Page 21 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

Rosie ran her hands through her curls. She now looked as though she’d been attacked by an evil hairdresser. ‘Jemima,’ she said very evenly. ‘I know I’ve never asked questions about your past or anything but tell me this. Did you spend the last five years on the moon? That man, in there.’ Rosie put both hands on my shoulders. ‘That man is Baz Davies.’

‘His name’s Ben.’

‘No!’ Rosie shook me now. ‘Baz Davies! The Baz Davies. Lead singer and guitarist in the biggest band to come out of Yorkshire in the last ten years and I am including the Arctic Monkeys in that. Haven’t you ever heard of Willow Down?’ She sighed. ‘Listen. Willow Down. Huge. Sensation. Made Coldplay look like some outfit touting round Working Men’s Clubs. Went to the States. Huge in States. Baz Davies . . .’ She flung out an arm towards the living room. ‘. . . dropped out. Went to ground. Band fell apart.’

Benedict Arthur Zacchary Davies.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘He’s been off the radar for five years. No-one knows what happened, they were in the middle of a tour of the States that was, apparently, phenomenal. I saw them once.’ Rosie’s eyes suddenly went misty. ‘Fibbers, that club in York. They played Foolish Words, my favourite, I got drunk and went home with a bloke who turned out to be hung like a mule. Ah, happy days.’

I walked out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Ben was still perched on the edge of the sofa, rolling his now empty glass between his fingers.

‘We subdued the chilli but I’m afraid the rice might go for your throat,’ I said.

Ben looked at me. ‘You know.’

‘What? That you used to be in a band? Yes. Rosie recognised you. Saw you play Fibbers, apparently.’

He gave a short laugh, then shook his head. ‘That’s gone, not me any more. This is who I am.’

I felt a little tremble down my spine. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m not that person now.’ Ben stood up.

‘I understand.’

‘I’d better go.’ Ben handed me the glass. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it would be all right, but people keep — it’s like they won’t let it go.’ He turned and headed for the front door, but I followed, catching him in the doorway.

‘Ben, wait.’ I grabbed his arm and he went suddenly still, like a cat picked up by the scruff. Then he turned in my grasp. ‘Look, I don’t care who you are. I don’t even know who you were, I never heard of Willow Down before tonight. All I know is you’re Ben Davies and you’ve got a shop in York. That’s all I want to know.’

‘It’s not as simple as that. Really, Jemima. You’re best off staying clear of it all. You’re a nice girl and I was getting used to being Ben with you, but–’ he tailed off, eyes clouding.

‘But it’s like being haunted by your former self?’

A sudden, surprised smile rose on his face. ‘Yeah. Pretty much. Whatever I do, wherever I am, someone will recognise me. Oh, it’s less than it used to be, now it only happens once, twice a year and they get fed up with waiting for a sound-bite from me on why I quit, how could I do that to the band, all that shit. My customers stopped bothering to recognise me ages ago. But it’s there, always, there in the background with the looks and the whispers.’ The smile was gone now, replaced by a hunted look. ‘Sometimes — Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this — sometimes I wish that Baz Davies had died.’

‘Oh, Ben.’ I patted his arm and he let me. ‘Look. Stay and have dinner. Rosie’s all right, just ask about Harry and she’ll forget anyone else in the world exists let alone some ex-guitarist.’

‘And you?’ There was an expression which might have been hope in his eyes.

‘Oh, I don’t give a stuff who you were. Right now you’re the only person willing to sell my buckles so if you told me you wanted to be known as Mary Jane I’d go along with it.’

Ben leaned back against the wall. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Sooner or later people are going to forget, you know. You’re just going to be this bloke who used to play in a band, like millions of others. Come on, Ben. Stop hiding. Get on with your life.’ I felt myself cringing inside — I could talk the talk like no other, but when it came to walking the walk . . .

‘I can’t. I can’t take the questions, Jemima.’

‘Then why don’t you give a press conference and tell them what they want to know?’

‘No.’

‘Oh come on, people will forgive almost anything these days! What was it, drugs? Booze? Drugs and booze? Are you gay?’

For a second his eyes were full of the dusk. ‘Why can’t you just let it be? Why can’t anyone?’

I looked over my shoulder into the cottage. Jason was standing watching us, half-hidden in the entrance to the living room. He raised his eyebrows at me.

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