Chapter 7 A Shot of Red
A Shot of Red
Lily-Anne
He’s left instructions for using the espresso machine.
How sweet.
Unfortunately, the gleaming thing hisses and spits at me like an offended cat. No matter how many buttons I press, all I get is something bitter that tastes faintly of seaweed.
After a few failed attempts to coax caffeine from its shiny depths, I surrender.
I fear we’ll be mortal enemies.
I mop up the evidence, change into jeans and a shirt, tug on my cardigan and white sneakers, and head into town, locking the door behind me.
I’m not ready to face my guitar, and I desperately need a good coffee.
And so, my quest begins.
I consult my phone only once, just long enough to see that the heart of town is a few streets over, a fifteen-minute walk if I don’t get distracted. Then I tuck my phone away, deciding to leave the rest to chance.
There’s something nice about not knowing exactly where I’m going as I follow the esplanade. The shingle beach stretches alongside me, waves whispering over smooth stones. Near the harbour, I pass beneath colourful bunting strung between buildings, the pennants fluttering as if to welcome me.
Whitstable is already waking by the time I reach the town centre, the low hum of early-morning chatter rising around me. Delivery vans edge along the narrow road, a cyclist coasting past while a man in a flat cap pauses to greet someone outside the greengrocers.
I hear the hollow tap-tap-tap of coffee grounds being knocked out from a nearby café, and the rich scent of roasted beans draws me closer.
Before long, I’m settled with a mug of cappuccino and a plate loaded with a full English breakfast. I send Mum and Ellenor a photo of my fried eggs, sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and toast.
It’s not something I’d normally do; Ellenor’s the one who always photographs her meals. But it feels nice, somehow, to share a small piece of my morning with them. Everything still feels dreamlike, and sending proof helps me believe I’m really here.
Or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing Ellenor’s jealous emoji—the huffy one blowing steam out of its nose.
By the time I’ve finish brekkie, the sun’s higher, and the street is bustling with shoppers.
I lose an hour within a tiny bookshop crammed with curling paperbacks, then I talk myself out of buying a sea-glass tiara in the next shop over.
As I admire a florist’s stall, I find myself wondering how Brandon’s morning is going. Is he out on a boat, sleeves rolled up, the wind biting at his face? Or trudging through waist-deep water? I noticed the waterproof overalls he set out by the door last night. I hope the water isn’t too cold.
I press my lips together. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Giving the flowers a wistful look, I continue down the lane.
That’s when I spot it: a window display of summer dresses, the morning light catching on a flash of red lace.
I stop cold. It’s a skater dress, the style almost identical to the daisy one I saw in the airport, with short sleeves, a modest V-neck, and a lacy hem stopping just above the knee.
There’s one key difference, however: the colour is a bright, unapologetic chilli red.
“Wow,” I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away. My fingers twitch, as if I could reach through the glass and touch the fabric.
Toby’s voice slithers through my memory.
“A dress like that leaves nothing to the imagination,” he explained after our first date, when I’d borrowed one of Ellenor’s body-cons. “Don’t you want to be classy?”
Yes, I did. Just like I wanted to please him. He seemed so impressive to me back then, with his sleek black hair, sharp glasses, and air of quiet authority.
Which is how I ended up wearing Mary Jane heels, red lipstick, and cake mascara everywhere I went, emulating the Hollywood starlets of the forties Toby was so enthralled by.
My face feels lighter now, with only a hint of mascara and lip balm.
I stare up at the red dress longingly. Where the daisy dress was all sweet innocence and sunshine, this one radiates something else entirely. It’s bold. Sophisticated. A little sexy, even.
It wouldn’t hurt to try it on.
I’ve hardly taken a step towards the door when Toby chides, “And what do you think you are doing?”
I grind to a halt. His shadow has found me, even here. I turn to leave, but the dress is stamped red into my vision.
Ignoring the urge to retreat, I take a breath, straighten my spine, and march myself into the shop to ask if I can try it on.
Minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection in the changing-room mirror.
I shift, the skirt swishing lightly as I catch myself from another angle. The woman looking back is the same as she ever was—average height, slim frame, Mum’s brown eyes, natural blonde waves—yet something feels altered.
I smooth the skirt, a tentative smile gracing my features.
The dress may be Hollywood red, but this time, the colour is my choice. And it transforms everything. Where Toby’s choices made me look like a cutout from his world, this feels foreign in a different way.
I’d hoped to see the version of myself I’d forgotten, but instead I’m seeing someone I barely recognise. Someone I could be. A woman who’s unafraid, carving her own path without waiting for permission.
A new me. I don’t feel like her, but I think I could be.
I didn’t even realise how small I’d become, trying to fit Toby’s mould.
Never again.
I step out of the changing room wearing the dress.
“Oh, that’s beautiful.” The shop assistant beams.
I smile back, though I pull my green cardigan over it as I pay. It’s silly, maybe, but it makes me feel safer.
Then I leave the shop with a stupidly pleased smile on my face, the warm breeze rustling my skirt.
Toby’s shadow lags behind, unable to keep up.
He spent so much time being dissatisfied with everyone and everything around him. I thought he was wise and discerning, that he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.
In reality, he was just a controlling asshole.
I’m about to turn back when the sound of a guitar drifts through the air—bright, rhythmic, alive.
My pulse quickens, my feet moving before I even realise I’m following it.
I’m lured across a small courtyard where a drizzle catches the sunlight, turning the air to glitter and speckling my skin with cool pinpricks.
The mix of sun, rain, and music is refreshing, and when I spot the chalkboard sign outside the café the sound is coming from, my mood lifts even more.
WILLOUGHBY’S – LIVE MUSIC, COFFEE, COMMUNITY
Beneath it, someone’s scrawled: Try the house blend. Strong enough to wake the dead.
Today’s specials: tomato and basil soup, focaccia melts, and lemon drizzle cake.
The menu almost makes me wish I hadn’t filled up on a big breakfast, but it’s the musician silhouetted through the window that has my attention.
He begins to sing, his easy tenor and lazy vowels curling pleasantly around the room, a pop beat thrumming beneath the guitar. It’s a Dustin Willoughby classic—one of those soft rock songs still played on wedding playlists, somewhere between Paul Simon and Ed Sheeran.
Intrigued, I enter.
Most of the walls are lined with old concert posters and signed photographs of a single artist: Dustin Willoughby. It’s quite the tribute—the owner must be a die-hard fan. Maybe the rock legend was even a regular once. It would explain all the autographs.
I glance around, half-hoping to see the man himself.
Alas, no Dustin.
The lunch rush is in full swing, the air humming with conversation and clinking cutlery.
The musician stands on the low stage near the front window, playing a semi-acoustic.
He looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties—far too young to be the retired star whose face fills the walls.
Cables snake around his feet, the lights catching the scuffed varnish of the floorboards as he sings with practised ease, every note pitched to draw the room’s attention.
It’s a shame most people are focused on their food.
I order a coffee to go, but on my way out, I linger by the door. A poster catches my eye: Open Mic Night. It’s on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.
I lick my lips. Hope flickers, but it’s pointless. I haven’t even opened my guitar case yet. Not that I’ve been here long, but still…
I glance down at my red dress, frowning.
Was wandering around aimlessly, eating and clothes shopping, really the best use of my morning?
Without warning, the door swings inward and slams into me. I jolt, clutching my takeaway cup too tightly, the lid flipping off as hot coffee splashes across my chest.
“Ow!” I yelp, stumbling back and swiping uselessly at the spreading stain. “That’s hot!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, love!” cries the woman who barged in, a business type balancing a laptop bag and phone. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I lie, though the coffee burns and the entire front of my dress is drenched.
“Here.” A smooth male voice cuts in. A hand appears, offering a stack of folded napkins.
“Thanks,” I gasp, pressing them against my chest. It’s no use—the liquid’s already seeped through the fabric. I can feel the beads trickling down my stomach.
Ugh. So much for ‘New Lily.’
“Bit silly of us to put the poster there,” he says, tearing the poster from the door.
I look up and realise it’s the musician from the stage.
His guitar is gone, and he’s wearing a linen barista’s apron, the light fabric streaked with cocoa or coffee grounds.
A black T-shirt stretches across his arms, and his jeans are more ripped than mine could ever aspire to be.
Glossy black curls graze his shadowed jaw, silver bands glint on his fingers, and a neat row of studs lines one ear.
Up close, he’s devastatingly handsome, with piercing blue eyes that see straight through me. And that smile—the kind that breaks hearts, teeth so bright I’ll need sunglasses.
He’s a different kind of handsome to Brandon: less stillness and polish, more rugged.
I swallow hard. Remember to breathe.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Let me get you a fresh coffee, on the house.”
“Oh, no, it’s not your fault—” I begin, but he holds up a hand.
“I insist. What are you having?”
“A cappuccino,” I say, still dabbing at my dress.
“You got it.” He begins working the machine himself, the churn of beans grinding filling the air.
I abandon my attempts to rescue my dress.
“Here,” he says, taking the sodden napkins from me. “I’ll chuck them.”
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks warming as I fidget with my sleeve. “Are you the owner?”
“Yep. I’m Willoughby. I run the place. And before you ask, Dustin’s my uncle.” He nods to the tribute wall of posters and photos.
“Oh, wow.”
He extends his hand. “And you are…?”
“Lily-Anne,” I reply, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure.” He leans on the counter, surveying me with interest. “Is that an Australian accent I hear?”
I laugh. “Yes. I’m here on sort of a holiday. I’m staying with a…friend.”
I hesitate for a beat, unsure how to refer to Brandon.
My father’s friend?
Family friend?
My friend?
The last one seems the least accurate, but it’s too late to call back the words.
Willoughby hasn’t noticed my hesitation. “Fantastic! Welcome to Whits. You’ll love it here.” He hands me my coffee, along with a paper bag.
I blink. “What’s this?”
“A complimentary muffin. Sorry again about the dress.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I shrug, trying to look unfazed by the giant pool of brown on my chest. “It’s new—I just bought it in town—so I probably should have washed it first before wearing it anyway. You know, chemicals and stuff.”
I cringe inwardly at my rambling.
“Well, it’s a real showstopper.” He gives me a movie-star smile, gaze unwavering, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. “I hope you’ll be back. Will I see you this Wednesday at the open mic?”
“Oh—” My throat catches. “I don’t know…I’m not sure I can play.”
“All good. We can’t all be performers.”
He chuckles, easy and unbothered, and I remember—of course, he doesn’t know I’m a musician.
“You should come and watch,” he continues. “It’s a good night. Live music, plenty of atmosphere. Bring your friend. And share our page—hashtag Willoughby’s Café.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he’s already on his phone. “Hold on, what’s your handle? I’ll invite you to like our page.”
“You can’t. I’m not on social media.”
He lowers his phone and stares at me like I’m crazy. “Really? Okay. Wow. That’s rare these days. And…” He bites his lip. “Sort of mysterious.”
Flirting was not on the agenda today. But neither was soaking up my caffeine via osmosis. So, for the sake of not appearing meek, I roll my shoulders back and smile.
“Mysterious is what I was going for.”
He gives me a salute, and I wave goodbye as I leave the café. There’s nothing mysterious about me, but I don’t care. I feel like a million bucks. That stupid smile is back on my face, and it stays with me the entire afternoon.
Back in the cottage, I change into fresh clothes and find Brandon’s washing machine. I may not have had much luck making espresso, but I’m willing to give this a go. It looks just like Mum’s machine back home.
“We’ll be friends, won’t we?” I whisper as I pop the dress in with my cardigan and press START.
It gurgles in response as it fills with water—a promising sound.