Page 31 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

Ben straightened away from the wall and unfolded his arms. ‘Yeah. It’s sexy and beautiful all right.’

By biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I managed not to react. The bloke must have ears like a bat. ‘Come on, Jason’s doing his thing now and you don’t want to miss it. Jason’s “thing” is the talk of five continents.’

‘Okay, now I’m jealous.’

Jason gave his speech while I looked around the room. A photographer was busily snapping away, taking pictures of Jason, Saskia, the items on sale, everything. I watched Ben quietly getting out of the way of the camera and then it was all over and Saskia was motioning to the waiters to bring new trays of tasty morsels into the crowd. I snaffled a couple of tiny crêpes and found a quiet corner to start eating them. Unfortunately Saskia found the corner, too.

‘Nice to see someone with a healthy appetite. Most people here are watching their weight.’

‘I’m a size ten, Saskia. I’ve got no desire to be completely invisible.’

Saskia raised an eyebrow. ‘Size ten? Really? The chain stores clothes are so forgiving, aren’t they?’

I looked daggers at her and threw the second crêpe into my mouth. It was filled with a banana-toffee concoction which would have been absolutely wonderful if it hadn’t been accompanied by Saskia making little chewy-mouth faces of disgust. ‘Yum,’ I said to annoy her. ‘Are there any more of these?’

‘They go straight to your hips, you know.’ Saskia looked down at my thighs, very visible under the tight skirt. ‘Although in your case I shouldn’t think you’d notice.’

I opened my mouth to mention the HobNobs which she stole every time she found herself in Rosie’s kitchen, and seemed to believe were negatively calorific, but thankfully, just then Ben came lolloping along carrying a plate onto which he’d rescued a selection of delicacies. Saskia’s eyes opened wide. ‘Hello,’ she purred. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced to you. I’m Saskia Winterington, but then, you’ll know that of course.’

Saskia held out her hand at arm’s length, limp wristed. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to fend Ben off (although that seemed laughably unlikely), or have her hand kissed. Ben juggled the plate for a moment then passed it to me. ‘I’m Ben Davies.’ He took Saskia’s hand and shook it very definitely. ‘I’m stocking some of Jemima’s jewellery.’

‘Hmm.’ Saskia retook her hand and looked Ben up and down. ‘Well, you’re clearly not a member of the Board of Trade, I’d certainly remember you at meetings!’ She gave a little laugh, but her eyes stayed fixed on his face. Slowly she reached across and brushed a hair from the collar of his jacket, pausing her hand on his shoulder for far longer than was necessary. ‘Do come and tell me what you think of my collection,’ she said, still gazing into his eyes. ‘I’ll give you the names of some of my suppliers if you like.’ Pressing her body into his, Saskia hooked her arm through Ben’s and tugged him towards the back of the shop, pausing on her way through to make sure everyone noticed her in the company of the good-looking stranger.

I burned. The taste of toffee-banana had gone from my mouth, replaced by a sourness that etched into my teeth as I watched him walk away. Was this jealousy, this bitter raging which seemed to reach up from my stomach and pull my skin hotly around me? But Ben and I were — what, friends? Business partners? He was nothing to me that should provoke this upwelling, this sense that I was about to vomit bricks. I watched them cross the shop, Saskia bending to talk into Ben’s ear and familiarly hug him against her in the crowd, and I wanted to kill someone.

Across the room Rosie was laughing, engrossed in conversation with three men she’d been introduced to by Alex, who looked very dashing tonight in a slightly colonial way. There was no sign of Jason but a tight knot of women in a corner were whooping and giggling in a way that indicated he was somewhere in their midst. No-one came to speak to me, well-clad elbows poked at me and shoes so pointed that their wearers must have had flippers for feet clipped my toes and ankles. There was a muzzy haze of noise and wine-breath filling the air and I began to feel claustrophobic.

This was not my life. I felt as though I’d fallen through a hole into some kind of alter-existence where someone like me had no business being.

The back of the shop was cooler. A small door led into the office and store rooms. It wasn’t locked so I slipped through into the fresh air beyond. Apart from a couple engaged in a frantic snogging session on Saskia’s leather sofa-ette, the space was empty and I felt the tension begin to ease from my shoulders. Alone, I could cope with alone. I carefully avoided the kissing couple’s eyes and went through into the little stock room beyond the office. Through here the noise was muffled, the smell of several hundred perfumed bodies gave way to the York night air and an open window somewhere in the building let a cool draught fan my hot face. I sat down on the corner of a big box and took off my shoes to let my feet have a rest, flapping my shirt free. I was wearing a belt with one of my own buckles, a small piece made from gold wire leaves and acorns. Saskia’s entire guest list seemed to be made up of people who already had so much jewellery it was a wonder they could stand up. I sighed. At least Ben seemed to be breaking out of his reclusive habits. I wondered where he was, and then hated myself for even thinking it. This was his natural habitat, his rock star milieu. It was me who was the pretender here. I was almost swamped for a second by the knowledge I was simply acting. Playing a role, chameleon-like, that let me fit in to the background unnoticed. Wondered, just for a moment, what Ben would think if he knew just how much of me I kept hidden.

The edges of the box I was sitting on began to dig into the back of my legs and I stood up. It was one of several all stacked up on the store room floor, gathering dust. Well, not dust exactly, Saskia had all dust caught and shot, but that faded kind of brownness that boxes take on. I wondered what was in it, what example of art that Saskia was going to sell to some unsuspecting tourist that they would spend the rest of their lives explaining to visitors as ‘ “Femininity”. Not a twig. Honestly.’

The box lid was loose. I lifted it up to peer inside and frowned, my self-loathing temporarily forgotten. The contents looked very much like Rosie’s cards. At least the last two consignments that she’d produced for Saskia, maybe more. Puzzled, I slid the box off the one underneath and opened that. It, too, was full of stacks of Rosie’s hand-made cards. And the box on the bottom, although that had fewer cards inside. I recognised that batch as the last ones Rosie had done before Harry was born.

Why the hell was Saskia getting Rosie to produce more and more cards when she wasn’t selling them? Wasn’t even putting them on display? I looked around the room. Yes, there was the box of cards that Rosie had delivered on Sunday evening, shoved into a corner under a shelving unit. I recognised the slightly ragged tape that we’d used to seal the carton. Maybe Saskia was going to put the cards out for sale later? But that didn’t explain why they were still stacked into the boxes as they had been when we’d brought them over — they’d never even been taken out. There were loads. Saskia wouldn’t sell this many in years.

I restacked the boxes and went out of the store room, carrying my shoes by a strap. The crowd had thinned, or at least some of the larger people had gone and the skinny girls in the wafty dresses were doing duty filling space like air pockets in soil. My brain had seized on the problem of the boxes with an eagerness that felt like gratitude. I couldn’t stop to ponder my relationship with Ben, not when there was something that needed solving.

‘Rosie?’ I broke in on a conversation that Rosie was having with Alex. He was telling her how Oscar was born with blue eyes but that they’d turned brown by the time he was three months old — I guess you needed to be a parent to appreciate that particular chat. ‘Have you seen Ben?’

Alex answered. ‘I think my wife took him to show him the display upstairs.’ He pointed to the staircase, still littered with people. ‘But it was a while ago so maybe he’s gone.’

‘I’ll go and see,’ I said but I doubted either of them heard me; they were back into heavy discussions about whether babies look like their parents from birth. I started up the iron staircase, which meant negotiating groups of people with carefully balanced wine glasses, who tutted as I pushed my way between them and carried on their well-bred conversations around my body, leaning to exclude me from any kind of contribution.

In the upper room glass display cases stood against the walls. In the centre of the floor there was a huge square leather stool large enough to seat four comfortably, but at the moment it was only seating two. Ben was sitting in the middle and beside him was Saskia. She was kneeling, face level with his, talking earnestly into his eyes; as I watched she caught his chin as though she was about to kiss him, lowering her body at the same time until she was almost sitting on his lap. Ben hadn’t seen me come up the stairs and Saskia had her back to me. Thanking God for my bare feet, I tiptoed across the floor and tapped Saskia on the shoulder.

‘I think Alex might want you,’ I said as her head flipped up in shock. I indicated the staircase, just possibly giving her the impression that Alex had been right behind me. Saskia’s heels tore a neat hole in the leather as she snapped her legs back and leaped away, straightening her skirt as she stood up. She fixed me with her best imperious expression, which was only slightly ruined by her smudged lipstick.

‘Ben and I were talking,’ she said in a voice full of self-justification. ‘Business.’

‘I could tell,’ I said drily.

Saskia pulled herself back to her feet with impressive speed and touched the back of her hand to her eyes. ‘God, don’t you just hate mascara?’ she said. ‘The way it smudges at the slightest thing? Oh, of course you’re obviously used to it, darling, cheap make-up never stays put, does it? You might want—’ She made lipstick motions at me. ‘Just a little touch up.’ And she was gone, vanishing into the staff toilets.

I stared at Ben.

‘What?’ he finally said.

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