Secrets at the Little Music Shop

Chapter Eleven

‘Wow, Jem, you look great!’

Monday had arrived and I’d spent a lot of the day involved in trivial things. Painting my nails, shaping my eyebrows, stuff that I hardly ever bothered with these days, when there was only Jason to tell me that my legs were so woolly I was in danger of being shot as a runaway llama.

‘Thanks.’ I pulled at my skirt. It was a little tighter and a lot shorter than I usually wore. ‘Thank God for internet shopping.’

Rosie came closer and sniffed. ‘Ooh, Lacoste. Yum. But hang on a minute . . .’ She reached out and carefully undid the top two buttons of my pintucked shirt. ‘That’s better.’

‘Hey, I’m not going to a fancy dress as Little Miss Slutty you know.’

‘Yes, but that skirt is all daring and raunchy. Your top half was a bit shop assistant but it looks terrific now.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Ben’s going to love it.’

‘I’m not wearing it for Ben. I’m wearing it to show Saskia that I might be down but I’m not out.’

‘Hmmm.’ Rosie herself looked professional and cool. I looked, I thought, a bit like a walking blowjob in comparison.

‘Right. I’m off to Ben’s, I’ll see you at the — whatever it is we’re calling it. The Grand Opening of Saskia?’

Rosie snorted. ‘She’s been open for business for years, the ho. Can we pretend it’s a party? A real, proper party, where we get to drink drinks we’d normally sneer at and circulate with people we’ve never met before? After all, I’ve got a girl who advertised on the village noticeboard coming in to babysit Harry and I really don’t want to have gone to all the trouble of squinting at those postcards just to go to the opening of a shop!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Some of those adverts are really strange .’

‘All right. I’ll see you at the party.’

I got the bus to York, which seemed ignominious. All got up like I was I should at least have been travelling in a white stretch limo and carrying a tiny dog in a bag. Ben’s house was impressive, a four-storey Georgian townhouse with black-painted railings outlining the steps up to the front door. I clopped up in my high heels and rang the bell. As I waited I stared down; there were windows below street level for what would have been basement kitchens in the house’s heyday. Now they were prime sites at which to sit and look up the skirts of passing girls. I hoped Ben wasn’t down there gazing up at my gusset.

I knew he wasn’t when I heard the sound of someone galloping down a staircase and hurtling to the front door. ‘Hey.’

‘Hello.’ I peered through the crack that he’d opened the door. He still had the chain on, even though he must have known it was me because the door had a spyhole. ‘Are you coming tonight then?’

‘Oh, God, is it tonight?’

My heart sank and I found that I was pulling down the hem of my skirt. Now I was going to have to walk into Le Petit Lapin alone and Saskia would surely notice. ‘Yes. But never mind. I’ll see you another time.’

I’d started to clop back down the steps to the pavement when I heard the chain come off and the door open. ‘So, you don’t want me to come?’

I turned. There was Ben looking absolutely gorgeous in a bow tie and dress suit. ‘You are evil,’ I said.

‘Yep. Come in a sec and have a drink. If even half of what you’ve said about Saskia is true, I think we might need to prime ourselves.’

I followed him inside. The front door gave onto a massive hallway, pale wooden floors and tiled walls, with a decorative black-and-white frieze pattern. ‘Wow.’

‘Did you say wow?’

‘This place. Mind you—’ I looked around. ‘It is a bit like being in a huge gents’ toilet.’

‘You should see my bedroom.’

There was a moment of silence while we digested that sentence, both realising it sounded as though he’d meant something he clearly didn’t mean, and then another moment of flustered consternation while Ben pretended he didn’t realise he could have been misconstrued and I tried to over-ride my brain.

‘Full of graffiti and smells of wee?’ I got there first.

‘No, that’s my car.’

‘You have a car ?’ My voice went so squeaky that Alsatians in Milan could probably hear me.

‘Mmm-hmmm.’ Ben seemed to be enjoying my astonishment.

‘Are you sure?’

In answer he grasped me around the wrist and pulled me over to the huge window which let daylight into the hall. It was high and arched and almost as big as a door. ‘Does that look like something I might be a little uncertain about?’ He pointed with his free hand at the silver car parked on the roadside beyond the black railings. ‘Or does it look more like an Audi R8?’

‘That is one sexy car,’ I said, a concise, if not exactly Top Gear-level critique.

Ben opened his mouth then obviously thought better of it and began to lead the way down the sleek hallway. Another archway gave onto a huge, high-ceilinged room, still with wooden floors, which contained a few sofas clustered in a corner like furniture playing Sardines. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink. White wine?’

He wandered over to a cabinet while I gingerly sat on one of the sofas. It was extremely comfortable, squashy and yet firm at the same time. From here I could see the enormous speakers along the walls. ‘Is this your music room then?’

He didn’t answer, rummaging around and opening doors, then emerging with two glasses of golden-yellow wine. ‘So, tell me about Saskia.’

‘Nothing to tell. She’s stopped selling my things, but she’s got Rosie working like a demon.’

‘Are she and Jason . . . ?’

‘What is your obsession with Jason’s sex life? No, as far as I know, Saskia is not having any kind of thing with Jase. She may be an evil harpy with a hole where her heart should be, but she’s happily married to Alex. Well, she’s happily married to his wallet anyway. Mm, this wine’s nice.’

‘I’m still not clear why you and Rosie hang around with her. If she’s such a witch. Don’t you have other friends?’

There was a pause. ‘She was the first person who actually believed in my jewellery,’ I said, thinking fast. I couldn’t tell him that it was only supplying Saskia that had kept me from having to sleep in a box under a bridge after I’d arrived in York. ‘I met Jason in a bar, he introduced me to Saskia when he found out what I did, then I met Rosie and moved in.’

Ben looked at me levelly. ‘Okay, not asking for your life story, Jemima.’

And you’re not going to get it. I’ve seen enough people turn away in disgust and I couldn’t bear — I don’t want to see that look in your eyes, that look that says ‘I pity you.’ The look that tells me, what happened made me less than you. A no-one.

‘No.’

‘But she’s not stocking you now, so surely you don’t have to feel obliged to go to this do tonight?’

‘I keep hoping she’ll change her mind. And if she meets you and finds out that you are willing to sell my buckles — well, she might be so overwhelmed with competitive spirit that she’ll try to buy me back.’

Ben looked at me over his glass. ‘So, I’m coming to try to provoke her jealousy, am I? Oh, it’s okay, I don’t mind, just as long as I know.’

I drained my glass quickly. The dryness of the wine made my throat shrink. ‘We’d better go.’ I stood up and managed to get the heel of my ridiculous shoes caught in the wiring from the speakers. As I bent to sort myself out I could see that none of the speaker wires were plugged in. Either to the mains or to the back of the speakers. They were all rigged up right, just not connected. ‘Ben—’

‘Are you coming then?’ He’d collected a large bunch of keys, dropped what looked like his mobile on a table and was waiting in the doorway. Seeing him standing there looking really quite beautiful in his bow tie and loose jacket I completely forgot about the wiring.

‘I’m ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. Are we driving?’ All right I admit it, I’m a car slut. I could have sat in that Audi all night without even starting the engine, just for the experience.

‘It’s only down the road, isn’t it? Besides, now I’ve had a glass of wine.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Saskia’s face, seeing me turning up in an Audi R8 was going to have to remain a figment of my imagination.

In the event, when we reached Le Petit Lapin, Saskia was inside, deep in the throng; she wouldn’t have noticed if I’d arrived by donkey. The shop was packed . There were skinny women in chiffon frocks everywhere, like tissue-wrapped sticks, and a clash of perfume and aftershave strong enough to knock your nose off-kilter for a week. Ben hesitated.

‘Bloody hell.’ He began fidgeting with his hair. ‘There’s a lot of people.’

I looked up at the golden front of the shop. Even the first-floor windows had people in them, holding glasses and trying to look enthralled at being pressed against an unrelated armpit. ‘More than I expected,’ I replied. ‘Maybe it was “Buy One Get One Free” down at RentaCrowd.’

Ben gave me a ghost of a smile. ‘I’ve just lost the knack of circulating. Still, it’ll be nice and noisy in there, I guess.’

I grinned back at him. ‘Yep. You won’t have to talk to anyone and even if you do they won’t hear what you say.’ I grabbed his elbow and we forced our way through some of the more decorative members of the throng into the shop.

Inside the temperature was about a hundred bodies and rising. I found that I was clutching at Ben’s arm in order not to lose him in the currents and eddies of moving and shaking that was going on. Saskia had invited some of the owners of the larger (and therefore more socially and profitably acceptable) shops which surrounded Le Petit Lapin and everyone seemed to be discussing how well their businesses were going at full volume. A uniformed waiter carrying a superciliously high tray whirled past us and Ben managed to pluck two glasses from it, handing one down to me.

‘Aw Roah an Juhu nyer yeh?’

‘What?’ I yelled at him over the noise.

‘Aw Roah an Juhu nyer yeh?’ Ben said again.

‘I can’t hear!’

‘I said, are Rosie and Jason here yet?’ Ben bellowed into my ear, causing me to step sideways and bump into a large woman who was peering into the display cabinet in the corner.

‘Can’t see them. That’s Saskia over there.’ I pointed to the bottom of the spiral staircase where Saskia had set up court, leaning against the wrought iron. She was wearing pink chiffon (it must be some kind of uniform) with matching pink stilettos and her hair up under a fine pink net with jewels studded around it. ‘Looks like she got her head caught under a gay trawler,’ I muttered.

‘That’s no way to go about getting re-stocked,’ Ben said. He didn’t seem to have any problems hearing me above the babble. ‘Drink your wine.’ He was twisting his glass around in his hands and I noticed it was empty.

‘Are you all right?’

He stopped scanning the crowd and looked down at me. ‘I’m just a bit, you know, on edge. This is the first big do I’ve been to since — well, since.’

‘No-one seems to recognise you.’ I didn’t know whether to be happy about this for Ben’s sake, or cross for mine.

‘I look a bit different these days.’

‘Yes. You were quite something in Willow Down.’ I spoke without thinking. Ben looked at me steadily, as though we were the only two people in the room.

‘You think?’

Oh, God. I started to blush round about my ankles which made my feet slippery inside the angular heels. The blush rose, peppered my spine and finally scalded its way up my face to my eyelids. Ben was still looking at me. ‘I mean — err — you, um, you were very hard. I mean — you looked hard. That’s hard as in unapproachable, sort of a bit of a nutcase, not hard as in . . . Excuse me a sec I think that’s Rosie and Jason. I’ll just let them know we’re over here.’ I fled to the safety of the doorway.

‘Jem? Woss up with you girl? Look like you swallowed somethin’ the wrong way,’ and Jason let out a filthy snigger that made people turn round to find the cause.

‘I’ve been coughing.’ I cleared my throat to add veracity.

‘Bin drinking more like. Where’s Sass then, better do the honours before I starts necking ’em.’ Jason took himself off to find Saskia and Rosie frowned at me.

‘Are you all right? You look horribly hot.’

I confessed my faux pas whilst trying to rebalance myself, leaning against a tree-trunk which, against all probability and artistic integrity, was being used as a doorstop. ‘I don’t think he noticed,’ I finished. ‘But I feel such an idiot.’

Rosie was offered a glass by the same waiter who had ignored me. I wondered how she did it. But then she did look — and this was the only word that applied — stunning. Her black curls were swept up into a style from which they cascaded down her neck in individual strands, her dress was vanilla-coloured silk which hid the post-baby bulge like a dream and she was made-up like a film star. ‘He is pretty sexy though, Jem, you have to admit it.’

I gave a half-laugh. ‘D’you think so?’

Rosie looked over in Ben’s direction. He was leaning against a wall with his head cocked, while a woman in a mesh dress talked at him. ‘Oh, yes. He’s got something . I don’t know what it is, presence or glamour, one of those show biz things. The women are all looking at him. Bet that’s bugging Jason, he’s used to being the centre of attention in crowds like this.’

She was right. Women would glance Ben’s way, look somewhere else for a second, then look back as if to check their first impressions had been right. Then their eyes would stay on him while they unconsciously fussed their hair or licked their lips. ‘He’s okay,’ I said grudgingly.

Rosie gave me a stern look. ‘Now come on, Jem, this is me you’re talking to.’

I looked at Ben again. He’d fiddled his bow tie undone and folded his arms as if to ward off the roomful of people. ‘All right yes, he’s sexy and funny and bitchy and beautiful and all that. But I don’t intend to do anything about it, neither does he. So you can cut the scheming looks.’ A thought struck me. ‘Unless you want him?’

Ben was looking at us now. He gave me a smile and I managed a blush-free grin.

‘Me? God, no. I’ve got enough trouble. Look, Saskia’s wheeling out Jase, this should be fun.’ Without elaborating on what her trouble might be Rosie headed into the crowd in order to be in hearing distance of Jason’s opening speech. I went back to Ben.

‘I was just telling Rosie about your car. She’s always wanted an R8.’

Ben straightened away from the wall and unfolded his arms. ‘Yeah. It’s sexy and beautiful all right.’

By biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I managed not to react. The bloke must have ears like a bat. ‘Come on, Jason’s doing his thing now and you don’t want to miss it. Jason’s “thing” is the talk of five continents.’

‘Okay, now I’m jealous.’

Jason gave his speech while I looked around the room. A photographer was busily snapping away, taking pictures of Jason, Saskia, the items on sale, everything. I watched Ben quietly getting out of the way of the camera and then it was all over and Saskia was motioning to the waiters to bring new trays of tasty morsels into the crowd. I snaffled a couple of tiny crêpes and found a quiet corner to start eating them. Unfortunately Saskia found the corner, too.

‘Nice to see someone with a healthy appetite. Most people here are watching their weight.’

‘I’m a size ten, Saskia. I’ve got no desire to be completely invisible.’

Saskia raised an eyebrow. ‘Size ten? Really? The chain stores clothes are so forgiving, aren’t they?’

I looked daggers at her and threw the second crêpe into my mouth. It was filled with a banana-toffee concoction which would have been absolutely wonderful if it hadn’t been accompanied by Saskia making little chewy-mouth faces of disgust. ‘Yum,’ I said to annoy her. ‘Are there any more of these?’

‘They go straight to your hips, you know.’ Saskia looked down at my thighs, very visible under the tight skirt. ‘Although in your case I shouldn’t think you’d notice.’

I opened my mouth to mention the HobNobs which she stole every time she found herself in Rosie’s kitchen, and seemed to believe were negatively calorific, but thankfully, just then Ben came lolloping along carrying a plate onto which he’d rescued a selection of delicacies. Saskia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Hello,’ she purred. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to you. I’m Saskia Winterington, but then, you’ll know that of course.’

Saskia held out her hand at arm’s length, limp wristed. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to fend Ben off (although that seemed laughably unlikely), or have her hand kissed. Ben juggled the plate for a moment then passed it to me. ‘I’m Ben Davies.’ He took Saskia’s hand and shook it very definitely. ‘I’m stocking some of Jemima’s jewellery.’

‘Hmm.’ Saskia retook her hand and looked Ben up and down. ‘Well, you’re clearly not a member of the Board of Trade, I’d certainly remember you at meetings!’ She gave a little laugh, but her eyes stayed fixed on his face. Slowly she reached across and brushed a hair from the collar of his jacket, pausing her hand on his shoulder for far longer than was necessary. ‘Do come and tell me what you think of my collection,’ she said, still gazing into his eyes. ‘I’ll give you the names of some of my suppliers if you like.’ Pressing her body into his, Saskia hooked her arm through Ben’s and tugged him towards the back of the shop, pausing on her way through to make sure everyone noticed her in the company of the good-looking stranger.

I burned. The taste of toffee-banana had gone from my mouth, replaced by a sourness that etched into my teeth as I watched him walk away. Was this jealousy, this bitter raging which seemed to reach up from my stomach and pull my skin hotly around me? But Ben and I were — what, friends? Business partners? He was nothing to me that should provoke this upwelling, this sense that I was about to vomit bricks. I watched them cross the shop, Saskia bending to talk into Ben’s ear and familiarly hug him against her in the crowd, and I wanted to kill someone.

Across the room Rosie was laughing, engrossed in conversation with three men she’d been introduced to by Alex, who looked very dashing tonight in a slightly colonial way. There was no sign of Jason but a tight knot of women in a corner were whooping and giggling in a way that indicated he was somewhere in their midst. No-one came to speak to me, well-clad elbows poked at me and shoes so pointed that their wearers must have had flippers for feet clipped my toes and ankles. There was a muzzy haze of noise and wine-breath filling the air and I began to feel claustrophobic.

This was not my life. I felt as though I’d fallen through a hole into some kind of alter-existence where someone like me had no business being.

The back of the shop was cooler. A small door led into the office and store rooms. It wasn’t locked so I slipped through into the fresh air beyond. Apart from a couple engaged in a frantic snogging session on Saskia’s leather sofa-ette, the space was empty and I felt the tension begin to ease from my shoulders. Alone, I could cope with alone. I carefully avoided the kissing couple’s eyes and went through into the little stock room beyond the office. Through here the noise was muffled, the smell of several hundred perfumed bodies gave way to the York night air and an open window somewhere in the building let a cool draught fan my hot face. I sat down on the corner of a big box and took off my shoes to let my feet have a rest, flapping my shirt free. I was wearing a belt with one of my own buckles, a small piece made from gold wire leaves and acorns. Saskia’s entire guest list seemed to be made up of people who already had so much jewellery it was a wonder they could stand up. I sighed. At least Ben seemed to be breaking out of his reclusive habits. I wondered where he was, and then hated myself for even thinking it. This was his natural habitat, his rock star milieu. It was me who was the pretender here. I was almost swamped for a second by the knowledge I was simply acting. Playing a role, chameleon-like, that let me fit in to the background unnoticed. Wondered, just for a moment, what Ben would think if he knew just how much of me I kept hidden.

The edges of the box I was sitting on began to dig into the back of my legs and I stood up. It was one of several all stacked up on the store room floor, gathering dust. Well, not dust exactly, Saskia had all dust caught and shot, but that faded kind of brownness that boxes take on. I wondered what was in it, what example of art that Saskia was going to sell to some unsuspecting tourist that they would spend the rest of their lives explaining to visitors as ‘ “Femininity”. Not a twig. Honestly.’

The box lid was loose. I lifted it up to peer inside and frowned, my self-loathing temporarily forgotten. The contents looked very much like Rosie’s cards. At least the last two consignments that she’d produced for Saskia, maybe more. Puzzled, I slid the box off the one underneath and opened that. It, too, was full of stacks of Rosie’s hand-made cards. And the box on the bottom, although that had fewer cards inside. I recognised that batch as the last ones Rosie had done before Harry was born.

Why the hell was Saskia getting Rosie to produce more and more cards when she wasn’t selling them? Wasn’t even putting them on display? I looked around the room. Yes, there was the box of cards that Rosie had delivered on Sunday evening, shoved into a corner under a shelving unit. I recognised the slightly ragged tape that we’d used to seal the carton. Maybe Saskia was going to put the cards out for sale later? But that didn’t explain why they were still stacked into the boxes as they had been when we’d brought them over — they’d never even been taken out. There were loads . Saskia wouldn’t sell this many in years .

I restacked the boxes and went out of the store room, carrying my shoes by a strap. The crowd had thinned, or at least some of the larger people had gone and the skinny girls in the wafty dresses were doing duty filling space like air pockets in soil. My brain had seized on the problem of the boxes with an eagerness that felt like gratitude. I couldn’t stop to ponder my relationship with Ben, not when there was something that needed solving.

‘Rosie?’ I broke in on a conversation that Rosie was having with Alex. He was telling her how Oscar was born with blue eyes but that they’d turned brown by the time he was three months old — I guess you needed to be a parent to appreciate that particular chat. ‘Have you seen Ben?’

Alex answered. ‘I think my wife took him to show him the display upstairs.’ He pointed to the staircase, still littered with people. ‘But it was a while ago so maybe he’s gone.’

‘I’ll go and see,’ I said but I doubted either of them heard me; they were back into heavy discussions about whether babies look like their parents from birth. I started up the iron staircase, which meant negotiating groups of people with carefully balanced wine glasses, who tutted as I pushed my way between them and carried on their well-bred conversations around my body, leaning to exclude me from any kind of contribution.

In the upper room glass display cases stood against the walls. In the centre of the floor there was a huge square leather stool large enough to seat four comfortably, but at the moment it was only seating two. Ben was sitting in the middle and beside him was Saskia. She was kneeling, face level with his, talking earnestly into his eyes; as I watched she caught his chin as though she was about to kiss him, lowering her body at the same time until she was almost sitting on his lap. Ben hadn’t seen me come up the stairs and Saskia had her back to me. Thanking God for my bare feet, I tiptoed across the floor and tapped Saskia on the shoulder.

‘I think Alex might want you,’ I said as her head flipped up in shock. I indicated the staircase, just possibly giving her the impression that Alex had been right behind me. Saskia’s heels tore a neat hole in the leather as she snapped her legs back and leaped away, straightening her skirt as she stood up. She fixed me with her best imperious expression, which was only slightly ruined by her smudged lipstick.

‘Ben and I were talking,’ she said in a voice full of self-justification. ‘Business.’

‘I could tell,’ I said drily.

Saskia pulled herself back to her feet with impressive speed and touched the back of her hand to her eyes. ‘God, don’t you just hate mascara?’ she said. ‘The way it smudges at the slightest thing? Oh, of course you’re obviously used to it, darling, cheap make-up never stays put, does it? You might want—’ She made lipstick motions at me. ‘Just a little touch up.’ And she was gone, vanishing into the staff toilets.

I stared at Ben.

‘What?’ he finally said.

‘Well, (a) you don’t date, (b) she’s married and the guy is downstairs, and (c) — Christ on a bike, man, she’s evil !’

‘(a) I wasn’t dating her, (b) she forced herself onto me and (c) yes, you’re right she’s awful but — Jeez—’ A wicked smile spread over his face. ‘She’s good,’ he finished. ‘In an awful way, obviously.’

‘You’re a slut. A man-slut.’

‘Probably. But—’

I stopped him with a raised hand. ‘No, don’t tell me. It wasn’t what it looked like?’

Ben was still smiling the wicked smile. ‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that.’

There was a clinging heat at the base of my neck and a deep feeling in my stomach. ‘So, you two were about to go off somewhere more “comfortable”?’

The smile disappeared. ‘Jemima, listen.’

‘Oh, yeah, right, I’m going to stand here and listen to a man who’s just been caught nearly shagging a woman who makes Genghis Khan look like a rank amateur!’ I tried to spin on my heel and huff away, but spinning in bare feet on a wooden floor doesn’t work. There was a pathetic squeaky sound.

‘Jem.’ Ben grabbed me by my shoulders and turned me to face him. Because I’d got no shoes on he was suddenly a lot taller than me. ‘This is important. As soon as she knew I was the only person in York stocking your stuff she was absolutely crippling herself to get to me. She offered me her suppliers, she even offered to help pay to buy in some new stuff “as a trial offer”. She kept telling me you were always letting her down; she even told me you still owed her nearly ten thousand pounds for pieces you’d not delivered.’ Ben shook his head.

‘That is a complete and utter lie!’ I tried to pull back but the pressure of his fingers increased until I could feel each individual digit digging through my shirt. ‘I’ve never not delivered!’

‘Okay. But she’s got the Board of Trade members blackballing you from their shops. She’s absolutely serious. In fact I was quite scared at one point.’

‘That point being just before I arrived, then.’

‘I wanted to see how far she would go.’

I snorted. ‘All the way, by the look of the two of you!’

‘Jem.’ Ben let go of my shoulders and let his hands fall by his sides. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour. She was the one pulling the all-over body approach, not me. I don’t do that. So I’m sorry if you — But we’re just friends, you and me.’

He smelled spicy. Warm and green and slightly of leather. His bow tie was hanging loose around his collar and he’d undone the top button of his shirt where his hair kept getting caught. I wasn’t sure whether to be glad of his words or whether to stab him with one of the nicely sharp items on display.

‘It’s OK,’ I said at last, to somewhere over his shoulder.

‘I didn’t want you to get the wrong . . . I mean, it’s nothing personal, it’s me.’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ I was still talking to the shop wall. Couldn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Didn’t know whether I was misreading the situation or not. Didn’t even know why I was so angry.

‘I’m not going to. This is it, end of conversation.’

There was a flurry on the stairs and Rosie appeared looking breathless. ‘Oh, Jem, there you are! Shall we get a taxi back, only I don’t want to keep the babysitter past midnight and I think Jason’s taking someone home.’ Then she looked at both of us. ‘Sorry, did I interrupt something?’

‘No!’ Ben and I spoke together.

I turned to him. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ve . . . I have another appointment tomorrow. Would you be free to come and mind the shop in the afternoon? About three?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I couldn’t avoid looking at him any longer but was surprised when I did. He looked closed in, as though he was in pain. As he had the first time we’d met. ‘I’ll e-mail you in the morning.’

We all went down together. In the main shop Saskia was the centre of attention again. She was standing with her arms around Alex, holding forth on how having Oscar had been the single most enriching experience of her life.

‘I thought marrying Alex was her most enriching experience,’ muttered Rosie as we headed out of the door. ‘Although I suppose there’s always the Child Benefit. Harry’s enriched me to the tune of twenty quid a week, bless him.’

Ben waved a hand in goodbye and set off towards Wilberforce Crescent without looking back.

‘Did you piss him off?’ Rosie asked as we went in search of a taxi. She turned around to watch Ben walk out of sight. ‘You really shouldn’t piss off men with backsides like that. Roooooaaawwww!’

I couldn’t answer her. My mind was too full of questions. Why on earth was Saskia lying to Ben about me not delivering? To stop him taking my buckles? Which begged the next question — why was Saskia trying to stop anyone stocking my stuff? And why was she buying in so much of Rosie’s output that her entire back room was packed with it? Consistency might not be Saskia’s middle name, but this was ridiculous!

And what did I really want from Ben Davies?

* * *

4th May

Tonight. Where do I start? You were right (again, shit man, all those degrees weren’t wasted after all) writing it down does help. Gets my head straight. Though I still hate knowing you read it.

Jemima and I were at this party, nothing special, local kinda thing. She looked — oh, so good. Preppy; white shirt and a skirt, with real hot heels, she has fantastic legs — I’m, like, so fired up. She’s talking to her friend (about me!) and she’s looking at me across the room, and her eyes . . . there are no words for it. Not in English, anyway.

She’s changed somehow. It’s like she had this shell, something she’d crawled inside to keep her safe, and now it’s got this crack which is scaring her stupid but she’s glad of it, in a kind of way. Does that make sense? Like she almost wants me to see through, to put my eye to the fissure and see the real woman inside.

And I . . . I want to. But to do that, to let her open up to me, then I have to give something back, don’t I? So tonight . . . I was going to tell her. After the party I was going to take her home, sit her down and talk. Really talk, like I’ve not done in . . . how many years now? And then, maybe . . . when she knew, then she’d have the confidence to tell me what it is that’s got her so terrified. Or maybe she’d want to run. Either way, her choice. Only, I wrecked it.

Oh, my intentions were good, at least I think they were . . . or did I do it on purpose? Did I know that Jem would come looking for me tonight? A little part of me in the back of my head says yeah, course I did — what was she going to do, leave without me? So. Okay. Yeah. I talked my way into being invited upstairs, then kept talking.

And this is the hard bit. Come on, do it, come out, say it. I did it because I was scared.

At first it was legit, wanted to find out what was going on. Some dirty dealings going down, doc, nothing for you to ask questions about. Nothing to do with you, or me. But I was curious, and it was screwing Jem up so I . . .

And Jem saw. Feel a bit sorry for the other girl, I led her on maybe more than I should, but hey, she’s married, neither of us was going to do anything. I just wanted some info from her. And.. . yeah part of me wanted Jem to know that other women still want me — make her jealous. Isn’t that pathetic? Very Year 9. I thought she’d just laugh.

But she didn’t.

That scared me worse than anything, even that time the mic went live at Sheffield Arena and nearly killed us all. I dunno if you can understand, doc . . . she didn’t laugh. Suddenly whatever’s going on between me and Jem, it’s not a game any more, and if I thought I was scared before . . . what I saw in her face . . . She looked hurt. I didn’t think she was close enough to hurt like that. We were mates, friends, yeah and even that scared me, brought a whole new level to things but . . . if she got hurt just seeing me with someone else — shit, how much more is she going to get hurt if she finds out about me? So I ran. Blew her out, and ran.

And now the music in my head is playing those two falling notes, like something is on its way.

I am so screwed.

* * *

Two weeks went by achingly slowly. After the excitement of Saskia’s party there was nothing to look forward to. Not that we’d looked forward to it, as such, but at least it had been a communal bitching point. Now everything felt flat and listless. Rosie continued to work hard. Saskia had ordered an enormous batch of winter-themed cards ostensibly for the Christmas market. Jason dumped the skinny blonde he’d met at Le Petit Lapin and started crafting his next exhibition, if crafting is the right word. I made a few pieces and sold some necklaces on line, but was so full of the ennui that pervaded everything I could hardly work up any enthusiasm, even when the cheques arrived.

I didn’t mention the boxes in the office or what Ben had said. Rosie was too emotionally fragile to take on board the fact that Saskia didn’t seem to want to sell her stuff. And, as she quite rightly would have said, Saskia was paying for the cards. Who cared if she was putting them on shelves or up her bottom? Saskia’s attempts to have my name expunged from the vocabularies of York residents didn’t stand up in the face of Ben’s resistance. Plus, I still had my website and sales through that were ongoing. So, if she wanted to starve me out she had quite a way to go. Not as far as I might like, but I was doing it. I was holding things together.

Occasionally I helped Ben out in the shop, but I mostly managed to arrive as he was leaving and go as soon as he got back. We exchanged a few generalities and he asked after Rosie and Harry, but that was all. Nothing even approaching personal conversation took place and we edged around each other in the confines of the shop as though I was strapped with dynamite and he was Detonator-Man.

He got thinner, too. If that were possible. There was a tightness in his face which sometimes made him look ill and sometimes just made him look wretched but in the spirit of the talk he’d given me I didn’t get involved. I kept busy, kept moving and kept out of his affairs. If it baffled me how a man who’d been such a talented musician, such a performer, could be happy running a little back-street shop or why a man who looked like Ben should refuse to have anything to do with women, I smothered the questions.

Then one day I came in from the workshop to find Rosie crying on the sofa. She’d been intermittently tearful lately, but I had thought the worst was over. I minded Harry so that she could work, and his sleeping patterns were becoming a lot more regular, so she wasn’t losing as many hours as she had when he’d been tiny.

‘What’s up?’ I sat next to her. Harry waved his chunky arms in acknowledgement and grinned at me from her lap.

‘I’m such a failure, Jem.’ Rosie clutched Harry round his middle. ‘I’m no kind of mother for Harry. You and Jason, you’re more his parents than I am — look at the way he’s so pleased to see you! He’s never like that with me.’ She dissolved into more heaving sobs, squeezing Harry until his expression changed.

‘That’s rubbish. You’re his mum and he knows it.’ I patted Rosie’s back.

‘And Saskia’s just sent back that last lot of cards, says they’re not wintery enough so I’ve got to redo them all. And I’ve been so busy with her stuff that two other customers have withdrawn their orders, so I’ve got to turn in her cards or there won’t be enough money . . .’ She gulped. ‘I’ve even stopped feeding Harry.’

‘You’ve what?’ I looked at Harry, who was showing no real signs of malnourishment. He blew a bubble at me.

‘I’ve started him on formula. It’s so much easier, not having to spend hours expressing milk, sitting in that grotty little bathroom with all the mould and that black stuff that we can’t identify, with that stupid pump that doesn’t work! And all the books say that you’re supposed to breast feed for at least nine months and I didn’t even manage four! I’m crap, Jem, and it’s only a matter of time before Harry realises it.’

I put my arms around the two of them, despite Harry’s muffled protest. ‘You’re working too hard, that’s all. How about a day out? Something to look forward to.’

‘I can’t . That’s the whole point. I’ve got all these cards to do. I’ve barely got time to do the laundry, let alone take time off.’

She had got it bad. ‘Do you want me to take Harry today?’ I’d had him every day for the last week and today was supposed to be Rosie’s bonding day with him. She’d started off so well, playing with him in his doorway-hung swing, but it looked as though things had gone downhill. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘I already asked Jason if he’d have him,’ Rosie snottily admitted. ‘But he’s too busy as well. He’s off to London in the morning to see some consortium or other. I don’t want to ask you again, Jem, you have him so much—’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said. It was a bit of a lie. I’d been hoping to take Harry to the workshop where Jason would amuse him by letting him watch as he prepared his raw materials. I was beginning to worry that Harry was going to grow up a trainspotter. ‘I’ll take him out.’

‘Oh, if you’re going out we need some more nappies. And some sterilising tablets.’

‘OK, I’ll shove him in his buggy and we’ll walk up to the shop. He likes stopping off to see the cows in the top field on the way.’

Wrong thing to say, Jemima. Rosie’s eyes clouded with tears again. ‘You see! You see! I’m his mum and I don’t even know that. I never get to see him liking cows . . .’ And she set off crying again, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

‘Things will get better. Now, parcel him up and I’ll strap him in.’

Rosie pulled Harry’s jacket on him. ‘It looks like rain. And the wind is chilly. If it gets too cold you will bring him back, won’t you?’

‘It’s the middle of summer and he’s got a rain cover for the buggy.’

‘You think I fuss too much, don’t you? Oh God, I’m turning into one of those horrible mothers who won’t let the kids out on their own until they’re forty and brush their adult son’s hair for them and choose their clothes and—’

‘Bye, Rosie.’ I determinedly set off down the path with Harry cooing and gurgling his appreciation.

We stopped, as promised, to watch the huge Friesians mooching around their field. One of them came and blew gentle breaths over the gate at Harry and, when I lifted him from his seat, ran a rough tongue over the top of his head, making him chuckle. I couldn’t help but smile myself, it was one of those moments when I could think of my own mother without tears. Although I allowed nothing to come through but the memory of a sweetness in the air synaesthetically linked to a stroked cheek, I knew she’d loved us. I just knew it. It was something I’d held like a security blanket when everything had gone so wrong, the knowledge that we’d been loved. I gave Harry a little hug around his bulky middle as the cow puffed milk-scented air down at us, feeling a wave of something that must approach maternal love for the little boy, and wondered again how she’d felt in those last few moments. Had she worried about me and the boys as much as Rosie worried about Harry? Was she worried then? Did she know what was happening, or did it all come so quickly she didn’t even have time to think of us?

I strapped Harry back in and pushed the buggy down to the crossroads and into the main village street. Little Gillmoor only had one shop, a grocers-cum-newsagent, where I bought the nappies and steriliser tablets as requested and partook in a minor discussion about the weather. It looked dodgy so I put the cover over the buggy. Good move. Just as we’d started our walk home the rain came.

Typical summer rain. It didn’t float in like a mist, it dumped like an excavator. A tonne of water hit me on the head and went straight through to my bones. Harry, snug under his waterproof coating, giggled. I shivered and thought about heading back into the shop when a car pulled up behind me.

‘You’re wet.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. I like dripping.’

It was Ben and I wouldn’t turn round.

‘Would you like to get in?’ He cranked something up inside and the car made a purring sound. ‘I’ve got heating.’

I stomped back to the Audi, pushing Harry in front of me like a Roman shield. ‘What are you doing round here?’ I asked as Ben opened the passenger door to let me in. ‘Trying to pick up schoolgirls?’

Ben looked a little less rough today. He’d only got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face and his hair looked clean. ‘I came to see you. To apologise. Things have been a bit shitty lately and I haven’t been coping very well. I’ve taken it out on you.’

‘Huh.’ I wasn’t feeling very polite. Outside in his buggy Harry began to grumble about the conditions.

‘Do you want to bring him in here? I could drive you both home.’

‘No car seat. Rosie would dismember me.’

There was a difficult silence. Ben stared out of the windscreen and drummed his fingers on the wheel, while I kept one eye on Harry and merely squinted at Ben. He definitely looked better. Less strung-out.

‘I’ve thought a lot about what you said at Rosie’s dinner party.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the rain rolling down the glass.

‘Oh? Anything in particular or are all my words etched on your brain?’ Okay, so it was unnecessarily sarcastic, but I had wet pants and all this moody staring and silence was beginning to get on my nerves.

‘About getting on with my life.’

I stared at him. ‘What’s this, the Prozac kicking in?’

‘Just common sense. Yours, before you make some cynical remark. I’m thirty years old, Jemima, and I’m living like some kind of medieval monk! Going with you to Saskia’s, it made me realise what I’m missing out on.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Wasn’t sure what he meant, was this some kind of step-down from his untouchable position? Was that a step I wanted him to take?

‘Anyway. Part of the getting on with life thing. I wondered if I might come round to yours one evening, cook you and Rosie a meal. If you had to come to mine then you’d be worrying about babysitters and taxis and stuff all evening. This way it’s only me that has to get home.’

A pause. Could I hear the words ‘or I could stay over’? Were they echoing in some parallel universe?

‘That sounds nice.’ There was the sofa, wasn’t there? Or the workshop? He could bring a sleeping bag — ‘When?’

‘How about tomorrow? You don’t need to worry, I’ll bring everything. You two can just relax, all you need to do is tell me how the kitchen works.’

‘Hmm. Big white cold box in corner is fridge, big white hot box in other corner is oven. That’s it.’

This time he laughed. ‘I think I can manage that. Look, the rain’s lessening up, do you want to get his Lordship back before it starts again?’

Reluctantly I peeled myself off the heated seat, which left me with clammy buttocks. It also left Ben with a damp double-imprint where I’d been sitting. ‘Sorry. I told you I was wet.’

‘I shall treasure it. Six o’clock tomorrow then, yeah?’

‘I suppose. If you insist.’

‘I’m overwhelmed by your gratitude.’ But he was smiling — no, grinning . A proper grin which creased his eyes and relaxed his face and made me swallow hard.

‘Six o’clock. Yes, then.’ And I watched as he dropped the clutch and expertly manoeuvred the car down the twisty lane back towards the main road. I was going to address a pithy remark to Harry but he’d fallen asleep inside his condensation-filled buggy, like a boil-in-the-bag human. ‘Great. Leave me alone with my thoughts, why don’t you?’ I spoke to him anyway. ‘Just when the last thing I want is time to stand around thinking, you go to sleep. Typical man.’

The rain lifted and the sun began slipping through starling-coloured clouds like a spotlight. I started pushing for home. I tried to distract myself with thoughts of the work I had to do: there were two wristbands in silver that I had to pack up for dispatch, a buckle waiting to be built. But this time I failed to lose myself in detail; all I could think of was Ben’s eyes, the feel of him when I’d touched his arm. That tattoo over his bicep. The careless way he’d drag his hair back out of his face while he talked, as if he was unaware that haircuts existed. It was disturbing.

What did I think of him? All right, I admired those long legs, that finely-tuned body. I liked the way his fingers kinked in at the knuckle. His face was pleasant to look at and there was something about the way he moved that made something inside me feel as though I was answering a long-ago call. He didn’t frighten me. His slight build wasn’t overpowering or threatening, he’d never done anything or said anything which in any way panicked me.

And yet. The way my skin gravitated towards his — that was just biological imperative. Just my hormones trying to force me into something unwanted by both Ben and me. Nothing that was going to make me break the promises I’d made to myself. He was a friend. That was all.

When I got back to the barn, Harry was still asleep. Jason was packing his car for the London trip so I went through to the office and on to the computer. Back to the Willow Down site.

What had intrigued me was Ben’s hint that he’d done something to throw the band into disarray. Something that had had repercussions for their tour of the States. I went into the part of the website dedicated to write-ups of each gig they’d played and called up the review.

‘Striding onstage like they were aware of their following, Zafe Rafale and Baz Davies came on burning, tearing straight into their biggest hit “Once It was You”. The rest of the band joined them and they played all the usual hits plus most of the stuff on the new album Rent-A-Tee . The only duff note played all evening was in the final number, “About a Girl”. It looked as though inadequate rehearsals told here when Baz Davies set off into another number altogether, getting half way through to the evident puzzlement of the rest of the band before switching lyrics.’

Only that fragment about a misplayed song gave any hint that anything untoward had happened that night. Then, being a suspicious type, I checked out the internet scuttlebut on the topic. There were whole forums devoted to why Baz Davies quit Willow Down. Consensus seemed to be that Ben had had some kind of breakdown. There were wild stories on the net regarding his drug habit, his rumoured stays in just about any rehab clinic you could name, his bizarre behaviour. He’d had an affair with Zafe — no, he’d run off with Zafe’s girlfriend. No, Zafe had run off with his girlfriend. When it got to the stage that I was reading how Baz had been contacted by aliens and had left music to dedicate his life to Venusian peace-bringers I gave up.

I closed down the computer. Harry was stirring, curling and uncurling his hands around his blanket, and out in the yard I could hear Jason swearing at his car for not being large enough to accommodate one of his canvasses.

‘Jase? You’ve been to more gigs than me.’ Carrying a still-sleepy Harry I cornered Jason as he tried to stuff a dead-man’s handle on top of a pile of other things on the back seat.

‘Jem, there’s nuns been to more gigs than you. What about it?’ He straightened up to look at me.

‘If a band was playing a song but someone made a mistake, what would happen?’

Jason stared at me, leaning his long body against the car. ‘ What ? You mean, like, got the lyrics wrong or hit a bum note, that kinda thing? Nothing. Half the time your audience is so pissed that they don’t care if you plays “God Save the Queen”, they just likes to look atcha.’

‘I mean seriously. Would there be any repercussions?’

‘That’s like the drums, innit?’

I gave him a hard stare. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ Harry snuffled into my shoulder and Jason switched his attention.

‘Yeah. It happens. If a band don’t practise or if they’re playing a set for the first time, someone cocks up. Who cares? ’S all part of the experience.’

‘Not a big deal then?’

‘Not really.’ Jason stroked Harry’s head. ‘This still about your man, is it? He’s bleeding bonkers he is. Nice guy an’ all but really—’ He thrust his pelvis suggestively. ‘Crackers.’

‘Yes, Jason.’ I sighed and took Harry off in search of Rosie.

* * *

19th May

I did it. Okay, here I’m going to claim all the credit and you can look at me over those shitty half-glasses all you want (they are really crappy, man, make you look like a grandad). Between her telling me I should get a life, and me feeling guilty about how I behaved at that party, and you telling me to come to terms with the life I’d made for myself . . . somewhere, between all that, I started to think, you know?

Seeing her with those big eyes looking so . . . fragile, so scared of what I might say or do . . . And I was feeling so sorry for myself, so dead inside, and all because of what fear had brought me to. Scared to talk, scared not to. So much to say, so much pain, all going round and round in my head, no way of letting it out.

Scored some coke last week off a backstreet hustler who couldn’t look me in the face, then I sat in the shop all day and just stared at it lying there. All innocent, pure-looking. And I knew, knew that it would make everything feel better, even if only for a while, but a while was all I wanted, to make this screaming confusion and the self-hate go away. Some peace, you know? And I was going to, I was really going to. After all, being clean, where has it got me?

Truth again? I wanted to be dead. In that second I wanted out. It’s never been as bad as that before, even in the early days.

Jemima walked in. I’d forgotten she was coming, forgotten I had an appointment, forgotten everything except the choice that I had. All she said was ‘you okay?’ or something banal like that, didn’t even sound like she cared, it was just something to say, something to banish that sick kind of quiet that was hanging round us. And in that second I knew I’d never do it. I flushed eighty quid’s worth of snow, and came to see you.

So yeah. A life. I can do it, I can make something out of this shitpile that I’ve found myself in, something that isn’t dependent on what I used to have, what I used to do. I can’t be what I was, but I can be something else, something true to who I am. So, I’m starting. Starting to rebuild what I can from the ruins, getting out there, being someone again.

I don’t know how far I can take it yet. I want to find out what it is that Jem is hiding from. Why sometimes she looks at me as if she wants me naked and other times she avoids looking at me at all. I’m still too scared to tell her anything, too afraid that she’ll get that look, the one that women get when they meet someone who’s disabled, or frail; the same one they use for puppies that have been beaten or kittens thrown in the river. That look that dehumanises you, that says you’re not a man any more but something soft, something lesser. But I know that, if I want her to talk to me, then I have to talk to her.

I want to pretend just a little longer. But I know it’s coming.