Page 25 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

I surprised myself with the fierce hot burn of jealousy. ‘If you want.’

‘She’s a lovely girl. And Jason’s a nice whatever it is that Jason is. Artist. A good guy.’

‘Yes, they’re lovely, both of them.’

Ben went to the kitchenette to get the flowers and then busied himself locking the shop door. ‘Are you and Jason . . . ?’ He made a kind of wavy motion with his hands. ‘Or is Rosie?’

‘Good grief, no! He’s a friend. In as much as you can befriend a wild animal.’

‘Right. And you’re all going to this opening thing on Monday?’

‘Supposed to be, yes. Rosie’s flat out doing some more cards for Saskia. She’s going to keep Saskia sweet, I’m only going in the hope that she might change her mind about stocking my jewellery, and Jason’s going because he’s kicking it all off. So we’re not what you might call typical guests.’

Ben steered me into the tiny coffeehouse beside the art gallery. Fountains tinkled outside and made me realise how much I needed the toilet. ‘If . . . if I went . . . ?’

I was so shocked I nearly wet myself. ‘What? You’d come? What if she recognises you?’

‘Well . . .’ Ben lowered his voice as the rest of the coffee queue looked up at us. ‘Most people don’t. It’s five years ago and I was quite different then.’

I just gaped.

‘And it’s not like I’m in hiding or anything. I mean, I walk around, people see me. I just don’t — it’s not as if I go round introducing myself “Hi, I’m Ben Davies, I used to be in Willow Down”, or being on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, or programmes like that. Most people who do recognise me just think they’re mistaken.’

Oh, God. I was going to wee. Here, on the spot. I was astonished that the entire crowd in the coffee shop, which seemed to be entirely made up from a SAGA coach trip and some overdressed Goths who’d probably got lost on their way to Whitby, weren’t all listening in to our conversation. This man, who’d been a virtual hermit for the last five years, was offering to come to a party. With me.

‘I’m sorry, I need to go to the toilet,’ I said.

‘The sound of the flush helps you think, does it?’ Ben asked, a bit kindly for my liking.

‘It’s either that or pee on your shoes.’

‘So, do you want me to come then?’

Oh, more than anything, Ben Davies, do I want you to come with me. I’ll get you to play your guitar to me and you’ll realise that you’ve nothing to fear from the world. I’ll tell you my secrets and my fears, and just maybe sharing them will take away their power. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ was what I said.

I sat on the toilet for far longer than was necessary with my head resting against the cool paintwork of the stall. I couldn’t believe that I had so nearly betrayed myself. What the hell was the point of making all those promises, of swearing that I would be my own person, only to have it all wiped out by one man? All right, that man was — come on, say it, Jemima — that man was sexy, but you swore, Jemima, on your brothers’ lives, that you’d never let yourself get used again. He might not look like a user, but none of them do, do they? Until they have you, and then . . .

When I came out of the toilet, Ben was sitting opposite a man at a corner table. They were deep in a conversation which involved a lot of hand-waving. ‘You don’t understand anything about me, do you?’ Ben was saying as I approached. ‘I’m not giving in to this!’

‘It’s not a question of “giving in” Ben,’ the other man replied quietly. ‘It’s a question of adjustment.’

Ben was breathing deeply. His skin had the faintest trace of sweat on it and his eyes contained an expression of barely restrained panic. ‘Ben?’

He jumped as I touched his arm. ‘God! Jemima!’

‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ I looked from Ben to his friend. It was the man I’d seen outside Ben’s shop the time that Ben had kissed me. This time he was wearing cords and a frayed-looking shirt, but he still had an air of authority. ‘I’ll just go.’

Ben grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, winding his fingers through mine so tightly that it hurt.

‘Ben. You can’t keep doing this. I really thought we were making progress, you’ve been getting on so well. Please don’t tell me you’re going to give it all up now! For the sake of what?’ The man eyeballed me as though it was my fault.

Ben’s grasp on my hand was threatening to cut off the circulation. In his other hand the bunch of carnations bobbed as though they too were being throttled. ‘I’ll come to the next appointment,’ he said. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’

‘That’s all I can ask.’

‘Fine.’ And Ben stood up so quickly that the table rocked, endangering the overfilled salt cellar. Not letting go of my hand he squeezed us between the seats until we reached the door and burst out into the sunlit square beyond.

‘Okay,’ I said levelly. ‘So what was that all about?’

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