Page 33 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

I couldn’t answer her. My mind was too full of questions. Why on earth was Saskia lying to Ben about me not delivering? To stop him taking my buckles? Which begged the next question — why was Saskia trying to stop anyone stocking my stuff? And why was she buying in so much of Rosie’s output that her entire back room was packed with it? Consistency might not be Saskia’s middle name, but this was ridiculous!

And what did I really want from Ben Davies?

* * *

4th May

Tonight. Where do I start? You were right (again, shit man, all those degrees weren’t wasted after all) writing it down does help. Gets my head straight. Though I still hate knowing you read it.

Jemima and I were at this party, nothing special, local kinda thing. She looked — oh, so good. Preppy; white shirt and a skirt, with real hot heels, she has fantastic legs — I’m, like, so fired up. She’s talking to her friend (about me!) and she’s looking at me across the room, and her eyes . . . there are no words for it. Not in English, anyway.

She’s changed somehow. It’s like she had this shell, something she’d crawled inside to keep her safe, and now it’s got this crack which is scaring her stupid but she’s glad of it, in a kind of way. Does that make sense? Like she almost wants me to see through, to put my eye to the fissure and see the real woman inside.

And I . . . I want to. But to do that, to let her open up to me, then I have to give something back, don’t I? So tonight . . . I was going to tell her. After the party I was going to take her home, sit her down and talk. Really talk, like I’ve not done in . . . how many years now? And then, maybe . . . when she knew, then she’d have the confidence to tell me what it is that’s got her so terrified. Or maybe she’d want to run. Either way, her choice. Only, I wrecked it.

Oh, my intentions were good, at least I think they were . . . or did I do it on purpose? Did I know that Jem would come looking for me tonight? A little part of me in the back of my head says yeah, course I did — what was she going to do, leave without me? So. Okay. Yeah. I talked my way into being invited upstairs, then kept talking.

And this is the hard bit. Come on, do it, come out, say it. I did it because I was scared.

At first it was legit, wanted to find out what was going on. Some dirty dealings going down, doc, nothing for you to ask questions about. Nothing to do with you, or me. But I was curious, and it was screwing Jem up so I . . .

And Jem saw. Feel a bit sorry for the other girl, I led her on maybe more than I should, but hey, she’s married, neither of us was going to do anything. I just wanted some info from her. And.. . yeah part of me wanted Jem to know that other women still want me — make her jealous. Isn’t that pathetic? Very Year 9. I thought she’d just laugh.

But she didn’t.

That scared me worse than anything, even that time the mic went live at Sheffield Arena and nearly killed us all. I dunno if you can understand, doc . . . she didn’t laugh. Suddenly whatever’s going on between me and Jem, it’s not a game any more, and if I thought I was scared before . . . what I saw in her face . . . She looked hurt. I didn’t think she was close enough to hurt like that. We were mates, friends, yeah and even that scared me, brought a whole new level to things but . . . if she got hurt just seeing me with someone else — shit, how much more is she going to get hurt if she finds out about me? So I ran. Blew her out, and ran.

And now the music in my head is playing those two falling notes, like something is on its way.

I am so screwed.

* * *

Two weeks went by achingly slowly. After the excitement of Saskia’s party there was nothing to look forward to. Not that we’d looked forward to it, as such, but at least it had been a communal bitching point. Now everything felt flat and listless. Rosie continued to work hard. Saskia had ordered an enormous batch of winter-themed cards ostensibly for the Christmas market. Jason dumped the skinny blonde he’d met at Le Petit Lapin and started crafting his next exhibition, if crafting is the right word. I made a few pieces and sold some necklaces on line, but was so full of the ennui that pervaded everything I could hardly work up any enthusiasm, even when the cheques arrived.

I didn’t mention the boxes in the office or what Ben had said. Rosie was too emotionally fragile to take on board the fact that Saskia didn’t seem to want to sell her stuff. And, as she quite rightly would have said, Saskia was paying for the cards. Who cared if she was putting them on shelves or up her bottom? Saskia’s attempts to have my name expunged from the vocabularies of York residents didn’t stand up in the face of Ben’s resistance. Plus, I still had my website and sales through that were ongoing. So, if she wanted to starve me out she had quite a way to go. Not as far as I might like, but I was doing it. I was holding things together.

Occasionally I helped Ben out in the shop, but I mostly managed to arrive as he was leaving and go as soon as he got back. We exchanged a few generalities and he asked after Rosie and Harry, but that was all. Nothing even approaching personal conversation took place and we edged around each other in the confines of the shop as though I was strapped with dynamite and he was Detonator-Man.

He got thinner, too. If that were possible. There was a tightness in his face which sometimes made him look ill and sometimes just made him look wretched but in the spirit of the talk he’d given me I didn’t get involved. I kept busy, kept moving and kept out of his affairs. If it baffled me how a man who’d been such a talented musician, such a performer, could be happy running a little back-street shop or why a man who looked like Ben should refuse to have anything to do with women, I smothered the questions.

Then one day I came in from the workshop to find Rosie crying on the sofa. She’d been intermittently tearful lately, but I had thought the worst was over. I minded Harry so that she could work, and his sleeping patterns were becoming a lot more regular, so she wasn’t losing as many hours as she had when he’d been tiny.

‘What’s up?’ I sat next to her. Harry waved his chunky arms in acknowledgement and grinned at me from her lap.

‘I’m such a failure, Jem.’ Rosie clutched Harry round his middle. ‘I’m no kind of mother for Harry. You and Jason, you’re more his parents than I am — look at the way he’s so pleased to see you! He’s never like that with me.’ She dissolved into more heaving sobs, squeezing Harry until his expression changed.

‘That’s rubbish. You’re his mum and he knows it.’ I patted Rosie’s back.

‘And Saskia’s just sent back that last lot of cards, says they’re not wintery enough so I’ve got to redo them all. And I’ve been so busy with her stuff that two other customers have withdrawn their orders, so I’ve got to turn in her cards or there won’t be enough money . . .’ She gulped. ‘I’ve even stopped feeding Harry.’

‘You’ve what?’ I looked at Harry, who was showing no real signs of malnourishment. He blew a bubble at me.

‘I’ve started him on formula. It’s so much easier, not having to spend hours expressing milk, sitting in that grotty little bathroom with all the mould and that black stuff that we can’t identify, with that stupid pump that doesn’t work! And all the books say that you’re supposed to breast feed for at least nine months and I didn’t even manage four! I’m crap, Jem, and it’s only a matter of time before Harry realises it.’

I put my arms around the two of them, despite Harry’s muffled protest. ‘You’re working too hard, that’s all. How about a day out? Something to look forward to.’

‘I can’t. That’s the whole point. I’ve got all these cards to do. I’ve barely got time to do the laundry, let alone take time off.’

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