Chapter 16 Willoughby’s Café
Willoughby’s Café
Lily-Anne
I don’t go inside the café. I just stand there staring at it like an idiot. I tried in vain to find another place selling soup, earning a few sympathetic chuckles and a handful of sorry, loves along the way.
So, I’m back here, standing in the same spot Brandon and I stood last night. Lingering, as if stepping inside might somehow betray him.
What happened here last night wasn’t the café’s fault. It was a song. Deeply emotional, but an accident. No one set out to blindside Brandon.
And this isn’t some forbidden ground. In the light of day, with sunlight glinting off the windows, it’s just a friendly café. Bright and plant-filled, a little artsy, with the same laid-back charm as its owner. The sort of place where no one minds if you slosh coffee down your dress.
A place I was hoping to come back to.
A customer leaves the café, carrying with them the rich, unmistakable scent of coffee, nutmeg, and…
Pumpkin.
They’re still serving it.
And that’s why I’m here, after all. For Brandon.
Still, I hesitate.
Suddenly, a clean rock riff rises from within—and it’s not one of Nova’s. Relief unfurls in my chest as I recognise the Dustin Willoughby tune. The change in music feels like a quiet reassurance and an invitation.
The combination of the music and soup embolden me. It’s as if the universe itself is giving me permission to enter.
With my mind made up, I catch the door before it closes and step inside. I half-expect something dramatic—a lightning bolt, a cosmic backlash, a sign that I’ve crossed some invisible line—but nothing happens. Just the jingle of the bell and the sweet smell of muffins welcoming me in.
I breathe. This is fine.
Willoughby is in the middle of a sound check on stage, his guitar ringing sharp through the speakers. He doesn’t notice me.
“A little less treble,” he says into the mic before strumming again.
“Yep, that’s better!” someone calls from the back. “Now try the mic again?”
Willoughby leans in, lips nearly brushing, a lock of hair falling across his brow. “Check, check…one, two. Okay, give me a little more on the monitor.”
I drift towards the counter where a server with a name badge that reads ‘Daisy’ greets me.
“Hi, welcome to Willoughby’s. What can I get you?”
She looks about my age, petite-framed, with a heart-shaped face, catlike eyes, ivory skin, and a pixie cut in candyfloss pink that’s teased into a faux-hawk.
She’s pure Tonks from Harry Potter, with mischief in her eyes and hair like a dare.
Ellenor would clock it instantly. If only she’d greeted me with “Wotcher,” that would have been the icing on the cake.
I place my order for two coffees and two cups of pumpkin soup.
“Lovely accent,” Daisy says, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to feel self-conscious as I lean against the counter to wait.
I glance back at the stage. Willoughby has the same wet-look hairstyle Dustin was famous for, black curls streaked with highlights. That’s when I notice that the photographs on the wall don’t just show Dustin. They show this younger Willoughby too.
I don’t think he actually gave me his first name.
“Check, check…one, two. It’s just me, annoying the neighbours again.”
My lips twitch at that. He looks utterly at ease, confident in a way that makes it hard not to watch.
“Make the mic hotter, Willoughby!” Daisy shouts, flashing a grin over her shoulder while working the espresso machine.
“Check, check…one, two.” His voice drops deeper, exaggeratedly sultry. “How’s that? Hot enough?”
Daisy rolls her eyes and turns back to frothing milk.
My gaze drifts back to the stage.
Finally happy with the sound, he launches into a quirky riff—the Beatles, I think.
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 give you the 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 night shift.
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.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to be a bother—”
“It’s no bother.” He perches on one of the stools on stage. Even seated, there’s a careless sort of confidence in the way he sprawls, feet braced wide on the stool rungs. “I didn’t realise you play guitar. Did you bring it over from Australia?”
“I did.”
“Brilliant. A musician at heart.”
Despite not knowing anything about me, he says it with such genuine feeling that I’m touched.
Yes. I am a musician. Obvious, really. But hearing a stranger state it is strangely validating.
“Thank you,” I say. “And thanks for offering to change my string, but please don’t worry about it. I can—”
“Relax. I’ve got it. What do you play?”
“A Cole Clark Angel 2. It’s a semi-acoustic, similar to yours.”
I eye his Gibson, the wood stained bright red at the edges, the sides wine-dark.
“This?” He raps a rhythm on the body with his knuckles. “It’s a 1965 Hummingbird in sunburst cherry—my uncle’s pride and joy.”
“Oh wow. That was Dustin’s?”
He hesitates, so imperceptible I nearly miss it. “Sadly, no. Only because we had that auctioned off for charity. But this is the exact same model. He played it once, actually.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He beams. “Cheers. So, which string do you need?”
“A high E for an acoustic. Twelve gauge.”
“That’s easy. I can definitely give you a spare.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yep. We’ve got heaps. It never hurts to be prepared when you’ve got musicians booked and people expecting a show.”
“He’s always bailing some poor newbie out,” Daisy chimes from behind the counter.
“Like the time you lost your drumsticks?” Willoughby calls back.
“I didn’t lose them, okay? Someone pinched them!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
His smile spreads, lazy and lopsided, and he plays a few notes on his guitar, his curly hair swinging forward in slow motion as his head dips. He tweaks the tuning peg, then he glances up at me. “Bring your guitar by later, and I’ll fix it up for you.”
I’m tempted to accept. But that would mean lugging my guitar to the café. Not that it’s a long walk, but still, I’m more than capable of changing a guitar string. “Could I just pay you for the string instead?”
“Sure,” he replies. “If you’ve got the tools to change it.”
Right. Tools. I removed them from my case for the flight and had optimistically chose not to pack them in my checked luggage.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Lily.” Toby’s voice cuts through my head, sharp and unwelcome. I wince and shove it to the back. All I need at the bare minimum is my phone’s tuning app and some wire cutters.
“I’ll manage,” I tell Willoughby. “My friend can probably lend me what I need.”
“Is that the friend you’re staying with?”
“Yes. Brandon Ward. He used to work in music.”
He lets out a low whistle. “The Brandon Ward?”
“You know him?” I ask, a little surprised. Whitstable isn’t that small 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.