Secrets at the Little Music Shop

Chapter Fourteen

It wasn’t the volume of the music that made my head ring, it was the insistent bass. It echoed through me like a second heart beat and rendered everything in the club dreamlike, although that could have been the barely-there lighting. I bought myself a drink and held it in front of me like a glass wall, lounging awkwardly against a pillar and scanning the dance floor.

Opposite the bar was the DJ booth surrounded by girls looking available. Its glass was tinted and the music was continuous so I couldn’t tell if the DJ was there. I wished I’d brought Jason. He might be a complete plonker, but he had the knack of looking at ease anywhere and it might have stopped me looking like a woman in search of a man. Which I was, but it was a particular man, not any of these designer-clad guys, with their smooth taste in shirts and their labels flapping.

I began to sidle around the walls heading for the far side of the club. Hidden speakers vibrated my lungs with volume and the perpetual techno-trance music scraped across my nerve endings. Finally I reached the DJ booth and looked in from behind, at the back of a blond man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He swivelled so I could see he had an earpiece in, and his eyes closed and was singing to something that bore no resemblance to the beat that was pumping out onto the dance floor. Two burly black men with radios stood either side and a rope barrier prevented the peasants from gaining entry.

‘Excuse me.’ I approached one of them, yelling above the music. ‘Could I speak to the DJ, please?’

Dark eyes focused on my face. I gave my winningest smile, lots of teeth and lips.

‘Whatcha want?’

‘A request?’ I had no idea whether DJ’s still played requests. I’d been out of circulation too long.

A grunt and the bodyguard folded his arms in front of his body, settling himself further into the floor. ‘He dun’t do requests.’

Now I really wished I’d brought Jason. He knew the etiquette for situations like this. Well, maybe etiquette was too strong a word, perhaps violence was a better term. ‘I only want to have a word with him.’

Another grunt. ‘Join the queue.’ A vast head nodded towards the girls, still stationary-jogging, although not one breast moved between the lot of them.

This was stupid. I hadn’t paid fifteen pounds to come in here and then another seven-fifty for a weak vodka only to be told I had to get behind a bunch of teenagers. I waited until the guard had switched back into resting mode then ducked under the rope and banged on the glass wall. ‘Oy, Zafe!’

Three sets of eyes instantly focused my way and two extremely large sets of arms came bearing down on me, grabbed me none too gently and started to drag me backwards, heels skittering out from beneath me. Inside his booth the DJ was already losing interest, sliding back under his music again. I did the only thing a girl down on the floor surrounded by enormous men could do. I lifted the hem of my top and flashed my boobs.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ one of the bodyguards exclaimed. ‘That’s all we need. Put ’em away love, nobody’s interested.’

But someone was. Perhaps it was because I’d taken the precaution of writing ‘Baz needs your help’ in eye pencil right across my breasts, with my nipples standing in for ‘e’s.

* * *

Zafe sat on an empty beer crate while I squatted uncomfortably on a broken stool in a tiny office at the back of the club. He lit a cigarette.

‘You do know I’ve got absolutely no reason to tell you anything?’ He blew smoke. ‘That bastard dropped us all in the shit back in Philly.’

‘Yes, I know. But you were friends once. And honestly, Zafe, you can’t feel nearly as badly about him as he does about himself. You should have seen him when he found out the band was reforming.’

Zafe shrugged. His shoulders had filled out considerably since his days in Willow Down, in the pictures he’d looked almost fragile, now he looked like a rugby player. Still as blond, though, and with those same beautiful cat-like eyes. ‘Yeah, well.’ He sounded almost ashamed. ‘I’m still not convinced that’s a great move but the management . . . hey, not your problem.’ Another puff of smoke. ‘So, you’re what? Baz’s new woman?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’ I cupped my hands around my knees to stop the stool rocking. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all.’

Sapphire eyes slithered across my chest, now properly covered once more. ‘Hell of a length to go to for a friend , flashing your 36Ds at the whole club,’ he said dryly. Another mouthful of smoke threatened to obscure the single bare bulb swinging from the low ceiling. Money clearly all went on front of house. ‘Look love, Baz was brilliant back in the day. Best lead I ever played with. But he was — how can I put it? Erratic. Bit fond of the old marching powder, know what I mean? Just before we went to the States on that final tour he took three months out getting his head straight, cleaning up his act, all that kinda thing. But when we got out there — it was like he just lost it. One night he’s playing like he’s got the devil himself in his soul and the next — pow, he’s outta there so fast the band didn’t know he’d gone ’til next day. Woke up and he’s not on the tour bus, he’s not with some girl, he’s just . . .’ Zafe broke off and rubbed at his arms as though something had walked over his skin under his pale jacket. ‘Bastard,’ he finished.

‘Where did he go?’

He pulled a face. ‘Dunno. Didn’t even know he was back in York until you just told me. He’s not been in touch. No calls, nothing. I tried . . .’ He broke off and sucked hard on the cigarette for a moment. ‘I was his friend and he wouldn’t talk to me about what was going off in his life. Shut me out. Wouldn’t take my calls, nothing. I went everywhere I could think of, hung out in some of our old dives, all his favourite places, no-one knew a thing, no-one had seen him. Knocked on more doors than a Jehovah’s Witness that year.’

‘Is there anywhere you can think of that he might have run to?’ I was gripping my hands tighter around my knees, could feel my nails digging under my kneecaps.

‘You tried the house, right?’

‘There was no-one in.’

Zafe shook his hair, clearing his fringe from his eyes. He wore it differently now, long at the front but spiky-short at the back, like he had his expression on the wrong side of his head. ‘OK. You know his family?’

‘No, like I said, I’m just a friend.’ Ben had never talked about his family. Never really talked about anything close to him unless I’d forced him. I shivered. He was more like me than I’d realised.

‘Ma and sister live in Vancouver.’

‘Canada?’ I was horrified by the snatching panic at the thought that Ben might be that far away.

‘Well done. Yeah.’ Zafe maintained the dry tone in his voice. ‘His dad died, they emigrated. All kicked off just as we started up the band so Baz stayed over here. Bought them a place. Put all his earnings into property, all that didn’t go up his nose.’

‘You think he might be in Canada?’

A considered pause. Zafe narrowed his eyes at me through the smoke. ‘You sure you’re not some journo after the inside story? Everyone wants to know what happened to the great Baz Davies.’ He lowered his head. ‘Including me,’ he finished quietly. ‘Though . . . five years, it’s a long time, I guess most people wouldn’t even recognise him now. And the ones that do . . . phht.’ He flicked ash onto the floor and stirred at it with a heel. ‘No-one cares any more. Old news.’

‘So, even if I were a journalist, you’d help me?’

‘Nah. If you’re a journo you can make it up.’ Those blue, blue eyes fixed on me. ‘So, can you prove you’re not?’

I held up my open hands. ‘How do I prove a negative?’

Zafe stood up and ground out the cigarette stub with the toe of his leather boots, forcing it to a smear on the concrete. ‘You been in the house?’

‘Ben’s? Yes, once. But only the hall with all those weird tiles. Oh, and the big room with the sofas. The room with the speakers set up. We went to an opening together and we had a drink in there before we left.’ I had to look up at Zafe as he paced around the cheerless cuboid room. He had a loose way of walking, as though his joints were attached by elastic to his body.

‘OK then. If you are a journo, you’re one Baz trusts. He doesn’t let any old hack into his place.’ He tapped another cigarette from his pocket and lit it. ‘What?’

‘You. Chain smoking. Something you picked up on tour?’

‘Among other habits.’ Zafe Rafale smiled for the first time and I saw why he had all those fans. ‘Yeah. So. You’re a friend of our Baz’s, I believe that now. And he ran out on you. Making a bit of a habit of this, isn’t he? Never used to run.’ His eyes were inward-looking now, scanning his thoughts. ‘Remember this one time, we’d be about fourteen, fifteen. We’re at this disco effort, school, youth club, can’t remember where. Anyway Baz had his eye on this girl, fancied her for months, he goes up to her and says, “You want to dance?” And this tart she eyes him up and down and kind of sneers, you know, in his face? Then she goes, “I’m not that desperate.” And Baz, cool as Sweden, looks at her and goes, “Nah, but I am.” Amazing. That’s Baz. Cool.’

‘So what happened between then and now? Why is he so — broken?’

Zafe blew smoke upwards. The ceiling was almost invisible now. ‘You tell me. I’ve gone through it all in my head, over and over; was it the drugs, was it some girl. Tell you something, it must have been one hell of a problem, ’cos if you’d asked me before, I’d have said he’d sooner have eaten the tour bus than quit.’ He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist under a rolled-up shirt cuff. ‘Look, I’ve got to play a set in ten. Got a pen?’ From a pocket I managed to assemble a biro and a scrap of paper. Zafe scribbled quickly, an almost incomprehensible series of squiggles. ‘This was always where he went when we had time off.’ He then caught hold of my arm when I went to slip the paper back into my pocket. ‘If you find him tell him — shit, I don’t know. Tell him I miss him. That’s all.’

* * *

‘I think it’s a seven.’ Rosie spoke more definitely than I’d heard her speak for weeks. Since she’d had Harry her edges seemed to have worn thin, as though she blended with things more. It made her fuzzier, less inclined to say what she thought, as though she distrusted even her own opinions. ‘Seven, Moor Road.’

‘I thought it was a nine. “Nine, Main Road”.’ I turned the paper upside down in case a change of perspective made things clearer.

Jason, who was watching Harry kicking nappy-free on the lawn, piped up. ‘It’s Robin Hood’s Bay, total population twelve and four fishing boats. It’s hardly going to be difficult, is it?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘Then he won’t be there, will he?’ Jason stooped and picked Harry up. Rosie taped shut the box of cards she’d just filled and removed her son from Jason’s slightly sticky grasp.

‘I am aware that we usually get more sense from the pig in next-door’s field, but Jason’s right,’ she said. ‘All you can do is try. Then maybe you’ll feel better.’

I stared at her. ‘You’re very perky all of a sudden. Yesterday you were half way to having Harry adopted, today you’re like Miss Agony Column.’

‘Yeah, Rosie’s got a date,’ Jason supplied. ‘Wiv a man . Least I’m guessing it’s a bloke, I don’t reckon our Rosie swings the same way as you do, Jem, ’less she’s like, bi.’ He licked his lips. ‘And if she is, can I watch?’

I stared at Rosie. ‘I wondered about the hair and the frock. So you’ve got yourself a date have you? You lucky cow.’

Self-consciously Rosie smoothed down the front of her pink dress. It set off her dark curls a treat with the way they slithered onto her silky shoulders. ‘It’s not . . . you know, a bit . . . Snow White?’

Jason snorted. ‘Snow White? You? More like Mucky Slush.’

Rosie gave a twirl and Harry chuckled in her arms. ‘Will you babysit, Jem? I should be back by midnight. If I’m not, there’s some bottles made up in the fridge.’

‘So there’s a chance you might — you know, sleep over?’

Rosie waggled her eyebrows at me. ‘You’re getting as bad as Jason.’

‘Whoa, come on . Look at how much experience I’ve got over our Jem,’ Jason complained. ‘Anyhow I don’t think she’s experienced at anything. Know wot I mean?’

I took the proffered Harry. ‘Still not a virgin, Jase.’ Knowing that he was trying to wind me up, to goad me into talking about myself.

‘Will be soon, if you don’t get cracking. You wanna borrow the batmobile to go looking for your man tomorrow?’ He shook his car keys in my face. ‘You can dart him through the window, crate him up, bring him back ’ere, no questions asked. I won’t even worry about any stains on the seats.’

‘Saskia’s coming over to pick up this first batch of cards.’ Rosie quite rightly ignored Jason. ‘They’re all packed up and ready to go. Right, I’m off, I’ll see you later.’

Jason and I stared at each other. ‘Your man not coming to pick you up?’ I asked as Harry wound his chubby little fists into my hair. ‘That’s a bit mean.’

‘No he — he has to work. I’m meeting him in town. Bus leaves in ten minutes. Bye!’

Rosie strode, high-heeled and preened, off towards the stop in the middle of the village and Jason gave me a jab in the arm.

‘You know wot? I reckon this bloke ain’t on the level. “Working” my arse, only bleeding married, in’t he?’

‘Rosie’s not stupid, Jase.’ I headed towards the cottage. ‘And she’s got Harry to think about. She’s not going to go shagging around with married guys with a three-month-old baby waiting at home, is she?’

‘She might,’ Jason answered, trotting alongside me. ‘If it was Harry’s dad.’

I stopped dead. ‘You think?’

‘Come on, Jem, don’t tell me you’ve never wondered? Think about it, if he’s available then why ain’t Rosie and he all cosied up in some kinda advert-idyll?’

‘Maybe they treasure their independence.’

‘Wot, like I used to treasure sleeping in the back of me car and dragging the whole of British Rail from place to place when I was trying to get commissioned? Yeah, that’ll be right, Jem. Rosie loves living here and working flat out for the Mistress of Pain.’

‘Talk of the devil . . .’

The huge black 4×4 was back, parking outside the cottage with Saskia in the passenger seat and Alex driving.

‘Hello, Jemima. And Harry. Gosh, a bare bottom, well, nappies are so expensive these days, aren’t they? Of course I used terries for Oscar, so much kinder to the skin.’

‘And so much harder on the au-pair. Hello, Saskia, Alex. No Oscar with you today?’ I jiggled Harry on my hip, the mere presence of Saskia made him grousy and the absence of his mother didn’t help.

‘He’s having a visiting day at his new school. Bless.’ Saskia tippytoed along the path towards Jason and me. ‘We’ve just passed Rosie at the bus stop and I must admit we were a little shocked at her dress sense, weren’t we, darling?’ As her husband caught up Saskia looped a hand through his arm. ‘Of course, I lost all my baby weight within a fortnight and not everyone can be so lucky, can they, but I do think one should dress for one’s shape.’ She eyed me up and down. ‘Obviously you don’t agree, Jemima, but it is important to look one’s best at all times. Now, are these the cards? I’m surprised that Rosie can find time to go off gallivanting when I told her I need the rest by the weekend.’

‘Surely you can be a bit flexible. I mean it’s not as if you’re even selling them . . .’

Whoops.

‘What do you mean?’ Saskia looked at me from under her eyelashes. Her suspiciously smooth forehead did its best to frown.

‘They aren’t in Le Petit Lapin, are they?’ Unless you count the fact that they’re stacked up in cardboard boxes out the back. ‘I looked.’

Saskia sighed. ‘Oh, but I did say I wanted these for the Harrogate shop.’

‘I could have sworn Rosie said these were for Le Petit Lapin.’ I gave Saskia my best smile.

‘No, darling. You’re not just the teeniest bit stressed, are you, Jemima? Only, stress can make you forgetful at times and you do look a little . . . how can I put it kindly?’

‘Unique?’

Saskia gave a chiming little giggle which was like tinfoil on my nerves. ‘Unkempt, sweetie. As though you’re not taking care of yourself properly. It’s so important to look after yourself. And how are you doing for money, darling?’

Pride cut in and I lied. ‘Oh, I’m doing okay. Ben’s shifting a fair bit of stuff and I’m selling well on the internet.’

‘That’s lovely.’ A tight smile, as though she was afraid to grin in case her mouth split. ‘Good. Now, we are just a teensy bit pushed for time, darlings, so we’ll take these and vamoose. Alex, sweetie, would you put the box in the car for me?’ As her husband hefted Rosie’s cards into the Hummer Saskia smiled sweetly at me. ‘And where’s that gorgeous Mr Davies, Jemima? I must say I’m surprised he’s not here, you looked so close at the opening.’

‘You were a lot closer.’ I smiled a saccharine smile back.

‘Yes, well, that was business.’ Saskia fluffed her hair. ‘Do ask him to get in touch, won’t you? I’ve a few little propositions I’d like to put to him. Super.’ Saskia turned. ‘Alex! I’m ready now. You can drop me off at the house before you go, I’ve a few phone calls to make.’ She turned to wave manicured finger tips at me. ‘Ciao, sweetie.’ Her voice lowered an octave to take her leave of Jason. ‘Goodbye, my darling.’ He merited a kiss on the cheek. ‘And if you could let Rosie know I’ll be by sometime on Sunday for the rest of the consignment?’

The big black car swept away in a spray of gravel. I turned to Jason. ‘Can you smell brimstone?’

‘I dunno. Whatever perfume Saskia was wearing has made my nose bleed.’

* * *

Rosie woke me when she got in at three, wanting an update on Harry’s evening. I suppose it was understandable, what with the carrycot-under-the-wardrobe incident, but I suspect I might have been a little less than understanding, being dragged out of sleep to describe nappy contents. The discussion meant I was slightly sleep deprived when I drove off in Jason’s car the next morning. Robin Hood’s Bay was a tiny village clinging to a rapidly eroding cliffside, all hanging baskets and provisions merchants, like something out of Enid Blyton. I inched the car down to the slipway at the bottom of the village, failing to spot any sign of Ben, his car or any street bearing any name like ‘moor’ or ‘main’. In fact, half of the main road had fallen into the sea a few winters ago. Carefully I turned around, inching the car in reverse because there wasn’t much room, and headed back up the slope again past the hotels and guesthouses, past the old railway station and up to where the buildings gave way to fields. I pulled into a gateway, killed the engine and got out.

Far below me on the beach I could hear the sound of children yelling. The sun was brilliantly white, shadows were short and I felt my chest burning with something, some emotion I couldn’t name. I leaned against the car and took a deep breath, the heat and light making everything feel slightly unreal, dreamlike, listening to the children playing at the foot of the cliffs, and then I recognised the feeling. It was longing.

Some deeply buried part of me wanted this. To stand in the sun, listening to children — my children — play. To have a normal, loving man to go home to, a gentle, smiling man who’d flick his hair out of his eyes and take the baby from me. Ask me how my day had been. Kiss my cheek and then later, in the secret night, draw lines of flame across my body.

Ben .

His was the face I saw, the fingers I imagined. His was the body that stepped in to fill the gap in my fantasies. If only I could reach him, talk to him . . . if only . . . If only I could overcome everything I was. If I could forget all the promises I’d made. If only things were different .

I shook my head. Sleep deprivation. That’s all it was. Tiredness and unaccustomed driving in a car that smelled of solder and Lynx. As I stood breathing heavily, sun reflected from something very shiny and speared through my eyeball like a migraine. I blinked, turned and caught sight of the road sign. Moor Road it said, with the sun winking and gleaming off it and all but beckoning in a deliberately provocative manner. The feeling that I’d been fooled by some stunt on Zafe’s behalf, some way of getting rid of a troublesome groupie, left me and was replaced by a prickle of nerves. Ben was here. Somewhere.

My stomach squeezed and my body turned, so used to running, to getting out of situations before they went bad that it was an automatic response. I was half way into the driving seat with my knuckles white against the doorframe before I managed to tell myself that this was just a stop-off. Just a clearing-the-air pause before I could start again somewhere, clean slate.

Do this, then it’s over. It’s all over.

Number nine was carved on a weathered bit of elm, nailed to a swinging sign at the end of an overgrown driveway which curved and dipped. The house was a long way from the road. Once I rounded the first bend I could see a car slewed casually across a grassed-over turning circle. It was an Audi but I couldn’t be sure it was Ben’s. Despite the car the house had a deserted look, curtains pulled across most of the windows and paintwork peeling from the frames. An enormous ash tree flourished alongside and hung its branches down over the guttering. It made the house look like an emo kid trying to hide behind its fringe.

I wasn’t brave enough to knock. With the gravel crunching a give-away under my feet, I tried to look as though I had called on unidentifiable business and shuffled around the outer wall of the house down a paved walkway and into the back garden.

Where Ben was sprawled face down on the overgrown lawn.

I gave a moan and dashed over the spongy grass to crouch beside his body. He was half-dressed, barefoot in those painted-on black jeans and the lack of shirt left his tattoo darkly visible, scrawled across his painfully pale skin. I laid a hand against his ribcage to check for movement. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t.

He wasn’t. With a yell that made me leap several feet backwards he jumped to his feet. ‘What the . . . ?’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you—’

He cut me off, pulling at the T shirt he’d had cushioning his head. ‘What are you doing here? How did you know . . . ? Why? It’s not . . . Harry, he’s OK, isn’t he?’

‘Zafe gave me the address.’ I watched Ben blinking his way back to wakefulness. ‘And Harry’s fine. What were you doing out here?’ I couldn’t keep my eyes off his naked chest. Even though he was clutching his T shirt against himself like a shield enough flesh was available for viewing to show that he had bones and muscles and very little else. He looked like a vertical greyhound.

‘What does it look like I was doing? I was lying in the sun.’

My heart had settled. ‘It’s not working. You still look like half-a-pint of milk.’

An almost-smile. ‘And while I wasn’t expecting a “hello, gorgeous”, I still find myself surprised. So then. Presuming you didn’t come just for the insult opportunities?’

‘I thought you might—’ No, it was too stupid to say, with him standing there looking baffled, still blinking sleep from his eyes. ‘I had to show Zafe my boobs before he’d tell me about this place.’

‘Sounds like Zafe. He’d make such a rubbish spy.’ Rubbing a hand through his already disarrayed hair, Ben moved off towards an open door at the back of the house, not inviting me to follow. Beyond the door I could see a cool, dark room with a table and chairs set on a bare slate floor. The sun scalded my skin as though it was driving me towards the shade but more heavy-headed clouds were building on the horizon, hinting at a coming storm. I shielded my eyes and looked up at the sky.

Ben stopped in the doorway and turned round. ‘You’ve come this far. You might as well see the rest.’

The grass was mossy under my feet like walking on fat green pillows, suddenly becoming cold hard stone as I stepped into the shadow of the kitchen. Between its thick walls and floor hung a pool of cool air and I felt myself relax a little.

Ben, busy plugging in a kettle, ignored me. He’d dumped his T shirt on the table and when he turned to search for coffee I found that my eyes would not move from the middle of his chest. His body hair was as dark as the hair on his head, spiralling from around his nipples to a narrow band running down the centre of his concave stomach. His arms were lean but strong, with the muscles running long and smooth down to his elbows. His ribs pushed the skin of his chest as he breathed, rolling with each exhalation and making the shadows that fell across his body move like snakes.

‘Why did you come?’ He was wreathed in the gloom at the far side of the room, the kettle sending a shiver of steam between us. He looked like a ghost.

‘I was frightened.’ I found I’d backed up, the edge of the table was digging into the backs of my thighs and I couldn’t go any further without using my bodyweight to force it against the wall.

‘Why? Did you think I’d refuse to sell any more of your buckles?’

‘That night. With Harry. The way you ran. You were — freaking.’

Ben shook his head slowly. ‘And that’s it? I lost it and you thought you’d come pry into my secrets? Using Zafe, which, I have to say, is like using a dirty weapon.’

I forced my voice to be calm. ‘Ben, the way you took off I didn’t know what to think. Zafe was the only person who’d know where you might have gone.’

‘Great. Well you found me. Congratulations, go get yourself a gold medal. And then just plain go .’

‘I only wanted to — talk.’ His expression was so dark that I couldn’t even bring up the subject of my leaving town.

‘Right. So you smacked me round the face that night to — what? Bring me to my senses? Oh, Jemima, you have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’

‘Then tell me.’ I moved across the kitchen until we stood only one flagstone apart. I stared into his eyes, watching the pupils widen until they almost completely overwhelmed the irises, turning them into ebony discs. ‘Go on. Tell me what it is that’s screwing you up so totally.’

‘Why?’ His voice was little more than a whisper and his eyes flickered, taking in all of my face.

Because you need a friend, I wanted to say. You need someone to stop this happening. But my throat was clogged with my own reasons.

‘You’ve talked to Zafe, he’ll have told you about the drugs . . . do you think I’m a junkie? Is that it?’

‘Ben, I don’t know what you are.’

‘Oh, God.’ The click as the kettle turned itself off was so loud in the sudden silence that it bounced off the walls. Ben was breathing faster now, his ribcage moving under a skin that seemed slick. Was he sweating? ‘Jemima.’

‘I’m listening.’

He gripped the edges of the sink behind him. ‘I feel sick.’

‘Do you need me to get you something? Valium?’

Ben’s eyes were suddenly intense. ‘You seem to know a lot about it. What’s your story then, Jemima?’

I shook my head. ‘No. That’s not what this is about.’

He exhaled. ‘All right. Listen. You’re wrong. I haven’t taken anything since I came out of rehab. It’s been a close-run thing, sometimes, but I learned my lesson.’ Ben’s knuckles were grey against the white enamel. ‘I’m better than that, stronger. I found that I don’t need a head full of coke to tell me who I am and there’s nothing like having been an addict for showing you how shallow it all is. Been there, done that.’ And I wasn’t sure if he meant the drugs or the fame. ‘And now — now everything is different.’

I could see the muscles in his shoulders standing out under the strain. Something was going to give. ‘Jemima—’ A seething roll of thunder built to a tympanic crescendo and then died to a mumble. Outside the sun was killed by the cloud and a prickle of static electricity made my head tingle. Ben ignored it all, just stared at the floor as though his breakfast was about to reappear. ‘Jemima,’ he said again, glancing my way and then jumped as a lightning flash speared through the room and was gone.

‘Just a storm,’ I said. ‘Must be nearly overhead, judging by that thunder.’

‘Thunder?’

And suddenly I understood. ‘Oh, my God. Ben.’ The guitars he couldn’t play. Harry crying upstairs. Ben hadn’t known he was there .

He saw the understanding in my face and he broke. The tension in his shoulders transferred to his back and he jolted away from the sink, dropping to the floor with his forehead on his knees, his whole body shaking. Not just crying but sobbing as though everything dear to him had died.

‘But how—? I mean—’ The party where he’d known what I was saying on the other side of a crowded room . ‘You lip read.’ I went to him, sat beside him. Touched his arm until he raised his head. ‘Ben. Oh, God, Ben .’

The expression on his face was one I never want to see again. His eyes were black and it hurt to look into them, his hair was stapled across his cheeks with the tears that smeared his skin. He’d been holding this alone for such a long time, carrying it like a private horror. Under my hand I could feel him trembling. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Just tell me. All of it.’

It came in fits and starts and bubbles of speech. His breath sounded as though it came over cogwheels in his throat and his chest heaved with the effort of drawing in air. He’d been diagnosed with a disease that caused a disintegration of the tiny bones of the inner ear, told his condition could stabilise or worsen at any time. Hoped for a miracle and then on stage in Philadelphia suddenly realised he was completely deaf. Ben looked deep into my face as he shared the terror, the isolation. ‘It’s congenital. My sister has lost part of her hearing, too. That’s why I bought them the place in Vancouver, there’s a university out there doing research on stabilising hearing and working on rebuilding lost bone. Just because it’s too late for me doesn’t mean she can’t be helped. But there’s no cure,’ he finished. His skin was chilled under my hand but his breathing was rapid, feverish. ‘It’s like being completely alone, trapped in here.’ He touched my forehead with his nearest finger.

‘But hearing aids—?’

‘Only work if the bones of the inner ear are intact. Mine . . .’ He tailed off, making a crumbling gesture with his hands. ‘Been through all this with Dr Michaels. Every option. But it’s a bastard of a disease, Jem, because once the hearing’s gone there’s nothing to be done.’ He gave a dark smile. ‘And, believe it or not, I’m luckier than a lot of sufferers because all the work with the band, being on stage and having to communicate over the music — I learned to lip read a long time ago. Dr Michaels wanted me to learn to sign but that’s a fast-track to living a completely separate life. Everyone knowing. I wanted . . . I wanted to pretend I could still hear.’ He shook his head. ‘Shit. Thought I’d done all my crying. Sorry.’

‘Hey. Don’t be sorry. It’s . . . I don’t even know what it is. Terrible. Awful.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘You want to know what it really is, Jem? It’s loneliness. It’s being treated as stupid or rude, it’s not understanding. And Christ, the dark —’

‘Dark?’

‘When it’s night, when I can’t see . . . that’s when I really know I’m deaf.’ He tried to draw in a breath. I heard it stutter past the tears still in his throat. ‘Right. So now you feel sorry for me. Great. I need a friend, what I get is a pity partner.’ He dropped his head onto his knees and curled his arms around it, turning himself into a ball, blocking me out. Crying silently.

I left him to let it out. Made two mugs of strong coffee, listening to the rain that had begun pounding down on the outside of the cottage. The little kitchen had been gloomy to start with, now it was like midnight and the rapidly cooling air had dropped the temperature down beyond comfortable.

I took a mug to Ben. Touched his shoulder. ‘Hey. Drink this then put something on. You’re going to freeze.’

He was watching my mouth. I could see that now. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. Jem, I’m so, so sorry. This isn’t your problem, it’s not your fight. All I ask is that you don’t tell anyone else. Please.’

‘Ben.’ I dropped to sit cross-legged in front of him. ‘You need to tell Zafe.’

‘ How ? For God’s sake, how do I tell him something like this?’

‘The same way you told me. He deserves to know. At least so he can move forward with reforming the band or whatever. He really cares about you, you know.’

A pale smile. ‘Thanks, Oprah.’ Another huge, sighing breath. ‘Can’t believe I lost it like that.’

I threw him his shirt from the table. ‘Please. You’ve got goosebumps so big I can see them from here.’ I watched him drag the cotton over his head, loosening his hair from the collar. ‘And, for the record, I don’t pity you. Don’t even feel sorry for you if you want the truth.’

An indrawn breath. ‘Okay, guess I asked for that one.’

‘I’ve — known people who’ve lost a lot more than their hearing. And if going deaf is what it took to get you off the drugs then that’s a fair trade from where I’m standing.’

Ben’s eyes burned through me. ‘You want to tell me?’

‘No.’ I looked around at the dark streaming windows, the ribbons of water dragging down the panes. ‘Wow. This place is way, way too gothic.’

He laughed. ‘I like it that the weather has a sense of the dramatic.’

In my jeans my pocket began to vibrate. I snatched at my mobile. ‘And now I know why you never call,’ I said. ‘I thought you were just being a typical bloke.’

‘Hey, I was.’ Ben stood up, straightening his legs slowly and stretching. He looked taller and the stretch went on forever. I tried not to look at the way the muscles in his thighs were working under his jeans.

‘It’s Rosie.’ I flipped open the phone. ‘Hello, Rosie.’

‘Jemima,’ Rosie sounded slightly out of breath. ‘Have you found him? Ben, is he with you?’

‘Yes to both questions.’

I heard Rosie relaying this information to someone else and then heard Jason’s yell of ‘ice cubes!’ before she came back on.

‘It’s important. Can you put him on?’

I glanced over at Ben lip reading my half of the conversation. ‘Er, he’s — he’s upstairs at the moment. Tell me and I’ll pass it on.’ Black eyes regarded me steadily. ‘He’s busy,’ I added in case Rosie was about to insist.

Ben gave a slow, sad smile.

‘Okay. But this is important, Jem. Tell him there’s been a fire. At the shop. Saskia just rang, apparently the fire engines are out and everything. He might want to get over there.’

‘ Saskia rang?’

‘Yeah. Apparently the whole of the street came to a standstill so she sent Mairi out to find out what was going on.’

‘What, passing up the chance to ogle a fireman?’

‘Maybe she thought Mairi’s need was greater. Anyway, tell him, Jem, will you?’ And she rang off.

I relayed Rosie’s half of the conversation to Ben, leaving out Jason’s comment about the ice cubes. Ben grabbed a jacket from its hanging position at the base of the bannisters.

‘Come on.’ And before I could protest about Jason’s car being left half in a hedge, Ben had dragged me out, shoved me in his passenger seat and we were heading at an unwise speed for town.

* * *

Ben stared at the steaming timbers of the shopfront. ‘There’s not much left is there?’

He’d dealt with the firemen while I’d prowled around the site trying to see what had become of my buckles, and now we stood alone in the middle of the tiny square watching ash fall into puddles. Being wooden, most of the outside of the shop had crumbled, leaving the inner plastered walls still standing, fragile and thin, dripping with water. Within the remains, twisted shapes which had once been guitars were tangled on the floor with soaking paper, all swept into one corner by the force of the hoses which had been played on them.

‘Oh, Ben.’ The air was acrid. ‘All your lovely guitars.’

‘Yeah.’ He sounded tired. Emotionally wrung-out. ‘The firemen said there was a lighter and a pile of old newspapers at the top of the steps, looks like kids had been mucking about and then legged it when the place started to go up.’

‘Oh, God.’ I’d seen the remains of one of my buckles. It lay just inside the doorway between a splintered guitar and spills of brightly coloured paper which had once been Zafe’s posters. The heat had warped it out of shape and melted the glue so that it looked like an encrusted metal fist. I went to collect it but Ben grabbed me.

‘Don’t go in. Insurance people will be all over this place in about an hour, we don’t want to have to explain why your footprints are going in and out.’ He sighed. ‘What a crap day.’

I shuffled through piles of powdery wood where the firemen had heaped anything they’d rescued from the flames, bending here and there to sieve things between my fingers. Well, at least now I didn’t have to worry about leaving any of my jewellery behind when I went.

Ben pressed a finger into a wall support which sagged alarmingly at his touch. ‘Insurance are going to have a field day.’ A momentary flash in his eyes. ‘I hate dealing with bureaucracy. Paperwork’s okay but the telephone calls are a bitch.’

I kept my hand closed around the object I’d picked up and stared over the smouldering remnants. Ben laid his hand on my arm. The warmth came through my shirt and I found myself very aware of how close he was standing. I shifted my weight and he moved too, a little closer.

‘You’re shivering.’

‘I think I’m in shock.’ I looked again at the twisted remains of my buckles in the ruins. ‘God. Who’s going to stock my stuff now?’

‘Is it really that bad?’ Carefully, slowly, as though he thought I was going to take offence, Ben slid his jacket off and wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth was lovely.

I shrugged. There was no way I could tell him. No way. I trembled again, feeling trapped.

Ben rubbed a soot-streaked hand over his face, transferring a lot of the soot to his cheeks. ‘Times like these I wish I hadn’t quit drugs,’ he said ruefully.

I punched him on the arm. Quite hard. ‘Things are never that bad.’ I said. ‘So your shop’s burned down, so what? You’re loaded and it’s not like the place was exactly heaving with customers, was it?’

‘Right, okay, so I’ll resign myself to spending my days in some kind of home, shall I, where they can teach me to make ornaments out of raffia to sell to people who haven’t carelessly lost their hearing? The shop wasn’t there to sell things. It was to give me some point of contact with the human race.’

I glared at him. ‘If you’re going to come over all self-pitying I am really going to clock you one.’

‘Ooh, look who’s talking. Little Miss “Nobody wants to buy my things”.’

‘Yes, but I’m broke!’

‘At least you can make money. Deafness doesn’t go away.’

‘You’re alive . You got into drugs, you got out with no damage other than your wallet took a big hit. Maybe a few synapses fried — you hardly need a brain to play indie rock, do you?’

In the very back of my head, where no-one could see, I was suddenly aware that this skinny ex-guitarist was so far under my skin that he was inhabiting a region dangerously close to my heart.

Ben made a very rude noise. ‘Come on, bitch,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to mine, have a drink. Oh, I’m sorry, we have to go to mine because you don’t have your own place. Sweet.’ He turned around and headed for the alleyway, pausing to add, ‘And don’t think that because I can’t see you I don’t know you’re muttering under your breath.’

This time Ben took me into the kitchen. It was huge, all Moben and Miele, gleaming chrome and nifty little hanging units. He poured me a glass of wine and watched me clamber up onto one of the tall stools, nudging the wine bottle closer to me. ‘So tell me, what am I going to do about those phone calls that the insurers are just going to love making?’

‘Why don’t you tell them you’re deaf?’

‘Yeah, right, because none of them will know who I am or that I used to be in Willow Down, and absolutely none of them will be straight on to the press.’

‘Whoo-hoo, welcome to Mr Arrogance.’

We glowered at each other for a moment, then Ben’s face cleared into a smile so gorgeous that I found I was smiling back. He still had the sooty streaks all over his cheeks but his eyes had lost that guarded expression; he looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. Also very, very attractive, as though somehow his scruffy bony-ness had grown on me and in an awful lapse of taste I was being drawn to men whose hair points in several directions at once and who look like a well-dressed piece of string.

‘You’re staring,’ he said.

‘And you’re very cheerful for a man whose shop just burned down.’ My eyes were quartering his face, taking in the straight brows, the dark lashes, the way his cheeks looked as though someone had detonated a stubble-bomb under his chin and the fallout had fortuitously highlighted his excellent bone structure.

‘You liking what you see?’ He dropped his eyes from mine but kept watching my mouth.

‘Ben, you said it before, we’re friends. That’s all.’

‘Why?’ He leaned back on his stool, resting his back against one of the immaculate cupboards and tilting so that the front legs of the stool rose off the ground. ‘Why is that all? What are you so afraid of?’

I looked him in the eye. ‘You’ve fought your demons, got everything off your chest and now you’re ready for something else. Well, Mr Davies—’ I leaned forward and he let the stool rock back to earth to meet me eye-to-eye over the table. ‘Not everyone’s demons are so easily subdued.’

Somewhere in the house a phone rang.

‘Do you want me to get that?’

‘Get what?’ Ben’s eyes were still flickering over my mouth.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Beethoven.’ I slithered off the stool and located the telephone in the big room with all the sofas. ‘Why do you have a phone, anyway?’

Ben had followed me. ‘It was here when I moved in.’

‘D’ you know, I thought you had a mobile?’

He thought for a second, then pulled from his pocket the slim plastic oblong that I’d seen before. ‘This what you mean? It’s my vibrator.’

I paused with my hand on the receiver. ‘Excuse me?’

‘For the door. When the bell goes, it vibrates. So that I know someone is out there. And, incidentally, giving me an exciting little buzz in the pocket region.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘This baby is why I don’t hurry to the front door. And why are you looking at me like that?’

I unpursed my lips. ‘I’m surprised you’ve got room in those jeans. Now, I’m going to answer this call, so please stop making me think about you vibrating in your own pocket.’

He grinned. ‘Buzz, buzz. Think about it all you want, Jemima.’

I held a brief conversation with the insurance agents, relaying to Ben. ‘I feel like a go-between,’ I complained when I finally replaced the receiver. He didn’t answer, he was staring at his hands, playing his fingers along the back of one of the white leather armchairs. ‘Ben?’

Still nothing. But when he finally looked up his eyes were huge. ‘Arson,’ he said simply.

‘What? The fire brigade said it was an accident, kids playing—’

‘Don’t you ever read between the lines? What that insurance guy — it was a guy, wasn’t it? What he was saying about examining evidence, that means they think it was started deliberately.’

‘Ooh, good, it’ll be like CSI down there in a couple of days.’ I smacked my lips together. ‘Blokes in suits rubbing pencils up the walls and stuff.’

‘Aren’t you even a little bit concerned that someone’s burned down my shop on purpose?’ Ben began pacing up and down, his trainers making squeaky noises on the polished wood of the floor. ‘Who hates me enough to do that?’

‘Like I said, my heart refuses to bleed for someone who’s got as much cash as you have.’ I sat down on the squashy sofa. It was hideously comfortable.

‘What is it with you?’ Ben squealed his feet round to stand facing me. ‘What is your hang up with money? Yeah, okay, I get that you’re broke, well, don’t start grudging me my money ’cos I worked for it, babe. And I won’t have some chippy little cow telling me that I’ve got it easy, that I shouldn’t mind shit happening, just because I’ve got a few houses and a nice car!’ He slumped down on the sofa opposite me, curling his head down so I couldn’t see his face. ‘That place was my therapy, my salvation. If it hadn’t been for the shop, what do you think I would have done? Because I’ll tell you, Jemima, I’d have done what I was tempted to do when I realised my hearing had gone for good — headed downtown, scored a few grammes of best Colombian and not given a shit about anything. Buying the shop, setting up the stock, it all gave me something else to concentrate on while my head got round the facts of what was happening to me.’ A shiver crept its way down my spine. Ben met my eye. ‘But you know how that feels, don’t you?’

My hands on the leather were suddenly sweating. ‘What are you talking about?’ I dug my nails into the seat.

He shook his head. ‘Just — this feeling I’m getting from you. I’ve always been good at faces. Body language, that kind of thing. And you, Jemima, are giving “fuck-off” in clouds. Something bad happened to you, something that means you don’t trust, you don’t give in. That selling your jewellery is something to do to stop yourself thinking.’

I stood up. ‘You spent all this time being a man of mystery, and suddenly there’s no shutting you up is there?’

Another one of his sudden, beautiful smiles. ‘Better believe it.’

Watching him sitting there, one ridiculously long leg folded over the other in his groin-challengingly tight jeans, I almost weakened. The urge to tell him everything, to let him know me properly, rushed over me. At that point I realised I was dangerously close to loving Ben Davies.

‘Can you lend me the money for a taxi so I can go and get Jason his car back?’

‘Are you changing the subject?’ His smile had faded and the tightness was back in his eyes.

If it had been anyone but Ben then maybe everything would have come tumbling out, the whole sordid story. But it was Ben. And if I told him — he might not like me any more. But I owed it to him, didn’t I, to explain why I wouldn’t — couldn’t — get any closer than this? To tell him that I was leaving, maybe to tell him why . And suddenly the thought of being without him made my breathing faster, my palms sweatier. ‘No.’

His face relaxed again. I began to realise how much it had cost him to confide in me. ‘That’s good.’ He unfolded himself and stood looking down at me. ‘Look, when you’re ready — hey, I can recommend telling someone. Telling me .’ He shook his head slightly. ‘Let’s go pick Jason up and I’ll drop you off at Rosie’s to get your stuff together.’ I made an old-fashioned face at him. ‘What? I need you here to field the phone calls! Where’s the problem?’

Quickly I turned my face from him so he couldn’t read my expression. Move in here? With a man I . . . My mouth was dry. But then it would be easier to run from here, and Ben wouldn’t be quite so omnipresent as Rosie. I’d be able to pack and go without him suspecting a thing.

‘Just promise me if Jason says anything about ice cubes, blank him. Or you can hit him if you like.’

‘Ice cubes?’

‘Trust me, he’ll mention them.’ I took a deep breath. I could do this. I really could.