Page 16 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Metal Hammer.’

‘Odd name for a lad.’ Ben hung up the jacket and opened the till.

‘The magazine. And don’t worry, I haven’t stolen all your cash, in fact I haven’t even opened the till while you’ve been away. I think he wanted you to see this.’ I brandished the open page under his nose, my thumb marking the relevant piece. ‘They’ve just brought out a guitar that tunes itself. Like a robot.’

‘Cute.’ He took the magazine from me and handed me a twenty-pound note. ‘Here. Reckon that’s enough for an hour and a half spent drinking my coffee and . . . no. Please, no!’ He’d looked down at the page of print and dropped the magazine as though it was on fire. He was shaking.

‘Ben? Hey . . .’ Cautiously I touched his arm.

‘What?’ He flinched, then his eyes searched my face, almost panicked. ‘I’m sorry, I’m losing . . . I didn’t . . . hear you.’

‘Are you OK?’

He gave a laugh as though something was very unfunny indeed, then slid to sit with his back against the counter. ‘Someone walked over my grave,’ he said. ‘Yes. That’s just what happened.’

He had a tattoo at the top of his arm. I could see it where the sleeve of his T shirt had rolled back. It was a curious Celtic design encircling his bicep and again I found myself wondering about him. I had to close my eyes and breathe hard to stop myself. Don’t get involved . . .

‘I don’t understand.’

He looked up at me. ‘Don’t even try.’ He rested his chin on his drawn-up knees. ‘Honestly, Jemima, don’t even try.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I was puzzled by his over-reaction. There hadn’t been anything on that page that my skim reading had shown up as being a volatile subject. Unless he was truly distraught that Metallica were bringing out a new album.

Again, that laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. No.’ And now he was staring around at the walls of his shop and I didn’t know if he was aware of it but his fingers were moving on his thighs as though he was strumming a tune on an invisible guitar. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. And that’s official.’

‘But . . .’

‘Go home, Jemima.’

He looked so distraught that it cut through my usual distance. Clenching my teeth I touched his arm again. Traced my finger across the tattooed lines. ‘Nice tatt.’ Trying to change the subject, to stop the obvious pain.

A hand came up and slapped my fingers away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ It was said wearily, heavily, as though the words were well-used. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t . . .’ and then he looked at me again with such pain in his face that I had to look away. ‘Just go home.’

I headed for the door and the whole atmosphere was so full of his torment that it was like walking through glass splinters. As I started over the threshold he called me back.

He dropped the magazine. ‘Jemima?’

I didn’t turn round. ‘What?’

‘Did you ask your friend?’ He was still sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin. His hair hung over his eyes, but I knew he could see me. ‘About dinner?’

‘Oh. Yes. Thursday. Is that OK?’ This was a ridiculous conversation. Ben was sitting there looking as though he wished the world would end, while I, feeling chastised and decidedly shaken, was conversing over my shoulder. And we were discussing dinner-party arrangements? What’s wrong with this picture?

‘Thursday? Fine. Yeah, good.’

‘I’ll e-mail you. With directions and stuff,’ I added quickly. I’d rarely had such a response to someone before. This feeling of sympathy combined with some other emotion that I was never, never going to try to identify, had left me breathless. I wanted to get out, to breathe, to reassure myself.

‘Thanks.’ His voice sounded a little stronger now, a little more sure. Perhaps now he’d established that I wasn’t going to make some kind of pass.

‘OK. I’ll just leave you to . . . stare at pictures of people wearing real clothes or whatever it is you do.’

This time he laughed and it was a proper laugh. ‘Great, thanks. Then afterwards I’ll just go off and ignore some proper meals, shall I?’

I half-smiled at him, still over my shoulder. ‘You do that, Ben.’ And I managed to walk out of the shop, even though every nerve wanted to run.

* * *

24th April

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