Chapter 30
Smoke and Mirrors
Brandon
A thin ribbon of smoke curls lazily from the patio grill, stinging my eyes as I peer through it.
Lily-Anne’s in the chaos Rupert and Barbara call a garden—statues, fruit trees, and abandoned projects everywhere—laughing at something Jack says.
She’s wearing her red dress, and she looks beautiful, though I’d think that no matter what she was wearing.
He’s beside her in a silky, open-necked shirt patterned with florals that should be tacky, but somehow he makes it look expensive.
I prod the sizzling oyster shells with tongs, checking if they’re open yet, but it’s hardly been a minute.
I steal another glance at Lily, then I check the toppings. Mignonette Sauce. Chilli butter with lime. Bacon and Worcestershire.
It’s not Jeremy’s recipe. I’m too distracted, and that particular ritual deserves better than a divided mind. It’s something to be done with care, with attention—reserved for remembering him.
Not watching Jack Willoughby from the corner of my eye.
Another minute passes. They’re over by the new frogspawn pond that’s formed between a gargoyle statue and a rusty car shell Rupert still fancies he’ll fix one day.
I force myself to look away. Condensation slides down my beer bottle. I focus on that too. Anything but her. Or the way Jack’s hand brushes her shoulder as they crouch down to see the tadpoles.
My chest aches every time I remember she’s leaving tomorrow.
Beside me, Rupert chuckles, the hinges of his wheelchair creaking as he leans to fish a beer from the cooler strapped to the side.
“You’re pining, Brandon.”
I prod an oyster that doesn’t need prodding. “I am not.”
“You are too.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
“As a wise three-year-old once said to me—you are, you are, you are.” The cap hisses as he cracks his beer open.
“It’s impossible to argue when you speak with such eloquence.”
“You can be as eloquent as you like, as long as you don’t forget to open your gob.” He sits a little straighter, not-so-tactfully watching Lily-Anne and Jack explore his garden. After a moment, he sighs heavily. “Oh dear…How’d you let this happen, old boy?”
I silently shake my head. I no longer know.
Ellenor’s laughter rings from the kitchen. Through the fly screen, I glimpse her beside Barbara, admiring the new commercial stovetop.
“It’s magnificent,” Ellenor declares, awe in her voice. “You could cater a wedding with this thing.”
Barbara beams, polishing an already spotless bench. “That’s the idea. Rupert wants to have the paintball team and their families over. He helps troubled youth, you know.”
Rupert snorts and mutters, “More like she wants the team over so she can justify that new oven of hers.” He chuckles fondly, then he nudges me. “You’re missing out on the ladies’ adoration. The older sister might do for you, you know. Why don’t you join them? Go on—I’ll mind the grill.”
“I’ll pass,” I mutter, dropping my gaze back to the oysters. “You’d gladly see me with either sister.”
“Indeed, I would. Don’t you think highly of Ellenor?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, there you go!”
But she isn’t the one I’m losing sleep over. I’m thankful Rupert and Barbara haven’t found out about my rose bouquet mishap. Now there’s a lecture I don’t need.
The air is rich with the scent of garlic butter, but all I smell is phantom cigarette smoke, wrapping around me as I watch Lily-Anne discuss tonight’s performance with Jack.
It’s hard to see her on his arm. Especially when he hardly pays her attention when she speaks, too busy looking at his phone.
“Alright,” he says cheerfully, tapping the screen. “Let’s do a quick video for the fans to hype them up.”
Lily-Anne laughs, light but uncertain. “What fans? We don’t have any yet.”
Jack is unfazed. “Are you crazy? The whole town’s invested in our journey.” He steps closer as he speaks, angling the camera to frame them both. “Just say something casual. Gratitude goes a long way.”
She shifts her weight, smile tightening. “Jack, we don’t even know if—”
“Just a quick one. Thirty seconds. Can you shuffle over? I want to get that gargoyle in the shot—it looks wicked.” He plasters on a movie star smile.
“Willoughby, I really don’t want to.”
“Why not? Look, it’s alright to be nervous. Just say how excited you are for tonight. Ready?”
I tense as I watch him crowd her space, Lily-Anne shrinking back as she stares at the phone like a snake about to strike.
“Jack—”
“Here we go. Going live in three…two…”
Something old and dangerous stirs—protective and territorial.
“Lily—come here.” The command leaves me unbidden. Not raised or sharp, but stern.
She turns immediately.
Softer, I say, “I need you.”
Relief flickers across her face as she threads her way through the garden toward me. Five seconds—that’s all I have to justify why I summoned her.
I lift the mignonette like it’s a matter of consequence. “I need your palate,” I say evenly. “Tell me if I’ve ruined this.”
She blinks, then smiles despite herself, stepping in beside the grill. “Because I’m such an expert?”
“Humour me.”
Behind us, Jack keeps talking to his phone, already drifting deeper into the garden, livestreaming to his fans.
She dips a spoon and tastes. Considers.
“It tastes like vinegar.”
As it should.
“A little sweet. It’s good,” she adds, meeting my eyes. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
My heart stumbles.
I nod, because if she ever needed rescuing, I want to be chosen for that role.
“Lunch!” Barbara calls from the house. “I hope you aren’t burning those oysters, Brandon!”
Not quite.
Lily-Anne steps back, already turning toward the door. “See you inside.”
As if we’re parting ways. I watch her go, pulse still racing.
Lunch is…fine on the surface.
The oysters are tender, Ellenor and Barbara’s salads are rich with colour, and everyone except me is in excellent spirits.
Rupert makes a show of seating me beside Ellenor, his matchmaking intentions about as subtle as a foghorn. He peppers us with knowing remarks that Ellenor finds hilarious. I’m too weary to bother deflecting any of it.
Jack, of course, is in his element. He laughs, he charms, he fills every silence with stories. He compliments Barbara’s cooking, praises Rupert’s garden, and even asks me about the oyster farm as if we’re the oldest of friends.
I’m tempted to call him out on it, but it would only sour the mood, and I want Lily-Anne’s last evening to be a pleasant one. Whatever Jack’s faults, she invited him as her guest; I can hardly exile him for being irritating.
Fortunately for me, he doesn’t linger long on me before embarking on a glorious retelling of how he came to be a café owner.
Beside him, Lily-Anne is quiet—not out of shyness, but because he leaves no space for her. I miss her voice.
Across the table, our eyes meet. My pulse falters, the current of awareness flaring sharp, as though something unspoken is urging me into motion. I smile politely before looking away.
This game of avoidance is exhausting. It’s agony to sit here trading pleasantries, pretending my chest isn’t threatening to split in two at the knowledge she’s leaving.
This time tomorrow, she’ll be gone, and every breath feels like a thread pulling loose.
I can’t reach for her without unravelling everything.
Willoughby can give her everything she came to Whitstable for and more.
He’s someone she can share the stage with; someone still chasing that dream.
What can I offer besides a promise to support her from the sidelines?
“You’re not eating, Brandon?” Barbara asks.
I smile and fork some salad into my mouth, forcing myself to chew. When she gives a satisfied nod and shifts her attention elsewhere, I reach for the wine.
It’s torture knowing every second I have left with Lily-Anne is precious, yet each one is squandered listening to Jack trying to delight us.
I curse myself for getting into this predicament. My dress shirt suddenly feels too tight, sleeves clinging, collar biting at my throat, like I’ve buttoned myself into civility.
Every instinct in me wants to leave, or to reach for her, or to disappear entirely. But that wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
So, I sit. I smile. And I wait for lunch to end.
By dessert, Rupert’s idea of fun has evolved into bullying me for entertainment.
“Come on, Brandon. Give us a song.”
Barbara claps. “Oh yes, you must! Lily can play too.”
“That’s right! We were promised a duet, weren’t we, Barb?”
“You were promised no such thing,” I say coolly, my fingers interlaced as I lean back in my chair.
“But you did promise!” Rupert insists. “I remember it clearly. It was only a few weeks ago, wasn’t it, Barb?”
“Indeed, it was.”
“Ha. You see, Brandon? Don’t try to wriggle your way out of this one. Time hasn’t erased my memory!”
“But selective memory clearly has,” I say dryly.
“Pish posh. Enough excuses. Lily doesn’t mind—do you, Lily?”
She shakes her head obligingly, and so it is that the two of us are wrangled into fetching our guitars.
The party moves to the living room, where the air feels thicker, stuffier than it was outside.
Everyone’s gathered—Rupert with his wine, Barbara glowing with pride, Ellenor lounging like a benevolent queen, and Jack leaning against the mantelpiece, watching us with that smug smile.
“So, what’ll it be?” I ask Lily-Anne.
Her cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the room as she leans close to whisper to me. “How about Sweet Caroline?”
A slow smile forms on my face, easing something tight in my chest. “A real crowd-pleaser.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
As she strums experimentally, testing the sound, the sleeve of her red dress brushes my arm, sending heat coursing through me. Every fibre of my being is aware of her, from the rise and fall of her breath to the tilt of her head as she tunes a string.