Page 62 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘You’ve had a long time to work on that speech, haven’t you?’

‘Since the day you walked out.’

‘Smooth, Mr Davies, very smooth.’

‘You have no idea.’

Chapter Twenty

We drove back in Ben’s car. It was hard, leaving my stuff in the shops in Glasgow, but they had my mobile number and the sum total of my other belongings didn’t even occupy half of the tiny boot. Ben was incredulous.

‘You’ve been in Glasgow for three weeks, with only this?’ he asked, when we stopped for coffee on the motorway, holding up my rucksack by one strap. ‘What did you do for clothes?’

I wrinkled my nose at him. ‘This from a bloke who smells like he’s been wearing the same jeans for a fortnight.’

‘Yeah, but you’re a woman.’

‘Thanks for noticing.’

A long, dark look. ‘Oh, I noticed.’ He gave me a glance. ‘Saskia’s offered me a place in the Shambles. Says she feels sorry for me, with the shop burning down and all. She took the lease of the place but she doesn’t know what to do with it, apparently. Thought a music shop might go well over there.’

‘Really, the Shambles? That’s tourist central, you’d make a mint.’

A pause. ‘I think she just wants to control what I stock. After all it’s her place, she has ultimate veto. She won’t want me bringing her shop into disrepute.’

‘You mean she won’t want you having my jewellery in there.’

‘Well. We’ll see about that.’

A companionable silence fell, and we got back into the car. I watched Ben drive, neat sureness of movement, long legs inching the pedals, dramatic fingers wrapped around the wheel and I felt a sudden shudder through me. It rattled my teeth and sent a scalding blast down to my thighs like a damp rush of steam. I leaned back on the leather seat and tried to make sense of it. It felt like . . . yes, it felt like physical attraction with knobs on, so to speak. I blew a breath which condensed on the window and pretended to be involved with the scenery but I didn’t miss Ben’s sidelong glance at me nor his secret half-smile. The way he ran a fingertip over the tiny head of the gear lever might have been accidental but I didn’t think so.

Two words for this situation. Uh and oh.

It was dark when we parked outside Wilberforce Crescent. Ben stood aside to let me through the front door and I found I was relaxing ever so slightly as we went into the kitchen. As though this place was home.

He’d left the empty money jar on the table.

‘I’ll pay it back.’

‘Cool.’ He opened the fridge and took out some yoghurt, some fruit and a bottle of something cold from the bottom rack. He put it all on the table. ‘Hungry? Help yourself.’ There was something about him, something I’d never seen before. A new kind of sureness in his movements, a different confidence. He wasn’t watching my face with the same desperation that he usually had, afraid he might miss something.

‘Ben?’

No answer. He was groping in the back of the fridge and rattling drawers in and out, finally turning, juggling the makings of a salad, a loaf of bread and a knife. He began cutting slices with an easy motion.

‘Why did you come looking? Why couldn’t you just let it be?’ A sudden jolt of the memories I wouldn’t let myself have. I hadn’t seen anyone cut bread like that since I was a child.

Ben stopped. Leaned on the knife handle. ‘I thought you might want to come back but that maybe you didn’t know how to give yourself permission.’

‘You and your drummer must have done a lot of talking.’

‘Yeah, over the years we talked a lot. On a tour bus there’s not a lot else to do when you’re in transit. It’s amazing what you can pick up.’ He put two thick slices of granary bread, a bowl of salad and dressing in front of me. ‘But you’re pretty good yourself, you know. All that stuff you told me about getting in touch with Zafe? Well, you were right, he did deserve to know. I was a coward, running off without telling him anything. He was my best mate. I should have handled it better.’

I bit into the crusty bread. ‘And now? Are you and he . . . ?’

He shrugged. ‘He’s working on forgiving me. But hey, sometimes when you really care about someone you have to forgive. Do you understand that? And then we spent a lot of time talking about you.’

I nearly choked. ‘Me? What is wrong with you two? You’ve got five years of history to catch up on and you talk about me?’

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