Page 27 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Ah, useless. Now there’s a feeling I’m right at home with.’ I gave her a squeeze. ‘Look, I’ll take Harry down to the workshop. Jase can help me mind him to give you some space, and if I was you I’d use the time to have a bit of a sleep. I’ll give you a hand to catch up with the cards this evening. And in the meantime you can gaze on the flowers that Ben sent over for you and ponder on the fact that despite the fact he’s my friend, you’ve got carnations and all I’ve got is a cheap tattoo.’ I brandished my written-on arm.

Rosie gave a snot-ridden smile. ‘Yeah, for an expensive address.’ But she let me collect Harry’s changing bag, bottles and blanket and I even thought I heard her give a small sigh of relief as I lugged him and his paraphernalia out of the door.

‘Jason!’ I strapped Harry into his bouncy chair and sat him down in the doorway to the office. ‘Are you in?’

‘Oooof! Ow! Sorry, Hazzer me old mate, didn’t see you down there!’ Jason barrelled in through the double doors and tripped over Harry, causing him to ping alarmingly up and down for a few moments. ‘Woss up?’

‘Are you busy?’

Jason looked at me suspiciously. ‘Is this one of those, wossname, trick questions? I’m an international artist, babe, course I’m busy.’

‘Could you keep an eye on Harry for a few minutes? I’ve got some research to do.’

Jason stared at me for a second. Then a smutty grin spread over his face, which made him look even more Johnny-Depplike than usual. ‘Oh, I see. That kind of research is it?’ And he picked up Harry, bouncy chair and all. ‘Come on little guy. We’re not wanted round here, not unless you wants to be drowned in all that oestrogen stuff.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Jason just winked and he and Harry went off into the big studio from where I could hear the commentary to a football match issuing from Jason’s expensive sound system.

I fired up the computer and called up the Willow Down website. Seeing Ben through pictures made me realise just how good-looking he was. Real life seemed to deaden the impact somehow, or maybe it was something to do with the awfulness of his clothing. Clothing which seemed to be purposefully designed to conceal what these old photographs revealed to be a fantastic body. My God, I had no idea that under those skuzzy T shirts there was this muscular torso, whip-muscled arms and corded shoulders. Or, presumably they still were there, but he didn’t pose quite the same way, with his mouth unsmiling, hair carefully tumbled and his hips thrust forward in invitation. I’d certainly never seen him stand like that, but then I wasn’t sure any human could stand like that, not without invisible support from behind. His fellow band members weren’t bad either, a collective of dark eyes and tight jeans, like a sack-full of male models handed guitars and dropped onto a stage.

Zafe Rafale, despite his slightly Greek name, turned out to be an ash-blond beauty. All finely chiselled bone structure and immensely long legs like a palomino stallion; his pictures showed him flinging himself around the stage, arms variously wielding a sunburst-yellow guitar or just a microphone. One shot showed the two men duetting. Ben had his eyes closed, one hand loosely around the neck of his guitar, the other holding the microphone stand. Zafe, hair plastered sweatily to his forehead, was pulling at the neck of his T shirt as though about to remove it. With Ben’s dark hair and Zafe’s resplendent goldenness, they looked like the rock world’s version of Yin and Yang.

‘Thought so.’ Jason loomed at my elbow. ‘Having a touch of the lusty are we, Jemima?’

‘It’s not like that,’ I replied, without turning round. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, interested in pictures of young blokes getting their kit off and wagglin’ around a stage.’

‘This is Willow Down.’ I clicked to enlarge the picture. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard of them? What with you being such a mover and shaker on the youth scene.’

‘Nah. Name rings a bit of a bell. Maybe I heard something when I was in the States. I’m not really an indie-music kinda guy, Jem.’ In the workshop, Harry raised his voice in a squawk of protest at being neglected. ‘You’re so interested, why doncha just ask?’

I sighed. ‘He’s not keen to talk about it.’ Plus, I wasn’t keen to push him. Not for all the reasons that Jason might assume, either. Keeping secrets myself made me hyper aware of how an enquiring conversation could turn. One moment you’re asking simple questions about someone’s family — the next they’ve spun it all round and they’re asking you about yours.

‘Man of mystery. Ah, go on, Jem, you love it really. Maybe I should try it, being all cool and inscrutable and stuff.’

‘Jason, people only have to ask you what time it is and you’ve given them your life story.’

‘I know. I’m easily scruted, I am.’

‘That’s not a word.’

‘Ha. Harry and I are gonna head up to the village for some more paint-mix stuff. You coming?’

‘No thanks, I’m going back to the cottage to make sure Rosie’s having a snooze. And I’ve got some work to do, some orders to parcel up and stuff.’

‘Have it ya own way. I notice you’re not losing the picture of your boy there.’

Exaggeratedly I pressed the buttons to wipe Ben’s face from the computer screen and hoped that Jason hadn’t noticed me bookmarking the page.

* * *

1st May

Weather — Night.

It’s like I’m feeling a chord I hit years ago. The music won’t let me go, it’s here in the back of my head all the time, playing itself out over and over, getting to the chorus, until I feel all I have to do is lean in and Zafe will be there with the refrain, grinning at me from across the stage.

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