Chapter Five
When I came down next morning — although actually it was the same morning, but later and it felt like another day altogether — Jason was sprawled asleep along the sofa with Harry sprawled asleep on him. They were snoring in contented unison, although I was glad to notice that the spreading stain of damp along Harry’s bottom wasn’t mirrored by anything Jason might have done.
I inched into the kitchen, put the kettle on and poured myself a bowl of muesli which I’d just started to eat when I was joined by Rosie. She looked pinker and better rested than she had at any time since Harry was born.
‘How are you?’ I asked carefully.
‘Oh, Jem.’ Her hands went to her black curls and she tugged at them distractedly. ‘I am so sorry about last night. I was exhausted , but I had to keep doing the cards and then Harry wouldn’t settle and—’
‘It’s fine. Honestly, Rosie. Harry went off like a lamb and he’s been asleep ever since. It’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s had since he arrived. Courtesy of our Jason there.’
We both peeped around the living room door. ‘Bless him.’ Rosie’s face curved into a fond smile. ‘Aren’t they lovely when they’re asleep?’
‘I’m not sure “lovely” is a word I’d associate with Jason, but I guess he has a certain charm.’
‘I meant Harry. But, yes, Jem, why don’t you have a go at dating Jason? I think he’d be really good for you.’
‘Rosie, do you actually like me at all ?’
‘He’s not that bad.’ Rosie dared another look through the doorway. ‘He’s quite cute, you have to admit. All leggy, and he does have a fantastic bum. And he’d take you out, you’d meet people, rather than being stuck between here and the workshop with your occasional forays into York, where you only seem to meet freaks and loonies.’
‘And Saskia.’
‘This is the sound of me resting my case.’ Rosie poured herself a bowl of cornflakes, while I made us two cups of tea. ‘Unless — forgive me for this, Jem, but you aren’t into girls are you?’
The kettle carried on tipping while I stared at her and boiling water puddled on the floor. ‘Just because I’d rather eat my own ears than date Jason doesn’t make me gay, Rosie.’
‘I know. It’s just — well, I really don’t know much about you, Jem and it’s times like this that I realise it. After all, you never talk about yourself, do you? Before you came here I mean. All I know is that you’re from somewhere down south. You don’t flirt, you don’t date, you’re like some kind of woman of mystery type thing. Assuming you’ve not been recruited by MI5 to spy on the comings and goings of a deranged new mother and a bonkers artist — why the secrecy?’
‘It isn’t secrecy.’
‘Really? When we first met we were just sort of drinking mates so I never really asked questions, and then when I found out Harry was on the way I guess I needed a friend, what with my family being so far away and all my other friends still thinking E’s and vodka make a great night out. Particularly when I couldn’t even think about vodka without throwing up. Asking about your background wasn’t really on my list of things to do, not when I had a waistline the size of Montana and a memory like . . . what do they call those things that have holes in?’
‘Honestly, Rosie, there’s no secrets.’ I bent down to retrieve a dropped spoon, taking care to hide my expression behind my hair. ‘I’ve led a very boring life and I came to York to start selling my belt buckles and jewellery in a city where I thought there’d be more opportunities. That’s all.’
Rosie gave me a long look. ‘I’ve known you for, what, eighteen months now? And you’ve always been a good friend, always stood by me. And, after last night, I owe you one. But you can’t blame me for being curious, Jem. I’m sorry if you think I’m prying.’
I gave her a quick hug. ‘Nah. I’m just hiding my ordinariness and mundanity by being inscrutable, that’s all.’
From the next room came the sound of an enormous fart and Jason saying, ‘Whoah, sorry mate. Forgot you was there, like,’ and Harry gurgling.
Rosie began spooning up her cereal. ‘I take back everything. I wouldn’t want you going out with that. Unless you had your own wind-turbine, then he’d save you a fortune.’
‘It’s got to be his looks they go for. Surely. It’s not his urbane manner, that’s for certain.’
Jason came into the kitchen with Harry tucked in front of him. Harry was beaming as though he’d seen the funniest thing ever. ‘Two blokes in need of breakfast coming through.’
‘Do you always fart like that first thing in the morning?’ Rosie pushed the muesli packet towards Jason and began to unbutton her blouse.
He winked. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know darling.’
Rosie and I did a joint grimace. ‘Er, no.’
‘Anyway, ladies, I better run, catch meself some shut-eye before today kicks off. If you’ve not got any bacon?’
‘No, sorry.’ And Rosie raised herself on tiptoe and gave Jason a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks for last night, Jason.’
Jason turned his head slowly and gave her a lip-smacking snog which went on until Harry, deprived of his promised feed, squawked. ‘Don’t mention it, babe.’ And with a leer that was probably visible from Lancashire, he let himself out of the cottage.
Rosie was even pinker. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Harry but, bloody hell! ’ She breathed out until her fringe rose several inches. ‘I think I just found out how he gets all those girls.’ She sat down on one of the little stools and clasped Harry to her chest.
‘Good was it?’
She blew again. ‘Phew. Put it this way, if I didn’t feel like I could launch jumbo-jets out of my lower regions, I’d give him a go.’ She looked down at Harry’s busily sucking face. ‘If he’d promise not to speak.’
‘Or fart.’
She patted Harry’s bottom. ‘So. Are you down at the workshop today or what?’
‘Thought I’d go back into town. Have another crack at Saskia maybe.’
‘Or . . .’ Rosie peeped at me from under her hair. ‘Have another crack at the bloke you left your stuff with.’
‘He sent me another e-mail last night asking me to pick up the money I made from the belt buckle. So if I do see him, it’ll be strictly business.’
Rosie made a face. ‘You should invite him over. We could all have dinner — I’d cook and everything. Go on, Jem, it’d be nice for me to meet someone new.’
‘We don’t really have that kind of relationship. He’s a bit, I dunno, sharp. Edgy. Not dinner-party material certainly.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Ask him anyway. I could do my Mexican bean thing and Jase could come over and we’d be like two couples eating dinner like real people, not like big fat blobbery things that never go anywhere and have to have the TV on for company.’
I was about to laugh when I saw the shiny glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll ask him. But don’t hold your breath.’ I stood up. ‘Better get on. You know what Saskia always says about the early bird—’
‘Yeah, it gets eaten by the even earlier cat.’
‘Quite.’
* * *
It felt strange to be heading into town without Harry but it was a damn sight faster. I found myself standing outside Le Petit Lapin just as Saskia’s assistant Mairi was putting the blinds up and unlocking the front door.
‘Is Saskia in yet?’ I asked.
Mairi paused to consider the question. She was a stunningly lovely girl, slim as a young tree and with hair so unreasonably shiny that I was convinced it was nylon. What she wasn’t, however, was particularly bright.
‘Well, she was going over to the Harrogate shop first thing,’ was her final and very considered answer. ‘But I heard someone moving about in the back.’
‘Could be ghosts.’ I squinted through the trendily dark windows to see whether Saskia still had any of my pieces on display.
‘You think so? You hear so many stories, don’t you, about these old buildings? Across the road there, they swear they’ve got plague victims buried in the garden.’ Mairi followed me up the step and into the shop. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I saw a ghost. What would you do, Jemima?’
‘I’d probably try to sell it something,’ I muttered, looking around the new improved interior of Le Petit Lapin. Saskia had swept away the hanging displays and the little cluttered corners which had been ideal for browsing. Instead a few choice examples of what I supposed must be native art stood in the centre of the floor reflected in long mirrors. I stared and wondered which long-term institution the manufacturers were natives of.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Saskia swept into view. The mirrors reflected her too; it was like being surrounded by Lucrezia Borgia. ‘It’s called “Femininity”.’
I looked closer at the largest item. ‘It’s a twig.’
Saskia flipped her hair. ‘That remark just shows how little you understand about Art, Jemima. That is a central representation of the essential core of womanhood. It’s American.’
‘Right.’ I stared a bit longer. ‘Americans must be very different, if that’s their essential core. Looks like a bit of old firewood. Are they flammable generally, Americans?’
Saskia turned her back and began fussing with a small glass case containing what looked like a phial of urine. ‘Did you want something Jemima? Mairi darling, put the machine on would you, I’m absolutely dying for an espresso.’
I made the sign of the cross behind her back but she didn’t crumble to dust as I was hoping. ‘I was just wondering if you’d thought any more about carrying on selling my jewellery.’ Even I could hear the note of desperation. ‘You must be able to find somewhere to put it. Now you’ve got all this space. Or, you could stock it over in Harrogate, I wouldn’t mind travelling over there with stuff, if you wanted.’
‘Jemima.’ Saskia looked up at the ceiling. ‘Take a teeny tiny peek around you. What do you see?’
‘Space. Loads of it.’
‘And?’
‘And a twig.’
Saskia spun around. ‘Shall I tell you what you can see, Jemima? Shall I? Class, that is what it is. Class, exclusivity, rare items available only to the discerning purchaser. Now while I admit that your pieces are lovely, they are a little — oh how to put this to cause the least offence? — they are a little obvious . Darling.’ she added as though the endearment would make me less likely to want to kill her. ‘Mairi, do we still have any of those invitations to our official re-opening?’
Mairi tippytoed forwards on her immaculate little feet. ‘There’s still a pile here,’ she pointed out helpfully. ‘And over here.’
‘Right.’ Saskia pulled a leaflet forward. ‘Look, Jemima. This is my stock. This is the clientele I am aiming at.’ The brochure contained photographs of Saskia herself, often holding various odd items. In many she was standing next to people who had the sharp edges and branded hairstyle of the upper class. Everyone wore plastic cocaine smiles and showed too many teeth. ‘But do come to the opening, darling.’
I stared at the shiny oblong. ‘When is it?’ I asked dully.
A perfect nail tapped. ‘Next week. You never know you might make some contacts there. I am inviting all sorts of people, even the kind that might buy your things. Chavs with money, you know.’
Even though I knew this had been a futile errand I still felt slightly sick. ‘Who’s the celebrity you’ve got to do the honours then?’ I asked, reading the gothic typescript.
Saskia looked uncharacteristically shifty. ‘I’ve a few names up my sleeve,’ she said, turning to reposition her centrepiece in a way to make it look less like something swept in on a breeze. ‘Contacts, darling. That’s what it’s all about. Take some invitations. Bring all your friends.’ She smirked. I was hardly known for my huge social circle. ‘There will be nibbles but if I were you I’d eat first.’
Mairi and I exchanged a look. She had my pity, at least I could walk away. ‘Thank you,’ I said trying to be graceful in defeat. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
‘Hmmm. Now, Mairi, I wonder if you’d mind getting up onto the balcony with a duster . . .’
I left them to it. Shoved the almost frictionless glossy invites into my back pocket and decided to go round to Ben’s shop. He’d got some money for me and the way things were going he was my last, best hope. I had my website but that was never going to make me my fortune. I usually sold my smaller pieces that way; they were cheaper to post, easier to pack and a little bit more wearable than the big statement items I placed in shops . . . the shop.
Which surprised me by having two of my buckles in the window. One was attached to an enormous black leather belt draped over a dayglo-green guitar. It looked surprisingly sexy and also a little bit like an offensive weapon. The other buckle was attached to Ben, who was stacking amps to one side to make room for a cardboard cut-out figure I didn’t recognise.
I waved at him. After a second he waved back. Apart from the buckle, today he was wearing a black T shirt and a grungy pair of black jeans with a ripped pocket and his hair was tied back into a ponytail. He was stubbled and his eyes looked fantastic in the middle of all that dark hair, although they had bags under them you could have lost a granny in.
‘Thought I’d pop in. You know, see how things were.’ I stood in the doorway slightly awkwardly, wishing he’d invite me inside. With the way he was carrying on working and avoiding my eye, I was beginning to feel a bit stalkerish.
‘Things? Oh, they’re great. Just great,’ he repeated, wrestling the amps, settling one on top of the other and showing off a great set of biceps while he was at it. He had skinny arms but with guitar-player’s musculature. I found myself staring for a moment, then wincing and hating myself, although not really sure why.
‘Right. Only you asked me to come over.’
Ben stopped. ‘Did I?’ A grimy hand wiped his forehead, smearing it with grey. ‘Are you sure?’
Now I did feel unwanted. Not that I wanted him to want me, of course, but . . . well, he seemed to have forgotten that he’d asked me over and that annoyed me. ‘You really know how to make a girl feel needed, don’t you?’ I waltzed into the shop in my best affronted fashion. ‘You must be a real success in the dating world.’
‘I don’t date.’ His words were flat, emotionless. ‘All right?’
‘You do surprise me.’ I’d meant it to be sarcastic, but it came out a little softer, a little more rounded. Ben looked at me blankly.
‘So why did I ask you over?’
‘You e-mailed me last night. To pick up the money from the first buckle?’
‘Okay, I did. But I didn’t mean — I didn’t think you’d come straight away.’ He came out of the window display and squinted around behind me. ‘Where’s the baby?’
‘He’s my friend’s son, not my conjoined twin. Does this mean you don’t have the money for me?’ I was relying on it to give Rosie something towards this month’s bills.
‘Are you always this confrontational?’ Ben moved towards the back of the shop but watched me over his shoulder. ‘I bet you’re a real success in the dating world.’
Touché. ‘Ha ha. All right, I’ll engage in a little social chit-chat if you want, but since I’m here for the money I thought I’d save us both some time by coming to the point.’
Ben rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead again. His ponytail was coming untied, wisps of hair curled onto his cheeks and made him look like a scruffy teenager. But one with very old eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right of course. I just thought maybe—’ He stopped and went to the till. It was the old-fashioned kind with the push-keys and the little front drawer that pings out. ‘We said a hundred and fifty, yes?’ The till rang up a ‘no sale’ and opened. ‘I’ll give you two hundred. The other fifty is on account until I sell one of the other buckles.’
‘You’ve got two hundred quid in there?’ I craned my neck over the counter. ‘Wow, you must have some turnover.’
‘Guitars are expensive.’ Ben pulled four fifties from a compartment which contained many more.
I slipped the money into a pocket and was turning for the door when I remembered my promise to Rosie. I turned back. ‘Would you like to come to dinner one night?’
‘ What? ’
‘Dinner. At my place. Look, it’s complicated, but my friend — that’s the one with the baby — she doesn’t get out much at the moment and I’m a bit worried about her, but she wants to have more visitors and meet more people and she suggested . . .’ I saw his expression and stopped talking. He looked scared. Not just creeped out as I would have been by an almost total stranger inviting me round to their place, but downright scared.
‘I don’t really do—’
‘Believe me this isn’t a date. I’m right with you on the not dating thing. This is . . . look, forget it. I’ll tell Rosie I asked, but you’re — I dunno, spending the next ten years being criminally skinny or something.’
‘Do you really think I’m skinny?’
I stared him up and down. ‘Honestly? Yes. And those tight trousers don’t do you any favours, you know. What’s wrong with ordinary jeans?’
‘Is this some kind of quiz?’
‘Never mind. E-mail me if you sell anything else, and I’ll go and make a few more bits to replace the ones you have sold so far.’
I had my hand on the door latch and was pushing the truculent door open when he spoke again quietly. ‘I’ll come.’
Puzzled, I turned to face him. ‘Where?’
‘To dinner. Your short-term memory is really shot, isn’t it?’
Something deep inside me was relishing this banter. It was — now, what was the word again? Ah yes, fun . Something I had forgotten about, until now. ‘It’s all this having to restrain my intellect, use little tiny words that you’ll understand. My address is on the card I gave you. Little Gillmoor. Near Kirkbymoorside.’
‘Those are real places?’ Ben came past me and pushed the door shut again. ‘This dinner invitation. It is . . . I mean you obviously don’t — you don’t want to get to me for any reason?’
‘No, Mr “I fancy myself more than a bit”. I do not want to get to you, whatever you might mean by that. I’m only asking because Rosie wanted me to. Personally I don’t care if you never eat again.’
‘Wow. I bet you’re fun to be friends with. Look.’ He’d clearly come to a decision, and one that had cost him. But he’d stopped rubbing muck all over his face. ‘I need someone to help out in the shop. Only for a few hours a week that’s all, but I have these . . . appointments and at the moment I have to close so that I can go. If I had someone to just man the till — and with me selling your things, I thought you might be interested. Proper rate of pay obviously. And of course I am doing you a favour by coming to dinner.’
Say what you like about our man, he did have a lovely smile. For a walking anatomy lesson, of course.
‘Well . . .’ I balanced the time that I’d have to spend away from making jewellery with the fact that I’d get paid regularly. ‘All right. But you don’t even know if I can work the till or deal with cash. I might sell everything while you’re away and run off with the money.’
‘You’re trusting me with your buckles. I’ll trust you with my shop. Deal?’
He held out a grubby hand. I hesitated, but shook it eventually. He had a warm grasp, and fingers which were so long that they met around my hand. ‘Deal.’
‘I’ve got an appointment tomorrow. Can you come in around ten? I’ll hand over to you and then leave you to find things for yourself. It’s not too difficult.’ Ben looked around at the obvious lack of customers. ‘We’re hardly Marks and Spencer. Do you know anything about guitars?’
‘Some. I had a friend who played.’
‘I thought it was your cousin?’
Damn. I was usually better than this. Something about those deep eyes, his manner, made it hard to remember. Or should that be easier to forget . ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll run you through what you need to know in the morning then.’ A pause. ‘You were going,’ he said, at last.
‘I am.’
‘And dinner will be . . . when?’
I shook my head. I was feeling a little bit shaky at my own inconsistency. Cousin. Yes I’d told him my cousin played . . . ‘I’ll ask Rosie. Let you know tomorrow.’
A nod. A dismissive turning away. I went out of the shop and stared for a few minutes at my buckle in the window.
* * *
23rd April
It’s funny, y’know, how life is. There you go, strumming along, everything the same grey bassline, and then, wow, it’s like the melody just kicks in and there you are, singing it all out again. Like you’ve done it forever. Today was one of those days.
I felt human again. Went out this afternoon and bought some clothes, just retro gear, nothing fancy, but . . . She thinks I’m skinny! Whoa with the pot-kettle interface there, babe! But there’s something . . . she’s hiding something. Her face when she talked about the guitars, like she’s been told the apocalypse is coming on the back of a Gibson. And her eyes went all kinda deep and dark and I could hear this tune in the back of my head, up and down the scale like a warning. She’s trouble. I can feel it, the music knows it, but it’s like I can’t move out of the way in time, it’s gonna hit me and, you know what? Part of me wants that. Something vast that hits and breaks and blows me open . . . Sorry. That’s a lyric there. One of my better ones, from the days when . . . yeah. I know. Don’t dwell, don’t look back.
See, the trouble is, when you don’t look back, you don’t see what’s creeping up behind you.