By

L.H. Cosway

Copyright © 2014 Lorraine McInerney.

 

All rights reserved.

 

Cover picture taken from Shutterstock.com.

 

Cover design by RBA Designs.

 

Editing by Indie Author Services.

 

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Books by L.H. Cosway

 

Contemporary Romance

Painted Faces

The Nature of Cruelty

Still Life with Strings

 

Urban Fantasy

Tegan's Blood (The Ultimate Power Series #1)

Tegan's Return (The Ultimate Power Series #2)

Tegan's Magic (The Ultimate Power Series #3)

Tegan’s Power (The Ultimate Power Series #4)

Crimson (An Ultimate Power Series Novella)

 

YA Paranormal Romance

A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine #1)

A Vision of Green (Florence Vaine #2)

For my readers.

You are a drop in a gigantic ocean but you mean the world to me.

A Note from the Author

 

Dear reader,

 

The story you are about to read is set in my home city of Dublin. It may not seem this way to strangers, but it is in fact a very small place. Lives can be interconnected in little ways that may seem unbelievable, but are actually very possible given how tiny the city, and indeed the country, really is. My heroine, Jade, works in a concert hall that is loosely based on but not a one hundred percent accurate portrayal of the National Concert Hall on Earlsfort Terrace. Similarly, my hero Shane is the concertmaster of an orchestra that is loosely based on but not a one hundred percent accurate portrayal of the RTÉ National Concert Orchestra. Just a short walk from the concert hall is Grafton Street, where Jade busks as a street performer, and just around the corner from Grafton Street is St. Steven’s Green, where Jade’s mother used to sell her paintings. If all this information seems random, I promise it will make better sense once you’ve read the story. However, if like Jade you are a dreamer at heart, you can simply choose to put it all down to destiny.

 

I sincerely hope you enjoy Still Life with Strings.

 

Yours,

 

L.H. Cosway.

 

 

 

 

At eighteen years of age, he never knew true grief until he saw her crying on the six o’clock news.

It was so palpable he could almost mould it with his hands.

His fingers itched to create a melody that would be the musical embodiment of her mourning.

So he picked up his violin and began to play.

One

 

They call me the Blue Lady.

The more poetic would say a dark angel, or an unexpected, fantastical surprise standing upon the mundane street. I wear a long midnight blue dress, a matching wig, white paint on my hands and face, and glorious, feathery blue wings affixed to my back.

I feel like a gap in reality, a moment where people can pause mid-stride and say in a breathy, wonder-filled voice, wow, look at that. For the more cynical, wow, look at that nutjob.

Perhaps for a moment someone will think that they’ve stepped into a world where normal is not the rule anymore, that the extraordinary is. That my wings aren’t false but real, that my skin is really this white, my hair really this blue.

Unfortunately, none of it is real.

But it’s nice, isn’t it, for a brief moment to imagine that it is?

In reality I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman with a stack of bills I’m struggling to pay and two younger siblings who are reliant on me to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies.

I do this living statue act whenever I have the free time. It gives me an artistic outlet, while also making me some much-needed cash on the side. Admittedly, I don’t normally do it at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of Grafton Street, but it’s a Saturday. That means there’ll be lots of tourists. More to the point, lots of drunk tourists with loose pockets and even looser inhibitions about who they hand over their cash to – such as women who stand very still while dressed like a Manga fairy.

I stare directly ahead, unblinking, controlling my breathing using a qigong method, just as I hear the recognisable loutish shouting and laughter of a stag party up ahead. When they come into my line of sight, I see that they’re all wearing black T-shirts with their nicknames written across the back and Jack’s Stag Weekend across the front.

No shit.

I am an island, an inanimate object among the to and fro of humanity. I brace myself for the possibility that the stag party is going to be trouble. Moments later, one guy stands in front of me, waving his hand in my face and trying to get me to blink. How original.

Sometimes I feel like those guards who stand outside Buckingham Palace. And like those long-suffering buggers, I have also perfected the art of remaining still and giving no reaction at all.

“Are you blue all over?” he slurs with a drunken sideways grin.

As a street performer, you have to take the rough with the smooth. When you put yourself out there, you’re going to encounter every facet of society: the good, the bad, and the drunk off their arses. Kids are the best. They haven’t yet lost the sense of wonder that makes them stare up at you and truly believe you’re some sort of blue-fairy-bird-woman-thing.

“That’s a real nice rack,” says another of the stag partiers.

Yeah, you try carrying it around all day and dealing with the back problems, and then tell me how nice it is, I think. Soon they lose interest and continue on their way. A half an hour passes, and several more pedestrians throw some coins into my hat.

The moon is full tonight, a round white orb perched amid the stars. I want to go up there and see what everything looks like from on high. I flutter my wings and prepare for flight, flapping them through the air and then leaping into the sky. My ascent is an easy one. I pluck a star out of the blackness and stick it in my blue hair as an adornment. When I reach the moon, I find a comfortable spot and sit. Leaning my chin on my hand, I gaze back down at the street. The people look like tiny black ants, the buildings like less brightly coloured blocks of Lego.

I blink, and I’m back on my box, back on the street. I was never really on the moon. My wings are a pretty accessory, but they’re useless for flying. Sometimes I can imagine things so hard that I feel like they’re really happening.

My eyes catch on a group of people I recognise. They all play in the symphony orchestra at the concert hall where I work as a ticket attendant and bartender. I don’t talk to most of them, but I’m friends with a couple of the ladies. I know that one of the violinists is leaving to move to Australia with his family, so tonight must be his big send-off.

Often on my breaks I’ll sit at the back of the hall and watch their rehearsals, allowing myself to be swept away with the music. My favourite sound is at the very beginning of their performances, when all the instruments clamour together to get in tune. It builds up this addictive sense of anticipation.

I envy their lives as musicians, travelling the world and playing for amazing audiences in historic venues. It’s so much more beautiful than the life I live. I think a lot about the fact that I’m constantly near these people, and yet my reality is so far removed from theirs.

None of them even know that the woman with the painted skin dressed all in blue is the same inner-city girl who sells tickets for their concerts and serves them drinks at the bar after their practices.

In a way it’s quite a wonderful feeling. For a moment I am unchained from my own humdrum identity.

By the time I withdraw from these thoughts, the orchestra musicians are gone. Slowly, I turn my head slightly to the left and find a new position. I stand in the same pose for fifteen minutes at a time, and then I’ll make an almost imperceptible move to ease some of the strain. It takes willpower and the patience of a saint to do this. Fortunately, I’ve had years of practice being responsible for my younger siblings.

I’m all about the willpower, especially since I’m a recovering alcoholic who works in a bar. Most people say that to properly get over an addiction, you have to purge all presence of the drug from your life. I take a different approach. The fact that I can be around alcohol and not drink it, well, I like to think that makes me stronger. It’s been five years, and I haven’t touched a drop.

Anyway, what with jobs being so thin on the ground these days, I can’t exactly afford to be picky. You’ll be amazed by what you can achieve when necessity sets in.

Once I settle in my new position, I notice a man standing by the shuttered window of a shop on the other side of the street. He’s got brown hair in what my mother would have called a “gentleman’s haircut” when she was alive. It’s all neatly combed and swept to the side. His facial features are exotic yet not, giving the impression that he was born of a white father and an Asian mother — or vice versa.

He’s just standing there staring at me, looking fascinated and a small bit lost. I sometimes encounter people like this. Adults who see me and are touched by whatever emotion my appearance has managed to evoke in them.

These are the things I live for. Aside from the money, it’s the main reason why I do this.

Up until this moment, though, I’ve never had someone I’m attracted to show a similar sort of wonder. His eyes crinkle in a smile. I think he knows that I’ve noticed him. A couple who have also been watching me for several minutes finally drop some money in my hat, and I give them a small bow for their generosity.

My legs are starting to get a little too stiff, so I decide it’s time to call it a night. Stretching my arms up over my head and stepping down off my box, I pick up my money hat, fold it in half, and shove it into the box.

The beautiful man across the street stands up straight when he sees me move. I pull off my wig and stick that in the box, too, loosening my real hair out of the tight bun I’d had it in under the wig. Making sure not to damage the feathers, I shrug out of the wings and place them inside as well.

When I glance up, the man is standing before me, too close almost. His eyes are a deep golden brown, like a glass of fine brandy, and his features have a delicate masculinity. Strong yet vulnerable.

“Hello there,” I say with a hint of amusement, pulling my long cardigan from the box and shuffling out of my blue dress. I always wear a light slip underneath.

“Hey,” the man replies, watching as I fold the dress neatly and place it in the box before ducking into my cardigan. “You’re blonde,” he says then, eyes on my hair.

I’d expected him to be foreign, given his semi-exotic appearance, but his accent is middle-class Dublin through and through.

“That I am,” I answer, giving him a look as if to say, are we done here?

It’s almost two in the morning, but the street still has quite a few people on it, so I don’t really feel on edge about this stranger standing near enough that we’re practically touching.

His gaze travels down to my feet, a wry smile shaping his lips when he takes in my black biker-style boots. As he scans my bare legs, I feel a shiver run down my back, lingering erotically at the base of my spine.

Hmm, it has been a while, and this man is utterly gorgeous. He’s wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, no tie. He hovers over me, standing only a couple of inches taller. His breath whispers across my skin, smelling faintly of gin.

“Would you like to have a drink with me?” he asks, reaching out to run a hand through the waves at the end of my long hair.

Despite his forwardness, it feels good to be touched. Sometimes it seems like no one ever touches me like this — just for the sake of it. I had a really stressful day with my younger brother Pete acting the brat; a little relief would be nice. A bit of physical interaction. Some skin on skin.

Something thickens in the air between us as we make eye contact. The man sucks in a quick breath, his gaze flickering back and forth over my features.

Once I have everything put away, I close my box, pulling it along on its wheels.

“How about a quick shag instead?” I ask back, uncharacteristically brazen. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m never going to see this man again. He’s just what I need. A pretty stranger to lose myself in, to make me feel new again for a short while.

He laughs out loud, thinking I’m joking. Then his eyes widen and his nostrils flare when he realises I’m being serious. A touch of red colours his cheeks, possibly displaying his embarrassment. His hand moves from my hair to my neck and strokes downward to my collarbone. He might be embarrassed by my proposition, but he wants exactly what I want. I can tell.

“Okay, Bluebird, that sounds much better,” he says, breathing harshly now.

Taking his hand, I lead him away from the main street and down a dark, secluded alleyway. I rest my box against the wall, and seconds later he’s on me. Hands in my hair, lips on my lips, tongue in my mouth caressing my tongue. He tastes nice, like toothpaste and an expensive dinner. I undo three buttons on his shirt, slipping my hand inside and feeling his taut nipples and hard, muscular pecs beneath.

His hands move along my bare thighs to the backs of my knees, where he applies pressure and pulls my legs up around his waist. He holds me there, my back pressed hard against the concrete wall. His erection hits me right between the thighs now, nudging exquisitely in and out. All of his embarrassment has disappeared, his lust overriding it.

“You smell great,” he rasps, sucking on my neck. “You want me up inside you, Bluebird?”

“Yes, hurry,” I moan, allowing my face to fall to the hollow between his shoulder and neck. His hand slips inside my knickers, and he groans when he encounters my wetness. He shoves a finger in experimentally, and when I cry out he allows another to join it.

I reach down and fumble with his belt, undoing his trousers and pulling them down just enough to free his cock. The next thing I know, he’s tugging my knickers all the way down my legs and shoving them into his pocket. He rummages in his other pocket and whips out a condom, which I suppose isn’t too unusual a thing for a man out late on a Saturday night to carry around with him.

Rolling it on, he lifts his head to meet my gaze. He tilts his neck to the side, those gorgeous golden eyes hooded with desire. I don’t make a habit of propositioning random men on the street, and yet I have to admit that none of my previous one-night stands have ever progressed this quickly — or this smoothly. Usually there’s a bit of awkward fumbling before a rhythm is found, if at all, but with this guy it feels so natural. I guess the late hour has brought out my uninhibited, adventurous side.

He positions his cock at my entrance, still holding my gaze, and pushes slowly into me, letting out a guttural, “Fuck.”

I lock my legs tight around his waist, and he grips me firmly before he starts pumping into me fast. In this moment we’re base and animalistic. No reservations, no pretences, just two people seeking relief and some small piece of a human connection.

“You feel…really good,” he groans, flicking his tongue along my earlobe.

“Yeah, go harder,” I whisper, needing to be fucked so hard that I fall into the pleasure and forget.

“You’re a dirty, beautiful little thing, aren’t you?” he says, a glorious smile on his face. He lets go of one of my legs and pulls down the strap of my slip, my cardigan hanging loosely at my elbows. Then he pulls free one of my breasts and moulds it with his palm, pinching the nipple. I sigh and undulate, biting my lower lip.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be — just fuck me harder,” I tell him, throwing my head back when he thrusts up into me deep.

His eyes grow dark as he zeroes in on my mouth, then captures it with his lips. He slides his tongue in and out, as though mimicking the motion of his cock inside me. When he withdraws for air, I notice he’s got some of my shimmery white face paint on his cheeks and stains of it on the shoulders of his suit. For some reason, it makes me smile.

“You like that?” he growls and I nod, unable to find my voice.

His thrusts become even faster, harder, as he reaches down between my legs and rubs at my clit, coaxing me to orgasm. I can tell he’s going to come soon, so I let go, allowing myself to climax along with him.

He’s got a delirious look on his face as he spurts into me, letting out a long, deep, stomach-clenching groan. The noise is the essence of male sexuality. My orgasm hits me quick and intense, shattering through my system.

He holds me there long after he’s come, stroking my hair away from my face and cupping my cheeks. “I think I might have dreamt you,” he breathes, kissing one side of my mouth and then the other.

That makes me grin wide. What a romantic thing to say to a woman who let you shag her minutes after you just met.

“You’re a sweetheart,” I reply, giving him a soft kiss goodbye and then dropping my legs to the ground. I take a moment to right myself, fixing my cardigan back in place. Then I walk over to my box and grab the handle.

“So, I’ll see you,” I say, dipping my head to him in farewell.

He’s still leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. For a split second he seems taken aback by my abrupt departure, and then his cheeks redden like before.

“Yeah, see you, Bluebird,” he replies with a sombre smile.

Feeling him follow me out onto the street, I turn right at St. Steven’s Green in the direction of home. For a while it feels like he’s still behind me, but a minute or two later when I summon up the courage to look, he’s gone.

Perhaps it wasn’t that he dreamt me. Perhaps I was the one who dreamt him.

 

I live in an area of inner-city Dublin known as “the Liberties.” There’s a historical reason for the name, but essentially it’s similar to what they call “the Projects” in America. The name is ironic, because there’s little that’s liberating about living here. In fact, it often feels like the opposite way around.

My house is on a street close to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a short walk from where I had the encounter with my nameless stranger. I smell his cologne on me, something citrus and fresh. His spit and his sweat linger, too. It dawns on me that I never even asked him his name. When a soft breeze floats up my dress, I remember that he still has my knickers stuck in his suit pocket.

The street is empty, apart from a group of teenage boys hanging out at the end of the row of houses. I eye them as I pull the front door key from my pocket and notice a familiar red baseball cap. Oh, it better fucking not be. Taking a closer look, I see that it is him, my fifteen-year-old brother Pete. For the last year or so he’s been hanging out with a bad crowd. It’s been an absolute nightmare trying to keep him on the straight and narrow.

Opening the house door, I drop my box down in the hallway and then march my way toward the group. They all begin nudging each other as they see me approach, and then Pete turns around, a gigantic scowl on his face.

“Get home now,” I tell him firmly, allowing my gaze to touch on each individual present.

You can’t be eye-shy with these little shits. You have to show them that you mean business. It’s scary, because they’re all taller than I am and most likely carrying weapons, but when you strip that away, all you have left are scared little boys living in a world with no privileges. Some of them are a good deal older than Pete, too, maybe even eighteen or nineteen. And when eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds are befriending boys Pete’s age, you know there’s some variety of grooming going on.

“Piss off, Jade. I’ll go home when I’m ready,” Pete hisses.

Not bothering to retort, because I’m tired and want to go to bed, I simply step forward, twist his arm behind his back in a simple lock, and drag him away.

“Hey, let go, you fucking strong bitch,” he yells, clawing at my hand.

It’s true — I may not look it, but I am pretty strong, mainly because I practice Tai Chi twice a week at my local community centre. A lot of people don’t know that it isn’t all about waving your arms through the air and meditating. It’s actually a martial art as well. My teacher is a really cool hippy lady from France who only charges a small fee for the classes.

A lanky, well-built boy steps up and spits just short of my feet, a snakelike grin shaping one end of his mouth. He gives me a squint-eyed look that only the truly inbred can do justice, and calls, “Your sister’s a fucking freak, Pete. Why don’t you give her a slap and teach her a lesson?”

“I’ll give you a bloody slap,” I shout back. “And don’t be getting mouthy — I know your mother!”

I have no clue who his mother is, but it’s a tried and tested threat that always works to put wayward teenagers in their places.

He spits on the ground one more time for good measure just as I shove Pete into the house and slam shut the door.

When we’re inside he pulls away from me, cheeks red, clearly fuming. “Why’d you have to do that? You made a complete show of me, Jade!”

“Good! If it keeps you away from scum like that, I’ll be happy to make a show of you every day for the rest of your life.” I pause, hand on my hip, taking in his appearance. He’s got grey bags under his eyes and looks paler than usual. I’ve been suspicious that he’s started smoking and selling marijuana, but I don’t yet have any proof. “Is this what you want for yourself? Do you know how long most teenagers who deal drugs last before they get caught and sent to prison, Pete? Not very long, let me tell you, especially considering how idiotically dumb most of them are.”

“You’re the dumb one. You haven’t got a clue about anything. I hate you.”

“If I’m the dumb one, then what does that make your aesthetically challenged friend out there?”

Pete mouths the words “aesthetically” and “challenged” to himself like a question, shaking his head.

“Whatever, Jade. Damo knows his stuff. He’s headed for big things. He’s also going to set me up with some work. I’ll make a tonne of money.”

“The only big thing Damo’s headed for is slopping out in Mountjoy Prison. And if I see you anywhere near that tool again, you’ll regret it. Now get to bed.”

“Fuck you.”

I roll my eyes. “Ah, so sweet. Get to bed. Now.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stomps loudly up the stairs. I drop down onto the last step and breathe an exhausted sigh.

My mother died four years ago from lung cancer. She lived a hard life and smoked like a chimney, so it was only to be expected that the big “C” would take her. I miss her every day. Her death meant that at the ripe young age of twenty-two I had to step up and become the guardian of my three younger siblings. Alec is twenty-one now, so I don’t need to worry about him anymore, but I still have fifteen-year-old Pete and April, who’s seventeen, to look out for.

I know, lucky me.

I love them like crazy, but they aren’t little babies any longer, and sometimes it’s a lot to deal with. The two of them are going to send me into an early grave one of these days.

The situation with Pete is pretty much self-explanatory, given the fight we just had; he’s a confused, angry young man who lost his mother too soon. But April I worry about for another reason entirely. There’s been a couple of men way too old for her sniffing around. I feel like a guard dog half the time, barking at them to keep away.

Speaking of dogs, our family Jack Russell terrier, Specky, is trotting her way down the hall to me. We all named her Specky because she’s got two little patches of brown around her eyes that look like a pair of glasses. She nuzzles my hand and I pet her soft head, picking her up and carrying her with me to my room. I don’t normally sleep with her, but after what just transpired with Pete, I feel like I need her company.

“I was with a man tonight, Specky,” I confide, and she lets out a little yip upon hearing her name. “He just might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Inside my room, I plop Specky down on the bed and strip off my clothes. I use a makeup wipe to remove the rest of the paint from my face and hands, but it seems I’ve sweated most of it off already anyway.

Climbing under the cool sheets, I rest my head on the pillow, and Specky snuggles into me. Seconds after I close my eyes, I’m dead to the world.

At ten o’clock the next morning, my alarm clock chimes and I reach out, grumpily shutting it off. My shift at the concert hall doesn’t start until twelve, so I allow myself an extra half an hour’s sleep. When the scent of male cologne hits my nose, memories from last night come flooding back to me in vivid detail. His hand on my breast, his mouth on my neck, his eyes on my eyes. Smouldering.

It was unlike any casual sexual encounter I’ve ever had. I mean, the sex was actually good — really good. And considering it happened in a dirty alleyway, standing up, that’s saying something.

Once I’m thinking of these things, I can’t get back to sleep, so I get up, throw on a robe, and shuffle my way into the bathroom to take a shower. As usual at this time on a Sunday morning, the house is blessedly silent.

I work through my morning routine: shower, dress, breakfast, and by eleven-thirty I’m out the door. The walk to work takes fifteen minutes, so I go slowly, perusing the news headlines in a corner shop and buying a packet of mints.

I’m on duty in the first-floor bar today. There’s a lunchtime concert on, attracting elderly and middle-aged couples mostly. Young people don’t really go in for classical music, which is a shame, because getting to listen to it on a weekly basis has become something of a love affair for me. Just the sound of it gives me hope for a better life for me and my siblings. A life where I don’t have to worry about my kid brother going to prison or my teenage sister falling pregnant.

It’s funny that I’ve become the parent figure in our house, because I’m actually the only member of my family with a different father from the others. That’s why there’s a slight gap in our ages. My dad was a plumber from Galway whom my mother met at the wedding of a mutual friend. Two months after I was born, he got knocked over by a car and killed while walking home from the shop.

My siblings’ father’s name is Patrick. Unfortunately, he’s still alive. I don’t mean to sound callous, but it would probably be better for all of us if he weren’t.

He’s a drinker and a gambler who lives with his girlfriend, Greta, on the other side of the city in East Wall. Every once in a while he’ll show up looking for money, or a place to stay if he and Greta have had a fight. I can’t stand the man.

Making my way inside the building, I slip in the back and put my bag away. Then I head out to the bar. The place is already filling up, and I serve the patrons their drinks. A whole lot of white wine (for the middle-aged couples) and orange/cranberry juices/tea (for the elderly.) Once the concert begins and everybody’s in the main hall, I go to take a break and have a chat with my friend Lara, who works in the box office out front most days.

We sit down in the staff room with a cup of tea and some sandwiches, Lara telling me about her three-year-old daughter’s latest attempt to escape her crèche. When Lara works during the day, she has to use child-minding services, and little Mia is constantly trying to run away from them.

“I don’t blame her,” I tell Lara, laughing. “I wouldn’t trust some of the women they employ in those places to mind my dog, let alone my child. I remember Mum tried putting April in a crèche when she was little, and she took her out of it after only a week, said the workers were way too pushy and shouty.”

“God, that’s the perfect way to describe them. But I haven’t got another choice at this point,” she says, rubbing at her temples. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Hey, maybe I could get April to babysit for you. You know she finished school a couple of months ago and still hasn’t managed to find a job. That way Mia could be kept at home where she’s comfortable. I bet it’s the strange environment and all the other kids that upset her.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. Run it by April and see what she says.”

I smile and sip on my tea, feeling like I’ve just killed two birds with one stone. This babysitting thing will help out Lara, and will also keep April busy and away from all those older men.

“So, did you go out busking last night?” Lara asks, breaking my thoughts.

“Yep. Made eighty quid. Not too shabby. It was a godsend, actually. I’m screwed money-wise for at least the next month. The bills just keep piling up.”

“Ugh, I know the feeling.”

Soon it’s time for the intermission, so I make my way back out to the bar. A man in his fifties wearing a wedding band orders two glasses of pinot grigio and eyes the top of my shirt, where there’s a small hint of cleavage showing. He tells me I have nice hair and very pretty green eyes. I take all his compliments with a polite but reserved smile, wishing older men wouldn’t always pigeonhole me as the young blonde they can have a wild, midlife crisis–style affair with. I seem to put out certain vibes without being aware of it, because I get hit on by these types all the time.

Once the concert ends, the building slowly empties out, and I go about cleaning up and restocking the bar for the evening event. Lara and I take the same break again, and chat some more about this and that.

Hours later my shift is almost done when the floor manager, Ciaran, comes and asks if I’ll make up refreshments for the musicians, who will be spending some time at the bar once the building has finally been emptied of patrons. I give him a quick nod and begin preparing some water and juices, alongside a couple bottles of wine. I also set out some peanuts and crisps in case they’re feeling peckish.

Slowly, the men and women from the symphony start filling the seats by the bar. Noeleen, one of the trumpeters, slides into the stool in front of me and asks for a shot of vodka. She’s a talkative middle-aged woman with red hair, and one of the few musicians who I’m on first-name terms with. She’s one of those people who will chat with anyone; there could be a three-year-old sitting beside her, and she’d start telling the kid about her recent colonic. I like that about her.

I chat with her for a minute before I get swept up serving drinks. I’ve just handed two men their glasses of orange juice when I feel someone’s eyes on me. Glancing quickly up, I get the most unexpected surprise.

For a short while time seems to move in slow motion, because standing before me is my next customer, who also happens to be my handsome stranger from last night. I pray that he doesn’t recognise me without the face paint, but the look in his eyes tells me he knows exactly who I am. How long has he been watching me? More to the point, what on earth is he doing here?

 

 

My voice comes out scratchy when I say, “Uh, hi, what can I get you?”

He tilts his head, eyes hot, perusing me from top to bottom before he allows his gaze to rest on my face. Suddenly, I feel flushed in my work blouse and skirt.

“Hey, Bluebird,” he says, voice low. “Isn’t this a surprise? I’ll have a gin and tonic, if you don’t mind.”

I nod and go about making up his drink. A surprise is right. One of the violinists takes a stool beside him. I recognise her because she sits in the lobby a lot, drinking fancy coffees and reading bridal magazines. I once asked Noeleen when her wedding is, but my trumpeter friend simply gave me a wry look and shook her head, telling me the woman’s name is Avery and that she’s not getting married, she’s just obsessed with weddings. It made me feel really sorry for her when I heard that.

She’s got straight brown hair and nice eyes, but a slightly long nose that makes her face less conventionally attractive than it would be otherwise.

“Hi, Shane,” she greets my stranger politely. “How did you find things? If you need any help getting settled, just say the word.”

Shane. Now I know his name and why he’s here. He’s in the orchestra. He must have taken the place of the violinist who left. It dawns on me that I had sex with a man who can create the beautiful music that bewitches me. Suddenly, I feel this urgent need to witness him play, to see him hold his instrument with those skilled hands of his. I shake myself out of the thought.

Shane turns to her with a pleasant smile. “I had a great first night, thanks, Avery,” he says, his eyes landing on me for a moment as he continues in a low voice, “And it just got better.”

Avery misinterprets his statement as being directed at her, blushing and letting out a delighted titter. Now I feel bad. Oh, well, I’ll let her enjoy it. I set Shane’s gin and tonic down on the bar and then look to her to see what she wants.

“Oh, could I have a sparkling water, please?”

“Sure, hon,” I reply, turning to the fridge to grab a bottle. I slide a slice of lemon onto the rim of a glass, pour in some ice, snap open the lid of the bottle, and put them down in front of her. All the while I can feel Shane’s attention on me like a warm caress.

Everybody seems to be set for the time being, so I wipe down the counter and turn to talk with Noeleen again. I think I see Shane perk his ears up to listen in to our conversation.

“What was the symphony you played tonight?” I ask her while drying glasses. “I know I know it, but my brain is on a go-slow.”

“It was Beethoven’s Ninth,” she answers. “What did you think of the choir?”

“What I could hear from the bar sounded wonderful.”

“I agree,” she says, sipping on her wine. “My hand didn’t act up, either, so it was an enjoyable performance all ’round.”

I give her a sympathetic look. Noeleen has some wear and tear damage in her fingers from years playing the trumpet. Her doctor says that it’s most likely only going to get worse as time goes on; however, it doesn’t stop her from playing. She’s been in various orchestras for more than two decades now.

“Isn’t there anything the specialists can do about it?”

“There are some therapies, but mostly they just throw painkillers at me and hope for the best.”

Shaking my head, I turn to serve a man who’s asking for a red wine. Shane’s voice fills my ears then, requesting, “Oh, barkeep, could I get another gin and tonic?”

I give him a polite smile, wondering if he’s trying to be funny with the “barkeep” bit. “Sure.”

Avery chats away to him about brands of strings for the violin. As I’m about to slide the glass across the bar, he instead reaches forward and takes it from my hand, allowing his fingers to touch mine briefly. My face gets hot and flushed. It’s like we’ve switched places. Last night I was in the driving seat, and now he is. It’s just really thrown me for a loop to see him here.

I never thought I’d see him again, to be perfectly honest. I mean, it’s one thing to proposition a guy on the street in the middle of the night, but it’s another entirely to have him show up at your place of work. Not only that, but he works here as well.

A memory hits me of how I saw the orchestra musicians out last night, and it was right before I’d noticed Shane watching me. Now it all makes sense; he’d been with them.

He’s looking at me now like he wants to go for round two, and no matter how nice that would be, it can’t happen. I swore myself off relationships when I stopped drinking. It’s kind of like that saying, once burned, twice shy. Only in my case I was burned over and over again, making me a million times shy.

The whole point of last night with Shane was that he was a random stranger. Someone I could have a heated encounter with and then let drift into the recesses of my memory. Yet here he is, flesh and bone and sexy, pretty manliness.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Avery’s chatter dies down as she realises he’s not paying attention to her any longer.

“What’s yours?” I counter.

“Shane.”

I give him a smirk. “Funny how we managed to forego first names, isn’t it? I’m Jade. Pleased to meet you, Shane.”

I reach out to shake his hand, and he takes my fingers into his warm palm before releasing them.

I think he’s blushing a little because of my comment, that adorable shyness creeping back in that’s so at odds with his polished confidence.

“So I guess I can stop calling you Bluebird, then,” he whispers.

I smile and joke, “I have you pegged. Women are all birds and bitches to you, right?”

He gives me a startled look, and I hold back a grin.

“I’m pulling your leg, hon,” I tell him, and the startled look fades.

Several moments of silence ensue before he regains his confidence. “So what’s with the living statue thing? They don’t pay you enough here or something?” He’s trying to be flirtatious now.

“That’s a hobby. And no, to answer your second question, they don’t pay me enough here. Not when I’ve got two mouths to feed at home.”

His brow furrows before he asks, “Are you a mother, Jade?”

I let out a small laugh and shake my head. “The look on your face! No, I was referring to my younger brother and sister.” I lean against the bar so that our faces are inches apart, then whisper, “I’m a poor little orphan, Shane. You want to come rescue me?”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. My eyes flick to Avery when I hear her make a small noise of surprise. Damn, I’d almost forgotten she was listening to us.

“In what way do you need rescuing?” Shane asks back, his voice gravelly.

I stand up straight then and return to drying glasses.

“Contrary to popular belief, not all orphans need to be rescued,” I tell him with a wink, and walk to the other end of the bar. Soon the musicians begin to head home, and I finish closing up for the night. When I look back to where Shane had been sitting, I find he’s gone. Avery has left, too. Hmm, I wonder if he went home with her.

I call goodbye to a couple of other workers, hitching my bag up on my shoulder and making my way out through the employee exit. I give a surprised yelp when somebody emerges from the side of the building. Clutching my chest, I see it’s only Shane carrying a violin case and a small backpack.

“Shit, you scared me,” I exclaim, my breathing fast.

He gives me a sheepish grin. “Oops, sorry.” He pauses, biting at his full bottom lip. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Smiling now, I reply, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I was, uh, wondering if I could take you out some time?”

“Aren’t we past all that?” I ask.

He looks to the ground and then back up at me, scratching at his jaw. “I don’t think so.”

I take a step closer to him, putting my hand on his arm and letting it drift lightly downward. He closes his eyes at my touch. Wow, this guy really likes me. Like, really likes me. All those posh women in his line of work must be prudes. Perhaps that’s why my overly forward ways have him so affected.

“You don’t think so, Shane? So it wasn’t you who fucked my brains out in the back of an alley last night?” I whisper.

“Bloody hell, Jade,” he exclaims, looking around to make sure there’s no one within hearing distance. Breathing heavily, he continues, “That wasn’t my initial intention. I did actually mean it when I said I wanted to have a drink with you. You’re amazingly beautiful — in your costume and out of it.”

I smile softly now. “You like my wings, honey?”

He nods. “Very much so. Your appearance as a living statue is striking, to say the least. I couldn’t look away when I saw you. You had this expression on your face like you were imagining heaven.”

I give him a full-on grin for that one. I don’t think I was imagining heaven last night, but it’s a nice idea. Now I’m trying to remember what I had actually been imagining, but it’s not coming to me. I think I was just noticing him and thinking he was incredibly attractive — him fucking me was pretty heavenly, though.

I smile up at him. “Are you a bit of a poet, Shane?”

He smiles back, and I see a dimple deepen in one of his cheeks.

“Nope. Just a lowly violinist.”

I start walking now and he moves, too, keeping pace with me. “Ah, I like a bit of modesty in a man. So, you must be thrilled to have snagged a place in the symphony. Where did you play before?”

His eyes light up at the fact that I’m asking questions about him. “Yeah, I was over the moon, actually. I had to do a number of auditions and interviews. Up until about a year ago, I was in a string quartet. We had a fairly large European following, so I got to do lots of travelling.”

“Wow. That sounds exciting. What was your group’s name?”

“The Bohemia Quartet. Ever heard of us?”

“Sorry, can’t say that I have. Do you have any recordings?”

“Yeah, three albums. You can buy our stuff on iTunes.” He gives me this cute little self-deprecating grin.

“Cool. I’m going to look you up sometime. So why did you leave?”

His shoulders slump as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “That’s a depressing story.”

“I can deal with depressing,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “Nah, not tonight. Perhaps some other time.”

“Okay. So are you planning on walking me all the way home?” I ask, noticing we’re almost at the end of Harcourt Street now.

Shane glances up and down the road. “How much farther is your place?”

“Five minutes from here. You can head off if you like. I might see you around at work.” I begin walking away, but he rushes to catch up with me.

“Hey, what’s your hurry? I can go another five minutes.”

I stop and turn to face him, giving him a sad look. He’s like an enthusiastic puppy — a darkly exotic enthusiastic puppy.

“We’re not having sex again,” I state, getting straight to the point.

He blinks and sputters. “Is that what you think I’m after? Jade, I just want to talk with you some more. I like you.”

Putting my hand comfortingly on his chest, I tell him softly, “That’s really sweet, and I’ve no problem talking. In fact, I’d love to be friends, but I just need to know you understand that what went on between us last night won’t be happening again. ’Kay?”

He stares at me, and his eyes tilt downward. Great, now I’ve kicked the puppy. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me, but then he simply replies, “I’d love to be friends, too.”

He gives me a small smile, one which I return. “Friends it is, then. Come on, buddy. Walk me home.”

A few minutes later we’re approaching my house. I take a glance at the group of boys who seem to be continually camped out at the end of the street. Then I breathe a relieved sigh when I confirm that Pete isn’t with them.

Pulling my keys from my bag, I turn to Shane. “Well, this is me. Thanks for the chat. It was good talking to you. Hopefully we can do it again soon.”

He stands at the end of my front step, hands dug into his pockets. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s staring at me, real intense.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” I ask, letting out a small nervous laugh.

“I’ve never met a girl like you before,” he says.

What am I, a mermaid or something?

“Well, I wouldn’t imagine many of the girls from around here hang out with men who play the violin, nor do they attend any string quartet concerts,” I reply jokingly, gesturing over to a couple of girls standing by a house across the street, puffing on cigarettes in their pyjama bottoms, massive gold hoop earrings in their ears.

Shane looks to them and then back at me. “No, I don’t suppose they do. You know, I’ve never actually been in this part of the city before.”

“No, I don’t suppose you have,” I say, teasing him.

He narrows his eyes, giving me a tight-lipped smirk. “I, uh, don’t think I remember the way back.”

I laugh. “Well, that was silly, now, wasn’t it? Where do you live?”

“Ranelagh. I was going to catch a cab.”

“In that case, come on inside and I’ll call one for you. My neighbour Barry drives a taxi. He’ll do you a discount if he knows you’re a friend of mine.”

I turn my key in the door and step into the hallway, my ears immediately getting blasted with loud rap music. Great. I forgot my brother Alec usually has his friends around for a few beers on a Sunday night.

“Sorry about the noise. It’s just my brother and his mates. Come on into the kitchen.”

I gesture for him to take a seat at the table. “Do you want some tea while you’re waiting?”

“I’d love some.”

I put on the kettle and then pick up my phone to call Barry. It rings out twice before he answers.

“Jade, what can I do for you, love?”

“A friend of mine needs a lift out to Ranelagh. Are you free?”

“I will be in about fifteen minutes. You at your house or somewhere else?”

“My house.”

“Right, give me half an hour, tops. I’ll beep when I’m outside.”

“Great. Thanks, Barry.”

The music coming from the living room gets louder, and I find it hilarious when Shane furrows his brow as though offended. I can’t blame him. If I spent my life playing classical music, I’d be offended by rap, too.

I bang my fist on the wall, shouting, “Keep it down, Alec.”

The volume lowers, and I go about making the tea. A minute later Alec walks into the kitchen, opening the fridge to take out more beers. My eldest brother is a sight to behold these days. He’s been working for a construction company, so all the hard labour has bulked him up, and he’s taken to tattoos in a big way. He’s already got a full sleeve on his right arm and is building another on the left. His light brown hair, the same shade as that of all my siblings, is cut in a Mohawk down the centre of his head.

“Sorry about the music, Jade. Some of the boys got carried away.” He notices Shane then and gives him the once-over. The two couldn’t be any more opposite: Shane in his black shirt and slacks, and Alec in his jeans and ratty T-shirt.

“You a friend of Jade’s?” he asks, taking the cigarette that had been resting behind his ear and lighting it up.

“Yeah, he is. This is Shane. Shane, this is my brother, Alec.”

“Nice to meet you, bud,” says Alec, reaching across the table to give Shane’s hand a sturdy shake. What with his appearance and his deep inner-city accent, Alec can come across like a bit of a scary bastard, but he’s actually a really amiable guy. He’s the funniest fucker I know, brilliant sense of humour. You’ll never get one over on him in a battle of wits.

“Nice to meet you, too,” says Shane, smiling urbanely.

Alec grins when he hears Shane speak and gives me a look that says, haven’t you done well for yourself, snagging the posh fella.

I give him a look in return that says, we’re just friends!

“Right. Well, I’ll leave you both to it,” says Alec finally, picking up the beers and strolling back into the living room.

“And keep the music down,” I call after him.

“So, you’ve got two brothers and a sister?” Shane asks as I set a cup of tea down in front of him.

“That’s right, though Alec’s big and ugly enough to take care of himself now.”

Shane laughs. “Right, yeah, I can see that. What happened to your parents?”

“Whoa, bit of a personal question there,” I say, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him.

He looks embarrassed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, you’re all right. Mum died four years ago from lung cancer. My dad died a few months after I was born, got knocked over by a car. The others have a different father, though — that’s why I’m the only one with this mad albino hair. Their dad’s name is Patrick, absolute waste of space. He shows up every once in a while, but mostly I try to keep him out of the picture.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is. So, do I get to ask about your family, or does this interview business only go one way?”

Shane sits back in his chair. “You can ask. My situation is fairly simple, though. I’m an only child. My parents live in Dalkey.”

I grin. “Well, I’d never have guessed. Is that where you grew up?”

He eyes me speculatively. “Uh-huh. And what do you mean, ‘you’d never have guessed’?”

“I was just teasing. I knew you must have been raised somewhere around that area, given your accent.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Are both of your parents white? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you look like you’ve got some Asian blood in you.”

“Bit of a personal question,” he says with a smirk, throwing my own words back at me.

“I like asking personal questions.” I lean in closer to him, my elbows on the table, and bite flirtatiously on my lower lip. I do it jokingly, but Shane’s expression heats up nonetheless, his eyes zeroing in on my mouth.

“I bet you do. And yeah, both of my parents are white. They lived in Beijing for several years in the eighties where my dad was working for the Irish embassy. While they were over there they tried for a baby, but something wasn’t working. In the end they found out that Mum was infertile, so they hired a surrogate.”

“Say what?” I exclaim humorously. Shane shoots me a narrow-eyed look. “No, seriously,” I go on. “I thought only crazy celebrities and millionaires hired surrogates.”

“It’s actually more common than you’d think. So anyway, they paid this nice Chinese woman to have a child for them. Basically, they used my dad’s sperm, and the surrogate got pregnant through artificial insemination. So I’m my dad’s biological son, but not my mum’s.”

“Wow. And have you ever met your birth mother?”

“No. Mum thought it would be best to sever all the ties. When I was five we moved back to Ireland.”

“What age are you now?”

“Twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty next month. You?”

“Twenty-six going on fifty.”

He laughs. “You don’t look fifty.”

“I feel it sometimes,” I sigh.

He gives me a sympathetic expression and reaches out to softly squeeze my hand. He doesn’t keep doing it for long, but it’s nice while it lasts.

We stay locked in a moment as he drags his tongue over his bottom lip, wetting it. I stare at his mouth, half mesmerised.

The moment is broken when a car horn beeps loudly from outside, signalling Barry’s arrival. “Ah, there’s your ride home, and the conversation had just gotten interesting,” I announce with amusement.

Shane stands and gulps down the last of his tea. “Well, we can continue it tomorrow if you’d like. Are you working?”

“Yep. Eleven o’clock until seven.”

“I have a rehearsal until four. Can I stop by the bar and see you?”

“Sure. You’ll be bored out of your tits watching me work, but I’ll try my best to fit in some talking time.” I smile and stand up, ushering him out to the front door.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have tits, then, isn’t it? See you, Jade,” he calls, blowing me a cheeky kiss and making his way over to Barry’s taxi.

I make a show of catching it with my hand, like a big fat nerd. Standing on the step, I watch him go until the car disappears out of sight. A second later, my sister April and her best friend Chloe saunter up to me, wearing outfits that almost match. They’ve both got some variation of a white cotton top on with similar denim miniskirts and fake UGG boots.

“Hey, Jado,” Chloe calls to me as they approach. She’s got this annoying habit of making up nicknames for everyone, normally ending with an “O.” She calls April “Apro.” You get the picture.

“Eh, who was that?” April asks, her voice booming halfway around the street.

“A friend.”

“Your friend is a fucking ride,” Chloe puts in, fanning her face theatrically. For those not in the know, “a ride” is Dublin slang for “hot.”

“Yep. That he is,” I reply to her, deadpan. “Where have you two been?”

“Nowhere,” says April, tight-lipped, which might as well be slang for “up to no good.”

“Okay. Have you seen Pete around?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a fountain of knowledge tonight, April, really you are. Here, I’ve got a proposition for you,” I say.

Chloe snickers at my use of the word “proposition.” I’m dealing with a future Nobel Prize winner in this girl. April looks at me appraisingly.

“What is it?”

“Lara’s looking for a babysitter for little Mia. What do you think? It’ll earn you some money until you can find a full-time job.”

“Yes, I’ll do it! How much is she paying?” April asks enthusiastically, while Chloe’s eyes simultaneously light up as she mouths the words free house at April.

“I saw that, Chloe, and there’ll be no free house.” I wag my finger at her. “If April’s going to do this, she’s going to do it properly. You can’t have boys over if you’re going to be responsible for a three-year-old. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t snap at me — it was Chloe who said it. I know I have to take it seriously. I’m not stupid.”

“Good to know. Now, are you coming in or what?”

She rolls her eyes at me and walks into the house, she and Chloe heading straight for the living room so that they can flirt with Alec’s friends. I spend the next half an hour trying to get a hold of Pete, but he’s not answering his phone. Eventually he arrives home, giving me the silent treatment after our argument last night. He shuffles up the stairs to his room, shutting himself inside with a slam of the door.

I really don’t know what to do about him anymore. In my room I fall onto my mattress, exhausted. This is what I mean about teenagers being a handful. To be honest, I’d much prefer two wailing babies.

Reaching for my handbag, I pull out my phone and check my messages, of which there aren’t many. The rap music is still thumping from downstairs, so I grab my headphones and stick them into the phone, scrolling through my music. Nothing tickles my fancy, so on a whim I go onto iTunes and search for the Bohemia Quartet. Their albums immediately pop up, and I download the most popular, titled Songs for Her.

I know I shouldn’t, but I immediately wonder who “Her” is. There’s a picture of the group on the cover, and all of them are equally good-looking guys, so it could be any one of their girlfriends or even a relative. Anyway, seeing the picture makes me understand why they were so popular. I’m sure they had a huge female following.

I hit “play” on the first song, and the opening notes hit me right in my soul like a soothing balm. All remnants of the rap music below float away as I get lost in the beauty of the strings.

 

When I wake up the next morning, I realise I fell asleep with my earphones on, Shane’s music having lulled me into a slumber. Later that day at work, he shows up at the bar at a quarter past four, looking invigorated.

“Whatever you’ve been taking, can I have some?” I ask him jokingly.

“I sometimes get like this after playing,” he explains. “Could I have an ice water?”

“You can indeed,” I say, pouring him a glass. He knocks it back in three long gulps and then asks for another.

There’s a writers’ talk going on in the main auditorium at the moment. It just started, so the bar is empty. I decide to take a break, grabbing myself an orange juice and a gin for Shane before walking around to take the seat beside him.

He eyes my orange juice. “No drinking alcohol on the job, eh?”

“No drinking at all, actually,” I reply, pulling up my sleeve to show him the five small blue sparrows tattooed onto my inner forearm. “One for each year I’ve been sober,” I explain.

“You were an alcoholic?” he asks softly in surprise, eyes tracing up and down my tattoos. One of the best artists in the city did them, and the blue has the effect of looking like watercolour paints.

I give him a grave nod.

“But you work in a bar. Isn’t that kind of tempting fate?”

“For some, maybe, but not for me. I find being around alcohol is like working a muscle, so the more I do it, the stronger I become. The sparrows represent freedom from my addiction and my commitment to staying free of it. There’s nothing more committed than ink permanently under your skin.”

Shane reaches out and traces his fingers over the birds, his head tilted as he studies them. “They’re very pretty. Are you going to keep getting a new one each year?”

“Probably not. I mean, I only have so much real estate,” I joke. “They start at my wrist, so I guess once they reach the top of my arm I’ll stop. If I get ten years under my belt, I don’t think there’ll be anything that could ever drive me back to drinking.”

Shane looks at his gin now, like he feels guilty for having it in front of me.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Drink up. I know that most people can enjoy alcohol responsibly. I’m just not one of them.”

“When did you start drinking?” he asks, giving in and taking a sip.

“You probably don’t want to know the answer to that.”

He arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

I let out a sigh. “Eleven when I had my first taste, fifteen when I began drinking properly.”

“Fifteen, shit.”

I pick up a cardboard coaster and begin picking at it. “I had a few…issues when I was younger. I guess drowning them in a bottle of vodka was the only thing that worked for me back then. I got my stomach pumped several times, almost died from kidney failure once.”

Shane moves his stool closer to mine. “Is that what made you quit?”

I’m lost in my own thoughts for a second, and I don’t hear his question. “Sorry, what was that?”

“The kidney failure. Is that why you quit?”

“Oh. No, actually. My head could have been falling off and I wouldn’t have given up drinking. Didn’t care enough about myself, I suppose. It was my mum getting sick that gave me the final push. I suddenly realised that she was never getting better and that my family needed me. Pete and April were still just kids at the time, and there would be no one to look after them, not their waster of a dad, anyway. I couldn’t stand the idea of them being put into foster care, so I had no other choice but to step up.”

I look down at my hand, at my healthy skin tone, remembering a time when I was so ill it had almost turned yellow. I shake myself out of the memory. “God, I’m being really depressing now, aren’t I?”

“I think you’re fascinating,” he breathes, and then winces. “Did I just say that out loud?” he asks, shaking his head at himself.

I laugh. “Yep. Don’t regret it. It’s a good feeling to be fascinating to another person.”

He knocks back a gulp of his drink and turns to me properly, his eyes searing. “I really like making you feel good, Jade.”

His expression grows heated as he prolongs our stare. “Well, mission accomplished,” I tell him, a touch uncomfortable under his attention. “So, how about we trade one depressing story for another? You still have to tell me about why you left your string quartet.”

“Ah, can we not? It’s an awful story.”

“Surely not as awful as mine.”

“Want to bet?”

“Okay, no big deal. You don’t have to tell me.”

He looks sadly into his almost empty glass. “How about I tell you something else, something equally depressing?”

“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“I have no friends,” he states, deadly serious.

Resting my elbow on the bar, I stare at him quizzically. Our faces are inches apart now as we conduct our intimate little conversation. “What you do mean?”

“I mean I have no friends. I have acquaintances, yes, but not friends. The only proper friends I did have were the three guys from my string quartet group: Leo, Justin, and Bryn. I don’t talk to any of them anymore, so now I have no friends.”

“Surely you have some. What about your childhood pals? You could reconnect with them now that you aren’t travelling all over the place any longer.”

He gives me an embarrassed look and then glances away shyly.

“What? You don’t have any childhood friends, either?” I ask in a surprised voice.

“Maybe when I was under five. At six my mum decided to bring me to have piano lessons. You know, at the music school on Westland Row?”

“Yeah, I know it. You can always hear the sound of instruments drifting up onto the street from down in the basement.”

He smiles fondly. “That’s the one. So, anyway, Mum had an old friend called Jill who worked there as a music teacher and brought me for my first lesson. She tried teaching me ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ on the piano, but I had no interest. Then when Mum came to collect me, she and Jill were having tea and left me to my own devices in the music room. I picked up a violin, began messing around with it, and within a half an hour I had ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’ down pat. I don’t remember all the details, but I do have a very distinct memory of it being like I’d found an extension of myself in that one small instrument. All of the strings made sense, and I knew exactly how to create the melody I wanted.”

“Wow,” I breathe, enthralled by his story.

Shane smiles and continues, “I was proclaimed a child prodigy after that. Mum began having me home-schooled by a private tutor so that I could spend more time focusing on the violin. So basically, I was isolated and rarely met other kids my age, hence the ‘no childhood friends’ bit.”

I briefly reach out and give his wrist a squeeze. “That sounds very lonely.”

“It was and it wasn’t. Mostly I was so focused on my music that I didn’t have time to realise I was lonely. Then when I got older, though, I’d see other kids my age out having fun, and I’d envy them. But I always had my violin. Often I’d wonder if I could be a normal teenager but had to give up music, which would I choose? Music always won. When you want to be accomplished at something, especially playing an instrument, you have to sacrifice other things in life. Natural talent only goes so far. You have to spend so much of your time trying to get better and better.”

There’s a small note of strain in his words, giving me the impression that he struggles over this on a regular basis. Being a virtuoso versus having a social life.

“Well, you do realise you can have both now, right? Music and friends, I mean.”

“I can?” he asks, looking at me in hope.

I laugh tenderly. “Of course you can. You already have a friend in me, so you telling me you have no friends isn’t true.”

He gives me a tiny smile. “I didn’t know if you really wanted to be my friend or if you just felt sorry for me.”

I shake my head at him in awe. “Are you serious? Of course I want to be your friend! In fact, I envy your life. If anyone should be felt sorry for, it’s me.” I pause to hold up a finger as I list off my reasons. “Recovering alcoholic, orphan, responsible for two wayward teenagers, lives in a shitbox area. Need I say more?”

Shane laughs at my humorous tone. “I guess you’re right.”

“I am so right. And you, Shane, are far too young, handsome, and talented to be so troubled,” I proclaim.

“Not handsome enough for you to want to sleep with me again, though,” he says, putting on a mournful face.

I give his shoulder a friendly slap and wink. “I don’t remember any sleeping being involved. But anyway, if I was the relationship kind of girl, I’d be sleeping with you all over the place, my friend. You’re a hot piece of arse. You should be getting out there and finding some willing females.”

“Why aren’t you the relationship kind of girl?” he asks with interest, ignoring everything else I said.

“We’re back onto me again, I see. Well, when I was a drunk I found myself in a very messy, co-dependent relationship with another drunk. When we were happy, I drank. When he hurt me, I drank. For me, boyfriends are closely tied to my alcoholism. So when I decided to start over fresh, no boyfriends was my number-one rule. You see, when my heart gets broken I turn straight back to alcohol, and I have too many people relying on me now for that to happen.”

“Who says I’d hurt you?” Shane asks seriously.

I shrug at him. “I can’t predict the future. Who knows what we’d be like together?”

“I think we could be good together,” he says in a low, flirty voice.

I suck in a breath at how his eyes rest on my breasts. “Feel free to elaborate on that,” I flirt back, picking up my orange juice and gulping some down. All of a sudden I’m really thirsty.

He grabs either side of my stool and pulls it into his so that our thighs collide. Next, he brings his mouth to my ear, his breath touching my skin and giving me tingles. “Well, for a start I’d lay you down on my bed and take my time worshipping your full, beautiful breasts. Then I’d spread your legs and use my tongue to…”

“Okay, I get the picture.” I laugh nervously, not having anticipated such a detailed erotic description, especially considering how shy he can come across. Perhaps that gin and tonic has already gone to his head. I quickly stand up from the stool and hurry back behind the bar, saying, “I think my break time is up.”

 I can feel how fast his words got me wet, which I find startling for some reason.

Shane stares at me in confusion. “You did tell me to elaborate, Jade.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes I’m my own worst enemy,” I mutter, picking up our empty glasses.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” he asks, worried that he’s ruined things.

“Of course we are, silly. The intermission is coming up, so I need to get back to work.”

“All right. I should probably be getting home anyway,” he says, unsure, grabbing his violin case from where it had been resting on the floor. He’s about to leave but then turns back to me. He remains silent for a moment before stating, “I really like talking to you, Jade.”

Giving him a warm expression, I answer, “I really like talking to you, too, Shane.”

 

The next day there’s a free lunchtime concert on at work. I haven’t bumped into Shane since our conversation at the bar yesterday, and I’m really curious to see him play, so I quickly eat a sandwich and then make my way to the hall.

I take a seat close to the back of the room, not wanting to be noticed. There’s a decent-sized audience assembled, mostly nearby office workers who’ve decided to do something classy on their lunch break. I realise I’m in for a treat when the conductor announces that they’ll be playing Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor.

I don’t see Shane anywhere; however, there is an empty seat in first violins belonging to the concertmaster, which in my limited knowledge I know is the second most important position after the conductor. The fact that this seat could be Shane’s must mean that he’s pretty good.

What am I saying? I’ve heard his album; I know he’s good. In fact, I fell asleep listening to it again last night. I probably shouldn’t make a habit of that.

The conductor turns to address the audience, saying, “We usually have a guest violinist join us to play this piece. However, we recently welcomed a new and very talented member to our orchestra, Mr Shane Arthur, who I have invited to play the solo today.”

Those in attendance clap, and the conductor turns to take his place in front of the musicians. Shane appears and walks to the centre of the stage before the music starts up. Just seeing him standing there holding his instrument has me a touch hot and bothered. Immediately he begins playing, with the rest of the orchestra accompanying him, and my ears soak up the familiar melody.

It fills me with emotion, as classical music always does. Shane’s entire body is a work of art as he moves with his violin, and I realise that he was right, it really is like an extension of him.

My head wanders as I become enraptured by the music. I hardly see or hear any of the other musicians, my attention solely on this intriguing man. Musical notes float out of his strings in a cacophony of colours and textures. They fly up into the air. A treble clef drifts to me, catching onto the edge of my shirt. I pick it up and smooth it beneath my fingers, fold it in half, and stick it in my pocket for safekeeping.

There’s a lull in the music at one point, with Shane playing a low and sad melody. When he plays this, I see grief and misery in his entire form. I see loss. He’s so emotionally involved in the piece that I can’t help falling in love. Maybe I’m not in love with him, per se, but I’m definitely in love with something about him.

How fortunate I was that our paths crossed. I’ve a feeling that having this sad, lonely, lovely man in my life is going to change it irrevocably. Even if from now on I only ever get to observe him from afar, he will mark me somehow.

All of a sudden, his eyes seek me out. I go rigid in my seat as he plays to me for a long few moments before focusing on something else. For the remainder of the symphony I close my eyes and just…imagine.

In turns joyful, mournful and triumphant, I see streams of paint in my head, swirling and dancing to the music. All of the pain I’ve experienced in my life feels like it’s being expelled simply through Shane’s manipulation of the strings.

I remain seated even when the concerto is over, my eyes still closed. Minutes later I feel someone sit down beside me and take my hand in theirs. I can tell it’s Shane even before I open my eyes to look.

“You never told me you were coming to hear me play,” he says just as I lift my head to look at him. He’s closer than I expected him to be, his face hovering inches from mine.

“I’d hoped to remain incognito,” I reply, giving him a soft smile. “You’re amazing. The way you play is just — wow. I still have tingles.”

I lift my arm to show him how my hairs are standing on end.

He lets go of my hand and sits back in his chair with a satisfied look.

“I’d love to play for you alone sometime,” he says after several moments of quiet.

I breathe harshly just imagining it. I don’t think it would be humanly possible to sit in a room alone with Shane and have him play for me, and not want to fuck his brains out afterward. Even the way he holds the bow turns me on. For a brief moment I imagine him standing above me, reaching down and running it lightly down my naked abdomen.

“I’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right now,” Shane murmurs, breaking me from my dirty thoughts.

“Oh, nothing much.”

“It didn’t look like nothing. It looked like a whole lot of I’m thinking about sex.”

I smirk and try to deflect from the stone-cold truth of his words. “You wish I was thinking about sex.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. So when are we next spending some time together, friend?” he asks, giving my arm a little nudge with his elbow.

I take several moments to think about it before giving him a considering look. “That depends. How do you feel about haircuts and Indian food?”

He shrugs and runs his hand over his head. “I’m in favour of both?” he replies like a question.

“Good. Come to my house tonight at six, and we’ll hang out.”

“Okay. You aren’t going to explain?” he asks with interest.

I stand up. “Nope. I have to get back to the bar now. See you tonight.”

“See you tonight, Bluebird,” he breathes, shaking his head and smiling as he watches me walk away.

 

Once a month my friends and I get together at my house for a catch-up night. The group consists of me, Lara, Lara’s cousin Ben, and Ben’s boyfriend, Clark. Ben is a hairdresser and Clark is a counsellor, so we combine haircuts with talking about our feelings. I like to think of it as grooming for the inside as well as out. We also love Indian food, so we always order some in.

I’m beginning to wonder if Shane’s going to show at all when a quarter past six hits and he still hasn’t arrived. Ben is moving furniture about the kitchen to create a makeshift styling station, asking Lara what kind of a cut she wants this month. She tells him she’d like seventies-style retro layers, like one of the Charlie’s Angels. She’s far more adventurous than me in this respect. I always keep my hair long and just have a basic trim to keep the split ends at bay.

“So what’s he like, this new friend of yours?” asks Clark, sitting down beside me at the table. He and Ben are both in their late thirties, and I love having them around because they kind of feel like my two gay big brothers, giving me guidance and advice. Ben also had a drinking problem when he was younger, so we’ve bonded over that shared experience for years.

“Well, at first I just thought he was this good-looking, slightly shy violinist, but then I spoke to him some more and got to see him play, and now I kind of feel unworthy of his friendship. He’s like one of those, what do you call them? Virtuosos. He was a prodigy at the age of six.”

When informing my friends about Shane, I left out the part about us meeting on the street in the middle of the night and instead simply pretended we met at the concert hall after a show.

“All those classical musicians are mad in the head, though,” Ben puts in as he runs his hands through Lara’s auburn hair. “You know, like Beethoven. Oh, and the guy out of that movie, Shine.”

“Beethoven went mad because he had all this beautiful music to create but couldn’t hear it because he was deaf,” says Lara.

I look at her in surprise.

“What? Haven’t you ever seen Immortal Beloved? I cry at that film every time. The unrequited love that wasn’t unrequited after all.”

“I have, actually. I couldn’t watch it more than once, though. I was literally in tears for days afterward. Anyway,” I say, looking back to Clark, “I’d forego sanity any day of the week to be able to play like Shane.”

“Are you having a little cerebral crush?” Clark asks with a knowing grin. “You don’t want him for his body, you want him for the music he’s got inside kind of thing?”

I love how Clark uses words fancy words like “cerebral.” He’s one of the only people I know with a college education, so I’m always stealing his phrases.

“Oh, his body is something to be coveted just as much as his talent, let me tell you. But anyway, stop reading into this. I think I’m just fan-girling.”

There’s a knock at the front door, and my heart leaps. I give each of my friends a look urging them to be on their best behaviour and then rise to go answer it.

I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror for a moment. Little zinging gold sparks radiate from my chest, and butterflies flit around my head. I think I even see a love heart or two. I swipe them all away, not reading too much into their presence. When I finally open the door, Shane is standing on the step, holding a bottle of sparkling grape juice.

“Hey,” I breathe.

“Hey, Bluebird.”

We both smile and take each other in for a moment.

“You look great,” he says.

I’m wearing an old sundress, no shoes.

“Thanks, so do you. I see you brought refreshments.”

“Yeah, I almost grabbed a bottle of wine, but then I realised that would be counter-productive.”

“Counter-productive, indeed,” I say with a smirk, taking the bottle from him and helping him out of his jacket. I catch a whiff of his cologne and get assaulted by memories of our one night together…if you could even call it a night. Swallowing hard, I hang the jacket by the end of the staircase and lead him into the kitchen to meet the others.

Jacinta Lennon loved to paint pictures of her daughter.

It was one of her favourite things to do.

She took one final look at the painting she was about to sell to a passer-by, admiring the brush strokes and the quality of the canvas.

Her daughter stood within the frame, a blue beacon on the grey street, standing so still on her box.

Closing her eyes briefly, she made a wish that it would bring its new owner as much pleasure as it brought her.

Then she handed it away. She would never see it again.

 

Shane pauses halfway down the hall as he turns to study a painting hanging in a dark wooden frame. It’s one of my mother’s. She never really held down a steady job when she was alive; however, she managed to keep the household afloat with welfare payments and the money she made selling her paintings on St. Steven’s Green. She loved to paint scenery and sometimes portraits. Often she’d make me sit for her. There are dozens of paintings of me up in the attic. I hate looking at them because I find it weird seeing myself through the eyes of another person.

“Where did you get this?” Shane asks, his gaze roaming over the country scene depicted.

“My mother painted it. She did lots of pictures like this one. Do you like it?”

“Ah,” he says with a sharp breath, as though something has just made sense to him. “It’s very good. Your mother was a talented woman.”

“She was. Come on, everyone’s dying to meet you,” I say, linking my arm through his and leading him into the kitchen.

Clark is the first to greet Shane, thrusting his hand out for a shake and introducing himself. I catch sight of Ben shooting Lara an omg, he’s fucking hot look. Lara gives him an omg, I fucking know look back. I smile to myself a little in satisfaction.

Though to me Shane’s not just hot, he’s beautiful. Man-beautiful.

Dangerous, slippery-slope thoughts I’m having these days.

I put the grape juice in the fridge as Shane says hello to Ben and Lara, taking the seat at the table where I had previously been sitting.

“Oh, Jade, Shane took your chair. Now you’ll have to sit on his lap,” Ben chirps with a saucy wink.

Shane shifts to look at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Oh, would you stop? I’ll grab a chair from under the stairs,” I say, shaking my head at Ben. If I know my friend, he’s going to go out of his way to try to embarrass me tonight. Ben just has that way about him.

When I return with the chair, I set it down beside Shane, and we watch as Lara has her hair cut. Ben already washed it before Shane arrived. It’s hard to talk once he whips out the hairdryer, but we just about manage to make casual chitchat.

Ben takes me upstairs to wash my hair in the bathroom when he’s done with Lara. We return a few minutes later, and I find with relief that Shane and Clark are deep in conversation, about politics of all things. Lara looks like she’s ready to nod off from boredom.

I can’t help myself when I brush my hand along Shane’s shoulder as I pass him by. He stiffens and then relaxes, turning his head to stare up at me hotly. I shouldn’t be teasing him like this, but every time I see him I feel this overwhelming urge to touch him.

“Clark, will you call for the Indian now? That way it’ll be here once Ben’s finished with my hair.”

“Will do,” says Clark, standing to retrieve his phone.

Shane watches as Ben starts to trim the ends of my hair. I stare right back at him, unable to pay attention to Lara and Ben, who are talking about the latest episode of their favourite soap opera. My body gets all warm as we continue to fuck each other with our eyes. Jesus, I want him so badly.

The eye-fuck Olympics are interrupted only when Clark starts asking everyone what they want to eat. Shane’s voice is gravelly when he speaks. I feel a silly little satisfaction deep in my belly to know I’ve affected him. Immediately afterward I reprimand myself for being so careless. I know I can’t have a relationship with Shane, and yet here I am, leading him on.

The moment he breaks my heart, I’ll be straight back on the vodka, and that just can’t happen. There are too many people who need me sober and functioning.

The food arrives just as Ben has finished blow-drying my newly trimmed hair. Shane bends forward and reaches out to run his hand down it. I watch him curiously. A second later he pulls away and clears his throat, getting up to assist Clark in dishing out the Indian.

“So, tonight’s theme is anger,” Clark announces once everybody’s seated with their food.

Hmm, we’ve never done anger as a theme before.

“Someone care to explain?” says Shane with a bewildered expression.

“Clark’s a counsellor,” I tell him. “Every month he gives us a new theme, and we have to talk about it. The theme is always an emotion. You have to discuss the time in your life you felt the given emotion most intensely.”

“Ah,” he furrows his brow. “Do I have to take part?”

“Of course you do!” exclaims Ben, reaching out to pinch Shane playfully on the arm. “Otherwise it’s just voyeurism, and that’s no fun unless there’s sex involved.”

Shane laughs good-naturedly, and I’m surprisingly relieved at how well he’s getting along with my friends. You are not grooming him to be your boyfriend, Jade, so stop it. I have to scold myself into submission; otherwise, my girl-brain will lose the run of herself.

I like to think that I have two brains. One is my girl brain and the other is my boy brain. They both have their good sides and their bad sides. For instance, my girl brain is great for organising, while my boy brain is good for fixing shit, and when you live in a house like mine, stuff gets broken all the time. My boy brain is crap at counselling night. He doesn’t want to talk about his feelings. My girl brain is ace at counselling night. She loves to talk about her feelings. In fact, sometimes she likes it a little too much.

“There’s no need to be anxious,” Clark reassures him. “What gets said on counselling night stays in counselling night. Or something like that.” He grins and dips some naan bread into his korma.

“Well,” says Lara. “I think I’d like to go first because anger is something I know all about.”

“Here we go,” says Ben, rolling his eyes teasingly. We all know the story Lara’s going to tell. In fact, she’s told it for a number of different themes already: sadness, despair, heartbreak. She eyes Shane, seeming eager to recount it again for new ears.

“Hey! Don’t take the piss. I’ve had a lot to be angry about in my life. The thing that made me most angry, though, was when I came home and found ‘he who shall not be named’ shagging my slut neighbour Leonie McEvoy. Leonie McEvoy lived in the apartment next to mine for two years, and she’d always be hanging around making ‘fuck me’ eyes whenever my boyfriend came to visit, wearing the tightest pair of jeans and the most revealing top she could find. She knew when he was there because she’d recognise his navy Ford Fiesta parked outside.

“‘You’re crazy, Lara,’ he’d say whenever I’d warn him not to go near her. ‘I only have eyes for you,’ he’d declare, the lying toe rag. I swear to God I felt like I was turning into the Hulk when I sauntered in tired after a long day at work, and there he was going to town on that wrote-off walking advertisement for chlamydia.”

We all burst out laughing while she pauses for breath before addressing Shane. She’s been addressing him the whole time because she’s well aware we’ve already heard this story before. “He’d moved in with me at this point, you see, and I was three months pregnant with my little girl, Mia. I didn’t care that I’d have to raise my baby by myself — I wasn’t going to stay with someone who cheated on me. I was so angry I smashed almost every plate I owned before kicking him out and telling him not to show his face ever again.”

“Well, that sounds pretty hardcore,” says Shane with a low whistle when Lara’s finished with her story.

She folds her arms, looking satisfied with his reaction. Ben goes next, detailing how there’d been a boy who’d bullied him brutally at school for being gay. Years later Ben had been standing on the street watching the pride parade go by, and who did he see sitting atop one of the floats wearing a crystal tiara on his head and a pointy Madonna bra? The very same bully who’d made his life a misery. Ben was so angry that he marched straight into the parade, climbed atop the float, and pulled the guy off it by the hair before punching his lights out.

I can see Clark eyeing Shane as Ben’s story comes to a close, and Shane looks sort of uncomfortable at the prospect of having to share a story, so I volunteer to go next.

“Hmmm, do we only get to tell one story?” I ask Clark. “I’ve been equally angry in the extreme about a few things over the years.”

“Just one story, Jade. Pick the one when you were most angry.”

I make a show of scratching at my chin as Ben gives me a sympathetic look. He knows exactly when I was most angry. It’s not something I’m ever going to share, and he knows it. So I select a substitute and lie.

“Well, there’s not much of a story to tell about when I was most angry. It was the day my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had a lot of years still left, but that bastard of a disease took her. It’s hard to deal with anger when there isn’t an actual person to focus it on.” I give Ben a sad smile. “You can’t pull cancer down off a gay pride float and beat the shit out of it, no matter how much you might want to.”

They all chuckle, and relief washes over me as I push my true story back down into the recesses of my mind. I can’t think about that. It was one of the main reasons why I began drinking at such a young age. I might have been angry when Mum got her diagnosis, but mostly I was just sad. Sad and determined not to keep living my life in a drunken stupor so that I could block out the guilt and loss I felt for so many years.

Shane leans forward and squeezes my hand comfortingly, his eyes full of empathy. We stare at each other for a long time, and then he excuses himself to go use the bathroom.

My friends get quiet when he leaves. Ben breaks the silence by declaring, “Jade, that man seriously wants to Channing all over your Tatum.”

I let out a burst of laughter. “You watch far too many YouTube videos, Ben.”

“Oh, Channing Tatum,” says Lara with a dreamy sigh. “Now there’s one hot slice of shepherd’s pie.”

“Number one,” says Clark, pointing at Lara. “If you’re going to use the ‘hot slice of pie’ analogy, the pie in question needs to be dessert-based. Apple is always a popular choice. Savoury pies just sound wrong. And number two,” he goes on, giving me a cheeky wink. “I think Jade would much prefer if he Colined all over her Farrell.”

“Oh, my God, would you all shut up! He might hear you,” I exclaim.

“What? I know for a fact you keep a DVD of Alexander the Great hidden under your bed. And let’s face it, you’re not watching that movie for the history.”

I narrow my gaze at him. “You’re evil.”

“I do try.”

At that moment Shane returns to the room, and they all start smiling at him.

“So, Shane, I think it’s your turn to share,” says Ben, clasping his hands together.

“Ah, right,” says Shane, sitting down beside me and grimacing. “Anger. Well, I guess my story is quite similar to Lara’s. I came back to my hotel room in Vienna after returning from a party to find my fiancée of two years in flagrante delicto with my best friend Justin. He was the cellist in my string quartet, and we’d been doing a set of shows there.”

“In flagrante what?” Lara asks, confused.

“He caught them having sex,” Clark explains to her.

“Oh, shit,” she blurts out, and then reaches over to put a comforting hand on Shane’s arm before pulling away again. “That’s awful. Your fiancée and your best friend!”

Shane winces a little when she reiterates the fact, and I can’t stop staring at him. Now I know where the almost tangible sadness comes from when he plays his violin. And now I also know the reason why he left his string quartet.

“Were you in love with her?” Ben asks in a low voice.

Shane gives him a mournful smile. “I should hope so. I’m not in the habit of asking women I’m not in love with to marry me.”

I can’t hold back from reaching to him under the table and taking his hand in mine for a moment. Our fingers intertwine effortlessly, and tingles shoot from his skin into mine when we touch. I don’t keep holding on for long, and when I let go I feel like I’ve lost something vital.

“Well,” Lara chimes in, “once a cheater, always a cheater, that’s what I say. You’re well shot of her, just the same way my Mia and I are better off without her lying man-whore of a father.”

The edges of Shane’s mouth curve up in a grin, and we continue eating our food. We chat for another hour or so, and then everyone begins to say their goodbyes and leave. Shane is still there when my friends have gone. Once I’ve waved off Ben and Clark, I return to the kitchen to find him standing by the sink, rinsing dishes.

“Hey, you don’t need to do that. I’m the hostess,” I say placing a hand on his shoulder.

He turns his head to look at me, and there’s an intensity in his gaze when his eyes wander to my hand on him.

“My grandmother always told me it’s good manners to help with the clean-up when you’ve eaten at somebody’s house. Let me do it — I’ll feel weird if I don’t.”

“Okay, but that means I get to dry,” I reply, grabbing a towel. “Sorry we don’t have a dishwasher.”

I don’t go into the fact that a dishwasher is a luxury I can’t afford right now. Shane only shrugs, and continues rinsing plates and cups. As we quietly clean up together, I’m aware of him watching me, but I’m too self-conscious to make eye contact. I don’t know what it is about being alone in the room with him that makes me get shy.

We’re almost done when the front door opens and shuts, and my sister April struts in. She’s wearing leopard-print leggings and a pink diamante Paul’s Boutique hoodie that’s probably a fake from the markets. God bless the teenagers these days, but they haven’t got a clue about fashion. Although to be honest, neither did I at that age. All I ever wore was baggy jeans and even baggier band T-shirts. My only nod to style was the fact that I used to dye my hair purple and colour my eyes in with copious amounts of black eyeliner, because, you know, I considered myself to be “different.”

April opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of orange juice, taking a long swig before she even notices anyone else is in the room. When her eager eyes land on Shane, a grin shapes her mouth.

“Hey, I’m April, Jade’s sister,” she says, thrusting her hand out for him to shake.

I watch the entire exchange with amusement as Shane turns and takes the dishtowel from me to dry his hands off on it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, April,” he says.

“Oh, nice accent. Posh,” says April, nodding her head as she sizes him up. “I bet you’re loaded, too. You look like you’re loaded.”

Shane bursts out laughing as April eyes his designer shoes. She might not seem like it, but my sister can spot expensive brands from a mile away. She’s like a baby gold digger in the making, and I can’t really blame her for wanting to improve her circumstances, given her less than lavish upbringing. Still, she can keep her eager little eyes off Shane.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise to Shane while giving April a light slap on the arm. “My sister was too busy donning her leopard print this morning to remember to put on her manners as well.”

“And I’m sorry that my sister talks like a nerd. Seriously, Jade, who uses the word ‘donning’?” she asks, grinning and sticking out her tongue.

“I do,” I reply, guiding Shane from the kitchen and into the empty living room. Alec must be staying with whatever girl he’s shagging this month, because he hasn’t been around this evening, and Pete’s upstairs in his room, playing computer games.

“She’s a character,” says Shane, sitting down on the couch as I turn on the television.

“Mm-hmm, that’s one way to put it,” I scoff.

It’s just gone half past ten, and I’m kind of wondering what he’s still doing here. It’s not that I don’t enjoy his company (to be honest, I enjoy it slightly too much), but it feels like he’s waiting. Like maybe if he sticks around long enough, something will happen between us.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” I ask casually, standing and flicking through the stations, afraid that if I sit down beside him I’ll want to do something crazy…like grab him and stick my tongue down his throat.

“I don’t need a cab. I drove here tonight,” he replies, and I turn to look at him with wide eyes. I didn’t know he had a car, since he didn’t drive to the concert hall the other night.

“You drove here? Where did you park?” I ask with just the tiniest hint of urgency.

“Just around the corner. There were no spaces any closer to your house.”

“Right, and what kind of car do you drive?”

“A Range Rover,” he says, and his brow furrows at my panic. “What’s wrong, Jade?”

Great, a flipping Range Rover in this neck of the woods. He’ll be lucky if it hasn’t been stolen and sold on the black market already — and I’m not exaggerating.

Without thinking further, I hurry into the hall, grabbing my boots, coat, and keys on the way. “I should have warned you. You can’t just leave a car like that around here,” I tell him as he follows me out the door.

 

We walk around the corner, and the anxiety that had been building in my chest dissolves when I see his car is still there. That only lasts a moment before I clock two shifty-looking characters hanging around nearby. One of them is leaning up against a wall, looking from side to side — keeping sketch, in other words. The other is craning his neck to look in the window of Shane’s car. I guess he’s thinking the whole rigmarole of selling a stolen vehicle is too much hassle when he could just do a smash and grab, steal something valuable from the glove compartment, and run off.

“Hey, Babyface Nelson, keep walking,” I call sarcastically, and the guy startles, his attention shifting quickly to me.

The other guy narrows his eyes as he chews on a wad of gum. “We’re happy where we are, thanks,” he replies in a hard tone.

Babyface Nelson walks to his friend and folds his arms. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Shane puts his hand to the small of my back in a protective gesture as he guides me to the car. “We don’t want any trouble here,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket. Both their attentions light up when they see the keys, the plan for a quick clean steal formulating in their heads. I wish I’d thought to warn Shane not to take his keys from his pocket. Now they know he’s the owner.

Quick as a flash, one of the thugs pulls out a short flick knife, making sure Shane gets a good look at it and understands the threat.

“Throw those keys over here,” says the thug, and Shane eyeballs him.

“Fuck off,” he answers, his hand on my back pressing in harder.

The thug’s expression turns angry as he moves towards us.

“I said give me the keys, or I’ll fuck up your pretty little girlfriend.”

“And I said fuck off.” Shane stands firm.

I don’t like where this is going, not one tiny bit. I’m about to tell Shane to just give him the keys, because he obviously has insurance for a car this expensive, and it’s not worth getting stabbed over. But I don’t get the chance to do that, because the thug with the knife moves fast, running directly toward me with the blade. Before I can move, Shane twists his body around mine, and the thug ends up sticking him in the side instead.

I see red just as Shane clutches himself from the shock of being stabbed and the thug dives for the keys that have dropped to the ground. Leaping into action, I kick him hard right between the legs. The thug grunts in pain and I grab his wrist, twisting it so the knife falls from his hand. I pick it up quickly and hold it out.

“Get out of here now, both of you, before I call the police.”

Once they’ve scarpered, I turn quickly to Shane, pulling his shirt up so that I can check the damage. He didn’t get cut too deep, just enough to make him bleed, but it might need stitches.

“You okay?” I ask, slightly out of breath.

His lips turn up in an almost smile. “Yeah, I’ve been worse,” he says, giving a pained wince as I lead him to the passenger door. “I have to say, I’m feeling slightly emasculated.”

I grin. “What?! You got stabbed for me. That’s about as heroic as it comes. Come on, I’m driving you to A&E in St. James’ to get you looked at.”

He doesn’t complain about me driving his car, and since I’m used to my old Mini that I had to sell last year, it takes a bit of getting used to driving a Range Rover. Shane grins at my mistakes but doesn’t comment on them. I think he’s in a little too much pain to speak but is trying his best to hide it. I park close to the hospital entrance and hold Shane’s hand as we walk inside. We explain to one of the nurses on duty what happened, and she gives us a form to fill in before instructing us to take a seat. It’s eleven o’clock at night, so suffice it to say there are more drunks and junkies hanging around than actual sick people.

It’s an environment I recognise well. I’ve been hospitalised a few times over the years, all self-inflicted of course. With my life being so clean now, it’s hard to be reminded of when it wasn’t.

A woman drinking a bottle of strawberry Ensure is sitting in the row in front of us, having an argument with herself. I imagine all the nutrients and vitamins sinking into her damaged system, trying to repair a body fucked up by drugs. Vitamin A, vitamin B, vitamins C, D, E, and K. All in liquid form, because she can’t handle solid foods, or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to go through the hassle of chewing.

I know I didn’t.

Often I’d shun a bowl of cereal for breakfast in favour of a cigarette and a bottle of something strong.

“We could be waiting a while,” I say to Shane with an apologetic expression. I feel to blame for all this; the reason he’s injured is because he was protecting me (which makes me feel all mushy inside) and also because my neighbourhood is so crappy that he couldn’t even park his car there for a couple of hours without someone trying to steal it.

“I have good health insurance,” he replies. “Does that make a difference?”

His eyes light up for a moment, like he’s actually enjoying this or something.

“Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe.”

Our question is answered no longer than twenty minutes later, when a nurse calls his name. Yep, the insurance definitely makes a difference. I’ve spent my whole life on free healthcare and sometimes have had to wait several hours to be seen. I try to go with Shane, but in a clipped voice the nurse informs me that’s not allowed. Huh. I wonder why she’s being so snotty. Maybe I gave her a hassle years ago and she remembers my face.

I sit back down in the seat and pull out my phone, dialling the number of the police station nearest my home. A male voice I recognise answers, a cop I’ve had to deal with a few times over the last couple months when Pete’s gotten himself into trouble. He’s a bit of an old prick, but aren’t they all? Sergeant Finnegan, I think I remember his name being.

I quickly tell him the details of what happened, and he says he’ll look into it. I get the feeling he doesn’t exactly play things by the book, because I’m sure he should have told me to come down to the station.

When Shane returns, he has that pleased look in his eye that shows he’s been given some good painkillers. He lifts the side of his shirt to show me his hip is all bandaged up.

“Are you going to be okay to play your instrument?” I ask with concern, trying not to ogle his momentarily bared abdomen.

He waves me off. “Oh, yeah, it was only a little cut.”

I grin and make a funny swooning noise. “Such a man.”

“The manliest.” He smiles and dangles his keys in my face. “Now take me home, woman. I strangely enjoy watching you drive my car.”

I swipe the keys and stand up. “What, like a comedy of errors?”

“Nah, more like foreplay.”

Snorting, I reply, “Oh, God. Did you really mean to say that?”

He continues, smiling happily, “Yes, Jade. Yes, I did.”

“I think they might have given you too much meds. You know sometimes that stuff works like truth serum.”

Pretending like he needs to lean on me for strength, despite just claiming his injury was only a little cut, he puts his arm around my shoulder. “This was a great night,” he declares. “I love being around you. You really know how to live.”

We’ve just reached his car when I slip out from under his arm and open the passenger door for him.

“Yeah, I know how to get my new friend stabbed and his car almost stolen. Such a great life I live,” I reply mockingly as I start the engine.

We’re driving out of the hospital when Shane says, “It’s better than being sheltered. You live in the real world, Jade, and you don’t know how desperate I am to join you.”

Turning from the road for a moment, I give him a funny look. “You live in the real world, too, Shane.”

“I live in a world of privilege.”

“Just because it’s privileged doesn’t mean it’s not real. It means you’re fortunate.”

He shakes his head and reaches out to put his hand on my arm. “It’s stifling and fake. And so fucking lonely. I want you to teach me to be like you, to live like you.”

For a while I remain quiet. Then I reply, “My life is one long series of fuck-ups, bad luck, and mistakes. I have nothing good to teach you. By the way, we’re almost in Ranelagh. Where’s your house?”

“Turn left here,” he says. “And I’m not letting you change the subject. Teach me, Jade.”

“You’re very strange sometimes.”

“Teach me.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Jade, please, just say yes.” He squeezes my arm. “I need this. You don’t know how much.”

The sincerity in his eyes startles me; he seems almost desperate. And so, despite the fact that I have no clue what I’m signing myself up for, I reply, “Okay, Shane, I’ll teach you.”

He grins big. “Thank you. My house is just at the end of this street.”

I let out a breath and park outside the red brick Victorian house. It has a really nice garden and white plantation shutters on the windows. Getting out, I throw him his keys.

“I need to call for a cab to bring me back to mine, but my battery’s dead,” I say as he catches them easily.

“Come inside. You can use the house phone.”

I eye his place warily, wondering if it’s a good idea that I go inside. He opens the door and turns to look at me when I haven’t moved.

“You coming in or what?”

“Yeah,” I answer finally, and walk into the foyer. The place has obviously been lovingly restored; it even has those old coloured tiles on the floor. Shane leads me to the living room and shows me to the phone, where I quickly dial Barry’s number. It rings out with no answer, so he must not be working tonight. Putting the phone back down on the receiver, I try to remember the number for my local taxi rank.

Shane’s sitting on his vintage brown leather sofa, watching me. We lock eyes for a long minute, a dozen emotions passing between us.

“Barry, the guy who drove you home the other night, he’s not picking up. I need to Google the number of another rank.”

Shane reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out his sleek black iPhone. “Here, use this.”

I walk to him and reach out for the phone, but when I grab it, he doesn’t let it go.

“Stay,” he breathes, gaze intense.

“What?”

“Stay the night.”

“Shane, I can’t.”

Gripping my wrist with his other hand, he pulls me down onto his lap before I can resist, and then his hands are in my hair, trailing down my spine.

“We can’t do this,” I tell him, breathing heavily. My thighs are straddling his waist, and I can feel him hardening against me.

“Jade, please, just let me….” He trails off and pulls my face to his. Then he does the sweetest thing by running his nose along my nose before nuzzling my neck. It’s so simple, yet feels incredibly intimate. I close my eyes, wanting so much to give in and let him slip inside me. All he needs to do is hitch my dress up and undo his pants. So very fucking easy, and yet I know I have to be strong. Temptation is around me all the time, and Shane is just another form of it.

Shakily I open my eyes and get off his lap. He watches me, a sad expression on his face. He knows I’m not going to stay. Without another word, I quickly search for a number on his phone and then call a cab. The lady on the other end tells me a car will be there in ten minutes, but that could be ten minutes too long if I have to stare at Shane and think of all the things I can’t allow myself to have.

I look around the room for a distraction and see his violin perched on a stand. Walking to it, I run my fingers over its surface.

“It’s an original Stradivarius,” Shane says in a quiet voice, almost like he’s telling me a secret.

I turn to him, open-mouthed. “You’re joking.”

There are only a couple hundred of these violins left in the world, and Shane just leaves this one sitting in his living room for anyone to steal. Is he crazy? It’s at least worth several hundred thousand euros, if not millions.

“Not joking,” he replies, smiling.

“Uh, shouldn’t this be locked up in a safe or something?”

“Now, where would be the point in that? The beauty of an instrument is to play it, not to leave it to get dusty in a safe. Besides, it’s insured up the wazoo.”

I can’t stop staring at the violin, a piece of wood that was created perhaps two hundred years ago. What historical figures have held it in their hands? What great musicians have made it sing for them? Hundreds of multi-coloured fingerprints rise up on the shiny wood, dancing along its length, telling a thousand tales of music. I blink, and they’re gone.

“But how can you even afford this? I know your string quartet was popular but….”

“My grandfather left me a sum of money when he died. The rest I took from my own savings. I dreamed of having this instrument since I was a boy, and then a few years ago I finally had the means to pay for it.”

“Wow.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I am impressed, very much so. But you need to keep it locked up when you’re not at home.”

Shane shrugs. “I usually do. This time I forgot. Anyway, very few people would think it was anything other than a plain old violin if they saw it.”

“Hmm, that’s true.” I hesitate before continuing impulsively, “Play something for me.”

Shane tilts his head, studying me, then nods and goes to pick up the instrument. I watch him; he hasn’t even started playing yet, and I’m already enraptured simply by the way he moves. Bringing the bow to the strings, he plays a slow, sad tune. I recognise it from his album, the one I’ve been listening to far too much. He only gets a couple of notes in when there’s a harsh knock at the door, breaking my too short reverie.

“Damn, that’s the taxi.”

Shane nods, placing the violin back on its stand. “We’re forever being interrupted by those blasted things,” he says, referring to the other night in my kitchen.

“Yes, strange that,” I say with a smile.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“I am.” God, why is my voice coming out so breathy?

“I have two concerts to play, so I might see you around.”

Walking to him, I give his wrist a light squeeze. “See you tomorrow, then.”

And I go, walking straight out the front door and leaving behind what could very well have been an incredible night I’d never forget.