Chapter 11 The Mourning After
The Mourning After
Brandon
Grind. Tamp. Pour.
I wake with the sort of tiredness that makes me faintly surprised to realise I’ve somehow made it to the kitchen, struggling to focus on the espresso machine with bleary eyes.
It was past midnight when Lily-Anne and I returned to the cottage. Now it’s 5 a.m., and the windows are a wash of faint light. I should have risen earlier to meet the summer low tide, but the headache flickering at my temple kept me in bed longer.
Still, it’s a small price to pay for staying up to see Lily-Anne play her guitar. It cut me to see her so disheartened, her voice quiet as she spoke of her ex. She’s carrying a greater pain than I realised.
There’s a particular cruelty in men like her ex who make sport of dismantling someone’s confidence.
Anger flickers, but it’s soon swallowed by fatigue.
I lean back against the counter, sipping my coffee. She let me play her guitar. That alone feels like a quiet honour.
I can hear movement from upstairs. The house is quiet, though not empty. I’m aware of her presence, light as a held breath.
A minute later, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“Good morning,” she greets.
Though I heard her coming, I feel caught off guard as I remember my absurd getup: yellow overalls over a long-sleeved work shirt, thick socks and—the icing on the cake—my old sandals. Not much better than my wellies in the car. As for my hair, who on earth knows? Probably uncooperative.
I clear my throat as I face her. “Good morning. You’re up early.”
“Yeah. I think the jetlag finally hit me.” She stifles a small yawn. “But at least I’ll get to see the sunrise.”
She looks me over curiously, and I instinctively do the same, taking in her bed hair and pyjamas.
The flannel is muted compared to the dress she wore to dinner last night.
The vivid shade of red had caught me off guard, threatening to unleash memories I’d have rather forgotten.
Mercifully, Nova didn’t appear again, and I soon realised that on Lily-Anne, the colour didn’t bother me. Instead, it meant something new.
I wrench my gaze away. “Coffee?”
“Ooh, yes.” She perches on a bar stool at the kitchen island. “Are you going to work?”
“Soon. The tide won’t wait.” I set a second mug beneath the stainless-steel spouts. Steam wafts into the air like a ghost. “Cappuccino?”
“Always. By the way, I’m still trying to picture this oyster farm. You know, with its rolling hills and dairy cows.”
I chuckle, and I am formulating a response when a low, smoky voice curls around my ear.
“This feels rather domestic,” Nova purrs, appearing perched on the bench, legs crossed, her eye makeup as dark as her long, silky hair, the eternal red beads gleaming on her wrists.
I tense, the espresso machine blurring out of focus. Last night, I dismissed Nova’s appearances as nothing more than fatigue. Or so I hoped.
“Dismissed? Darling, you can’t get rid of your Lady Disdain so easily. Not when your guilt hath such meet food to feed it—and such a lovely thing you’ve invited under your roof.”
The barb sinks deep. It surprised me, once, to discover Natalie’s fondness for Shakespeare. That she could quote him with ease, and with wit. It shaped her lyrics, though most interviewers only cared about what she wore or who she might be dating.
I’d speak to that Nova—Natalie—and not this one.
“You’re speaking to no one but yourself,” she quips.
Indeed, there’s no one here except me and Lily-Anne, both of us ruffled from sleep.
Lily-Anne plays with her shirt collar as she looks out towards the sea, and my gaze drifts to the sliver of neckline where her top shirt button is undone.
There’s an unguarded softness in her face as she gazes out the window at the sea.
It stirs something protective in me, though I can’t explain why.
Lily-Anne catches me looking. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Sorry, still waking up. Cocoa powder?”
“Yes, please.”
I can feel her eyes on me as I finish making her coffee. I add a light dusting of cocoa, then knock the grounds loose and wipe down the machine to buy myself time.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says. “It’s my fault we were out late.”
This time, my guilt is firmly rooted in the present. How aloof I must seem, so far from the courteous host.
“Not at all,” I reply sincerely. “I had a nice evening with you.”
I hear the smile in her voice as she says, “Me too.”
I slide the mug across to Lily-Anne. “What are your plans for today?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she admits, taking a sip. She sighs happily, a trace of foam on her lip. “You make really good coffee.”
“Glad you like it.”
“I thought I might check out the sea, now that it’s daylight,” she continues.
“That sounds good,” I say, a little distractedly, glancing out the window at the lightening sky. “I should be heading off soon.”
She nods, and something about her inquisitive expression tells me she wouldn’t mind the mud, or the spray, or the quiet work of the flats.
“Would you care to see it for yourself?” I hear myself ask. “The oyster farm?”
She sets her mug down. “Really? I can come?”
“Only if you want to. It won’t be glamorous, but it’s another way to see Whitstable. We’re famous for our oysters.”
It’s an unusual invitation, but her eyes brighten. “I’d love to! As long as your colleagues don’t mind…?”
“Not at all.” I risk a small smile. “You’ll need to wear wellies.”
She looks momentarily confused. “Oh. Gumboots.”
“Just so. I’m sure we can find you a pair that fits. And a spare set of overalls too.”
“Bright yellow?” she asks.
“I’m sure I can find you a grey one.”
“Oh. So, no yellow?”
She gives a small pout, and I can’t tell if she’s actually disappointed or teasing me.
The sight of her lips sends a flush creeping under my collar, the oilskin overalls suddenly stifling, and I focus on the door before my thoughts stray further.
Nova’s cackle resounds around me.
“Trying so hard to be chaste, aren’t you, darling?” she simpers. “Shame about her baggy PJs. Don’t they make you wonder about her silhouette underneath?”
No. I haven’t let myself think that way since Nova’s passing four years ago.
“Until now.”
I clench my teeth. I’m eager for fresh air and to leave her ghost behind.
I muster a bright tone as I turn back to Lily-Anne. “Why don’t we get going? We could grab breakfast on the way. And perhaps have an early dinner of oysters once we get back? I bake them with breadcrumbs, lemon zest, and parsley.”
She gapes at me. “That’s how my dad used to make them!”
“I know. He taught me the recipe. I thought it might remind you of home.”
“That’s…really nice of you,” she says softly. The kitchen grows quiet, surprise and gratitude flickering in her eyes. Then she laughs it off. “Although I don’t think I’ll be much help in the kitchen.”
“Have no fear—oysters are easy.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I can tell she’s still thinking of her father.
Softly, I say, “I think he only taught me in order to take my mind off things after Natalie died. As absurd as it may sound, making oysters with your father is what pulled me back. It reminded me of home, and of simpler things.” I smile ruefully.
“When I told him I was quitting music management, he made a show of pretending to be furious. He’d hoped I would stay in Sydney and join his company.
He respected my decision, of course, but he swore he’d never cook for me again. ”
“That sounds like him.”
I weigh my next words, aware of her watching me, hoping for some faint echo of the father she misses. “Your father meant a great deal to me. He lifted people up without making a show of it. He saw potential in me when I barely saw it myself. I admired him.”
She draws in a slow breath. “Thank you for telling me that.”
We drink our coffee in silence. I try not to check the time. I don’t want to rush her.
“When do we need to leave?” she eventually asks.
“As soon as you’re ready,” I reply.
She nods, drains her coffee, and pushes back her chair. “I’ll go get changed.”
“Nothing fancy—joggers, if you have them. Trackies,” I clarify.
“I know what you meant.” She gives me a thumbs-up and disappears down the hall.
As I watch her go, phantom nails trace my collarbone. “Remember when I was like her? You fancied yourself my noble protector.” Her voice drops to the faintest whisper. “You always liked the fragile ones.”
I shrug away. That wasn’t why I loved you.
I hate that it’s this version of her I recall the most clearly—unrecognisable under heavy makeup, reshaped by the US label into the pop persona the world demanded. Australian accent gone. Paraded through endless tours, parties, drugs.
A flame that burnt too hot.
I busy myself by throwing together a sandwich, but sadness creeps into my thoughts.
I didn’t want that life for you.
“Then why didn’t you save me?” she shoots back.
“I tried,” I murmur, but she’s gone.
I abandon my half-drunk coffee, grab my keys, and go outside to wait for Lily-Anne.
Natalie was so much more than a celebrity, but after leaving Jeremy’s label, she was stripped away piece by piece.
The world mourned Nova.
But I’d already lost my Natalie.
I failed her—but I wasn’t the only one.