Chapter Seven
‘What do you think?’ I held up the finely twisted wire shape for Jason’s approval.
‘Yeah. What’s it meant to be again?’
‘It’s a musical stave. With a treble clef.’
‘Oh yeah, right, getcha now. Lovely.’ Jason turned his attention back to David Beckham, who was proving a little troublesome. The material he was painted on kept tearing away from the bolts Jason had used, and shreds of canvas hung from the footballer like an epic disease.
‘Right well. I’m off. If I get the nine o’clock bus I can be there in good time.’ I pushed the beginnings of the new buckle to the back of my workspace and rubbed my eyes. I’d spent hours working on it yesterday evening and my eyes felt strained and boiled. I’d started early after a night of disturbed sleep and bad dreams, and didn’t want to get caught by Rosie before I left. Didn’t want to admit to her that I couldn’t be a stand-in mum for Harry whenever she had work to finish, which made me dislike myself more than I usually did. Surely as a friend, blah blah blah, should be only too happy to help out with crying baby, blah blah? But something about Rosie just lately disturbed me. I had the feeling that if I was available she’d palm Harry off onto me whether she had work to do or not. A kind of blind hope had seized me that she’d find she could cope perfectly well if I wasn’t always there to step in; hence the getting up early and sloping off to the workshop. At least Jason hadn’t put in another night shift, trying to work whilst he alternately hummed and ran an arc-welder would have made Harry look like the peaceful option.
‘Ah. You’re here.’ Ben was fussing around at the front of the shop when I arrived. ‘Here’s the keys to the till, those are the front door keys. If you have to pop out be sure to lock up. I’ll see you later.’ He was pulling on a ramshackle jacket as he spoke, something that looked as though it had been a horse-blanket when it was new.
‘Is that it then?’ I squeezed past him in the doorway, coming in as he was going out. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me how to deal with shoplifters or anything?’ I tried to ignore the brief moment of contact when I’d felt the bones of his shoulder against mine.
‘Are you serious?’ Ben looked around the walls at the big heavy guitars. ‘All right, if anyone comes in wearing a tent, search them before they leave.’ And he was gone, trailing a surprisingly nice scent for someone who didn’t date.
I spent a pleasant half-hour searching for any clues as to where he had gone with his newly shiny hair and his expensive aftershave. There was a calendar hanging behind the counter but today’s date didn’t bear anything more informative than a circle in yellow highlighter pen. I did establish that Ben kept a spare T shirt in a drawer in the little kitchenette and that he had 145 unread e-mails, but I couldn’t log in to read them even if I’d wanted to.
After that I got a bit bored. No-one came in even to browse. I flicked through Kerrang! even though it was an old copy, straightened a few instruments which had become oddly angled under their own weight and finally started walking about reading the posters on the walls.
‘Zafe Rafale!’ they all screamed in various fluorescent colours. ‘Brit DJ of 2008!’ Zafe apparently had played numerous gigs in and around York in the last year and every single one seemed to have been commemorated on these walls. I wondered why. Did Ben have some connection (maybe sexual, I thought pruriently) with Zafe? Or did he just have an affection for dayglo posters? Maybe he was colour blind?
I was out in the kitchenette making myself a coffee when the bell went off with a vibration that made the walls tremble and ran down my spine like an electric shock.
‘Goody, a customer.’ I rubbed my hands and squeezed through the hatch so that I could pop up from behind the till. ‘Good morning.’
‘You’re a woman!’ The lightly bearded young man with the stripy hat and earrings took a step back.
‘Well done. There are men that have got my clothes off before they discovered that.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I mean, how may I help you?’
‘Is Ben in?’
Ostentatiously I looked around the tiny shop. ‘Good Lord, he appears to have sunk through the floor! Never mind, he might be skinny but he’ll snag on the foundations. Try again later, we’ll spend the rest of the morning winching him up.’
The lad was staring at the ground as though he really did expect to see the top of Ben’s head slowly subsiding through the planking. ‘I just . . . I saw . . . thought he might want to know,’ he finished. Presumably he charged by the word. ‘Will you show him?’ Almost coyly he pushed a magazine across the counter. ‘Page forty,’ he whispered, and by the time I’d picked it up he was gone.
The magazine, contrary to my first impressions and beliefs, wasn’t ‘Fashion Crimes and Your Part in Them’, but the latest edition of Metal Hammer , the best-selling music rag for the discerning heavy metal freak and indie-guitar strummer. Page forty was full of news snippets, what’s on the grapevine. As the lack of customers continued, I sat back to read through it.
* * *
When Ben came back into the shop, carrying the jacket to reveal the surprisingly tight white T that he’d had on underneath, I thought I’d found it.
‘A lad brought this in to show you.’ I slithered down from where I’d been sitting on the counter swinging my legs and presumably putting off customers in their droves.
‘Uh huh. Did you get a name?’
‘ Metal Hammer .’
‘Odd name for a lad.’ Ben hung up the jacket and opened the till.
‘The magazine. And don’t worry, I haven’t stolen all your cash, in fact I haven’t even opened the till while you’ve been away. I think he wanted you to see this.’ I brandished the open page under his nose, my thumb marking the relevant piece. ‘They’ve just brought out a guitar that tunes itself. Like a robot.’
‘Cute.’ He took the magazine from me and handed me a twenty-pound note. ‘Here. Reckon that’s enough for an hour and a half spent drinking my coffee and . . . no. Please, no !’ He’d looked down at the page of print and dropped the magazine as though it was on fire. He was shaking.
‘Ben? Hey . . .’ Cautiously I touched his arm.
‘What?’ He flinched, then his eyes searched my face, almost panicked. ‘I’m sorry, I’m losing . . . I didn’t . . . hear you.’
‘Are you OK?’
He gave a laugh as though something was very unfunny indeed, then slid to sit with his back against the counter. ‘Someone walked over my grave,’ he said. ‘Yes. That’s just what happened.’
He had a tattoo at the top of his arm. I could see it where the sleeve of his T shirt had rolled back. It was a curious Celtic design encircling his bicep and again I found myself wondering about him. I had to close my eyes and breathe hard to stop myself. Don’t get involved . . .
‘I don’t understand.’
He looked up at me. ‘Don’t even try.’ He rested his chin on his drawn-up knees. ‘Honestly, Jemima, don’t even try.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I was puzzled by his over-reaction. There hadn’t been anything on that page that my skim reading had shown up as being a volatile subject. Unless he was truly distraught that Metallica were bringing out a new album.
Again, that laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. No.’ And now he was staring around at the walls of his shop and I didn’t know if he was aware of it but his fingers were moving on his thighs as though he was strumming a tune on an invisible guitar. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. And that’s official.’
‘But . . .’
‘Go home, Jemima.’
He looked so distraught that it cut through my usual distance. Clenching my teeth I touched his arm again. Traced my finger across the tattooed lines. ‘Nice tatt.’ Trying to change the subject, to stop the obvious pain.
A hand came up and slapped my fingers away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ It was said wearily, heavily, as though the words were well-used. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t . . .’ and then he looked at me again with such pain in his face that I had to look away. ‘Just go home.’
I headed for the door and the whole atmosphere was so full of his torment that it was like walking through glass splinters. As I started over the threshold he called me back.
He dropped the magazine. ‘Jemima?’
I didn’t turn round. ‘What?’
‘Did you ask your friend?’ He was still sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin. His hair hung over his eyes, but I knew he could see me. ‘About dinner?’
‘Oh. Yes. Thursday. Is that OK?’ This was a ridiculous conversation. Ben was sitting there looking as though he wished the world would end, while I, feeling chastised and decidedly shaken, was conversing over my shoulder. And we were discussing dinner-party arrangements? What’s wrong with this picture?
‘Thursday? Fine. Yeah, good.’
‘I’ll e-mail you. With directions and stuff,’ I added quickly. I’d rarely had such a response to someone before. This feeling of sympathy combined with some other emotion that I was never, never going to try to identify, had left me breathless. I wanted to get out, to breathe, to reassure myself.
‘Thanks.’ His voice sounded a little stronger now, a little more sure. Perhaps now he’d established that I wasn’t going to make some kind of pass.
‘OK. I’ll just leave you to . . . stare at pictures of people wearing real clothes or whatever it is you do.’
This time he laughed and it was a proper laugh. ‘Great, thanks. Then afterwards I’ll just go off and ignore some proper meals, shall I?’
I half-smiled at him, still over my shoulder. ‘You do that, Ben.’ And I managed to walk out of the shop, even though every nerve wanted to run.
* * *
24th April
Did you know? DID YOU? What the FUCK did you think it would do to me, finding out like that?
I’m
not
doing
this
any more
* * *
‘Have you got a Metal Hammer ? The newest one?’ I flung myself into the workshop and confronted Jason, who was eating a sandwich.
‘Got a mallet,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Any good?’
‘The magazine.’ I hunted around the office, picking up and discarding various glossy weekly and monthly rags which Jason picked up like he picked up sexually transmitted diseases. ‘It’s got a picture of a bloke with lots of hair on the cover.’
‘Goes with the territory.’ Jason stood up and lifted the magazine he’d been sitting on. ‘This one?’
‘Thank you.’ I flicked through to page forty.
‘So then, what’s the interest? You gonna take up the axe then? Or you looking to be a groupie?’ He licked his lips. ‘ ’Cos I might just be able to help you there. Basic training an’ all.’
‘Jason, I am not a virgin.’ I didn’t even bother to look at him, I knew what he’d be doing.
‘So you say.’ Jason stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and came to read over my shoulder. ‘So, whatcha lookin’ for?’
‘I don’t know.’ I was still skimming the page. ‘Anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Metallica got a new album comin’ out.’
‘Not that. I don’t think.’
He blew a cheese-and-pickle scented breath. ‘Well there’s not much else here. Usual bands split, bands reform, some dodgy old codgers doing a come back tour . . . nah.’
‘There must be something that set him off.’
‘Oho! You getting some action, Jemima my love?’
‘You sound exactly like Bill Sykes when you talk like that, do you know?’
‘Don’t he play bass for Radiohead?’ Jason kicked my leg.
‘As in Oliver Twist , you illiterate.’ I finished my third re-read. ‘Nope. I give in.’
‘Well don’t look to me for help. I know nothing about the British music scene these days, spent too long being cosmopolitan, me.’
‘Spent too long freeloading in the States you mean.’ Jason had only recently returned to Britain after two years spent getting his name, his face and his only other significant part known in America. Apparently the American art world had hailed him as the new ‘wunderkind’. I wondered if they knew what it meant.
‘Gotta get going.’ Jason slithered away back to his studio. ‘David B won’t weld himself you know.’
I headed out of the workshop and across the scrubby corner-plot garden which separated the barn from the cottage. I had loads of work to be doing, all my paperwork, and some new-build jewellery and the website could do with a bit of attention. But I couldn’t settle. There had been something in Ben’s face this morning, something wounded and wary and it had caused a reaction in me, as if I was recognising a part of myself on display in someone else. Maybe it was time to start packing.
‘Hi, Jem!’
Rosie looked good this afternoon, I was glad to see. Neatly dressed, albeit in one of her old maternity frocks, and with a slick of make-up. Harry was kicking his legs, nappyless, on the lawn under a sunshade while Rosie put the finishing touches to another set of cards, working at the kitchen table she’d pulled outside onto the rough patio which surrounded the cottage. ‘Hey, Rosie. How’s it going?’
‘Good thanks. Saskia’s coming over in a minute to pick these up. Do you have time to set a tripwire round the front?’
‘Snaring animals is illegal,’ I answered happily. It was so good to see her back on bantering form.
‘It’d be a kindness. Well, for us.’ She slipped the last batch of cards into the cardboard carton at her side and taped up the lid. ‘How was work?’
‘Do you mean the paid kind, or the artistically satisfying and yet strangely unpopular kind?’
‘In the shop. Whichever one that is.’
‘It was . . . yeah, it was okay. Um, Rosie, listen . . .’ I was about to start introducing the subject of, maybe, my needing to move on, head for pastures new, run away , when Rosie clutched at my arm.
‘It’s Saskia!’
We heard the engine approach, like the trumpets of doom, and then a huge 4×4 articulated itself around the corner from the road and drew up on the gravel drive outside the cottage gate. ‘Uh oh, there goes the neighbourhood,’ I muttered to Rosie. She smiled at me, a tight grin. ‘Am I allowed to hide?’
‘No!’ Rosie grabbed my arm. ‘You have to be all glossy and welcoming and stuff, but a bit scatty so that I look organised and together in contrast.’
‘So glad I’m only here as comic relief,’ I sighed.
‘Besides you couldn’t expect me to cope with Saskia on my own. She eats people like us for dinner.’
‘She doesn’t eat anything as common as dinner. She’d have us as a six-course banquet, with fruit and nuts.’
‘Sssh! She’s coming.’ The door to the 4x4 swung open but to my astonishment it wasn’t Saskia who made the descent onto the roadside, but her husband Alex. He walked around the bonnet, held the passenger door open for a pair of exquisite shoes to appear, and then went to the back door and held his arms inside. He turned towards us with their son, Oscar, in his grasp.
‘Ah, Rosie,’ said Saskia. ‘Nice to see the baby getting some air. Gosh, he’s rather small isn’t he? Is he, you know, quite healthy?’
Alex greeted us with his customary weak grin. I’d heard that he was a cut-throat businessman, that property markets would crash and burn without the attentions of Alex Winterington. But put him beside Saskia and he was just a thickset guy with receding chins and hairlines and no charisma to speak of. Or perhaps that was just the Saskia Effect. After all next to her Attila the Hun would have come across as a bit wussy.
‘Harry’s fine thanks. Oscar’s grown, I see.’ Rosie tugged her curls into order and smiled at Oscar, who grinned back with a five-year old’s blindness to nuance. He was a handsome chap, with blond hair which grew at improbable angles and brown eyes like his father. He was always pleasant-natured too. Saskia’s genes must be circling in there somewhere, waiting to stage a take-over, but there was no sign of them emerging yet.
‘Yes, well, Oscar is the tallest in his year at school. Actually, talking of schools, we were just on our way to have a look at Blandford. They’ve offered Oscar a place there in September, so we thought we’d combine the trip with picking up the cards.’
‘Isn’t he a bit young?’ I piped up. Blandford was the area’s leading boarding school, strict, religious and, I’d heard from Jason, the local centre for the acquisition of drugs, as the entire sixth form supplemented their trust funds.
Saskia rolled her eyes at me. ‘Darling,’ she said in a tone that implied I knew nothing, then turned back to Rosie. ‘Have you put Harry’s name down for anywhere yet? Or aren’t you planning on an education for him? After all, it can be such a waste of money if they don’t turn out to be high-achievers.’
Rosie and Alex rolled their eyes at each other and I warmed towards him a little more. In his arms Oscar was wriggling. ‘There’s Jason!’ he cried. ‘Let me go and see Jason!’
On the far side of the lawn where the big converted barn stood with its doors wide, Jason was just visible lurking in the shadow. He was smoking a huge roll-up which he hid behind his back when he saw Oscar leaping across the grass. He must have palmed it or shoved it in the bushes because when he led Oscar into the barn both hands were empty.
Alex bent next to Harry and tickled him, but straightened up when Saskia cleared her throat. ‘So, Rosie. Have you finished the consignment?’
Rosie waved a proud hand at the box. ‘Taped up and ready to go.’
‘Good.’ Saskia touched the cardboard with the tip of a French manicure. ‘I’m glad. Because I’d like another hundred, ooh, I was thinking . . . in time for the re-opening? Say, by next Monday?’
Rosie opened and closed her mouth. ‘I’m not sure—’ she began.
Saskia clicked her fingers at Alex. ‘Money sweetie,’ she said in the same tone that I would have used to ask a dog to sit. Alex pulled his wallet from the pocket of his beautifully tailored jacket and handed the whole thing over to Saskia. She didn’t even look at him, just closed her fingers around the pigskin and I found myself wondering what the hell the two of them saw in each other. Or I did until I saw what the wallet contained — Saskia definitely admired a man with a large wad. ‘Five hundred. And another four hundred if you get me the second batch before Monday.’
Rosie stared at the money.
‘You can get a lot of outfits for that,’ Saskia said, looking at Harry. ‘Or at least, you can in those high-street places you shop at. And this young man is going to start needing things, stimulating equipment, you know the kind of toy. I’d pass you some of Oscar’s old things but we’re still hoping that we might have another little one ourselves.’
I was sure I saw Alex give a shudder when she said that, but I could have been imagining it.
‘Trouble is, you see, Saskia,’ Rosie was holding the five hundred pounds in a clenched fist, ‘I’ve also got to supply a few other shops. Not in such quantity, obviously, a dozen cards here and there but, you see, if I’m doing all these for you I won’t have time!’
‘Can’t Jemima help?’ Saskia flicked her hair. ‘I mean, she’s at a loose end now, isn’t she?’
‘Actually no, I’m supplying another shop in York. Busy, busy, you know.’ Carefully not mentioning that the shop owner had panicked me into thoughts of leaving altogether. Saskia would have offered to help me pack.
Saskia’s reaction to my statement was startling. She whirled around and stared into my face. ‘What? Which shop? Where? They’re not a member of the Board of Trade are they?’
Having for once gained an upper hand I wasn’t about to let it go, and just smiled. She turned back to Rosie.
‘Well, you’ll have to make your choice, Rosie. A hundred cards by Monday or I’ll have to rethink using you as a supplier.’ Saskia did the clicky-finger thing again at Alex. ‘Fetch Oscar, darling, will you? He really mustn’t hang around with Jason quite so much.’
But there was no need for Alex to go trotting off because Jason was heading our way, with Oscar holding his hand, pulling and tugging on his fingers like a Labrador. ‘Mum! Dad! Jason’s got this huge picture of David Beckham and there’s nearly a whole train in his barn, with all the controls and everything. He says I can come and see next time he goes and buys one and maybe get to drive it!’ Oscar’s eyes were shining with hero-worship. Jason’s were glazed, probably with dope. ‘Can I?’
‘You mustn’t disturb Jason, darling.’ Saskia motioned to Alex to take their son back to the car. ‘He’s a very famous artist. But it will be nice for your friends, when you start at Blandford, if you tell them that your family is on such good terms with Jason Finch-Beaumont. Talking of which, Jason, may I have a quick word with you? Rosie, could you carry the box to the Hummer for me? My doctor says that I mustn’t try to lift large things.’
‘She didn’t have a problem lifting Alex’s wallet,’ I whispered to Rosie as I helped her to lift the carton of cards into the back of the vehicle.
‘She’s not allowed to lift lower-class things,’ Rosie whispered back. ‘I bet if this box was made of diamonds she’d be hefting it around like a wrestler.’
We sniggered at this image of Saskia until the car’s exhaust filled our faces. ‘So. What are you going to do? Make her some more cards?’
Rosie sighed and went to pick up Harry. ‘Well, I have to, don’t I? I mean, she’s my biggest sales point and — forgive me, Jem, but I don’t want her to do to me what she’s done to you.’
‘She wouldn’t drop you, would she?’
‘You’ve seen her new style. How long do you think my cards will last in that place if she decides on another refit ? Anyway—’ Rosie wiggled her bundle of cash under my nose, Harry tried to grab it. ‘How about we use this to go shopping for the ingredients for Thursday night’s little get-together?’
‘Saskia wants me to open her shop.’ Jason’s voice sounded a little strained. It also sounded a lot slurred.
‘She never gave you a set of keys, did she? You’ll have the place full of one of your crankcase installations and dubious friends before she can blink.’ Rosie cradled Harry and began putting a nappy on him, one-handed.
‘On Monday. She’s asked me to be her celebrity.’ Jason sat down. ‘Me! I know nuffin’ about opening things. ’Cept for bottles.’
Rosie and I looked at one another. ‘God, she must be desperate.’
‘Well he is a celebrity.’ I looked down at the bewildered and befuddled celebrity in question. ‘I don’t think there’s much to it, Jase, you just have to cut a ribbon and socialise. It’s only Saskia showing you off.’
‘I don’t want to be shown off!’ Jason nearly wailed.
‘Tough, sunshine.’ I hauled him to his feet by one pathetic elbow. ‘Fame is a bitch. Well, no, Saskia is a bitch, you’re just the approachable face of fame as far as she’s concerned. Now, can I borrow your car keys? Rosie and I are going shopping.’
We left Jason flopping back onto the lawn and went to town in style.