Chapter Ten
Ben had left a note pinned to the door of the shop. ‘Had to go early. Door’s open, see you later. B.’ There was a smudge after the initial, almost as though his pen had hovered uncertainly over an ‘x’ then decided against it, for which I was glad.
I went straight to the computer and hit Ben’s guest account. Googled ‘Willow Down’, 4 million entries. I could be reading through this stuff until I started thinking all rock musicians were long-haired layabouts who should get a proper job. I went for the first, the Official Site. Opened the page and there was Ben staring back at me from the screen. A little younger, a little unfocused about the eyes, but definitely Ben. Next to him was the heading ‘Band to reform without troubled front man Baz Davies’.
Oh.
Well, at least I knew now what he’d seen in Metal Hammer . No wonder he’d been so upset, it must be like finding out that all your best mates from school had a reunion and never even invited you. I read on. ‘The new line-up with Zafe Rafale moving from bass to lead guitar will be playing dates from next spring. There’s been no news on Baz Davies since he walked out on the band in Philadelphia during their world tour in 2005.’
‘You only had to ask.’
The voice from over my left shoulder made me leap up and crack my shins against the counter. The pain, in turn, made me angry. ‘What the hell are you doing, creeping up on me like that!’
‘Creeping? Oh yes, sorry, I was forgetting that this was my shop and that on no account was I to walk in through the front door!’ Ben slapped his forehead. ‘I just keep on not remembering that.’
I wanted to blank the screen but since I knew he’d already seen what I was looking at, it seemed pointless. Still, the picture of him almost throbbed. ‘Why are you back?’
‘Appointment was cancelled.’ He looked at the computer. ‘You Googled me.’
‘I . . .’
Ben shrugged. ‘Yeah. Well.’ We both stared at different parts of the floor for a moment. Ben had his hands in the pockets of a pair of black jeans which made him look even skinnier than usual. ‘I think this is where you apologise?’ he said at last.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah. Then I make us both a coffee and we forget any of this ever happened.’ Those deep brown eyes flickered up to meet mine for a moment. ‘Please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I started. The wary look stayed in his eyes. ‘But you’re — you were incredible, it says so here. “Best guitarist of a generation”.’
‘Things change.’
‘Yes but—’
‘Jemima.’ Ben came very close, standing with his face almost touching mine. ‘It hurts. It hurts like hell, what I used to be, all the things I lost. So please don’t tell me that I ought to go back to the band or that I should start playing again or any of the other crap that people have spouted at me. If I could, I would. But I can’t. All right?’
‘You’re hiding.’
‘Yes, I’m hiding!’ Ben turned away from me.
‘But what is there to hide from?’
He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead he stared at the posters which papered the shop walls so colourfully. ‘Zafe Rafale was my best friend,’ he half-whispered. ‘My mate. We did everything together after we left school, started the band, got drunk, got stoned. Shared everything. Then I let him down big time.’ Now he faced me. ‘Things got fucked up so royally, so spectacularly that I—’ Suddenly he stopped talking. His face was a blank mask. ‘This isn’t your problem.’
I had to knit my fingers together to stop myself reaching out for him. The pain was so manifest that he was hunched slightly beneath it and I wanted to touch him. To take some of it away. He was standing so close that I’d only have to reach up and I could put my arms around his neck, pull his head down and — hell, what was the matter with me?
‘OK, I’m sorry I Googled you. I was curious that’s all. But all it is, you were the singer in a band I’ve never heard of, and now you’re not.’
Ben smiled and the mood lifted. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely it. Mr Nobody, me.’
We grinned at each other and, for one tiny moment, the sheet which hung between me and the real world lifted a fraction and I caught a glimpse of the life I could have, if I could only stop walking away from the possibility. A man, maybe not this man, but one like him. A baby, a Harry of my own, if I wanted one. A career rather than makeweight jobs to earn money. I could have any of those things, all of them, perhaps, if I wanted it enough, and all I had to do was stop running.
‘Shall we go out?’
The barrier slammed down again as I stepped back and banged myself again, my hip this time. ‘What? Out? Like as in out out?’
‘I meant shall we go out for a coffee rather than drink it here? There’s a snazzy café round the corner and I feel like celebrating the cancellation of my appointment with a hazelnut latte and a big bun.’
I breathed again. Why had I thought that he was asking me to go out with him, as in a date? When I already knew that he didn’t. And I wouldn’t, anyway? Oh, this was not good, this was not good at all. ‘All right. But it better be a very big bun.’
‘Oh, and I got some flowers. Would you take them to Rosie? To say thank you for dinner last night?’
I surprised myself with the fierce hot burn of jealousy. ‘If you want.’
‘She’s a lovely girl. And Jason’s a nice whatever it is that Jason is. Artist. A good guy.’
‘Yes, they’re lovely, both of them.’
Ben went to the kitchenette to get the flowers and then busied himself locking the shop door. ‘Are you and Jason . . . ?’ He made a kind of wavy motion with his hands. ‘Or is Rosie?’
‘Good grief, no! He’s a friend. In as much as you can befriend a wild animal.’
‘Right. And you’re all going to this opening thing on Monday?’
‘Supposed to be, yes. Rosie’s flat out doing some more cards for Saskia. She’s going to keep Saskia sweet, I’m only going in the hope that she might change her mind about stocking my jewellery, and Jason’s going because he’s kicking it all off. So we’re not what you might call typical guests.’
Ben steered me into the tiny coffeehouse beside the art gallery. Fountains tinkled outside and made me realise how much I needed the toilet. ‘If . . . if I went . . . ?’
I was so shocked I nearly wet myself. ‘What? You’d come? What if she recognises you?’
‘Well . . .’ Ben lowered his voice as the rest of the coffee queue looked up at us. ‘Most people don’t. It’s five years ago and I was quite different then.’
I just gaped.
‘And it’s not like I’m in hiding or anything. I mean, I walk around, people see me. I just don’t — it’s not as if I go round introducing myself “Hi, I’m Ben Davies, I used to be in Willow Down”, or being on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, or programmes like that. Most people who do recognise me just think they’re mistaken.’
Oh, God. I was going to wee. Here, on the spot. I was astonished that the entire crowd in the coffee shop, which seemed to be entirely made up from a SAGA coach trip and some overdressed Goths who’d probably got lost on their way to Whitby, weren’t all listening in to our conversation. This man, who’d been a virtual hermit for the last five years, was offering to come to a party. With me.
‘I’m sorry, I need to go to the toilet,’ I said.
‘The sound of the flush helps you think, does it?’ Ben asked, a bit kindly for my liking.
‘It’s either that or pee on your shoes.’
‘So, do you want me to come then?’
Oh, more than anything, Ben Davies, do I want you to come with me. I’ll get you to play your guitar to me and you’ll realise that you’ve nothing to fear from the world. I’ll tell you my secrets and my fears, and just maybe sharing them will take away their power. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ was what I said.
I sat on the toilet for far longer than was necessary with my head resting against the cool paintwork of the stall. I couldn’t believe that I had so nearly betrayed myself. What the hell was the point of making all those promises, of swearing that I would be my own person, only to have it all wiped out by one man? All right, that man was — come on, say it, Jemima — that man was sexy, but you swore , Jemima, on your brothers’ lives, that you’d never let yourself get used again. He might not look like a user, but none of them do, do they? Until they have you, and then . . .
When I came out of the toilet, Ben was sitting opposite a man at a corner table. They were deep in a conversation which involved a lot of hand-waving. ‘You don’t understand anything about me, do you?’ Ben was saying as I approached. ‘I’m not giving in to this!’
‘It’s not a question of “giving in” Ben,’ the other man replied quietly. ‘It’s a question of adjustment.’
Ben was breathing deeply. His skin had the faintest trace of sweat on it and his eyes contained an expression of barely restrained panic. ‘Ben?’
He jumped as I touched his arm. ‘God! Jemima!’
‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ I looked from Ben to his friend. It was the man I’d seen outside Ben’s shop the time that Ben had kissed me. This time he was wearing cords and a frayed-looking shirt, but he still had an air of authority. ‘I’ll just go.’
Ben grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, winding his fingers through mine so tightly that it hurt.
‘Ben. You can’t keep doing this. I really thought we were making progress, you’ve been getting on so well. Please don’t tell me you’re going to give it all up now! For the sake of what?’ The man eyeballed me as though it was my fault.
Ben’s grasp on my hand was threatening to cut off the circulation. In his other hand the bunch of carnations bobbed as though they too were being throttled. ‘I’ll come to the next appointment,’ he said. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’
‘That’s all I can ask.’
‘Fine.’ And Ben stood up so quickly that the table rocked, endangering the overfilled salt cellar. Not letting go of my hand he squeezed us between the seats until we reached the door and burst out into the sunlit square beyond.
‘Okay,’ I said levelly. ‘So what was that all about?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
He still hadn’t let go. I could feel the bones of his fingers against mine and the warmth of his body radiating from beneath today’s God-awful T shirt. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a member of the Scooby-Doo gang, with all this mystery,’ I said. ‘Shaggy, probably. Not one of the girls, they always find out what’s going on within seconds. And anyway, I can’t do the socks.’
‘It’s just . . . nothing. Look, I’d better go back to the shop.’ I waited for him to ask me to come too, but he didn’t. Just passed the flowers to me.
‘I’ll maybe see you on Monday?’ I relaxed my hand and his fingers fell away. ‘For Saskia’s party?’
Ben shrugged, shook his head. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll come to the shop and we could go on from there. It’s only round the corner.’
This time Ben looked at me and smiled. ‘Were you the kind of kid who thought your teachers lived in the school?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I won’t be at the shop. Not in the evening.’
‘Oh!’ I was embarrassed, but at least he was smiling. He looked so much nicer when he smiled, less moody rock star. ‘You’ve got a house.’
‘Mmm-hmm. Here—’ Ben pulled out a pen from his back pocket, grabbed my arm and wrote an address up my wrist in black biro. ‘Come here. Monday, around, what, seven?’
Then almost as if it was he who was embarrassed, he turned with a flick of his hair and vanished into the tourist crowd, leaving me standing a bit stunned. The ink on my skin made my arm feel stiff and I couldn’t stop staring at the hieroglyphs he’d scrawled alongside my veins.
* * *
‘He lives where ?’ Rosie was jiggling Harry on her hip and trying to set out a batch of cards when I got home and spilled my story.
‘Wilberforce Crescent.’ Almost unconsciously I was tracing the writing with my finger. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Wow, that’s a bit posh isn’t it? Oh, now look what I’ve done! Jem, could you take . . . thanks.’
I took the proffered Harry and rested his weight against my shoulder. ‘I suppose he must have bought it when he was, you know, famous.’
‘“Famous” isn’t a dirty word, Jem. Well, only when it’s applied to Jason, when suddenly everything becomes dirty. Anyway, it might not be his, maybe he’s renting or living with someone. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t date, because he’s not single.’ Rosie began brushing chalk over the cards with a goose-feather.
‘He came to dinner on his own. And he doesn’t behave like a man who’s attached.’
Rosie looked up at me, sudden interest flaring in her eyes. ‘Oh ho! Did he make a move on you?’
‘No! It’s just the feeling I get from him. You know how married men just seem — different. More secretive.’
Rosie turned her back to me. ‘Do they?’ She busied herself in her bag, pulling out stems of grasses and pressed petals.
‘I mean I know Ben is secretive, too, but not in the same way. I think he’s secretive because he doesn’t want to remember stuff.’
‘OK, so what’s your excuse?’
It was my turn to revolve, using Harry as a shield. ‘I’m not secretive.’
Rosie snorted. ‘Much! Anyway, is he coming on Monday or are the pair of you so collectively secretive that you didn’t tell him where it was and he wouldn’t tell you whether he was going?’
‘Um. Something like that.’ I joggled Harry.
‘God, you should get jobs as spies. Oh SOD!’ A bunch of the cards slipped from the edge of the table and cascaded to the floor in a jumble of pink chalk and brittle stalks. Instead of bending to pick up the overspill Rosie began to cry.
‘Rosie?’ I put the arm which wasn’t supporting Harry around his mother. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing!’ wept Rosie. ‘Except I keep dropping things and Harry won’t go to bed and let me get on and I’m really tired but I’ve got to get these done before Monday and I just feel so useless .’
‘Ah, useless. Now there’s a feeling I’m right at home with.’ I gave her a squeeze. ‘Look, I’ll take Harry down to the workshop. Jase can help me mind him to give you some space, and if I was you I’d use the time to have a bit of a sleep. I’ll give you a hand to catch up with the cards this evening. And in the meantime you can gaze on the flowers that Ben sent over for you and ponder on the fact that despite the fact he’s my friend, you’ve got carnations and all I’ve got is a cheap tattoo.’ I brandished my written-on arm.
Rosie gave a snot-ridden smile. ‘Yeah, for an expensive address.’ But she let me collect Harry’s changing bag, bottles and blanket and I even thought I heard her give a small sigh of relief as I lugged him and his paraphernalia out of the door.
‘Jason!’ I strapped Harry into his bouncy chair and sat him down in the doorway to the office. ‘Are you in?’
‘Oooof! Ow! Sorry, Hazzer me old mate, didn’t see you down there!’ Jason barrelled in through the double doors and tripped over Harry, causing him to ping alarmingly up and down for a few moments. ‘Woss up?’
‘Are you busy?’
Jason looked at me suspiciously. ‘Is this one of those, wossname, trick questions? I’m an international artist, babe, course I’m busy.’
‘Could you keep an eye on Harry for a few minutes? I’ve got some research to do.’
Jason stared at me for a second. Then a smutty grin spread over his face, which made him look even more Johnny-Depplike than usual. ‘Oh, I see. That kind of research is it?’ And he picked up Harry, bouncy chair and all. ‘Come on little guy. We’re not wanted round here, not unless you wants to be drowned in all that oestrogen stuff.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Jason just winked and he and Harry went off into the big studio from where I could hear the commentary to a football match issuing from Jason’s expensive sound system.
I fired up the computer and called up the Willow Down website. Seeing Ben through pictures made me realise just how good-looking he was. Real life seemed to deaden the impact somehow, or maybe it was something to do with the awfulness of his clothing. Clothing which seemed to be purposefully designed to conceal what these old photographs revealed to be a fantastic body. My God, I had no idea that under those skuzzy T shirts there was this muscular torso, whip-muscled arms and corded shoulders. Or, presumably they still were there, but he didn’t pose quite the same way, with his mouth unsmiling, hair carefully tumbled and his hips thrust forward in invitation. I’d certainly never seen him stand like that, but then I wasn’t sure any human could stand like that, not without invisible support from behind. His fellow band members weren’t bad either, a collective of dark eyes and tight jeans, like a sack-full of male models handed guitars and dropped onto a stage.
Zafe Rafale, despite his slightly Greek name, turned out to be an ash-blond beauty. All finely chiselled bone structure and immensely long legs like a palomino stallion; his pictures showed him flinging himself around the stage, arms variously wielding a sunburst-yellow guitar or just a microphone. One shot showed the two men duetting. Ben had his eyes closed, one hand loosely around the neck of his guitar, the other holding the microphone stand. Zafe, hair plastered sweatily to his forehead, was pulling at the neck of his T shirt as though about to remove it. With Ben’s dark hair and Zafe’s resplendent goldenness, they looked like the rock world’s version of Yin and Yang.
‘Thought so.’ Jason loomed at my elbow. ‘Having a touch of the lusty are we, Jemima?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I replied, without turning round. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, interested in pictures of young blokes getting their kit off and wagglin’ around a stage.’
‘This is Willow Down.’ I clicked to enlarge the picture. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard of them? What with you being such a mover and shaker on the youth scene.’
‘Nah. Name rings a bit of a bell. Maybe I heard something when I was in the States. I’m not really an indie-music kinda guy, Jem.’ In the workshop, Harry raised his voice in a squawk of protest at being neglected. ‘You’re so interested, why doncha just ask?’
I sighed. ‘He’s not keen to talk about it.’ Plus, I wasn’t keen to push him. Not for all the reasons that Jason might assume, either. Keeping secrets myself made me hyper aware of how an enquiring conversation could turn. One moment you’re asking simple questions about someone’s family — the next they’ve spun it all round and they’re asking you about yours.
‘Man of mystery. Ah, go on, Jem, you love it really. Maybe I should try it, being all cool and inscrutable and stuff.’
‘Jason, people only have to ask you what time it is and you’ve given them your life story.’
‘I know. I’m easily scruted, I am.’
‘That’s not a word.’
‘Ha. Harry and I are gonna head up to the village for some more paint-mix stuff. You coming?’
‘No thanks, I’m going back to the cottage to make sure Rosie’s having a snooze. And I’ve got some work to do, some orders to parcel up and stuff.’
‘Have it ya own way. I notice you’re not losing the picture of your boy there.’
Exaggeratedly I pressed the buttons to wipe Ben’s face from the computer screen and hoped that Jason hadn’t noticed me bookmarking the page.
* * *
1st May
Weather — Night.
It’s like I’m feeling a chord I hit years ago. The music won’t let me go, it’s here in the back of my head all the time, playing itself out over and over, getting to the chorus, until I feel all I have to do is lean in and Zafe will be there with the refrain, grinning at me from across the stage.
Okay, yeah, before I go any further, I’m sorry I cut the appointment. I should have called you, let you know but . . . I was going to come. Was nearly at your office before I caught myself thinking about her, standing in the shop, wondering about me. And, for the record, I was right, she’d Googled the band. Was standing there with the DVD screenshot from ‘All the rain is broken glass’, staring at it like she’d never seen me before.
God, it hurts. Seeing the website, seeing the pics, seeing how we were. But what surprised me was that it hurt more seeing it through her eyes, comparing what I used to be and what I am now. Like . . . like when she’s not looking at me then I’m still Baz Davies, still the guitar-king, screwing all day, playing all night and then sitting up writing songs. Hanging off the roof of the tour bus with a groupie astride my cock and my head full of buzz. And then her eyes fall on me and I’m back to being Ben, back to the shop with no business and all the music locked inside my head.
But I think . . . I dunno, but maybe she likes me. The real me, the me that isn’t coked-up Baz or screwed up Ben, but the me that lies underneath it all. The one I think I can be. And, oh, I so nearly told her. I could feel the words, taste the shape of them, knew all I had to do was say them, put them into the air and then she’d know me. Know me right through to my bones. Fuck, I wanted that.
And then I couldn’t face up to making it all real. You were right, what you said, I do have to adjust, I’m sorry I blew you out and, no, I was not holding her hand, it was just contact. Right then I needed to touch something that wasn’t a part of the shit. You were facing me down and I knew, in my blood, that you were right but I couldn’t . . . I can’t make the step. I can’t stop pretending.
I’m so scared.