And then. At first I thought she was coming on to me. She’s the first person to touch me … hey, get your mind out of the gutter, man, she’s the first person to get inside my head. To look as if she even wants to try to understand what’s happening to me. I guess what I mean is, she’s the first person to see me. Not Baz, not the guy with the lead guitar, but me. Ben.
Thought about standing her up. But, in the end, I couldn’t do it. She’s got this wounded kind of expression, like she’s been kicked in the face and is trying not to show it, the thought of making that expression worse … nah. Not me. Not cruel. Stupid, yeah, hold my hands up to that one, even a little crazy maybe sometimes. Well, you of all people know what it was like before. And now, shit, I can’t find the words to say it … it’s like this is the ‘before’. Like something really big is waiting to happen, muscles tense, mind all silver-wire; almost like the coke cutting in, taking it all up to some new level.
No. Before you get that look, reading these words and kinda looking at me over the top of this notebook with that caved-in face like I’ve disappointed you in some fundamental way. No. Let me say it this once. I DID NOT USE. I am not using. Told you, never again.
I’m tempted though. When she … when Jemima found out who I was, I thought it was over.
What, though? What could be over? There’s nothing to finish. She’s a friend and I don’t think she’d break over this. But she’s getting into me, one tiny little slice at a time. Like a diamond punch.
Chapter Ten
Ben had left a note pinned to the door of the shop. ‘Had to go early. Door’s open, see you later. B.’ There was a smudge after the initial, almost as though his pen had hovered uncertainly over an ‘x’ then decided against it, for which I was glad.
I went straight to the computer and hit Ben’s guest account. Googled ‘Willow Down’, 4 million entries. I could be reading through this stuff until I started thinking all rock musicians were long-haired layabouts who should get a proper job. I went for the first, the Official Site. Opened the page and there was Ben staring back at me from the screen. A little younger, a little unfocussed about the eyes, but definitely Ben. Next to him was the heading ‘Band to reform without troubled front man Baz Davies’.
Oh.
Well, at least I knew now what he’d seen in Metal Hammer. No wonder he’d been so upset, it must be like finding out that all your best mates from school had a reunion and never even invited you. I read on. ‘The new line-up with Zafe Rafale moving from bass to lead guitar will be playing dates from next spring. There’s been no news on Baz Davies since he walked out on the band in Philadelphia during their world tour in 2005.’
‘You only had to ask.’
The voice from over my left shoulder made me leap up and crack my shins against the counter. The pain, in turn, made me angry. ‘What the hell are you doing, creeping up on me like that!’
‘Creeping? Oh yes, sorry, I was forgetting that this was my shop and that on no account was I to walk in through the front door!’ Ben slapped his forehead. ‘I just keep on not remembering that.’
I wanted to blank the screen but since I knew he’d already seen what I was looking at, it seemed pointless. Still, the picture of him almost throbbed. ‘Why are you back?’
‘Appointment was cancelled.’ He looked at the computer. ‘You Googled me.’
‘I …’
Ben shrugged. ‘Yeah. Well.’ We both stared at different parts of the floor for a moment. Ben had his hands in the pockets of a pair of black jeans which made him look even skinnier than usual. ‘I think this is where you apologise?’ he said at last.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah. Then I make us both a coffee and we forget any of this ever happened.’ Those deep brown eyes flickered up to meet mine for a moment. ‘Please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I started. The wary look stayed in his eyes. ‘But you’re – you were incredible, it says so here. “Best guitarist of a generation”.’
‘Things change.’
‘Yes but –’
‘Jemima.’ Ben came very close, standing with his face almost touching mine. ‘It hurts. It hurts like hell, what I used to be, all the things I lost. So please don’t tell me that I ought to go back to the band or that I should start playing again or any of the other crap that people have spouted at me. If I could, I would. But I can’t. All right?’
‘You’re hiding.’
‘Yes, I’m hiding!’ Ben turned away from me.
‘But what is there to hide from?’
He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead he stared at the posters which papered the shop walls so colourfully. ‘Zafe Rafale was my best friend,’ he half-whispered. ‘My mate. We did everything together after we left school, started the band, got drunk, got stoned. Shared everything. Then I let him down big time.’ Now he faced me. ‘Things got fucked up so royally, so spectacularly that I –’ Suddenly he stopped talking. His face was a blank mask. ‘This isn’t your problem.’
I had to knit my fingers together to stop myself reaching out for him. The pain was so manifest that he was hunched slightly beneath it and I wanted to touch him. To take some of it away. He was standing so close that I’d only have to reach up and I could put my arms around his neck, pull his head down and – hell, what was the matter with me?
‘OK, I’m sorry I Googled you. I was curious that’s all. But all it is, you were the singer in a band I’ve never heard of, and now you’re not.’
Ben smiled and the mood lifted. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s precisely it. Mr Nobody, me.’
We grinned at each other and, for one tiny moment, the sheet which hung between me and the real world lifted a fraction and I caught a glimpse of the life I could have, if I could only stop walking away from the possibility. A man, maybe not this man, but one like him. A baby, a Harry of my own, if I wanted one. A career rather than makeweight jobs to earn money. I could have any of those things, all of them, perhaps, if I wanted it enough, and all I had to do was stop running.
‘Shall we go out?’
The barrier slammed down again as I stepped back and banged myself again, my hip this time. ‘What? Out? Like as in out out?’
‘I meant shall we go out for a coffee rather than drink it here? There’s a snazzy café round the corner and I feel like celebrating the cancellation of my appointment with a hazelnut latte and a big bun.’
I breathed again. Why had I thought that he was asking me to go out with him, as in a date? When I already knew that he didn’t. And I wouldn’t, anyway? Oh, this was not good, this was not good at all. ‘All right. But it better be a very big bun.’
‘Oh, and I got some flowers. Would you take them to Rosie? To say thank you for dinner last night?’
I surprised myself with the fierce hot burn of jealousy. ‘If you want.’
‘She’s a lovely girl. And Jason’s a nice whatever it is that Jason is. Artist. A good guy.’
‘Yes, they’re lovely, both of them.’
Ben went to the kitchenette to get the flowers and then busied himself locking the shop door. ‘Are you and Jason …?’ He made a kind of wavy motion with his hands. ‘Or is Rosie?’
‘Good grief, no! He’s a friend. In as much as you can befriend a wild animal.’
‘Right. And you’re all going to this opening thing on Monday?’
‘Supposed to be, yes. Rosie’s flat out doing some more cards for Saskia. She’s going to keep Saskia sweet, I’m only going in the hope that she might change her mind about stocking my jewellery, and Jason’s going because he’s kicking it all off. So we’re not what you might call typical guests.’
Ben steered me into the tiny coffeehouse beside the art gallery. Fountains tinkled outside and made me realise how much I needed the toilet. ‘If … if I went …?’
I was so shocked I nearly wet myself. ‘What? You’d come? What if she recognizes you?’
‘Well …’ Ben lowered his voice as the rest of the coffee queue looked up at us.
‘Most people don’t. It’s five years ago and I was quite different then.’
I just gaped.
‘And it’s not like I’m in hiding or anything. I mean, I walk around, people see me. I just don’t – it’s not as if I go round introducing myself “Hi, I’m Ben Davies, I used to be in Willow Down”, or being on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, or programmes like that. Most people who do recognise me just think they’re mistaken.’
Oh, God. I was going to wee. Here, on the spot. I was astonished that the entire crowd in the coffee shop, which seemed to be entirely made up from a SAGA coach trip and some overdressed Goths who’d probably got lost on their way to Whitby, weren’t all listening in to our conversation. This man, who’d been a virtual hermit for the last five years, was offering to come to a party. With me.
‘I’m sorry, I need to go to the toilet,’ I said.
‘The sound of the flush helps you think, does it?’ Ben asked, a bit kindly for my liking.
‘It’s either that or pee on your shoes.’
‘So, do you want me to come then?’
Oh, more than anything, Ben Davies, do I want you to come with me. I’ll get you to play your guitar to me and you’ll realise that you’ve nothing to fear from the world. I’ll tell you my secrets and my fears, and just maybe sharing them will take away their power. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ was what I said.
I sat on the toilet for far longer than was necessary with my head resting against the cool paintwork of the stall. I couldn’t believe that I had so nearly betrayed myself. What the hell was the point of making all those promises, of swearing that I would be my own person, only to have it all wiped out by one man? All right, that man was – come on, say it, Jemima – that man was sexy, but you swore, Jemima, on your brothers’ lives, that you’d never let yourself get used again. He might not look like a user, but none of them do, do they? Until they have you, and then …
When I came out of the toilet, Ben was sitting opposite a man at a corner table. They were deep in a conversation which involved a lot of hand-waving. ‘You don’t understand anything about me, do you?’ Ben was saying as I approached. ‘I’m not giving in to this!’
‘It’s not a question of “giving in” Ben,’ the other man replied quietly. ‘It’s a question of adjustment.’
Ben was breathing deeply. His skin had the faintest trace of sweat on it and his eyes contained an expression of barely restrained panic. ‘Ben?’
He jumped as I touched his arm. ‘God! Jemima!’
‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ I looked from Ben to his friend. It was the man I’d seen outside Ben’s shop the time that Ben had kissed me. This time he was wearing cords and a frayed-looking shirt, but he still had an air of authority. ‘I’ll just go.’
Ben grabbed my hand. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, winding his fingers through mine so tightly that it hurt.
‘Ben. You can’t keep doing this. I really thought we were making progress, you’ve been getting on so well. Please don’t tell me you’re going to give it all up now! For the sake of what?’ The man eyeballed me as though it was my fault.
Ben’s grasp on my hand was threatening to cut off the circulation. In his other hand the bunch of carnations bobbed as though they too were being throttled. ‘I’ll come to the next appointment,’ he said. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’
‘That’s all I can ask.’
‘Fine.’ And Ben stood up so quickly that the table rocked, endangering the overfilled salt cellar. Not letting go of my hand he squeezed us between the seats until we reached the door and burst out into the sunlit square beyond.
‘Okay,’ I said levelly. ‘So what was that all about?’
Ben shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
He still hadn’t let go. I could feel the bones of his fingers against mine and the warmth of his body radiating from beneath today’s God-awful T shirt. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a member of the Scooby-Doo gang, with all this mystery,’ I said. ‘Shaggy, probably. Not one of the girls, they always find out what’s going on within seconds. And anyway, I can’t do the socks.’
‘It’s just … nothing. Look, I’d better go back to the shop.’ I waited for him to ask me to come too, but he didn’t. Just passed the flowers to me.
‘I’ll maybe see you on Monday?’ I relaxed my hand and his fingers fell away. ‘For Saskia’s party?’
Ben shrugged, shook his head. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll come to the shop and we could go on from there. It’s only round the corner.’
This time Ben looked at me and smiled. ‘Were you the kind of kid who thought your teachers lived in the school?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘I won’t be at the shop. Not in the evening.’
‘Oh!’ I was embarrassed, but at least he was smiling. He looked so much nicer when he smiled, less moody rock-star. ‘You’ve got a house.’
‘Mmm-hmm. Here –.’ Ben pulled out a pen from his back pocket, grabbed my arm and wrote an address up my wrist in black biro. ‘Come here. Monday, around, what, seven?’
Then almost as if it was he who was embarrassed, he turned with a flick of his hair and vanished into the tourist crowd, leaving me standing a bit stunned. The ink on my skin made my arm feel stiff and I couldn’t stop staring at the hieroglyphs he’d scrawled alongside my veins.
* * *
‘He lives where?’ Rosie was jiggling Harry on her hip and trying to set out a batch of cards when I got home and spilled my story.
‘Wilberforce Crescent.’ Almost unconsciously I was tracing the writing with my finger. ‘Seventeen.’
‘Wow, that’s a bit posh isn’t it? Oh, now look what I’ve done! Jem, could you take … thanks.’
I took the proffered Harry and rested his weight against my shoulder. ‘I suppose he must have bought it when he was, you know, famous.’
‘“Famous” isn’t a dirty word, Jem. Well, only when it’s applied to Jason, when suddenly everything becomes dirty. Anyway, it might not be his, maybe he’s renting or living with someone. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t date, because he’s not single.’ Rosie began brushing chalk over the cards with a goose-feather.
‘He came to dinner on his own. And he doesn’t behave like a man who’s attached.’
Rosie looked up at me, sudden interest flaring in her eyes. ‘Oh ho! Did he make a move on you?’
‘No! It’s just the feeling I get from him. You know how married men just seem – different. More secretive.’
Rosie turned her back to me. ‘Do they?’ She busied herself in her bag, pulling out stems of grasses and pressed petals.
‘I mean I know Ben is secretive, too, but not in the same way. I think he’s secretive because he doesn’t want to remember stuff.’
‘OK, so what’s your excuse?’
It was my turn to revolve, using Harry as a shield. ‘I’m not secretive.’
Rosie snorted. ‘Much! Anyway, is he coming on Monday or are the pair of you so collectively secretive that you didn’t tell him where it was and he wouldn’t tell you whether he was going?’
‘Um. Something like that.’ I joggled Harry.
‘God, you should get jobs as spies. Oh SOD!’ A bunch of the cards slipped from the edge of the table and cascaded to the floor in a jumble of pink chalk and brittle stalks. Instead of bending to pick up the overspill Rosie began to cry.
‘Rosie?’ I put the arm which wasn’t supporting Harry around his mother. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing!’ wept Rosie. ‘Except I keep dropping things and Harry won’t go to bed and let me get on and I’m really tired but I’ve got to get these done before Monday and I just feel so useless.’
‘Ah, useless. Now there’s a feeling I’m right at home with.’ I gave her a squeeze. ‘Look, I’ll take Harry down to the workshop. Jase can help me mind him to give you some space, and if I was you I’d use the time to have a bit of a sleep. I’ll give you a hand to catch up with the cards this
evening. And in the meantime you can gaze on the flowers that Ben sent over for you and ponder on the fact that despite the fact he’s my friend, you’ve got carnations and all I’ve got is a cheap tattoo.’ I brandished my written-on arm.
Rosie gave a snot-ridden smile. ‘Yeah, for an expensive address.’ But she let me collect Harry’s changing bag, bottles and blanket and I even thought I heard her give a small sigh of relief as I lugged him and his paraphernalia out of the door.
‘Jason!’ I strapped Harry into his bouncy chair and sat him down in the doorway to the office. ‘Are you in?’
‘Oooof! Ow! Sorry, Hazzer me old mate, didn’t see you down there!’ Jason barrelled in through the double doors and tripped over Harry, causing him to ping alarmingly up and down for a few moments. ‘Woss up?’
‘Are you busy?’
Jason looked at me suspiciously. ‘Is this one of those, wossname, trick questions? I’m an international artist, babe, course I’m busy.’
‘Could you keep an eye on Harry for a few minutes? I’ve got some research to do.’
Jason stared at me for a second. Then a smutty grin spread over his face, which made him look even more Johnny-Depplike than usual. ‘Oh, I see. That kind of research is it?’ And he picked up Harry, bouncy chair and all. ‘Come on little guy. We’re not wanted round here, not unless you wants to be drowned in all that oestrogen stuff.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Jason just winked and he and Harry went off into the big studio from where I could hear the commentary to a football match issuing from Jason’s expensive sound system.
I fired up the computer and called up the Willow Down website. Seeing Ben through pictures made me realise just how good-looking he was. Real life seemed to deaden the impact somehow, or maybe it was something to do with the awfulness of his clothing. Clothing which seemed to be purposefully designed to conceal what these old photographs revealed to be a fantastic body. My God, I had no idea that under those skuzzy T shirts there was this muscular torso, whip-muscled arms and corded shoulders. Or, presumably they still were there, but he didn’t pose quite the same way, with his mouth unsmiling, hair carefully tumbled and his hips thrust forward in invitation. I’d certainly never seen him stand like that, but then I wasn’t sure any human could stand like that, not without invisible support from behind. His fellow band members weren’t bad either, a collective of dark eyes and tight jeans, like a sack-full of male models handed guitars and dropped onto a stage.
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