‘I don’t understand.’
He looked up at me. ‘Don’t even try.’ He rested his chin on his drawn-up knees. ‘Honestly, Jemima, don’t even try.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I was puzzled by his over-reaction. There hadn’t been anything on that page that my skim reading had shown up as being a volatile subject. Unless he was truly distraught that Metallica were bringing out a new album.
Again, that laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. No.’ And now he was staring around at the walls of his shop and I didn’t know if he was aware of it but his fingers were moving on his thighs as though he was strumming a tune on an invisible guitar. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do. And that’s official.’
‘But …’
‘Go home, Jemima.’
He looked so distraught that it cut through my usual distance. Clenching my teeth I touched his arm again. Traced my finger across the tattooed lines. ‘Nice tatt.’ Trying to change the subject, to stop the obvious pain.
A hand came up and slapped my fingers away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ It was said wearily, heavily, as though the words were well-used. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t …’ and then he looked at me again with such pain in his face that I had to look away. ‘Just go home.’
I headed for the door and the whole atmosphere was so full of his torment that it was like walking through glass splinters. As I started over the threshold he called me back.
He dropped the magazine. ‘Jemima?’
I didn’t turn round. ‘What?’
‘Did you ask your friend?’ He was still sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin. His hair hung over his eyes, but I knew he could see me. ‘About dinner?’
‘Oh. Yes. Thursday. Is that OK?’ This was a ridiculous conversation. Ben was sitting there looking as though he wished the world would end, while I, feeling chastised and decidedly shaken, was conversing over my shoulder. And we were discussing dinner-party arrangements? What’s wrong with this picture?
‘Thursday? Fine. Yeah, good.’
‘I’ll e-mail you. With directions and stuff,’ I added quickly. I’d rarely had such a response to someone before. This feeling of sympathy combined with some other emotion that I was never, never going to try to identify, had left me breathless. I wanted to get out, to breathe, to reassure myself.
‘Thanks.’ His voice sounded a little stronger now, a little more sure. Perhaps now he’d established that I wasn’t going to make some kind of pass.
‘OK. I’ll just leave you to … stare at pictures of people wearing real clothes or whatever it is you do.’
This time he laughed and it was a proper laugh. ‘Great, thanks. Then afterwards I’ll just go off and ignore some proper meals, shall I?’
I half-smiled at him, still over my shoulder. ‘You do that, Ben.’ And I managed to walk out of the shop, even though every nerve wanted to run.
* * *
24th April
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?’
‘Good thanks. Saskia’s coming over in a minute to pick these up. Do you have time to set a tripwire round the front?’
‘Snaring animals is illegal,’ I answered happily. It was so good to see her back on bantering form.
‘It’d be a kindness. Well, for us.’ She slipped the last batch of cards into the cardboard carton at her side and taped up the lid. ‘How was work?’
‘Do you mean the paid kind, or the artistically satisfying and yet strangely unpopular kind?’
‘In the shop. Whichever one that is.’
‘It was … yeah, it was okay. Um, Rosie, listen …’ I was about to start introducing the subject of, maybe, my needing to move on, head for pastures new, run away, when Rosie clutched at my arm.
‘It’s Saskia!’
We heard the engine approach, like the trumpets of doom, and then a huge 4×4 articulated itself around the corner from the road and drew up on the gravel drive outside the cottage gate. ‘Uh oh, there goes the neighbourhood,’ I muttered to Rosie. She smiled at me, a tight grin. ‘Am I allowed to hide?’
‘No!’ Rosie grabbed my arm. ‘You have to be all glossy and welcoming and stuff, but a bit scatty so that I look organised and together in contrast.’
‘So glad I’m only here as comic relief,’ I sighed.
‘Besides you couldn’t expect me to cope with Saskia on my own. She eats people like us for dinner.’
‘She doesn’t eat anything as common as dinner. She’d have us as a six-course banquet, with fruit and nuts.’
‘Sssh! She’s coming.’ Th
e door to the 4x4 swung open but to my astonishment it wasn’t Saskia who made the descent onto the roadside, but her husband Alex. He walked around the bonnet, held the passenger door open for a pair of exquisite shoes to appear, and then went to the back door and held his arms inside. He turned towards us with their son, Oscar, in his grasp.
‘Ah, Rosie,’ said Saskia. ‘Nice to see the baby getting some air. Gosh, he’s rather small isn’t he? Is he, you know, quite healthy?’
Alex greeted us with his customary weak grin. I’d heard that he was a cut-throat businessman, that property markets would crash and burn without the attentions of Alex Winterington. But put him beside Saskia and he was just a thickset guy with receding chins and hairlines and no charisma to speak of. Or perhaps that was just the Saskia Effect. After all next to her Attila the Hun would have come across as a bit wussy.
‘Harry’s fine thanks. Oscar’s grown, I see.’ Rosie tugged her curls into order and smiled at Oscar, who grinned back with a five-year old’s blindness to nuance. He was a handsome chap, with blond hair which grew at improbable angles and brown eyes like his father. He was always pleasant-natured too. Saskia’s genes must be circling in there somewhere, waiting to stage a take-over, but there was no sign of them emerging yet.
‘Yes, well, Oscar is the tallest in his year at school. Actually, talking of schools, we were just on our way to have a look at Blandford. They’ve offered Oscar a place there in September, so we thought we’d combine the trip with picking up the cards.’
‘Isn’t he a bit young?’ I piped up. Blandford was the area’s leading boarding school, strict, religious and, I’d heard from Jason, the local centre for the acquisition of drugs, as the entire sixth form supplemented their trust funds.
Saskia rolled her eyes at me. ‘Darling,’ she said in a tone that implied I knew nothing, then turned back to Rosie. ‘Have you put Harry’s name down for anywhere yet? Or aren’t you planning on an education for him? After all, it can be such a waste of money if they don’t turn out to be high-achievers.’
Rosie and Alex rolled their eyes at each other and I warmed towards him a little more. In his arms Oscar was wriggling. ‘There’s Jason!’ he cried. ‘Let me go and see Jason!’
On the far side of the lawn where the big converted barn stood with its doors wide, Jason was just visible lurking in the shadow. He was smoking a huge roll-up which he hid behind his back when he saw Oscar leaping across the grass. He must have palmed it or shoved it in the bushes because when he led Oscar into the barn both hands were empty.
Alex bent next to Harry and tickled him, but straightened up when Saskia cleared her throat. ‘So, Rosie. Have you finished the consignment?’
Rosie waved a proud hand at the box. ‘Taped up and ready to go.’
‘Good.’ Saskia touched the cardboard with the tip of a French manicure. ‘I’m glad. Because I’d like another hundred, ooh, I was thinking … in time for the re-opening? Say, by next Monday?’
Rosie opened and closed her mouth. ‘I’m not sure –’ she began.
Saskia clicked her fingers at Alex. ‘Money sweetie,’ she said in the same tone that I would have used to ask a dog to sit. Alex pulled his wallet from the pocket of his beautifully tailored jacket and handed the whole thing over to Saskia. She didn’t even look at him, just closed her fingers around the pigskin and I found myself wondering what the hell the two of them saw in each other. Or I did until I saw what the wallet contained – Saskia definitely admired a man with a large wad. ‘Five hundred. And another four hundred if you get me the second batch before Monday.’
Rosie stared at the money.
‘You can get a lot of outfits for that,’ Saskia said, looking at Harry. ‘Or at least, you can in those high-street places you shop at. And this young man is going to start needing things, stimulating equipment, you know the kind of toy. I’d pass you some of Oscar’s old things but we’re still hoping that we might have another little one ourselves.’
I was sure I saw Alex give a shudder when she said that, but I could have been imagining it.
‘Trouble is, you see, Saskia,’ Rosie was holding the five hundred pounds in a clenched fist, ‘I’ve also got to supply a few other shops. Not in such quantity, obviously, a dozen cards here and there but, you see, if I’m doing all these for you I won’t have time!’
‘Can’t Jemima help?’ Saskia flicked her hair. ‘I mean, she’s at a loose end now, isn’t she?’
‘Actually no, I’m supplying another shop in York. Busy, busy, you know.’ Carefully not mentioning that the shop owner had panicked me into thoughts of leaving altogether. Saskia would have offered to help me pack.
Saskia’s reaction to my statement was startling. She whirled around and stared into my face. ‘What? Which shop? Where? They’re not a member of the Board of Trade are they?’
Having for once gained an upper hand I wasn’t about to let it go, and just smiled. She turned back to Rosie.
‘Well, you’ll have to make your choice, Rosie. A hundred cards by Monday or I’ll have to rethink using you as a supplier.’ Saskia did the clicky-finger thing again at Alex. ‘Fetch Oscar, darling, will you? He really mustn’t hang around with Jason quite so much.’
But there was no need for Alex to go trotting off because Jason was heading our way, with Oscar holding his hand, pulling and tugging on his fingers like a Labrador. ‘Mum! Dad! Jason’s got this huge picture of David Beckham and there’s nearly a whole train in his barn, with all the controls and everything. He says I can come and see next time he goes and buys one and maybe get to drive it!’ Oscar’s eyes were shining with hero-worship. Jason’s were glazed, probably with dope. ‘Can I?’
‘You mustn’t disturb Jason, darling.’ Saskia motioned to Alex to take their son back to the car. ‘He’s a very famous artist. But it will be nice for your friends, when you start at Blandford, if you tell them that your family is on such good terms with Jason Finch-Beaumont. Talking of which, Jason, may I have a quick word with you? Rosie, could you carry the box to the Hummer for me? My doctor says that I mustn’t try to lift large things.’
‘She didn’t have a problem lifting Alex’s wallet,’ I whispered to Rosie as I helped her to lift the carton of cards into the back of the vehicle.
‘She’s not allowed to lift lower-class things,’ Rosie whispered back. ‘I bet if this box was made of diamonds she’d be hefting it around like a wrestler.’
We sniggered at this image of Saskia until the car’s exhaust filled our faces. ‘So. What are you going to do? Make her some more cards?’
Rosie sighed and went to pick up Harry. ‘Well, I have to, don’t I? I mean, she’s my biggest sales point and – forgive me, Jem, but I don’t want her to do to me what she’s done to you.’
‘She wouldn’t drop you, would she?’
‘You’ve seen her new style. How long do you think my cards will last in that place if she decides on another refit? Anyway –’ Rosie wiggled her bundle of cash under my nose, Harry tried to grab it. ‘How about we use this to go shopping for the ingredients for Thursday night’s little get-together?’
‘Saskia wants me to open her shop.’ Jason’s voice sounded a little strained. It also sounded a lot slurred.
‘She never gave you a set of keys, did she? You’ll have the place full of one of your crankcase installations and dubious friends before she can blink.’ Rosie cradled Harry and began putting a nappy on him, one-handed.
‘On Monday. She’s asked me to be her celebrity.’ Jason sat down. ‘Me! I know nuffin’ about opening things. ’Cept for bottles.’
Rosie and I looked at one another. ‘God, she must be desperate.’
‘Well he is a celebrity.’ I looked down at the bewildered and befuddled celebrity in question. ‘I don’t think there’s much to it, Jase, you just have to cut a ribbon and socialise. It’s only Saskia showing you off.’
‘I don’t want to be shown off!’ Jason nearly wailed.
‘Tough, sunshine.’ I hauled him
to his feet by one pathetic elbow. ‘Fame is a bitch. Well, no, Saskia is a bitch, you’re just the approachable face of fame as far as she’s concerned. Now, can I borrow your car keys? Rosie and I are going shopping.’
We left Jason flopping back onto the lawn and went to town in style.
Chapter Eight
Thursday evening arrived and I was still trying to decide what to wear. Because of the stupendous coincidence of both Rosie and me getting paid in the same week (spending two days paying each other back the money we owed and then finding it about equalled out anyway) we were actually planning quite a posh do. Well, as posh as any do could be which had Jason as a guest.
I’d bought a lovely dress in a curious frosty green colour which made my hair look blonder than normal, but in a good way. So many colours made me look as though I’d gone prematurely grey, but this one made me look all Viking.
I tried the dress on in front of the mirror and couldn’t believe it was me I was looking at. Where was that skinny, scared girl now, the one with the bruise-stained cheeks and the gaze that could never quite meet anyone’s eye? The quiet say-nothing girl from the prison, head down and flinching as she walked? She’d been overlaid by the new me; Jemima. Poised, strong, confident. I squared my shoulders at my reflection. I could do this. I could stay living here, selling my stuff through eBay and Ben’s shop. I was doing it. I was making a life.
But then I went to straighten the hem, caught my own eye and saw straight through the mirror image to the horror beneath. The veneer peeled away and I was left staring at the real me, feeling sick. How could I possibly think I was coping? Had I forgotten so quickly what my life consisted of? And how dare I even relish the thought of talking to Ben Davies like a real woman might talk to a man, honest-to-God ‘flicky dress and glass of wine’ talk, lowered eyes and secretive smiles – didn’t I know what would happen?
I took the dress off and put my jeans on. But then of course Rosie would want to know why I wasn’t wearing my party dress so I was forced to put it on again. How could I tell Rosie that I didn’t want Ben to think I’d even considered the possibility of dressing up for him without her asking awkward questions about why I hadn’t? Or, even worse, after a couple of drinks asking him why he didn’t ask me out – oh God. I took the dress off again.
Please Don't Stop The Music Page 6
