Page 42 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

Ceri wrinkled her nose. ‘You have acellar? I’m not sure whether that’s cool or scary.’

‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘If you don’t believe me, check the temperature of the wine.’

‘Very funny. Don’t give up the day job, will you? By the way, whatdoyou do for a living?’

Damon had kind of been expecting this. ‘I’m living off my investments at the moment.’ It wasn’t an outright lie – he did have savings and investments, and royalties were still coming in and would continue to do so, although the amount would decrease over time if the band didn’t put out new material to fuel sales. Which made him remember those half-finished tracks. He needed to tell Frank when he was coming back, but he couldn’t face it. Not just yet. Anyway, Luke was still in India as far as Damon knew, so nothing could be done until he returned.

An image of him and Luke in the recording studio, an empty space where Aiden should be, flashed into his mind and he swallowed hard. Nothing about that picture was right. Nothing aboutanyof it was right.

The room started to become fuzzy around the edges and his heart rate rose sharply. When he heard blood whooshing in his ears and realised he was having difficulty catching his breath, he began to gasp.

‘What’s wrong?’

Ceri’s voice sounded far off, and he fought hard not to give in to the blackness threatening to overwhelm him.

‘Damon? Speak to me – are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’ He forced out the word, concentrating on her voice, on the hand he felt on his arm, on the tiled floor beneath his feet and the flowery scent of her perfume, and he willed the screech of metal and Aiden’s desperate screams to fade.

Gradually he won the battle, and as his pulse slowed and his breathing returned to normal, he became aware that Ceri was gazing at him in concern, worry in her eyes.

‘I’m fine.’ It came out as a croak and he coughed once to clear his throat.

‘Are you sure? What happened?’

Damon shrugged. ‘Dunno. I get this… kind of… it’s…’ He shrugged again. How could he explain to someone else, when he himself wasn’t sure what was happening? ‘It’s nothing. Just a thing that happens sometimes.’

She was looking at him curiously and he tried to smile, but guessed it was more of a grimace.

‘I’m OK.’ He turned back to the stove, thankful that he hadn’t switched the hob on yet. ‘I could use a glass of wine, though,’ he said, uncorking the bottle and pouring a couple of glasses.

He handed one to Ceri, and she leant against the table, sipping it.

Damon took a quick glug, then turned his attention back to the chicken that he had been slicing into strips ready to pop into his gran’s enormous frying pan. He noticed that Ceri’s hair was still damp, and he hastily looked away.

‘I thought we’d eat outside,’ he said, throwing the chicken in hot oil. The sizzle as it hit the pan was quite gratifying, and the aroma of frying meat filled the air. ‘It’s too nice to eat indoors.’

‘Good idea. Can I do anything to help?’

‘No, thanks, it’s all under control.’

He was aware of her watching him, and he felt self-conscious. It was weird to think he had been on stage in front of thousands and hadn’t felt as nervous, yet this one woman could make him feel so incredibly self-aware. He suspected he could quite easily fall for her, if he let himself.

The food was soon ready and he grabbed a bowl of ready-prepared salad from the fridge, threw in a couple of cherry tomatoes, and got a loaf of wholemeal seeded bread out of the cupboard. It was a quick and simple meal, but it would be filling. He was no cook and didn’t profess to be; this was about as good as it got.

Ceri helped him carry everything outside, and they took their seats at the table. The sun hadn’t yet set and it was still quite warm, a perfect evening for al fresco dining.

Tucking in with enthusiasm, Ceri ate as voraciously as he, and he guessed that all the exercise and working outdoors had made her hungry. He was ravenous, and he tore off a large chunk of bread, spreading it thickly with slightly salted Welsh butter.

As usual, he had music playing in the background, but when one of Black Hyacinth’s tracks came on, he quickly asked for a shuffle. He couldn’t in all conscience sit here with Ceri, not really lying about who he was or what he did but not being truthful with her either, whilst listening to his own band’s music.

‘Aw, leave it on. I like that one,’ she said.

‘I’ve heard it too many times. I’m a bit fed up with it, if I’m honest.’

‘Actually, I think I heard you playing this not so long ago. I was in the allotment, scoping it out. I did wonder if I was imagining it, because everyone said that your house was empty.’

‘You heard me playing it?’ he echoed, warily.

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