Page 5 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

I don’t need anyone.

Chapter Three

When I went over to the workshop the following day, Jason was finishing off stretching a portrait of David Beckham across the front end of a Deltic diesel.

‘Kettle’s on.’ He didn’t even look at me, just hung from his ladder and welded another wire through the footballer’s face. Poor Mr Beckham now looked as though he had a case of ferrous acne, and even the engine wasn’t coming out of it well, but this was the sort of thing Jason did. And sold. Made you wonder about art, sometimes.

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, and you got an e-mail. Two sugars.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t go through my mails, Jase. They might be private.’

Jason hooked a leg around a strut for stability and looked thoughtful. ‘Right. So your secret lover is going to communicate by e-mail? Not very romantic.’

‘Yes, Jason,’ I said pointedly. ‘And with you being such a romantic, and all, you feel able to comment.’ I made the coffee, but to punish him didn’t put any sugar in.

Jason gave me his best Johnny Depp look, lowering his head and peeping out from under his eyelashes.

‘Aw, come on, babe.’ He slid down the ladder and landed at my feet. ‘It was only the once!’

‘Taking a girl to see Hot Fuzz and then dumping her by text because she didn’t laugh? Believe me, Jase, it only needed to be the once.’

Jason took a huge swig of his coffee then made a series of faces which were an artwork in their own right. ‘Jem, you trying to kill me, babe, or what?’

‘By text, Jason,’ I said sternly. ‘It’s never acceptable.’

‘You sold something.’

‘It’s like being dumped by Post-It. I . . . what?’

‘Some guy mailed to say he’d sold your buckle? Now, presuming that’s not kinda slang for having nailed you last night, which, babe, ain’t happened since I’ve known ya and I’m thinking you’ve fossilised down there . . .’

‘You are such a pain, Jase.’ I elbowed him out of the way and ran through to the office where we kept the computer. Jason liked his appliances like he liked his women so it was slim and sexy. And very, very slow. He didn’t like to be intellectually challenged by his girlfriends, he said, but still managed to swim in an enormous dating pool. Mind you, he normally went out with supermodels, so, there you go. ‘It must be from Ben. The guy I left the big buckle with yesterday? My only hope? I told you last night, remember.’

‘Oh, right.’ He hovered behind me as I logged on. ‘The guy in the tiny shop, with no customers, who sold guitars. Yeah. Sounds a real possibility.’

I ignored him and opened my in-box. There amid the offers and deals was one from [email protected].

Dear Jemima

I’m glad to say that I sold your belt buckle this morning. So, if you’d like to drop by with some more of your work I would be delighted to stock it.

Best regards, Benedict Davies

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Davies Guitars — Bessel Street — York. For all your musical needs

‘“Best Regards”! Bloody Nora, Jem! ’E talks like my dad!’

‘It is meant to be a business e-mail, not like you’d know. The only e-mails you get hold the world record for the number of times you can mention sex in a subject line.’

‘Jemima! Jason!’ It was Rosie calling from the front. ‘Are you in?’

‘Hi, Rosie.’ I popped out of the office. ‘What’s up?’

‘Saskia just rang.’ Rosie was slightly out of breath. She wasn’t going to take up going to the gym again until her stomach stopped needing its own postcode. ‘She’s doubled my order.’

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