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– we probably wouldn’t be able to close down for another quarter of an hour or more until we had dealt with him. Jonno ignored the new customer and walked down the stairs to the basement, leaving me to deal with the man.
    He was in his mid or possibly late forties, dark-hairedand melancholy, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and clean, tapered jeans, a combination that somehow seemed just right for him. Under one arm he was holding a battered black violin case.
    I had always been unimpressed by the blank canvas of younger men’s faces. Older men were different: the life they had led could sometimes be deciphered in their features. As if the experiences and the emotions they had confronted had formed them, given them an added layer of attraction. Not all of them, of course. I had, for example, never been attracted to most of my school teachers or even the dashing lecturers at university. But this man was different. His face was like a book that I wished to read, a fascinating combination of sorrow and animal magnetism that took me by surprise and hit me in the gut.
    He looked at me enquiringly and I could see how his gaze settled on my small tattoo. But it wasn’t a look of disapproval, which I often got from older people, but one of gentle amusement and fascination.
    ‘I was told your shop sometimes acquired second-hand instruments. Another store a few doors away said you might.’ He raised the violin case he was holding onto the glass counter behind which I stood.
    ‘We do,’ I replied. ‘But only the managers are in a position to appraise them, and neither of them is in today. You would have to come back, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Oh,’ he said.
    And just stood there.
    Surely he could wait until Monday. He didn’t look like a person in need of urgent cash.
    ‘I can look at it if you want. Give you my personalopinion. Maybe even a rough valuation, though I can’t guarantee the shop’s owners would make an offer if you came around again,’ I said.
    ‘It’s not a question of money,’ the man said. ‘I just sort of wanted it to find a new owner. Someone who would enjoy playing it. It was my wife’s.’
    ‘Your wife?’
    ‘She recently passed away.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘I’d even be happy to give it away if I knew if would end up with someone who could make good use of it,’ he added, almost apologetically.
    ‘That’s a nice thing to do,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come back next week? I’m sure we’ll find a way.’
    He was about to pick up the case from the counter, but I leaned forward, took hold of it and unzipped it. The violin was in good condition, not an antique, but a good-looking and well-maintained instrument.
    ‘I’m confident we could find a buyer for this,’ I told him.
    His features relaxed. ‘That would be nice.’
    I passed the violin case back to him.
    Our fingers touched. His skin was warm, and surprisingly soft.
    ‘I’m Lily,’ I said.
    ‘Leonard.’
    He did return the following week, and agreed a reasonable price with one of the owners. Both parties appeared satisfied with the outcome. I sold the instrument at a small profit just under a fortnight later to a young student about to begin her first year at the Royal College of Music.
    As part of the initial transaction, Leonard had beenobliged to sign some necessary paperwork and I had his email address on record as a result. Following the sale, I thought it would be nice to inform him who had ended up with his wife’s violin. I knew the outcome would please him.
    We began to correspond.
    Initially, our exchanges were mostly about music. What he liked, what I didn’t. Our memories of certain pieces or even songs – he was a surprising fount of knowledge about rock ’n’ roll from all eras, although we heartily disagreed about the Clash, whom I had recently learned to appreciate so much more, but whom Leonard had a particular disdain for.
    Nor was he much enamoured of heavy metal in all its varied incarnations, which