Page 35 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Anyway. Part of the getting on with life thing. I wondered if I might come round to yours one evening, cook you and Rosie a meal. If you had to come to mine then you’d be worrying about babysitters and taxis and stuff all evening. This way it’s only me that has to get home.’

A pause. Could I hear the words ‘or I could stay over’? Were they echoing in some parallel universe?

‘That sounds nice.’ There was the sofa, wasn’t there? Or the workshop? He could bring a sleeping bag — ‘When?’

‘How about tomorrow? You don’t need to worry, I’ll bring everything. You two can just relax, all you need to do is tell me how the kitchen works.’

‘Hmm. Big white cold box in corner is fridge, big white hot box in other corner is oven. That’s it.’

This time he laughed. ‘I think I can manage that. Look, the rain’s lessening up, do you want to get his Lordship back before it starts again?’

Reluctantly I peeled myself off the heated seat, which left me with clammy buttocks. It also left Ben with a damp double-imprint where I’d been sitting. ‘Sorry. I told you I was wet.’

‘I shall treasure it. Six o’clock tomorrow then, yeah?’

‘I suppose. If you insist.’

‘I’m overwhelmed by your gratitude.’ But he was smiling — no, grinning. A proper grin which creased his eyes and relaxed his face and made me swallow hard.

‘Six o’clock. Yes, then.’ And I watched as he dropped the clutch and expertly manoeuvred the car down the twisty lane back towards the main road. I was going to address a pithy remark to Harry but he’d fallen asleep inside his condensation-filled buggy, like a boil-in-the-bag human. ‘Great. Leave me alone with my thoughts, why don’t you?’ I spoke to him anyway. ‘Just when the last thing I want is time to stand around thinking, you go to sleep. Typical man.’

The rain lifted and the sun began slipping through starling-coloured clouds like a spotlight. I started pushing for home. I tried to distract myself with thoughts of the work I had to do: there were two wristbands in silver that I had to pack up for dispatch, a buckle waiting to be built. But this time I failed to lose myself in detail; all I could think of was Ben’s eyes, the feel of him when I’d touched his arm. That tattoo over his bicep. The careless way he’d drag his hair back out of his face while he talked, as if he was unaware that haircuts existed. It was disturbing.

What did I think of him? All right, I admired those long legs, that finely-tuned body. I liked the way his fingers kinked in at the knuckle. His face was pleasant to look at and there was something about the way he moved that made something inside me feel as though I was answering a long-ago call. He didn’t frighten me. His slight build wasn’t overpowering or threatening, he’d never done anything or said anything which in any way panicked me.

And yet. The way my skin gravitated towards his — that was just biological imperative. Just my hormones trying to force me into something unwanted by both Ben and me. Nothing that was going to make me break the promises I’d made to myself. He was a friend. That was all.

When I got back to the barn, Harry was still asleep. Jason was packing his car for the London trip so I went through to the office and on to the computer. Back to the Willow Down site.

What had intrigued me was Ben’s hint that he’d done something to throw the band into disarray. Something that had had repercussions for their tour of the States. I went into the part of the website dedicated to write-ups of each gig they’d played and called up the review.

‘Striding onstage like they were aware of their following, Zafe Rafale and Baz Davies came on burning, tearing straight into their biggest hit “Once It was You”. The rest of the band joined them and they played all the usual hits plus most of the stuff on the new album Rent-A-Tee. The only duff note played all evening was in the final number, “About a Girl”. It looked as though inadequate rehearsals told here when Baz Davies set off into another number altogether, getting half way through to the evident puzzlement of the rest of the band before switching lyrics.’

Only that fragment about a misplayed song gave any hint that anything untoward had happened that night. Then, being a suspicious type, I checked out the internet scuttlebut on the topic. There were whole forums devoted to why Baz Davies quit Willow Down. Consensus seemed to be that Ben had had some kind of breakdown. There were wild stories on the net regarding his drug habit, his rumoured stays in just about any rehab clinic you could name, his bizarre behaviour. He’d had an affair with Zafe — no, he’d run off with Zafe’s girlfriend. No, Zafe had run off with his girlfriend. When it got to the stage that I was reading how Baz had been contacted by aliens and had left music to dedicate his life to Venusian peace-bringers I gave up.

I closed down the computer. Harry was stirring, curling and uncurling his hands around his blanket, and out in the yard I could hear Jason swearing at his car for not being large enough to accommodate one of his canvasses.

‘Jase? You’ve been to more gigs than me.’ Carrying a still-sleepy Harry I cornered Jason as he tried to stuff a dead-man’s handle on top of a pile of other things on the back seat.

‘Jem, there’s nuns been to more gigs than you. What about it?’ He straightened up to look at me.

‘If a band was playing a song but someone made a mistake, what would happen?’

Jason stared at me, leaning his long body against the car. ‘What? You mean, like, got the lyrics wrong or hit a bum note, that kinda thing? Nothing. Half the time your audience is so pissed that they don’t care if you plays “God Save the Queen”, they just likes to look atcha.’

‘I mean seriously. Would there be any repercussions?’

‘That’s like the drums, innit?’

I gave him a hard stare. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ Harry snuffled into my shoulder and Jason switched his attention.

‘Yeah. It happens. If a band don’t practise or if they’re playing a set for the first time, someone cocks up. Who cares? ’S all part of the experience.’

‘Not a big deal then?’

‘Not really.’ Jason stroked Harry’s head. ‘This still about your man, is it? He’s bleeding bonkers he is. Nice guy an’ all but really—’ He thrust his pelvis suggestively. ‘Crackers.’

‘Yes, Jason.’ I sighed and took Harry off in search of Rosie.

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