But this isn’t it. The melody is hacked apart, her voice sped up and twisted into something she never meant it to be, her heartache dressed in a party beat.
Much as I want to excuse the man, to tell myself it’s just some faceless DJ who’s been hired for the night, I finally spot him through the window, centre stage: Jack Willoughby.
His silhouette is unmistakable, dark curls bouncing as he bobs his headalong to the beat, one hand clamped to the oversized headset at his ears.
My blood curdles.
Lily-Anne shifts beside me, and I realise she’s been waiting for me to speak. “Brandon… should I not have come here yesterday?”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically. “It’s just—” I swallow. “The song reminded me of someone I used to work with.”
Her gaze flicks back to the window, to the dancers, to Jack’s silhouette behind the decks.
I sense the moment it clicks. She gives a soft gasp, turning wide, searching eyes on me.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Nova… You represented her. Was she—was she the woman you lost? Natalie?”
I manage a nod. “Yes. She was one of my first clients. I discovered her. Managed her. Later, we dated.” I hesitate, then I add quietly, “I loved her.”
She doesn’t speak, and I continue. “Things ended when she moved on to a bigger label in the US—and to another man.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“Well, the split was for the best. We weren’t seeing eye to eye anymore.” I pause. “But a year later, she took her own life. It made me question everything. Whether there was something I could have done to prevent it.”
The heat slowly drains from me, a cold numbness pressing in as rain lashes my neck.
Lily-Anne takes my arm gently, sending a current through me. “Come on—let’s get out of the rain.”
I let her lead me away, grateful for her easy kindness. There are venues still open, but she must sense I need something calmer, because she guides me to the centre of the courtyard, beneath a large oak tree. We huddle near the trunk, standing on slippery roots. Droplets land heavily from the leafy branches above.
“Do you want to talk about Natalie?” she asks. “About what she was like?”
No one has ever asked me that before. About Nova, yes, but never about Natalie. How to describe a person in an anecdote?
“She was talented, of course. Chaotic and stubborn. I felt responsible for keeping her steady. But then…when I found her in our hotel bathroom…in the tub…” My throat locks, forcing the rest back.
Lily-Anne’s unsurprised expression tells me she already knows. I keepforgetting that these visceral moments I shared with Natalie belong to the rest of the world too.
“That wasn't the night she died,” I continue, “but it was the night she pushed me away. I got her to the hospital, vowed to take better care of her. But when she came home, I realised she didn’t want that. She wanted to reach for the stars. More fame, bigger stages. And me…” I scoff. “I wanted her to slow down and consolidate. So, she left.”
I tried to check in from time to time, but my calls were fielded by her new boyfriend, Jack Willoughby. He was the same age as Natalie, four years younger than me. I’d introduced them after he begged me to. It had seemed harmless at the time, until he wedged himself between us. How perverse it was, to call her number, only to hear his voice telling me she was unavailable, or that I’d ‘just missed her’.
Did she even know I called?
Did she know I still cared?
It might have made a difference if she did.
“I kept debating whether it was a good idea to fly out to see her, right up until the day it was too late,” I say.
My ears roar with static, memory dragging me back to the moment that broke me.
“Oh, Brandon…” Lily-Anne touches my shoulder briefly.
“I learned of her death the same way everyone else did—her face plastered across every newsstand. We’d been separated a year, but it tore me apart to see her used up by a machine that only wanted her voice for profit. They never saw who she truly was.”
“That must’ve been awful. I can’t imagine how you must have felt. How you still feel…”
