“Yes. Brandon Ward. He used to work in music.”
He lets out a low whistle. “TheBrandon Ward?”
“You know him?” I ask, a little surprised. Whitstable isn’tthatsmall of a town, and Brandon didn’t mention knowing Willoughby last night.
“Yeah, we’re good mates. Fell out of touch—life gets in the way, you know.”
Huh. Strange.
Before I can mull it over, Willoughby strums idly and asks, “Is he your boyfriend?”
Heat instantly rises in my cheeks, though I try to keep my tone neutral. “No, nothing like that. He’s a good family friend.”
“Hmm. Well, tell you what—why don’t you bring your guitar tonight? We’re running the open mic from six. Anyone can rock up and play. Bring Brandon too, if you like.”
“Actually, he’s a bit unwell.”
“That’s no good. But you’ll come, won’t you?”
He sounds so hopeful my automatic ‘no’ stalls. “Play? On stage? Oh no, I couldn’t…”
“Hey, no pressure. Just bring your guitar in early, and I’ll help you fix the string. And if you’re in the mood, you can hop up and play a little something.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is. Don’t worry—it’s okay to be nervous, especially when you’re starting out.”
My smile falters. I almost correct him, but I don’t wish to sound petty. How is he to know I’m not a beginner, that I’ve played my whole life and yet feel too afraid to even touch my own guitar?
The sting settles into something else—not anger, but resolve.
Before I can lose the feeling, I nod. “Okay. I’ll come.”
“Yeah? That’s great!” His grin widens, dazzling, and it reassures me that I’ve made the right choice.
As he said, there’s no pressure to perform. Even just bringing my guitar here, visualising myself on that stage, could be a step forward. It’s the sort of psychological trick I half-hoped Brandon would suggest.
As for the string, I’ll change it myself. I don’t like the idea of handing my guitar over to someone I don’t know. Besides, I’ve lived with guitars all my life, and if there’s one thing I can manage, it’s fixing a string.
Daisy slides a cardboard tray to me with cups of soup and coffee. “Enjoy. We’ll see you tonight.”
As I head for the door, Willoughby calls, “Tell Brandon I wish him a speedy recovery!”
“Will do!” I wave goodbye, but he’s already bowed over his guitar, slipping back into his earlier melody. I watch as his fingers shift slowly, almost reverently.
I return to the cottage, a low trepidation creeping in. I plan to tell Brandon where the soup and coffee came from, but still, I really wish the café logo wasn’t stamped quite so boldly onto each cup.
17
A Glimmer of Something
Brandon
I sit on the patio wearing my pyjamas and striped dressing gown, nursing a sore throat and a mug of tea as I stare at the kintsugi bowl on the table before me. Sea-blue pottery, broken and mended with gold lacquer, its repair lines glinting in the sun like lightning captured in dark water.
My mother gave it to me years ago when she and my father packed up to go caravanning. No explanation, just a knowing smile.
It took me years to understand.
