Page 17 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

Did you know? DID YOU? What the FUCK did you think it would do to me, finding out like that?

I’m

not

doing

this

any more

* * *

‘Have you got a Metal Hammer? The newest one?’ I flung myself into the workshop and confronted Jason, who was eating a sandwich.

‘Got a mallet,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Any good?’

‘The magazine.’ I hunted around the office, picking up and discarding various glossy weekly and monthly rags which Jason picked up like he picked up sexually transmitted diseases. ‘It’s got a picture of a bloke with lots of hair on the cover.’

‘Goes with the territory.’ Jason stood up and lifted the magazine he’d been sitting on. ‘This one?’

‘Thank you.’ I flicked through to page forty.

‘So then, what’s the interest? You gonna take up the axe then? Or you looking to be a groupie?’ He licked his lips. ‘ ’Cos I might just be able to help you there. Basic training an’ all.’

‘Jason, I am not a virgin.’ I didn’t even bother to look at him, I knew what he’d be doing.

‘So you say.’ Jason stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and came to read over my shoulder. ‘So, whatcha lookin’ for?’

‘I don’t know.’ I was still skimming the page. ‘Anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary.’

‘Metallica got a new album comin’ out.’

‘Not that. I don’t think.’

He blew a cheese-and-pickle scented breath. ‘Well there’s not much else here. Usual bands split, bands reform, some dodgy old codgers doing a come back tour . . . nah.’

‘There must be something that set him off.’

‘Oho! You getting some action, Jemima my love?’

‘You sound exactly like Bill Sykes when you talk like that, do you know?’

‘Don’t he play bass for Radiohead?’ Jason kicked my leg.

‘As in Oliver Twist, you illiterate.’ I finished my third re-read. ‘Nope. I give in.’

‘Well don’t look to me for help. I know nothing about the British music scene these days, spent too long being cosmopolitan, me.’

‘Spent too long freeloading in the States you mean.’ Jason had only recently returned to Britain after two years spent getting his name, his face and his only other significant part known in America. Apparently the American art world had hailed him as the new ‘wunderkind’. I wondered if they knew what it meant.

‘Gotta get going.’ Jason slithered away back to his studio. ‘David B won’t weld himself you know.’

I headed out of the workshop and across the scrubby corner-plot garden which separated the barn from the cottage. I had loads of work to be doing, all my paperwork, and some new-build jewellery and the website could do with a bit of attention. But I couldn’t settle. There had been something in Ben’s face this morning, something wounded and wary and it had caused a reaction in me, as if I was recognising a part of myself on display in someone else. Maybe it was time to start packing.

‘Hi, Jem!’

Rosie looked good this afternoon, I was glad to see. Neatly dressed, albeit in one of her old maternity frocks, and with a slick of make-up. Harry was kicking his legs, nappyless, on the lawn under a sunshade while Rosie put the finishing touches to another set of cards, working at the kitchen table she’d pulled outside onto the rough patio which surrounded the cottage. ‘Hey, Rosie. How’s it going?’

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