knotted in my stomach. I haven’t felt this anxious since I broke up with—
“Maybe this holiday will help you forget your ex,” Mum the Mind Reader says, topping up our orange juice.
My shoulders tense. While I’m grateful she doesn’t mention Toby by name, I’d rather she didn’t bring him up at all. “Please, can we just…not?”
“Alright.” She nods, but I can tell she wants to talk about it.
I don’t blame her. She lost me there for a while. Still worries I’ll go back to him.
I met Toby after Dad died and dated him through my three-year degree. By the time I graduated, I barely knew how to be without him.
