Chapter 18 Open Mic
Open Mic
Lily-Anne
The café buzzes with anticipation for the open mic, tables and chairs scraping across the floor as staff move them to face the stage. Several musicians are present with instruments and cases, chatting with nervous laughter.
I settle near the front, guitar still in its case. I tell myself I don’t have to play, that I can just watch—but I’m already winding myself up with pressure to try.
This is exactly where I want to be—under soft fairy lights, on a tiny stage, playing for a small, intimate crowd. Perhaps I’ve always known that deep down, but realising it now sends every nerve trembling with the wish to belong up there.
I can’t decide what frightens me more: walking home with the shame of never trying, or the prospect of actually standing up there.
My months with the ensemble weren’t nearly so daunting; It’s one thing to share the stage, melting into a large group; it’s another to face it alone, every gaze trained on me.
What I wish, more than anything, is for someone to be here with me. Mum. Ellenor. Someone who believes in me. But the only person I have in England is Brandon—and I can hardly ask him to hold my hand through this.
Willoughby appears near the stage, a fresh T-shirt thrown on over the same ripped jeans from earlier. He gives instructions to someone with a clipboard, then he catches sight of me.
His smile is immediate and easy. “Lily! Glad you could make it. Why don’t you wait by the stage? I’m just finishing a few things. I’ll be over in a minute to help you change that string.”
Someone calls Willoughby’s name, and he moves off, laughing and chatting animatedly.
Daisy comes round with a sign-up sheet. “No pressure. This is just in case you decide to play. Helps us stay organised. Don’t forget your contact details if you want to be spammed about our next event.”
I laugh and jot my details down—name, mobile number, instrument—but leave the last field blank.
Daisy taps the sheet with her pen. “No song choice?”
“I’m still deciding,” I admit.
“Nice! Willoughby and I usually wing it as well.”
“Are the two of you going to perform together?”
“Yeah, maybe—if he buys me a drink. But I’m still doing a solo. I told him if he tries stealing my spotlight, he’s a dead man.” She flashes me a knowing look I can’t quite decipher before breezing off, leaving me wondering what she meant.
As I set my guitar down by the wall, my phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. Ellenor’s name flashes on the screen.
Missed call.
Before I can redial, a text arrives.
Ellenor: Pick up!! Big news!!!
Another buzz—she’s calling again.
The room is too noisy, so I slip outside to take the call.
“Hey, Elle, is everything okay?”
“Oh, things are more than okay. They’re insane!” she cackles.
“Are you at work?”
“Not anymore. I just walked out with my stuff and—oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“They gave me the world’s tiniest cardboard box. Everything keeps falling out.” She exhales. “Anyway. I quit my job!”
I freeze. “Wait—what? Why?”
“Needed a change. And I’m coming to Whitstable.”
My mind spins. “You’re…coming here?”
“Yep. I booked my flights. Weekend after next.”
“That’s quite soon.”
“It would’ve been sooner, but I’ve got to move out first. Hey, you have a couch there, right? You don’t mind if I crash on that?”
“Technically it’s Brandon’s couch,” I point out.
“Oh, Brando won’t mind. He loves me.”
“Ellenor,” I warn. The word ‘love’ makes me bristle, even though I know she’s joking.
She breezes past that. “I want to be there for you. To cheer you on. Sucks I can’t be there tonight.”
“I doubt I’ll play.” I glance back at the café. More people are filing in and claiming tables. “Elle, I’ve got to—”
“Sure. Oh, before I forget, I thought we could finally do that Harry Potter road trip we always talked about. Is Derbyshire nearby? I’m dying to see Malfoy Manor.”
As she rattles on, a mix of excitement and unease settles in my chest. I’d pictured this time as quiet. Mine. And—if I’m honest—shared only with Brandon. With Ellenor here, quiet would be the last thing on the agenda. She finds a way to turn everything into an adventure.
The line grows quiet.
“Unless you don’t want me there,” she says cautiously. “I know this was meant to be your soul-searching thing.”
Guilt pricks sharp and immediate. It’s been so long since I’ve had proper time with her. Toby made sure of that.
“Of course I want you here,” I say, and I mean it. “But we should probably ask Brandon first.”
She snorts. “Please. Brandon won’t mind. I’ll call him next.”
“Ellenor—”
“Relax. I’ll call him next.”
“Okay. But…”
“Unless you want him all to yourself?” she teases.
“No. This is all just very unexpected.”
“I prefer ‘spontaneous’. Anyway. Good luck with your thing!” She hangs up before I can reply.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen as if it might explain what just happened. My pulse is still jagged, part pre-show nerves, part disbelief.
When I step back inside, the café is dimmer, the light concentrated on the small stage while the rest of the room sinks into shadow.
The open mic hasn’t started yet, and the room is still alive with chatter. On stage, Willoughby holds court, captivating the front tables with a funny story about a boating trip with his uncle gone wrong.
His gaze snags on me mid-punchline. “There you are! Excuse me, everyone. I promised to help Lily.” He hops off the stage and joins me.
“Hi,” I greet. “Sorry, I had to take a call.”
“All good.” He gestures to my case. “That yours?”
I nod.
“Great! Let’s get that string swapped over. May I? Show’s starting soon.”
“Actually, I can—” I begin, but he’s already crouched down and clicking open the latches.
In one smooth motion, he sets my guitar on a bench and pulls a thin square of cardboard from his jeans pocket—the new string.
I hover, the protest catching in my throat. To stop him now would be to make a scene.
He flashes a wink at the nearest table, as if this too is part of the act. “Evening! How are we all doing?”
The patrons smile, but I’m struggling to hold mine in place, every part of me tensing as white noise floods my ears.
He’s touching my guitar, deft fingers removing the broken string.
For a breath, a memory of Dad flashes sharp, his large hands guiding mine, his voice steady as he teaches a much younger me how to replace a guitar string. I blink, and I see Willoughby’s hands instead, fingers adorned with wood and metal bands, a woven bracelet encircling his wrist—and it jars.
Every instinct urges me to snatch it back, but I don’t. I already did that when Brandon offered to carry my case at the airport, and I regretted it immediately. I don’t want to overreact again.
After all, Willoughby invited me here. He’s helping me on a night when he’s clearly juggling a hundred other demands.
Even now, people call out to him, staff and regulars alike vying for his attention, yet he never looks flustered, just joking, chatting, and answering questions with casual grace—all while restringing my guitar. I can’t help but admire that.
It doesn’t change the fact I’m standing by uselessly like a dummy, watching the string tighten with each precise turn of the peg.
I feel wound just as tight. My heart was already racing from pre-show nerves, but now this? It’s too much. If I can’t even protect the one piece of home I carried across the world, what does that say about me?
Willoughby glances up. I hitch a smile, but something in my face must give me away, because his swagger softens. “Relax. I’ve done this thousands of times. It’s not brain surgery.”
I know. I’ve done it thousands of times too, I almost reply. All I manage is a stiff nod, which probably confirms his presumption that I’m a clueless beginner. But what’s the alternative? Actually, I can change a string, but I just happen to be a complete mess inside.
“Trust me,” he adds, “I can sort this faster than most people tie their shoelaces.”
My lips quirk. “All while doing brain surgery?”
He chuckles. “I like you.”
My shoulders loosen, though I still watch him like a hawk.
“There. All done,” he says, trimming the excess wire with cutters. “Mind if I borrow this to test the amp? I think someone’s fiddled with the dials.”
Borrow my guitar? I do mind.
“I’ll be quick,” he says when he sees me hesitate. “Saves me running upstairs to get mine.”
“Aren’t you playing tonight?” I ask with a small frown.
“Yeah, but not until later. And I’m a bit precious about my instrument—prefer to keep it out of harm’s way until I need it.”
“Me too,” I say, but I don’t want to be rude, and gently pass my Cole Clark to him.
“Cheers,” he says simply as he takes it away.
He strides on stage, catches the loose amp lead, and plugs it into my guitar.
I watch, gnawing the inside of my cheek as he launches into a rousing anthem by his uncle that soon has people singing along. At least he’s stretching the new string. It will help keep it in tune, on the slim chance that I actually get up and play.
The spotlight skims across the blackwood body, washing out the warm, honeyed sheen, while the amp spills out loud notes. It’s bizarre, seeing and hearing my guitar respond to a stranger’s touch. My unease heightens with each pass of the chorus.
Willoughby stops playing halfway through. “Right. That sounds fine.”
The crowd groans its disappointment, and Daisy jokingly calls, “Boo! Get off the stage!” Willoughby answers with one last cheerful strum before unplugging and hopping down.
He returns the guitar to my eager hands with a grin. “There you go. She’s all yours. Safe and sound.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, equal parts relieved and embarrassed that he noticed my discomfort.
“Anytime.” He studies the guitar with something like admiration. “That’s a stunner. I remember saving up for my first guitar.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders to ease them. “Actually, my dad bought this one for me on my sixteenth birthday.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds like a brilliant dad.”