Chapter Eight
Thursday evening arrived and I was still trying to decide what to wear. Because of the stupendous coincidence of both Rosie and me getting paid in the same week (spending two days paying each other back the money we owed and then finding it about equalled out anyway) we were actually planning quite a posh do. Well, as posh as any do could be which had Jason as a guest.
I’d bought a lovely dress in a curious frosty green colour which made my hair look blonder than normal, but in a good way. So many colours made me look as though I’d gone prematurely grey, but this one made me look all Viking.
I tried the dress on in front of the mirror and couldn’t believe it was me I was looking at. Where was that skinny, scared girl now, the one with the bruise-stained cheeks and the gaze that could never quite meet anyone’s eye? The quiet say-nothing girl from the prison, head down and flinching as she walked? She’d been overlaid by the new me; Jemima. Poised, strong, confident. I squared my shoulders at my reflection. I could do this. I could stay living here, selling my stuff through eBay and Ben’s shop. I was doing it. I was making a life.
But then I went to straighten the hem, caught my own eye and saw straight through the mirror image to the horror beneath. The veneer peeled away and I was left staring at the real me, feeling sick. How could I possibly think I was coping? Had I forgotten so quickly what my life consisted of? And how dare I even relish the thought of talking to Ben Davies like a real woman might talk to a man, honest to God ‘flicky dress and glass of wine’ talk, lowered eyes and secretive smiles — didn’t I know what would happen?
I took the dress off and put my jeans on. But then of course Rosie would want to know why I wasn’t wearing my party dress so I was forced to put it on again. How could I tell Rosie that I didn’t want Ben to think I’d even considered the possibility of dressing up for him without her asking awkward questions about why I hadn’t? Or, even worse, after a couple of drinks asking him why he didn’t ask me out — oh God. I took the dress off again.
My tiny bedroom was full of clothes. My one nice trouser suit lay across the bed and it looked as though someone had skinned a corporate lawyer. There were skirts and tops everywhere else, but nothing suitable. I gave up and put the green dress back on.
‘Phwoooarrr! Top totty! Oh, it’s you, Jem.’ Jason was sprawled along the sofa, Harry perched on his stomach. ‘Nearly din’t recognise you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You look very nice too actually. Did it need surgery to remove those overalls?’
‘Ha!’ Jason tugged at the lapels of his suit. He did look very glamorous in his tuxedo, I had to admit. ‘Rosie insisted I dress up. Hey Rosie!’ he yelled into the kitchen. ‘You want me to put Harry to bed yet?’
Rosie appeared in the kitchen doorway, pink in the face and slightly flustered. ‘Oh, would you, Jase? That’d be lovely. I’m just finishing off the starters in here. God, Jem, that’s the door — will you get it?’ She wiped her hands distractedly down the front of her appropriately Rosie-pink dress and vanished back into the steamy depths.
I squeezed past Jason, who was on his way up the stairs with Harry, and opened the front door to Ben. He was carrying a bottle of wine, wearing a suit minus the jacket and with the top shirt button undone. He had his hair loose but sort of swept back. It suited him.
‘Hello.’ We faced each other across the crumbling front step.
‘You found us all right then?’ I took the bottle he held out.
‘Your instructions were great. The taxi driver never knew this place existed before now, it’s a lovely village.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied without thinking.
‘Build it yourself then, did you?’
‘Ah, I see Mister Polite has released control of your body. Come in.’
Ben followed me into the living room and then we stood, side by side, silent. He was wearing the nice aftershave again. ‘This is fun,’ he said finally.
‘Yes. Not a bit awkward or anything.’ I could see him eyeing up the dress, and to forestall any difficult questions I grabbed the bottle from the dining table and poured him a glass of white wine. ‘So. Sit down.’
‘Yes! Ma’am!’
‘I didn’t mean — ’ I took a giant sip of my wine. ‘Please. Sit down. If you can bear to soil yourself with our petty furniture that is.’
‘I’ll try.’ Ben sat. I perched on the arm of the saggy but comfortable chair opposite and carried on drinking. ‘So, is it just yourself here or–?’
‘Oh, no, I share the place with Rosie. She’s my friend, the one I told you about.’
‘The baby’s mum?’
‘Yes. And the baby’s called Harry.’
‘Right.’ Ben took a sip of his wine and looked around at the walls. They were plain stone, whitewashed and hung with several of Rosie’s pictures, but even so they didn’t merit quite the scrutiny he was giving them. The silence stretched.
‘Dinner will only be a minute!’ Rosie stuck her head into the room again and I seized on the distraction.
‘Ben, this is Rosie. Rosie, this is, obviously, Ben.’
Ben stood up and smiled. ‘Hello.’
Rosie came out of the doorway towards us, grinning a grin which slowly left her face. She turned to stare at me.
‘Jemima?’ she asked.
‘What? You told me to invite Ben, so I did. That’s still all right, isn’t it?’
Rosie looked from me to Ben and back again. ‘Well, yes, of course. Sorry, I’m just — distracted. Um. Nice to meet you — Ben. Jem, could you come and give me a quick hand, the chilli is playing up out here.’
‘All right.’ I followed her into the tiny kitchen, which was full of bubbling noises and steam, accounting for the frantic nature of her curls. She shut the door behind us.
‘Jemima!’
‘What?’ I was genuinely puzzled by her reaction. ‘I know he’s a bit skinny but he’s OK, honestly. Well mostly OK. Especially when he’s not wearing Lycra.’
Rosie dropped her voice so that it was barely audible over the sound of the boiling. ‘Don’t you know who he is ?’
‘Yes, I already said. It’s Ben.’
Rosie ran her hands through her curls. She now looked as though she’d been attacked by an evil hairdresser. ‘Jemima,’ she said very evenly. ‘I know I’ve never asked questions about your past or anything but tell me this. Did you spend the last five years on the moon ? That man, in there.’ Rosie put both hands on my shoulders. ‘That man is Baz Davies .’
‘His name’s Ben.’
‘No!’ Rosie shook me now. ‘Baz Davies! The Baz Davies. Lead singer and guitarist in the biggest band to come out of Yorkshire in the last ten years and I am including the Arctic Monkeys in that. Haven’t you ever heard of Willow Down?’ She sighed. ‘Listen. Willow Down. Huge. Sensation. Made Coldplay look like some outfit touting round Working Men’s Clubs. Went to the States. Huge in States. Baz Davies . . .’ She flung out an arm towards the living room. ‘. . . dropped out. Went to ground. Band fell apart.’
Benedict Arthur Zacchary Davies.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘He’s been off the radar for five years. No-one knows what happened, they were in the middle of a tour of the States that was, apparently, phenomenal. I saw them once.’ Rosie’s eyes suddenly went misty. ‘Fibbers, that club in York. They played Foolish Words , my favourite, I got drunk and went home with a bloke who turned out to be hung like a mule. Ah, happy days.’
I walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Ben was still perched on the edge of the sofa, rolling his now empty glass between his fingers.
‘We subdued the chilli but I’m afraid the rice might go for your throat,’ I said.
Ben looked at me. ‘You know.’
‘What? That you used to be in a band? Yes. Rosie recognised you. Saw you play Fibbers, apparently.’
He gave a short laugh, then shook his head. ‘That’s gone, not me any more. This is who I am.’
I felt a little tremble down my spine. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m not that person now.’ Ben stood up.
‘I understand.’
‘I’d better go.’ Ben handed me the glass. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it would be all right, but people keep — it’s like they won’t let it go.’ He turned and headed for the front door, but I followed, catching him in the doorway.
‘Ben, wait.’ I grabbed his arm and he went suddenly still, like a cat picked up by the scruff. Then he turned in my grasp. ‘Look, I don’t care who you are. I don’t even know who you were , I never heard of Willow Down before tonight. All I know is you’re Ben Davies and you’ve got a shop in York. That’s all I want to know.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. Really, Jemima. You’re best off staying clear of it all. You’re a nice girl and I was getting used to being Ben with you, but–’ he tailed off, eyes clouding.
‘But it’s like being haunted by your former self?’
A sudden, surprised smile rose on his face. ‘Yeah. Pretty much. Whatever I do, wherever I am, someone will recognise me. Oh, it’s less than it used to be, now it only happens once, twice a year and they get fed up with waiting for a sound-bite from me on why I quit, how could I do that to the band, all that shit. My customers stopped bothering to recognise me ages ago. But it’s there, always, there in the background with the looks and the whispers.’ The smile was gone now, replaced by a hunted look. ‘Sometimes — Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this — sometimes I wish that Baz Davies had died.’
‘Oh, Ben.’ I patted his arm and he let me. ‘Look. Stay and have dinner. Rosie’s all right, just ask about Harry and she’ll forget anyone else in the world exists let alone some ex-guitarist.’
‘And you?’ There was an expression which might have been hope in his eyes.
‘Oh, I don’t give a stuff who you were. Right now you’re the only person willing to sell my buckles so if you told me you wanted to be known as Mary Jane I’d go along with it.’
Ben leaned back against the wall. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Sooner or later people are going to forget, you know. You’re just going to be this bloke who used to play in a band, like millions of others. Come on, Ben. Stop hiding. Get on with your life.’ I felt myself cringing inside — I could talk the talk like no other, but when it came to walking the walk . . .
‘I can’t. I can’t take the questions, Jemima.’
‘Then why don’t you give a press conference and tell them what they want to know?’
‘No.’
‘Oh come on, people will forgive almost anything these days! What was it, drugs? Booze? Drugs and booze? Are you gay?’
For a second his eyes were full of the dusk. ‘Why can’t you just let it be? Why can’t anyone?’
I looked over my shoulder into the cottage. Jason was standing watching us, half-hidden in the entrance to the living room. He raised his eyebrows at me.
‘Ben?’ Ben had his head down, hair covering his face. I touched him again, finger to shoulder and he shuddered like a nervous horse. ‘Come on. Rosie’s made one of her Mexican specials. You wouldn’t want to disappoint a woman who can cook like she can, trust me. Your stomach will love you for it.’
Every word he’d said had slit through my skin and run into my veins. Every word I’d said to him had been loaded with hypocrisy and I wished I could tell him so. But I couldn’t.
‘Just promise me one thing.’ Ben looked up at me eventually. ‘Before I go back in there, before I have to start pretending all over again.’ His eyes were very dark. ‘Promise me that it won’t make a difference. Now you know who I am, who I was — that everything will go on the same.’
‘What, that we’ll still snap and snipe at each other like a couple of prize bitches? Oh, I think that’s without question.’
A small smile tinted his face. It took away some of the pallor of his skin and gave his eyes a bit of sparkle. ‘Oh, good. I think.’
‘Although I have to say that you’re the first famous person I’ve ever met who was glad that I didn’t know who they were.’
‘You’ve met a lot, have you?’ Ben let me lead him back into the living room. The hunched, scared expression was mostly gone.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Well, I’d been locked up with a woman who’d stalked Robbie Williams. That probably counted.