Page 23 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Honest. I saw you and him giving each other the old googie-eye treatment. He’s gotcha goin’, admit it.’

‘He’s screwed up.’

‘Yeah! Gorgeous an’ screwed up. Thass what you girls all love, isn’t it? Bit of the old tormented genius thing. All the secrets, all the mystery. Hey, you could get it out of him, why he quit that band, sell your story to the rock papers! You’d make a mint!’

‘Immoral, even for you. Besides, old news. No-one’s going to pay a fortune for that.’ Yawning enormously I scraped the last of the food into a freezer container. ‘Are we washing up tonight, Rosie?’

‘Nope. I’m off to bed before Harry wakes up. Night, Jase.’

Jason looked a little bit deflated. ‘What, not even a snog?’

‘Sorry.’

‘An’ I put me suit on an’ everything! I dunno, what’s it take to get a shag round here?’ But he grinned to show he was joking, or if not, at least not annoyed to be cast out into the cool night, still carrying the bottle.

Rosie looked at me. ‘What is it with you and Baz — sorry, Ben? I’ve never seen you so — I dunno what it is. It’s like you’re both scared of each other somehow.’

‘He’s way too sharp. Talk to him for long enough and you’ll feel like you’ve been juggling razor blades.’

‘Yeah, well. He’s bound to be a bit spiky, look at what he’s been through. And now he’s running a poky little shop in the back end of York with no customers and, by the look of it, no friends. I think he needs you, Jem.’

‘Oh, rubbish! He’s fine. I think he likes his life the way it is now.’

Rosie gave me a very hard look. ‘But what about you? I was watching you two all through the meal, tiptoeing around each other, never asking the right questions. Him I understand. But you? Why are you so scared to get involved, Jemima? You say talking to him is like juggling razor blades, well sometimes talking to you is like juggling soap bubbles. What exactly is your problem?’

My mouth opened and then closed again. I literally could not think of anything to say. I’d never been so glad to hear Harry begin one of his chugging cries upstairs in his cot. ‘Harry’s awake,’ I said unnecessarily.

Rosie cast her eyes wearily at the ceiling. ‘And so another day dawns,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

I watched her head up the stairs. She’d been on top form all evening, sparky and witty and much more like the Rosie she’d been before giving birth. I hoped she’d turned a corner. She clearly adored Harry but it was as if she’d never been prepared for the fundamental life change that having a baby would bring and now she was fighting it. A kind of tussle between her love for her child and the restrictions that he placed on her life.

I sighed and stared at the wall, much as Ben had done earlier. Ben. With his guilt and his fear and his awful confusion, all because he’d walked away from his life. And I knew deep in my heart that I could help him to feel better. All I had to do was talk to him. Tell him. Say those words that I found it impossible even to think, I know how it feels, because I did it, too.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about his expression — that helpless turmoil in the face of discovery. Don’t think about the occasional bone-cold touch of his fingers, his huge eyes so full of disaster . . .

In fact, go to bed.

* * *

30th April

Weather. I’m sure there was some. Didn’t notice.

I went to dinner with her. Surprised? Yeah, not as much as I was. Last week I was ready to jack it all in, go move to Greenland, somewhere, anywhere no-one would know me. Where nobody would be looking at me, saying ‘didn’t you used to be in that band? Didn’t you used to be somebody?’ But really, what did I think? That none of the guys would ever play again, just because I shat on them from a height?

You know something? That’s exactly what I thought. Willow Down was my band. Okay, mine and Zafe’s. And now Zafe is out there again, taking over, doing what he thinks is right, but . . . what about me, doc? What does that leave me with?

And then. At first I thought she was coming on to me. She’s the first person to touch me . . . hey, get your mind out of the gutter, man, she’s the first person to get inside my head. To look as if she even wants to try to understand what’s happening to me. I guess what I mean is, she’s the first person to see me. Not Baz, not the guy with the lead guitar, but me. Ben.

Thought about standing her up. But, in the end, I couldn’t do it. She’s got this wounded kind of expression, like she’s been kicked in the face and is trying not to show it, the thought of making that expression worse . . . nah. Not me. Not cruel. Stupid, yeah, hold my hands up to that one, even a little crazy maybe sometimes. Well, you of all people know what it was like before. And now, shit, I can’t find the words to say it . . . it’s like this is the ‘before’. Like something really big is waiting to happen, muscles tense, mind all silver-wire; almost like the coke cutting in, taking it all up to some new level.

No. Before you get that look, reading these words and kinda looking at me over the top of this notebook with that caved-in face like I’ve disappointed you in some fundamental way. No. Let me say it this once. I DID NOT USE. I am not using. Told you, never again.

I’m tempted though. When she . . . when Jemima found out who I was, I thought it was over.

What, though? What could be over? There’s nothing to finish. She’s a friend and I don’t think she’d break over this. But she’s getting into me, one tiny little slice at a time. Like a diamond punch.

Chapter Ten

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