Page 12 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Or . . .’ Rosie peeped at me from under her hair. ‘Have another crack at the bloke you left your stuff with.’

‘He sent me another e-mail last night asking me to pick up the money I made from the belt buckle. So if I do see him, it’ll be strictly business.’

Rosie made a face. ‘You should invite him over. We could all have dinner — I’d cook and everything. Go on, Jem, it’d be nice for me to meet someone new.’

‘We don’t really have that kind of relationship. He’s a bit, I dunno, sharp. Edgy. Not dinner-party material certainly.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Ask him anyway. I could do my Mexican bean thing and Jase could come over and we’d be like two couples eating dinner like real people, not like big fat blobbery things that never go anywhere and have to have the TV on for company.’

I was about to laugh when I saw the shiny glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll ask him. But don’t hold your breath.’ I stood up. ‘Better get on. You know what Saskia always says about the early bird—’

‘Yeah, it gets eaten by the even earlier cat.’

‘Quite.’

* * *

It felt strange to be heading into town without Harry but it was a damn sight faster. I found myself standing outside Le Petit Lapin just as Saskia’s assistant Mairi was putting the blinds up and unlocking the front door.

‘Is Saskia in yet?’ I asked.

Mairi paused to consider the question. She was a stunningly lovely girl, slim as a young tree and with hair so unreasonably shiny that I was convinced it was nylon. What she wasn’t, however, was particularly bright.

‘Well, she was going over to the Harrogate shop first thing,’ was her final and very considered answer. ‘But I heard someone moving about in the back.’

‘Could be ghosts.’ I squinted through the trendily dark windows to see whether Saskia still had any of my pieces on display.

‘You think so? You hear so many stories, don’t you, about these old buildings? Across the road there, they swear they’ve got plague victims buried in the garden.’ Mairi followed me up the step and into the shop. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I saw a ghost. What would you do, Jemima?’

‘I’d probably try to sell it something,’ I muttered, looking around the new improved interior of Le Petit Lapin. Saskia had swept away the hanging displays and the little cluttered corners which had been ideal for browsing. Instead a few choice examples of what I supposed must be native art stood in the centre of the floor reflected in long mirrors. I stared and wondered which long-term institution the manufacturers were natives of.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Saskia swept into view. The mirrors reflected her too; it was like being surrounded by Lucrezia Borgia. ‘It’s called “Femininity”.’

I looked closer at the largest item. ‘It’s a twig.’

Saskia flipped her hair. ‘That remark just shows how little you understand about Art, Jemima. That is a central representation of the essential core of womanhood. It’s American.’

‘Right.’ I stared a bit longer. ‘Americans must be very different, if that’s their essential core. Looks like a bit of old firewood. Are they flammable generally, Americans?’

Saskia turned her back and began fussing with a small glass case containing what looked like a phial of urine. ‘Did you want something Jemima? Mairi darling, put the machine on would you, I’m absolutely dying for an espresso.’

I made the sign of the cross behind her back but she didn’t crumble to dust as I was hoping. ‘I was just wondering if you’d thought any more about carrying on selling my jewellery.’ Even I could hear the note of desperation. ‘You must be able to find somewhere to put it. Now you’ve got all this space. Or, you could stock it over in Harrogate, I wouldn’t mind travelling over there with stuff, if you wanted.’

‘Jemima.’ Saskia looked up at the ceiling. ‘Take a teeny tiny peek around you. What do you see?’

‘Space. Loads of it.’

‘And?’

‘And a twig.’

Saskia spun around. ‘Shall I tell you what you can see, Jemima? Shall I? Class, that is what it is. Class, exclusivity, rare items available only to the discerning purchaser. Now while I admit that your pieces are lovely, they are a little — oh how to put this to cause the least offence? — they are a little obvious. Darling.’ she added as though the endearment would make me less likely to want to kill her. ‘Mairi, do we still have any of those invitations to our official re-opening?’

Mairi tippytoed forwards on her immaculate little feet. ‘There’s still a pile here,’ she pointed out helpfully. ‘And over here.’

‘Right.’ Saskia pulled a leaflet forward. ‘Look, Jemima. This is my stock. This is the clientele I am aiming at.’ The brochure contained photographs of Saskia herself, often holding various odd items. In many she was standing next to people who had the sharp edges and branded hairstyle of the upper class. Everyone wore plastic cocaine smiles and showed too many teeth. ‘But do come to the opening, darling.’

I stared at the shiny oblong. ‘When is it?’ I asked dully.

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