Excerpt from The Music Shop by Rachel Joyce, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Can I help you, Frank?" asked Kit. Actually he said "Ca' I hel'?" because his eighteen-year-old mouth was full of chocolate biscuit. Kit wasn't simple or even backward, as people sometimes suggested, he was just gauche and wildly overenthusiastic, raised in a small suburban house by a mother with dementia and a father who mainly watched television. Frank had grown fond of Kit in the last few years, in the way that he had once cared for his broken van and his mother's record player. He found that if you treated him like a young terrier, sending him out for regular walks and occupying him with easy tasks, he was less liable to cause serious damage.

But what was the music he was looking for? What was it?

Frank wanted a song that would arrive like a little raft and carry this man safely home.

Piano. Yes. Brass? That could work. A voice? Maybe. Something powerful and passionate that could sound both complicated and yet so simple it was obvious—

That was it. He got it. He knew what the man needed. He swung behind the counter and pulled out the right record. But when he rushed back to his turntable, mumbling, "Side two, track five. This is it. Yes, this is the one!" the man gave a sigh that was almost a sob it was so desperate.

"No, no. Who's this? Aretha Franklin?"

"'Oh No Not My Baby.' This is it. This is the song."

"But I told you. I want Chopin. Pop isn't going to help."

"Aretha is soul. You can't argue with Aretha."

"Spirit in the Dark? No, no. I don't want this record. It's not what I came for."

Frank looked down from his great height, while the man twisted and twisted his handkerchief. "I know it's not what you want, but trust me, today it's what you need. What have you got to lose?"

The man sent one last look in the direction of the door. Father Anthony gave a sympathetic shrug, as if to say, Why not? We've all been there.

"Go on, then," said the man who only liked Chopin.

Kit sprang forward and led him to a listening booth, not exactly holding his hand, but leading the way with outstretched arms as if parts of the man were in danger of dropping off at any moment. Light bloomed from the lava lamps in shifting patterns of pink and apple green and gold. The booths were nothing like the ones in Woolworth's—those were more like standing up in a hair dryer. Their headphones were so greasy, Maud said, you had to shower afterwards. No, these booths Frank had made himself from a pair of matching Victorian wardrobes of incredible magnitude he had spotted on a skip. He had sawn off the feet, removed the hanging rails and sets of drawers, and drilled small holes to connect each one with cable to his turntable. Frank had found two armchairs, small enough to fit inside, but comfortable. He had even polished the wood until it gleamed like black gloss paint, revealing a delicate inlay in the doors of mother-of-pearl birds and flowers. The booths were beautiful when you really looked.

The man stepped in and made a sideways shuffle—there was very little space; he was being asked to sit in a piece of bedroom furniture, after all—and took his place. Frank helped with the headphones and shut the door.

"Are you all right in there?"

"This won't work," the man called back. "I only like Chopin."

At his turntable, Frank eased the record from its sleeve and lifted the stylus. Tick, tick went the needle, riding the grooves. He flicked the speaker switch so that it would play through the whole shop. Tick, tick—

Vinyl had a life of its own. All you could do was wait.

Excerpted from The Music Shop by Rachel Joyce. Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Joyce. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.