Page 4 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

I gave him the full sales pitch, a guided tour of my portfolio and then brought out the pièce de résistance, beautifully apt. It was a belt buckle formed of interwoven musical instruments with the central pin in the shape of a microphone. He handled it carefully, running his fingers over the surface without taking his eyes off my face, as I told him about the history of the piece and how I’d made it. I described the heating and twisting of the wire, the careful placement of the crystals, the way each piece felt as though it had a soul and called itself into being, with me acting only as the instrument of creation. He did have nice hands, I had to admit, with very long and slender fingers. But his eyes — there was something hidden deep inside them.

‘Ben,’ he said suddenly, as I paused for breath.

‘What?’

‘My name. It’s Benedict. Benedict Arthur Zacchary Davies. I thought you asked.’

‘The middle fall out of the baby name book, did it?’ This was a bit rude of me. All very well giving him the sales pitch but I hadn’t even told him my name, so how could he order stuff? Duh. Come on Jemima, stop being such an amateur. ‘Jemima Hutton.’ Rather late in the day I held out a hand to shake, which involved a bit of Harry-juggling.

‘Hutton? Like the place on the moors?’

‘Er, yeah. I guess.’ Change the subject Jemima. ‘So, would you be interested?’

His eyes were tracing the contours of my face. ‘Interested?’

‘In my stuff.’

‘Oh. Right. Your stuff.’

But now I was wondering about him. About the weird way he seemed to keep watching me. He was odd. Implacable. There was something about Ben Davies that felt like he was layers deep, that there was more to him than the superficially strange. ‘My stuff. Yes.’

His hands played with the buckle, flipping it between his fingers like a magician doing a disappearing coin trick. His body language was confusing, at odds with his responses, as though he was saying one thing but thinking another and letting a little of that internal struggle seep out into the way he moved. At the moment his eyes were still firmly on my face but he seemed to be wishing me gone. ‘I’m not sure.’

I had to get him to change his mind. If Saskia thought someone else was interested in me she might decide to keep me exclusive after all. Besides, I was bordering on the seriously broke. Even this weird guy with his tiny business tucked away down a back alley was better than nothing.

‘How about if I come back? Say tomorrow? I could bring some of my smaller, less expensive stuff? Look, I’ll leave you that buckle, on trust. To help you think it over?’ Every marketing book said that you should be definite, give them no get-out, and I’d blown it, I could tell from his face.

‘I haven’t got the customers. People who come here already know me, they want the guitars, the gear, not jewellery.’

Frantically I stared around the shop. I had to find us some common point, some mutual interest, something, anything. My eye settled on a bright yellow star-shaped guitar hanging at the back of the shop, almost inside the kitchenette which had saved my (and Harry’s) skin. ‘Nice piece of equipment. My . . . cousin is into guitars. Do you play?’

He swallowed and put the buckle down on the counter. Rubbed his hands over his face. ‘No,’ he said indistinctly. ‘Not any more.’

‘You gave up? Why?’ He didn’t answer and when I looked at him he was staring at the floor. A muscle trembled in his cheek and his fingers were flexing, twitching, almost as though he was playing out a tune on the strings of a long-gone instrument. I felt suddenly ashamed; there was something naked on his face, something he couldn’t conceal behind warped body-language and flippancy. A longing and a desperation.

On my shoulder, Harry stopped bumping his head against me and began to whinge. I fussed him into a new position and when I looked up, the man — Ben — was watching me again. ‘Look, tell you what. I’ll keep this,’ and his hand closed over my sample buckle. ‘If I sell it I’ll order some pieces from you. If I can’t, then no go.’

Hope flared through me. It wasn’t exactly an unqualified yes, but then he hadn’t dismissed me either. ‘Thank you. Ben.’

A sudden smile lifted his face into the handsome category. ‘Don’t mention it. Jemima.’ He flicked at the business card I’d given him. ‘I’ll e-mail you if there’s any news.’

‘Or phone. My mobile number’s on the card.’

‘You’d better get that young man home. He looks like he’s working up to another eruption.’ Ben nodded towards Harry, who did indeed have a very thoughtful expression. ‘I’ve got no tea towels left to come to your rescue.’

As I tucked Harry back into the pram I glanced in through the shop doorway and saw Ben take the blazing star guitar down off the wall. He struck a chord then played a riff, teasing his fingers up and down the frets like a man reacquainting himself with an old lover. He looked so poised, so natural, holding the guitar loosely with the body resting against his thighs, I couldn’t believe that he’d given up playing. Yet, as I began hauling the pram backwards out of the yard, it almost looked as if Ben, with his head bent over the strings, was crying.

* * *

21st April

Weather fine. Sold — two guitar strings, one poster (Iggy Pop, reduced to £2.00). Breakfast — three Weetabix.

Is this the kind of thing you want me to write, doctor? Is this giving you the insight you thought it would?

Drank a bottle of wine. For lunch. Back in the day it would have been a couple of grammes of snow and carry on playing, with the world all feather light in my head and feeling like I owned the universe. Now I feel like I’m dragging each day by the neck. So, what do you want me to say? What am I supposed to write? You want the truth, you want to know how I am? I’m scared, that’s how I am, scared and depressed. What’s the point in any of this any more?

So, today was — a day. Wednesday? Maybe. Who cares? Who fucking cares? Nothing out of the ordinary, just hours passing here inside this box. Oh no, one thing, a girl came in with her baby, wanting me to buy some jewellery, stuff that she makes. Felt kinda sorry for her, she looked a bit out of her depth, bit unpractised, still she’ll get the hang. Come to terms with it, like we all have to do. Wade through the crap until you realise that there’s only more crap on the other side. She was — cute, skinny. Bit scared-looking. Something about the eyes . . . Told her my name but she didn’t get it, so I guess . . . hey, there have to be a few, you know? Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but no.

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