I listen, intrigued. There’s something about him that lifts the whole room. Along with the combination of the stained apron, his lazy smile, and the guitar slung across his chest, he’s disarmingly casual, as if he belongs up there without even trying. I wish I could feel that confident playing on stage—or anywhere.
“Just waiting for your bread to toast,” Daisy informs me with a smile.
“Thanks. Hey, I was wondering…what’s Willoughby’s first name?” I nod to the stage.
“Ah.” Daisy leans in a little, lowering her voice. “That’s Jack, my cousin—but he prefers to be called by his last name.” She nods at the posters. “You know Dustin, right? The famous musician? He’s Jack’s uncle. He helped us set up the café a couple of years ago to help keep Jack out of trouble.” She gives me a pointed smirk. “Dustin also happens to be my dad.”
I stare. “Oh, wow. So…why didn’t he giveyouthe café?”
“Technically, he did. My name’s on the lease. But I let Willoughby run things to cheer him up.”
“He needs cheering up?” He radiates that kind of eternal smile that makes it impossible to imagine him gloomy.
“Yeah. His life used to revolve around my dad and his tours. So when that ended and we opened the café, Jack put everything into it. I think he thought if it was good enough, my dad would sit around jamming with him all day—but he’s in California playing golf.” She glances at Willoughby. “Don’t tell him I said so, though. He likes people to think his uncle might drop by at any time. Good for business.”
“Err, sure. I won’t say anything.”
Daisy uses tongs to slide toasted garlic bread into a paper bag. “It’s worked out alright. I’m run off my feet anyway, going back and forth between here and Canterbury. I’m a nurse.”
I brighten. “My mum’s a nurse too.”
“Oh, really? She must keep busy. I’m stretched thin between here and the hospital, but I’m thinking about going into midwifery. Maybe next year. Can’t think of anything cooler than bringing new faces into the world, can you?”
“No,” I say softly. “I can’t.”
My thoughts drift to Mum, who’s probably just clocked on for her nightshift. Meanwhile I’m here, floating through cafés like a wealthy tourist. The idea of her bustling down sterile corridors while I spend my ensemble money makes my stomach twist. I’m conscious of the plane tickets I owe her. I’ll have to start earning as soon as I get back to Australia and pay her back. A six-month visa doesn’t feel so generous when you can’t work.
“So, got much planned for the afternoon?” Daisy asks.
“I’m going to walk to the Whitstable Music Store. I need a new string for my guitar.”
“Oh, you play guitar? Nice. But bloody hell, that’s a trek, especially with an instrument. No car, I suppose?”
“No. I did consider taking the bus—”
“Is that all you need? A string?”
I nod.
“Oh, that’s easy. Where’s your guitar?” She leans over the counter as if expecting me to have it with me.
“It’s, err, back at my friend’s place, just a few blocks from here—”
“Oi, Willoughby!” Daisy calls.
On stage, he looks up from his guitar. Even from here, his blue eyes are startlingly bright. “Yeah?”
“This chick needs a new string. She’s got her guitar back at her place.”
Recognition flashes on his face. “Hey. Lily, right?”
“You remembered,” I say, surprised.
“Never forget a pretty face. Want me to take a look at your guitar?”
His eyes sparkle as though my tiny dilemma is the most fascinating thing in the world.
I’m spellbound.
