The next day I walk into work tired as hell. I had a rough time of it trying to get Pete up and ready for school this morning. Then I had to talk down an anxious April, whose first day as Lara’s child-minder is today. She might act like the cock of the walk most of the time, but April is prone to panic attacks, especially when she has to try something new.

In the end I got them both out the door with just enough time to shower, have breakfast, and take Specky for a quick walk before my shift. I’m manning the first-floor bar again today, and when I walk in I spy two men seated off to the side, deep in chat. I immediately recognise one of them as Shane, and the other I’ve never met before.

I take over from my co-worker and start restocking the fridges with bottles. Shane and the man he’s talking to are close enough for me to hear most of their conversation; I quickly catch on that he’s a journalist and Shane’s being interviewed for some magazine or newspaper. I guess it makes sense, since he is sort of a celebrity in the classical music world.

“So, you’re enjoying being back on home soil?” asks the journalist.

“Oh, sure. It’s great to play around the world, but there’s something that little bit special about being home. My parents used to take me to see concerts in this hall when I was just a boy. I idolised the violinists in the symphony, and now I’m one of them. Plus, there’s a great sense of community in an orchestra that you don’t get in smaller groups.”

The journalist chuckles. “It must be very fulfilling, but let me ask you, your departure from The Bohemia Quartet was somewhat abrupt. You say you left for health reasons, but now you’re playing again, so what I want to know is if that was really the reason why you left?”

Whoa, diving straight for the juicy tidbits there. Shane’s jaw flexes ever so slightly, but he quickly covers his anger at being asked such a personal question by laughing good-naturedly. “Yes, that was the real reason. I know everybody likes a good scandal, but in this case there wasn’t one.”

“So why haven’t you re-joined the group? You’re obviously back to health now.”

“As you probably already know,” says Shane patiently, “our manager, Jack Campbell, replaced me with a new violinist, Andrew Hollows. He’s a very talented musician, and I couldn’t have asked for a better replacement to bring the group into a new era. Besides, it was time for a change.”

“But didn’t you just say you left for health reasons?”

“Yes, but I also wanted to move on with my career, do something different.”

“You just mentioned your manager, Jack Campbell. Might I ask you about your relationship with his daughter, Mona Campbell, the concert pianist?”

Mona was his fiancée? Perhaps that’s who the album Songs for Her was named after. He must have really loved her to have done that. Shane drums his fingers on the table for a moment, and I wonder if it’s a sign that he’s getting ticked off with this line of questioning. He swallows visibly. “What would you like to know?”

“Word is that you two were engaged to be married, but she broke it off. Now she’s in a very public relationship with the Bohemia Quartet’s cellist, Justin Burke. Do you still keep in contact with either of them?”

“I wish them both every happiness, but no, we’re not still in touch.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” the journalist replies brazenly.

Shane doesn’t say anything, but simply eyes the man like he can’t believe what a prick he’s being. Neither of them have noticed my presence in the empty bar, so I decide to interrupt and give Shane a little break from the interview.

“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” I ask, approaching their table.

Shane’s eyes widen when he sees me, confirming my suspicions that he didn’t realise I’d come in. Damn, now I feel bad for eavesdropping. He might not have wanted me to know some of the stuff that was just said.

“Oh, an orange juice for me,” says the journalist, and I turn my attention to Shane.

“I’m good,” he says abruptly, and I frown.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have interrupted, but I was only trying to help. I walk back behind the bar and pour an orange juice into a glass of ice. I don’t really want to return to their table, given Shane’s somewhat frosty reception, but I don’t have another choice now.

Silently, I place the glass down on the table and quickly return to my station. Shane doesn’t meet my eyes the entire time, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or just embarrassed. They’ve moved on to a lighter, less personal topic now. I lose myself in my work, focusing intently on stacking glasses and stocking the bar for this afternoon’s event; a famous opera singer has flown in from Italy to do a handful of shows, and she’ll be accompanied by the house orchestra.

I like opera. Even though I can’t understand the words, somehow my brain translates the emotions, in the same way an instrumental piece can tell me a story with no words at all.

I’m in the small storage room at the back of the bar when I get a text from Alec telling me he’ll take care of dinner tonight for April and Pete since I’m going to be working until eight. As I type out a quick thank-you in response, I hear somebody enter the room from the soft click of a shoe. Turning around, I find Shane standing mere inches away from me.

“Uh, you’re not supposed to be in here,” I say while his eyes roam my face. Tingles seize my chest at his closeness. I can feel the air of his breath hit my cheeks.

“I know. I just wanted to apologise for being cold with you earlier. It wasn’t you — I was just pissed with the guy interviewing me.”

Sucking in a quick breath, I nod. “Yeah, he seemed to be going right for the jugular. How are your stitches?”

“They’re fine, a little stingy and a lot itchy. You look good in that shirt,” he says, the words tumbling out like he hadn’t meant to vocalise the thought.

I give him a small grin. “This is my work uniform. You’ve seen me in it before.”

“And you’ve always looked good in it.” His hand moves to my shoulder, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth.

I swallow.

“So, um, what was the interview for?”

He rolls his eyes and smiles. “They’re doing a feature on me in Hot Press, though you’d think it was for a gossip mag by the way that guy was carrying on.”

“Yeah, stupid nosy bastard,” I reply jokingly. “Asking lots of questions like it’s his job or something.”

Shane squeezes my shoulder and narrows his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Think you’re clever, huh?”

I raise my chin and continue to taunt him. “Yes, I think I’m very clever, Shane Arthur.”

He moves an inch closer. “Oh, really?”

“Mm-hmm.” His chest rubs off mine, and now I’m pushed up against the wall.

He dips his nose to my neck and inhales deeply. “You smell good,” he whispers, and I momentarily lose the ability to speak. The next thing I know his mouth is on my neck, sucking, and I let out an involuntary moan. Jesus. My willpower is really being tested as I force myself to pull away from him. His body is hard and strong, so it’s difficult to pry him off me, especially since he seems so determined to keep his mouth on my neck. If I don’t stop him soon, he’s going to leave a mark.

Perhaps that’s his intention.

Finally, I twist my body, duck, and swing under his arm. My chest is rising and falling quickly, and his gorgeous brandy-coloured eyes have grown dark with need. I move to the door, wrapping my fingers around the handle.

“You’re taking liberties here, Shane. I already told you where we stand.”

His eyes dip at the ends sadly as he continues to stare at me. “Yeah, that’s right, you did. I’m sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

“Well, you should’ve tried harder. I can’t be in a relationship. You know this.” My words come out sounding weak and desperate. I really need him to stop pushing, because if he doesn’t, sooner or later I’m going to give in.

He walks to me and takes my hand into his. “I’m sorry, Bluebird. I promise not to do anything like that again.”

God. How could I ever stay mad at a face as beautiful as his?

I look at him seriously. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay, then.”

He smiles big. “So, um, now that we’re friends again, could I ask a favour?”

“You can ask,” I allow.

“Well, I’ve got to do this ridiculous photo shoot for the Hot Press interview, and I was wondering if you’d come with me? You know, for moral support. I hate doing these sorts of things, but it’s good publicity for the orchestra.”

My lips curve in a grin. “You’re doing a photo shoot! Of course I’ll come. When and where?”

The idea of watching Shane getting dressed up by some stylist like a living Ken doll is oddly appealing to me. Perhaps I’ll get to watch him try on outfits, catch glimpses of his perfect body. You know, like the best and worst kind of torture all rolled into one.

“Tomorrow at lunchtime in the Clarendon Hotel. You don’t have a shift then, do you?”

I shake my head. “No, tomorrow’s my day off. I had planned on doing some busking, but I’ll put it off to go with you.”

“Great. They’ve booked a suite. I’m not sure how long it’s going to run, but there’ll be food, so you won’t get hungry.”

I hold up a hand, laughing. “Hey, you had me at photo shoot, there’s no need to sweeten the deal with free food, although it’s always a plus.”

Shane lets out a breath as though in relief. “Thank you so much, Jade. It would have been torture going alone.”

When he says this, I realise that what he’s told me is true; he really doesn’t have any friends. I feel quite honoured that he’s allowing me into his life, but I also plan on remedying his friendlessness, so I say, “If I come with you to the photo shoot, will you come somewhere with me this Sunday?”

“Sure, I’m not working. Where do you want to go?”

“It’s a surprise, but I promise you’ll like it.”

“Has it got to do with you teaching me how to live?” he asks slyly.

Hmm, I’d forgotten about that one. “Yeah, in a way I guess it does.”

“Then I’m all in.”

 

For the rest of the day I’m rushed off my feet with work. It’s almost a full house for the afternoon and evening concerts, so I don’t get the chance to see Shane again. We exchanged numbers before leaving the storage room, and when I get home I’m tempted to send him a text. I don’t even have anything important to say, but for some reason I feel this need to touch base. I hate to admit it, but I love interacting with him, love talking to him about anything and everything.

I resist the urge and instead give in to a different temptation, one that I’m sure to regret. I Google his ex-fiancée, Mona Campbell, and discover that she’s a semi-famous musician just like Shane, and a concert pianist at that. She even has a Wiki page. My gut sinks when I see how drop-dead gorgeous she is. The facts I glean are that she’s twenty-nine years old, the daughter of manager mogul Jack Campbell, is world-renowned in her field, and has the silkiest chestnut brown hair I’ve ever seen.

There are one or two old pictures online of her and Shane when they were together, taken at some sort of awards ceremony. They look perfect. There are also a couple of newer ones of her with the cellist, Justin, and I don’t get it, because he’s not half as good-looking as Shane. Deciding to cut myself off — otherwise, I’ll be browsing through pictures for the rest of the night — I go and check my emails.

A notification tells me that Shane Arthur has just added me on Facebook.

Interesting.

I laugh out loud when I check out his profile and see he’s got a grand total of 1,213 friends. Well, now, I’m definitely going to have fun with this. Immediately clicking to accept the friendship, I go straight to the private message function and type:

Jade Lennon, 21.43 p.m.: Only in this day and age can a man have 1,213 virtual friends while still having no friends at all. Here’s to number 1,214 being a real one ;-) P.S. How did you find me on this?

At first I put a few kisses at the end but then decide that might give him the wrong impression, so I change them to a winky face. Scrolling down his wall, all I see are messages from women proclaiming their love of his music. One girl called Suzy Carmine has posted almost every day for the last month. That’s kind of alarming, taking into account the fact that Shane hasn’t responded, but only “liked” the first few. A couple of minutes later he writes back:

Shane Arthur, 21.50 p.m.: It’s pathetic, right? They’re all fans and work contacts. I’m thinking 1,214 is going to be the magic number. Found you through your phone.

Jade Lennon, 21.53 p.m.: I am magic, aren’t I? And no, it’s not pathetic. I’m going to transform that low self-esteem into high self-esteem if it’s the last thing I do, mister! Btw, what’s the deal with Suzy Carmine? She seems…enthusiastic.

Shane Arthur, 21.54 p.m.: You’ve been busy, or should I say nosy! Sometimes the fans can be a little intense. She’ll get bored and move on eventually. P.S. Yes, you are fucking magic. Xxx

Jade Lennon, 21.54 p.m.: You’re too sweet.

Shane Arthur, 21.55 p.m.: You should let me show you how sweet I can be.

Jade Lennon, 21.55 p.m.: Shane…

Shane Arthur, 21.56 p.m.: I know. Sorry.

Jade Lennon, 21.56 p.m.: Okay, you’re forgiven. You nervous for tomorrow?

Shane Arthur, 21.57 p.m.: Dreading it :-/

Jade Lennon, 21.57 p.m.: Don’t be. You’re going to be fantastic. Are you bringing your violin?

Shane Arthur, 21.57 p.m.: Yeah, they want to get to some pics of me with the Strad.

Jade Lennon, 21.58 p.m.: Oh, this is going to be so much fun. For me, I mean. :-D I get to be a spectator.

Shane Arthur, 21.58 p.m.: You’re cruel.

Jade Lennon, 21.59 p.m.: Mwah ha ha.

Shane Arthur, 21.59 p.m.: I just realised your name is three letters off John Lennon.

I laugh when I read this.

Jade Lennon, 21.59 p.m.: That’s because I’m John Lennon reincarnated as a female. I was born seven years after he died, so it’s entirely possible.

Shane Arthur, 22.00 p.m.: Well, in that case I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for writing some of the best songs of the 20^th century.

Jade Lennon, 22.01 p.m.: You’re most welcome.

Shane Arthur, 22.01 p.m.: Lol.

A couple of minutes pass and I’m tired, so I decide to say my goodbyes for the night.

Jade Lennon, 22.05 p.m.: Right, I’m gonna get some sleep. Talk to you tomorrow, friend!

Shane Arthur, 22.05 p.m.: Cool. Dream of me, Bluebird. Xxx.

His last message makes my belly flutter. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve dreamt of him practically every night since I met him. His kisses make my cheeks grow warm even though they aren’t real ones.

The next day I dress casually in jeans and a cream blouse. I’m on my way to meet Shane at the Clarendon when a little kid slides in front of me. He can’t be any more than eleven or twelve, and he has the gall to ask, “Hey, missus, gotta smoke?”

“No, I don’t. And you’re too young to be smoking,” I say before walking by him.

“Yeah, well, your arse is too big to be wearing those jeans, but that didn’t stop ya, did it?” he shouts after me, brazen as you like.

Ah, lovely. If I ever feel I’m getting too full of myself, all I’ll need to do is walk down this street, and I’m sure some little fucker will take me down a peg or two. Continuing my walk, I surreptitiously check out my bottom in a shop window. It’s certainly well-endowed, but…oh, fuck it. I’m not thinking about this.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I find a text from Shane telling me he’s already at the hotel and that he left my name at the reception desk. When I get there a couple of minutes later, I’m ushered on through to the elevators by a helpful receptionist.

Oh, yeah, one of life’s mysteries, why do elevators always have to be lined with mirrors? After my run-in with “little mister gotta smoke,” I’m feeling decidedly paranoid about my appearance, so I could really do without the three-dimensional view right now. I run my fingers through my wind-tossed hair and wipe a fleck of mascara away from under my eye.

When I reach the suite, I knock on the door and get greeted by a pretty redhead, the photographer’s assistant. Stepping inside, I find quite the professional setup. They must be planning on putting him on the cover or something.

Shane’s sitting in a chair while a stylist does his hair, which in my opinion doesn’t really need doing anyway. He looks so out of his comfort zone that I have to stifle the urge to laugh. There’s a free-standing clothes rack lining one wall and it’s full of classy men’s outfits — designer suits and the like.

His eyes are constantly scanning the room while his hair is fussed over, and when he sees me he gives a full-on smile; it’s one part happy to see me and two parts relieved his friend is here to make him feel less awkward at being primped up like a show pony.

“Jade,” he says, standing to greet me while the stylist scowls that he’s moved out of her reach. He takes my hand when I get to him and gives it a soft kiss, which makes a little swoosh rush through my chest.

“Hey, look at you,” I reply, gesturing to the sharp grey suit he’s wearing.

“Do I scrub up well?” he asks modestly.

“Hell, yeah.”

“Mr Arthur, I need to finish your hair,” the stylist, a twenty-something honey blonde, interrupts impatiently.

I give him the nod to sit back down and he does, while I peruse a table of sandwiches and drinks set up nearby. I pick up one that looks like smoked salmon and cream cheese, and pop it discreetly into my mouth, all la di da I’m just taking a look around.

“Jade, could you bring me some of those? I’m starving,” Shane calls, and I turn in surprise to find he’d been watching me. Caught red-handed. It causes me to gulp the whole thing down in one go like a bird of prey swallowing a live robin.

I purse my lips at him and suppress a smirk of my own, while putting a couple of the tiny sandwiches on a paper plate and carrying them over to him. The stylist lets out a sigh as I approach; I’m obviously making her job harder here, but Shane did ask for something to eat.

Feeling playful, I lift a sandwich to his mouth for him to take a bite. His eyes stay on mine the entire time as his mouth closes over it. Okay, perhaps that was a questionable move.

I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to stay platonic with a man I’m this strongly attracted to. There’s an underlying note of sex in everything we do. I can barely look at him without remembering what it felt like to have him fill me up, for him to effortlessly hold me and fuck me against a brick wall.

I hand him the plate then, deciding that feeding him was a little too…sensual for my liking. A couple of minutes later, the photographer, a dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, strolls into the room and starts giving Shane directions as to where he wants him. I sit back and watch as he removes his violin from its case and goes to sit on a chair by the window.

The photographer tells Shane to look out the window and try to affect a thoughtful expression. He flattens out his mouth and narrows his eyes, giving a faraway look. I can’t help smiling, because he’s clearly not enjoying this at all. His posture is all ramrod straight.

The photographer tries to give him more directions, but he’s sort of useless at taking them. I butt in, saying, “Hey, why don’t you try squinching?”

The photographer turns to me, shakes his head, and laughs.

“Do I even want to know what that is?” Shane asks, hesitant but amused.

“It’s all the rage right now,” I explain. “You just sort of squint your eyelids and it’s supposed to make you look better in pictures, you know, like, all moody and smouldering. Ben and Clark both swear by it.”

I internally chuckle, remembering Ben showing me his holiday pictures from Spain last summer, and in every one it’s pretty obvious that he and Clark were trying to out-squinch each other, which just ends up looking ridiculous. So yeah, a rule of thumb, if you’re going to squinch, make sure there isn’t anybody else in the photo doing it as well.

“If I squint I’m going to look constipated, Jade,” Shane replies, deadpan, and I let out a bark of laughter.

The photographer puts his hand on his hip, looking back and forth between the two of us. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asks while snapping a couple of shots. Shane is still looking at me and smiling.

“Nah, just a friend,” he answers as he regards me warmly.

“Mm-hmm,” the photographer responds in a very sure she’s just a friend sort of way.

“Ugh, I’m so bad at this,” says Shane dejectedly, rubbing at his forehead for a second.

“Honey, nobody with a face and body like yours is bad at getting pictured,” the redheaded assistant butts in, all sass and flirtation. I automatically give her an evil look without realising I’m doing it. Shane is the only one who catches me, and he seems pleased as punch about it. Great, now he thinks I’m jealous.

“Hey, I know. You should play something and not think about trying to pose,” I say. “Forget anybody else is in the room, and just pretend you’re practicing. I bet you’ll look really natural in the shots if you do that.”

The photographer clicks his fingers at me. “That’s a fabulous idea.” Turning his attention to Shane, he says, “I like your friend — she’s good.”

“All right, I’ll give it a try,” says Shane, lifting his bow and setting the violin under his chin. He starts to play a really lovely, almost dreamy song, and the photographer is like a bat out of hell snapping pictures. I smile, satisfied that my idea is working. Sitting back on my stool, I watch the images float out of the camera and sail through the window like bubbles floating on air, capturing a moment of musical brilliance. The melody sparks off the images and makes them shine, makes them that much more vital.

A picture is just a picture, but add music and there’s emotion. There’s a story.

Shane plays for about five minutes, and I’m sure at least a hundred or more shots have been taken within that short space of time. In a voice that is unexpectedly quiet and entranced, I ask him the name of the song he just played.

“Méditation de Thaïs,” he answers, setting his violin down on his lap, gaze on me.

“It’s beautiful,” I reply, mentally repeating the name over and over in my head so that I’ll remember to download it onto my iTunes later on. I’m too embarrassed to try to write it down, because then he’ll know how affected I am.

A moment later the stylist abruptly calls for a wardrobe change, and my special moment is broken. This time she puts Shane in an all-black ensemble. Her phone starts ringing just as she’s about to put on his tie, so she hands it to me instead while she goes to answer the call.

Walking up to him tie in hand, I feel my throat go decidedly dry. Since he’s a bit taller than I am, I have to reach up to wrap the fabric around his neck. My fingers slide over his smooth skin, and I notice his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You always dress well, but I have to admit right now you’re looking pretty dapper, Mr Arthur,” I say softly, and his head dips down a little while he watches the movement of my hands intently. He’s not speaking, and for some reason that makes me extra nervous. Our breaths mingle. We’re so close, and my stupid girl brain makes me go slowly with the tie, wrapping it once in a loop, pulling it up and over, and then slotting it through the loop. I tighten it a little, and several seconds tick by before I cough and step back.

“There you go. Perfect,” I whisper.

We lock gazes for a long moment, and then the door to the suite opens and shuts. When the sound of heels clicking on wood rings out, a posh female voice declares, “Oh, don’t you just look marvellous!”

I turn to see a tall, slim brunette lady wearing a tailored business suit standing a couple of feet away from us. Looking back to Shane, I’m not sure if I’m mistaken when I see him grimace.

“Hi, Mum,” he says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

 

A moment later Shane’s mother notices me standing there, and her brow furrows for a split second.

“Hello. I’m Mirin Arthur. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says, holding out her hand to me.

“Hi, Mirin. I’m Jade, a friend of Shane’s.”

She moves her lips in a weird way when she hears my accent and then says, “How nice, and where did you two meet?”

“Jade works at the concert hall, Mum,” Shane interrupts. Is it just me, or does he seem annoyed?

Her gaze darts to him and then back to me. “Oh, really, are you in management there?”

“Uh, no, I’m just floor staff.”

Usually I like to think I’m a decently confident person, but there’s something about this woman that makes me feel inferior. I’ve always been pretty proud of my job; I get to work in a wonderful place, but Mirin Arthur stares at me like I just told her I clean rat-infested sewers for a living.

“Right, well, it’s lovely to meet you,” she says with a fake smile, and then she turns her attention to the photographer. Striding toward him, she requests to have a look at the pictures taken so far, before proceeding to ooh and aah at how well they turned out.

Shane and I remain silent. I never considered the fact that his parents might not approve of our friendship, and let’s face it, I’m sure I’m aeons away from the women he usually sees. Not that we’re seeing each other. I’m definitely nothing like Mona Campbell, anyway. I bet she and Mirin got along like a house on fire.

While his mother talks on and on in the background, Shane takes a few steps towards me and discreetly laces his fingers through mine. He gives my hand a tight squeeze and whispers in my ear, “Don’t let her get to you.”

I pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

“I know how she is. My mother has this knack for sucking the life out of people. I have first-hand experience.”

My eyes are drawn to the woman as he tells me this. Now she’s arranging a vase of flowers on top of a chest of drawers. They’re bright and purple, but they wither away when she touches them, until they’re all black detritus.

“She does have a certain…way about her,” I finally agree.

Shane huffs a breath, like I’m putting it way too mildly, and let’s face it, I am.

“My mother is a fucking snob, Jade. I promised myself I’d stop caring about her opinion a long time ago, and I have. Do you know when I discovered Mona had cheated on me, I was more anxious about what my mother would think than anything else? How fucked up is that?”

I stare at him, my mouth open. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. I knew that she’d blame me for it, and of course she did. She thought the sun shone out of Mona’s too shiny and perfect-to-be-true arse. In fact, she still does. She thinks it was somehow my fault our engagement didn’t pan out.”

God, this poor man. He says he’s stopped caring, but the way he’s talking right now tells me he’s far from over the hold his mother seems to have on him. Perhaps that’s what his whole “teach me how to live” thing is about. He wants me to teach him how to get free from the emotional bondage.

Our hushed conversation is interrupted when Mirin calls, “Oh, Shane, come over here and stand by the door. I think it will make for a good background.”

I smirk when I notice the photographer giving the stylist an eye roll. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s not thrilled about Mommy Dearest coming in and taking over. Shane kisses me lightly on the cheek, sighs heavily, and goes to his mother. When I see Mirin looking at me in a puzzled way, I realise she saw the kiss and is none too happy about it.

My phone rings in my pocket, a welcome distraction. I pull it out to find Pete’s number flashing on the screen. I can only imagine what this is going to be about. I always make sure to call both April and Pete at least once or twice a day if I’m not in the house to make sure they’re okay. When Pete’s the one calling me it’s usually because he’s in trouble or needs money. He hasn’t called for money in a while, though, which is worrying, since he’s a fifteen-year-old boy with no form of income. It begs the question, where is he getting his cash from?

“Hey, Petey, what’s up?” I answer, walking into the next room of the suite to take the call.

There’s an audible sigh, then, “You need to go to my parent teacher evening.”

Jeez, is it that time of year again already? “Oh, yeah. When is it?”

“Uh, tonight.”

“Okay, you could have given me a few days warning.”

“This is me giving you warning, Jade. It’s two-thirty — the whole thing starts at seven.”

“Yes, but I would have liked some time to organise a decent outfit and all.”

“Fuck, are you going or not?” he grits out.

“Don’t swear at me. I’m not one of your pals on the street. And yes, of course I’m going. I’m your guardian, after all.”

“Good. Hanging up now.”

“I’ll be home to make dinner. I love you.”

All I get is an embarrassed, “Jesus Christ,” before he makes good on his promise and hangs up. I don’t care how much it annoys him — I’m going to keep telling him I love him until it finally sinks in.

A word to the wise, fifteen-year-old boys are perhaps the most emotionally stunted individuals on God’s green earth. And, I’ll add, they do not do well with compliments, affection, or any form of kindness, especially when given by older sisters.

Walking back into the room where Shane is being pictured, I mentally calculate how much time I’ll need to go to the shop for groceries, get home, cook dinner, find something to wear, and be at Pete’s school by seven. Yeah, I should probably get going soon. I hate to leave Shane since I said I’d stay with him for this, but his mum’s here now, so he won’t be entirely alone.

Though from our brief conversation earlier, I’m guessing he’d probably prefer to be alone than to have his mother here.

The photographer is sorting through shots, so I walk up to Shane to tell him I’ve got to go.

“That was my brother Pete. He decided to spring it on me that his parent teacher evening is tonight. I hope you don’t mind if I leave early?”

Standing from his seat, Shane replies, “No, of course not.” He pauses and then randomly volunteers, “I could go with you if you like?”

Giving him a funny look, I respond, “To the parent teacher evening?”

“Yeah, why not?” He lowers his voice. “That way I can pay you back for the moral support.”

I rub my forehead. “These things can be pretty stressful, especially when you’re dealing with a kid like my brother.” I go quiet for a moment, considering it and thinking about how the snobbish teachers sometimes look down on me because of my age and the fact that I’m only Pete’s sister. Having someone like Shane by my side could definitely make me look more respectable…they might even think he’s my husband or something. Okay, so not going there.

“You can come, but are you even done here?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “They’ve taken enough photos of me to last a lifetime, Jade. Besides, I don’t think I can stand much more of this,” he says, casting his eyes in his mother’s direction as she continues to pester the photographer.

A small chuckle escapes me. “She likes to take the lead, I see.”

“A long career as the CEO of an international charity will do that,” Shane mutters under his breath.

“She runs a charity? That’s impressive,” I tell him, letting out a low whistle. Mirin Arthur might not have been particularly nice to me, but I can respect a woman with that kind of drive.

“Think of it more as a business than a charity, but yeah, ‘impressive’ is one way of putting it.”

The tone of Shane’s voice tells me he doesn’t exactly agree. Loosening his tie, he says he’s going to go change. As I wait, I shove another tiny sandwich down my gullet to see me through until dinnertime (and a few in my handbag for Specky), and then I play with my phone for a bit.

Somebody clears their throat, and I glance up to see Mirin standing in front of me.

“My son likes you,” she states, all matter of fact, and I don’t know how to reply or if she even expects me to. Instead I stay quiet and wait to see what she’ll say next. Her eyes trail over me intently. Jeez, what’s she doing, taking my measurements or something?

Unable to stand the silence, I blurt, “Yeah, me and Shane are tight.”

Oh, God, did I just say that to this woman? That was probably one of the most ridiculous sentences to have ever come out of my mouth. Mirin gives me an almost imperceptible smile.

“Have you known each other long?”

“Not long.”

“I see.” She presses her lips together before continuing in a voice that’s not quite threatening, but it’s not not threatening, either. “My son is a vulnerable man, Miss…”

“Lennon.”

“Miss Lennon. He’s been through a very rough year, and I wouldn’t like to see him being taken advantage of.”

Vulnerable. What exactly does she mean by that? I nod along to what she says before I realise what she’s getting at. She thinks I’m trying to take advantage of him? Fuck, if this is the way she talks to all the people who’ve ever been in his life, then I get why he doesn’t have any friends.

“I assure you, Mirin, that when it comes to your son, I have only the purest of intentions. You have nothing to worry about.” Okay, so maybe I didn’t mean for that to come out sounding so sarcastic, but I can’t help getting riled up by her. You’d think her son was the King of England and I’m some hussy trying to sleep her way to the throne.

“Listen to me, if you think you can wheedle your way into his affections with your obvious…attractions” —her gaze flicks briefly to my chest and then back up to my eyes before she continues— “you are sadly mistaken. I will not see you hurt him. He has already been hurt enough.”

“Maybe you should look in the mirror and you’ll see who’s really hurting him,” I whisper, unable to help myself.

“What did you just say?” she whisper-hisses back at me.

“Is everything all right?” Shane asks, just entering the room, his expression suspicious as he takes in his mother’s fuming face.

“Fine and dandy,” I reply. “Are we off?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to you later, Mum,” he says, stepping forward and giving Mirin what seems to be a very strained kiss on the cheek.

“You’re leaving? But I was hoping we could do dinner at Marco Pierre’s?” she replies, affecting a disappointed demeanour.

“Another time, Mum,” is all he says before he’s putting his hand to the small of my back and ushering me out the door.

All the way to the elevator I feel like I’m holding my breath. Once we step inside the car, I let it all out, slumping back against those aforementioned pesky mirrors.

“Your mother is a character,” I say as Shane eyes me with some sort of intensity. His hand is still on my back, right at the base of my spine, and he’s rubbing small circles into the fabric of my shirt.

“My mother is never happy, not with anything. She’s always striving for something better, and then when she gets it there’s something else she wants.”

Even though he’s right beside me, his eyes are faraway.

I turn to face him, feeling far too close in the small space, yet I don’t move to put any distance between us. “Don’t let her make you feel like you’re anything other than perfect, Shane,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

His faraway eyes come back to me. “What is perfect, anyway?”

“Whatever you want it to be. Think of it more as a feeling. I think perfect is just feeling content with your lot.”

The elevator doors open just then, signalling we’ve arrived on the ground floor. Shane doesn’t respond to what I’ve said, but from the look on his face I can tell he’s really thinking about it. I ask him if he drove in, but he tells me no, that he left his car at home. Parking in the city is shit and all that jazz.

“I have to go grocery shopping first. Are you sure you still want to tag along?”

“Of course,” he replies enthusiastically, like I just told him I’m going on a roller-coaster ride instead of picking up a few things for dinner.

When we reach the supermarket, I surreptitiously stand aside and pretend to be searching for something in my bag, when really I’m toting up how much money I have to spend. I think Shane notices what I’m doing but he doesn’t say anything.

I decide I’m in the mood for something creamy, so I grab the ingredients for a spaghetti carbonara. April always complains when I cook Italian, too many carbs apparently (cue heavy sigh), but she’ll just have to put up with it for one evening. Shane follows alongside me as I stroll the aisles, like a really well-behaved dog. He watches me pick stuff up and mull over prices as though it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever witnessed.

To be honest, it’s starting to weird me out. I’m beginning to learn that this man can be pretty full-on.

“What do you normally like to eat?” I ask to break his rapt attention.

He grins sheepishly. “I usually order my food from this gourmet delivery service. I never really have time to cook. They do a chicken and avocado salad that I’m seriously addicted to.”

“Gourmet delivery, you say,” I tease him while twirling my invisible moustache. “What, is Dominos not good enough for you?”

“Dominos is fine, but if I don’t want to put on ten stone, then I try to avoid fast food.”

“Hmm, what do you do to keep in shape?” I ask, placing a bag of dried pasta in my basket.

“I run. I’ve never bothered with gyms because I haven’t really been in one place for long enough to justify a membership. Running is something you can do anywhere.”

He must run a lot, because let’s just say his violin is not the only thing that’s finely tuned, if you get me.

Thirty euros’ worth of groceries and one cab ride (courtesy of Shane) later, we reach my place, and Shane offers to put the food away while I feed Specky. She starts yipping like a maniac at the back door when I come in, so I let her into the kitchen.

“Okay, okay, come inside out of the cold, you mad little bitch,” I tell her — because I’m one of those ridiculous (often lonely) people who have whole conversations with their pets.

When she sees there’s a stranger in the house she goes quiet, though, eyeing him with suspicion. I pick her up in my arms and give her a kiss on the top of the head.

“Shane, I’d like you to meet Specky. Specky, this is Shane,” I say, bringing her close so that he can pet her. He puts the new carton of milk in the fridge and then turns his attention to my dog. Because she’s only a miniature Jack Russell, she’s particularly tiny.

“She’s fucking adorable. Is she still a puppy?” he asks.

“Nope, just the runt of the litter,” I reply, smiling.

“Why Specky?”

“See the spots around her eyes? I think they look like spectacles.”

His lips curve up when he glances at me. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, shush,” I say, sticking out my tongue at him.

I let Specky down so that she can eat the food I just put in her bowl. She’s been clawing at me to get to it, suffering through the introduction to the new human. Shane sits down on a chair, suppressing a smirk at my embarrassment over him calling me cute. I turn on the radio and start to throw together the dinner. The great thing about carbonara is that it’s cheap and you can make it in only a couple of minutes.

Over the next half an hour my siblings all arrive home, eager for something to eat. They sit at the table with Shane, shoving food into their mouths and asking him a million nosy questions. I wish they’d stop.

Alec watches on with amusement as April pulls her chair up as close as it will get to Shane’s, telling him she’d love to come see him play at the concert hall sometime, and, I shit you not, twisting a strand of her brown hair around her finger.

“That’s surprising,” I butt in cynically, “since you’ve never once expressed an interest in the place in the two years that I’ve worked there.”

She scowls vaguely in my direction, her catty blue eyes like a pair of laser beams.

“Jade’s got a point,” says Alec, pointing his fork at April. “All you ever listen to is Beyoncé anyway.”

“Would you two just shut the hell up?” she hisses, her cheeks getting redder by the second. Alec and I look at each other and laugh. Pete sits eating quickly and quietly, clearly wanting to have dinner over and done with so he can go out with his mates.

“I’ll be happy to get you a ticket for one of our upcoming shows if you’d like,” says Shane graciously, and April grins widely, her previous embarrassment all but forgotten.

“I’d like that very much, Shane,” she practically purrs at him.

I mouth the words thank you, and he smiles, waving off my gratitude. I know that he doesn’t have to humour my sister, but I’m glad that he’s being nice to her.

Yet again, this man has managed to warm my heart.

 

After dinner I tell April and Pete they’re on washing-up duty, to which I receive a whole array of complaints. I fold my arms and give them both my best death stare, and finally they get on with the task. Shane follows me upstairs to help me select an outfit for tonight.

The bedrooms in my house are pretty small, so basically my double bed takes up the entire space. If I got a single I could have more room, but there’s just something so depressing about sleeping in a single bed. It’s like, Yeah, I’ve been alone for so long that I’ve given up hope of ever sharing my sleeping quarters with another human being.

Seriously, the only people who should be sleeping in single beds are children and hospital patients. And yes, sometimes having an empty side can be just as depressing, but I generally remedy that problem by sleeping in the middle all spread out like a starfish. Try it. It might fuck your spine up something fierce, but it will be the cosiest snoozing experience of your life.

Shane eyes my walls, which are decorated with pale blue wallpaper that’s got golden sparrow patterns all over. I’m kind of obsessed with sparrows, hence my tattoos.

The symbolism of freedom is a big deal for me.

Old paperbacks line my window ledge and various pictures adorn my walls, mostly random art I’ve collected over the years. My bed is pushed right up next to the window, and on the other side is my wardrobe. Shane sits on the bed and scans the titles of my books. And yeah, he would have to select the copy of D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover to peruse. And let me just get out there that it’s not the new Penguin version with just the title on the cover, but an older version with a big sexy picture of a full-on naked woman on the front.

“What oh what is this?” Shane asks with a devious grin.

Okay, so I have been known to read some absolute filth in my time, but this one Lara brought over so that we could read it to each other over a bottle of non-alcoholic wine and have a giggle. I do a wicked Sean Bean impression.

“That,” I say, pointing a finger, “is not mine.”

Shane laughs long and hard.

“I swear! It’s Lara’s. It’s also a classic.”

He suppresses his smug-as-fuck smile. “Okay, I believe you. Millions wouldn’t.”

“Whatever.” I toss my hair over my shoulder and open my closet to search for something to wear. Peeking at Shane out of the corner of my eye, I see him flicking through the pages, clearly searching for the dirty bits to embarrass me further.

I’m considering a plain black dress when, God help me, he starts to read out loud:

“He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman.

She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.”

I have to close my eyes when I hear his low, sensual voice reading the passage. I’m grateful for the closet door, which is shielding my face from him as I grip the edge of it so hard my knuckles have turned white.

“You’re evil,” I say, shaking myself out of whatever that just was.

He chuckles softly. “I was trying to embarrass you, but now I have to admit I’m kind of turned on.”

And I’m dripping fucking wet. This man’s voice is just as alluring as the music he plays, if not more so.

Grabbing a pillow from the bottom of my bed, I throw it at him and tell him to put the book away. I don’t fail to notice him “fix himself” as he slots it back onto the window ledge. Oh, Christ, what made me think it was a good idea to invite him up to my room? I’m so used to being around sexually nonthreatening gay men like Ben and Clark that I seem to forget Shane and I walk a very thin line between friends and lovers.

Trying to distract him, I pull out the black dress alongside a dark blue one to ask him his opinion.

When I turn back around, he has his violin out, looking ready to spin me a tune. He starts playing a riff from the start of David Bowie’s “Fashion,” and I roll my eyes.

“Very funny. I never would have pegged you as a Bowie fan,” I say, amused.

He feigns indignation. “I love Bowie!”

“Uh-huh. I’m not quite sure that song works on the violin, though. You need a double bass, my friend.”

He shrugs. “I try my best.”

“So, which do you think, the black dress or the blue one?” I ask, biting my lip. I don’t know why I always get so nervous for these parent teacher things. I guess I feel the need to overcompensate since I’m not Pete’s actual parent.

“The black one. It’s, how do you say? Très chic,” he answers, putting on fake French accent. Somebody’s playful this evening.

“I was going more for responsible and adult, but that will do,” I say, putting the blue one back in the closet and digging out my very precious Hermès scarf box from the bottom.

“What’s that?” Shane asks, playing a random little tune.

“It’s probably the most expensive thing in my wardrobe, but I managed to snag it for only a hundred euros on eBay. I spent a fortnight bidding, and I finally got my hands on one.”

When I place the box on the bed, he recognises the brand. “Oh, Hermès. Yeah, my grandmother used to wear those scarves.”

“Your grandmother was a classy bird, then.”

Opening the box, I pull out the red, navy, and gold silk and run my hands over its smoothness.

“Feel,” I say, holding it out to Shane. “One hundred percent pure silk. It’s like heaven in a fabric.”

His lips curve as he reaches out casually to touch it. “If you say so.”

“Oh, so unimpressed. I suppose all the kids from Dalkey grow up with silk pyjamas and Egyptian cotton sheets on their beds. Here in the liberties we’re lucky not to be subjected to those old scratchy war blankets,” I say sarcastically.

His amusement is clear as he watches me rant. “I grew up wearing Spiderman pyjamas, if you must know.”

I can’t help grinning at him. There’s just something about this man that manages to lure a permanent smile out of me. “Shut up.”

Going to the bathroom so that I can change in privacy, I bring my makeup bag along with me to reapply my mascara. Once I’m done, I return to my room, where Shane is still playing his violin. I guess that to get as good as he is, he needs to practice when and wherever he has the chance.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror by my wardrobe, I twist my hair up into a bun and then grab the silk scarf to tie around my neck. Next I slip on a pair of black heels, and I’m done. Shane pauses the song he’s playing to let out a low whistle.

“Looking good, Bluebird.”

“Why, thanks,” I reply, smearing on a dab of lip gloss.

I tell Shane he can leave his violin in my room while we’re gone and that I’ll lock the door. He nods and we go, walking to Pete’s school since it’s fairly close by. When we get there, the parking lot is full to the brim with cars and the lights are on in the classrooms. This isn’t the same school I went to; in fact, it’s one of the better ones in the area. I haven’t been back to my old school in a long time, and I never will. Too many bad memories there.

“So,” Shane says jokingly as he ushers me in the entrance, “how shall we play this? Am I your boyfriend, lover, gay best friend?”

“Oh, God, I didn’t even think of that. What do you want to be? I think gay best friend is out, though,” I say, laughing.

His eyes light up with a plan. “How about we tell them I’m your fiancé?”

“Hmm, that does have quite the classy ring to it,” I agree while a little rush goes through me at the idea. I’m a performer, a street artist, and I like to play pretend. Tonight I’ll pretend to be Jade Lennon, fiancée to Shane Arthur, concert violinist extraordinaire.

“That’s what we’ll say, then,” he replies, voice low, eyes intent on mine like he’s trying to decipher my reaction or something.

I pull out the piece of paper Pete gave me with his list of teachers on it. The first is Mr Hegarty, his science teacher. As we approach the classroom, Shane subtly slides his hand into mine. I’m about to pull away out of instinct when I remember the roles we’re playing. Holding hands is a perfectly normal thing for two engaged people to do.

Mr Hegarty is a plainly dressed man in his fifties. He greets us as we walk in and asks whose parents we are. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s thinking we’re both far too young to be parents to a teenager.

“Um, not parents. I’m Pete Lennon’s sister, his legal guardian, actually, and this is my fiancé, Shane.” I cough, the lie feeling ridiculous when I say it out loud. Still, this man doesn’t seem to notice. His expression immediately turns sour when I tell him I’m here for Pete.

“Right, well, let me see,” he says, flicking through a stack of folders before finding the one he’s looking for. “Your brother holds a rather unimpressive D average in my class, and I’m sorry to have to be frank, but half the time he doesn’t even bother to show up. If he wants to have any chance of passing his Junior Cert exam, then he’s really going to have to buck up.”

“He doesn’t show up?” I ask in alarm. “But the school never contacted me about any absences. Aren’t they supposed to do that?”

Mr Hegarty sighs and rubs at the crease in between his eyebrows. “The new attendance swipe cards they’ve brought in make things harder for us to tell when a student is absent. It’s a ridiculous system, in my opinion. The students are supposed to swipe them through the scanner once in the morning and then again after lunch. So we get a lot of kids having their friends swipe their cards for them, or else they come in, swipe them themselves, and then leave the school. It’s a big problem.”

“Right,” I say with a disgruntled heavy breath. “So this is clearly what Pete has been doing. He’s seriously in for it when I get home.”

“Miss Lennon, I’ve had kids like Pete coming through my doors for years. If they don’t want to be here, then there’s not a lot you can do beyond supervising their every move.”

“Yeah, and I definitely don’t have the time for that.”

“I suggest you have a talk with him, try to get him to understand that neglecting his education isn’t going to benefit him in the long run.”

I talk with Mr Hegarty for another few minutes while Shane sits quietly by my side. I wonder what he thinks of all this. The next couple of teachers pretty much tell me the same thing, and a few of them don’t even know Pete since he’s absent so often. It’s all a big old slap in the face, really. I knew Pete wasn’t exactly the most functional of teenagers, but I didn’t think it was this bad. And I’m also wondering why he even told me about the parent teacher night at all. Was it a cry for help, or simply a big fat middle finger?

It’s only when we go to visit his music teacher that I get some good news, a little trickle of hope. His teacher is a thirty-something balding guy wearing a paisley shirt, and he tells me that Pete’s been doing some amazing things in class when he bothers to show up. I’m getting that this guy is more into teaching modern music than taking the classical approach. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, since he didn’t recognise Shane when I introduced him.

So, apparently Pete’s got a whole bunch of music creator apps on his smart phone and has been creating his own tracks. Other than when he blasts all this trance and dance stuff from his bedroom, I didn’t even know he was that into music. Just goes to show that teenagers tell their parents (and guardians) sweet fuck-all.

I thank the music teacher and then get up to leave. When I reach the corridor, which is full of parents going from classroom to classroom, I slump back against the wall for a minute, wracking my brain for ideas. I need to think of something to get Pete back on the straight and narrow, but it can’t be all the obvious stuff like grounding him and taking away his PlayStation. That kind of aggressiveness never works for long. I need to take a softly, softly approach. Something less all guns blazing and more intelligent.

I only realise that Shane’s still with me when suddenly he’s folding me into his arms in a hug. I exhale against the smooth fabric of his shirt, and the tension in my body falls away. It’s amazing the things a hug from another human being can do.

“You’ll sort him out, don’t worry,” he says, his chin resting on my hair.

“Yeah, but how?” I ask, not really expecting any kind of answer.

A minute of silence passes before Shane suggests, “I could talk to him, teach him some stuff about music, if you like?”

I pull away slightly and eye him. “I’m not sure how much you could teach a kid who creates dance songs on a smart phone app, Shane. You’re a world away from that.”

“All music is music, Jade. I’ve been classically trained. I can teach him some important basics, and if he has something to focus on, then maybe everything else in his life will fall in line.”

“He has been hanging out with a bad crowd. Perhaps some music lessons will keep him occupied and off the streets,” I say, coming around to the idea.

Shane smiles. “Exactly.”

I smile back. “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

He pulls my hand up between our touching chests and squeezes, something meaningful in his expression. Letting out a long breath, he pulls away, and we walk out of the school back to my place. It’s late when we get there, given that there were queues outside some of the classrooms with parents all waiting to see the same teachers. Mostly Shane and I sat and chatted while he would intermittently give me these heated stares and I’d try to ignore the way it made me feel all hot and bothered.

As I look at Shane now, he seems tired, so without thinking I reach over and run my hand affectionately over his cheek. He practically melts under my touch, and I pull away immediately, asking myself what the fuck I think I’m doing. He’s such a wonderful person, and I have no right to lead him on.

“I’m just going to put the kettle on for a brew,” I say, clearing my throat and handing Shane the key for my bedroom. “You can go get your things upstairs if you like.”

Silently he goes, and I’m left alone with my guilty thoughts and the whistling of the kettle as it boils. The steam rises up into the air in the small kitchen, shaping itself into disappointed faces. I swipe my hand through them, annoyed at their presence. Leaning one hand against the counter, I rub the creases from my brow with the other.

“I called for a cab,” says Shane, entering the room from behind me. “It should be here any minute.”

“Oh, good. Well, thanks again for offering to spend some time with Pete. I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow, see what he thinks.”

Shane dips his head and looks around the room like he can’t bring himself to keep staring at me, and I don’t even have to ask myself why. My stupid body language can be a bitch, and just now she offered Shane something I can’t give him and then a second later snatched it away.

“I’m sorry if…” I trail off, the fire burning in my chest preventing me from continuing.

“You’re sorry?” Shane asks.

I scratch my head and practically whisper, “Yeah, I’m sorry if I’ve been giving you mixed signals.”

His mouth flattens out as he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. “Jade, I don’t see why we can’t just explore where things go between us. I understand you’ve had a bad experience in the past, but so have I. I think that’s a good thing — it means we both know what it’s like to be hurt, and we’ll do whatever we can not to make another person feel that way.”

He’s talking a lot of sense, but still, I’m scared. “Friends” is comfortable; “lovers” is an unknown hole in the sky where anything could happen.

I can’t start drinking again.

With that thought in my head, my perseverance returns. “I’m sorry, Shane, but a friendship is all I have to offer you.”

His optimistic expression falls, and his hands drops to his sides. “Then I guess I’ll take what you have to offer, Bluebird.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as I watch him pick up his violin case and walk out the door.

 

At seven the next morning I get up, dress, have some breakfast, and then go to Pete’s room, where he’s still fast asleep. I sit on the edge of his bed and study him, his child’s face that’s slowly transforming into an adult. I’ve been a mother to him since our own one died, since he was just eleven years old.

I can’t help but wonder if I’ve somehow fucked up the job.

He wakes up then and startles when he sees me sitting at the foot of his bed.

Rubbing at his eyes, he rasps, “Uh, what the hell, Jade?”

“Why did you even bother to tell me about the parent teacher evening?” I reply abruptly, folding my arms across my chest. So much for the softly, softly approach.

He speculates over what to say for a minute as he eyes me. Finally he says, “If you didn’t go, they would have contacted you, so you would have found out about everything anyway.”

“I don’t get it, Pete. You’re a clever kid, yet you’re just barely passing by the skin of your teeth, and if you don’t start attending again soon you’re going to be failing.”

“School is pointless,” he sighs. “There are so many better ways for me to spend my time.”

“School isn’t pointless. If you keep at it, you’ll get to go to college.”

“How many people from around here do you know who went to college, Jade? Yeah, that’s right, a big fat zero.”

“Well, somebody always has to be the first. And what do you mean, there are much better ways for you to spend your time?”

He just shrugs.

“Does it have something to do with the fact that you have those brand-new Nikes under your bed, not to mention a new iPod? Where did you get the money for those?”

He just looks at me now. “Where do you think?”

“I swear to God, Pete, this better not be drugs.”

Storming out of the bed, he answers, “So what if it is?”

“‘So what’? Are you fucking joking me? Are you telling me you’re dealing?”

His face transforms with anger, and it actually surprises me. I’ve never seen him so enraged. “Yes, I am dealing, Jade, and you’d better get used to it because it isn’t going to stop any time soon.”

Oh, he’s so not getting away with this. “Yes, it is going to stop, even if I have to chain you up in this bedroom until you see sense. And just you wait until Alec hears about this.”

“Ha! As if he wasn’t doing the exact same thing at my age.”

“Alec did it for a very short time before he realised how stupid he was being, and he got out before he was in too deep. And that’s exactly what you need to do.”

“I’m not quitting,” he seethes.

“Yes, you are. Now get dressed for school. I’m walking you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Swear one more time, Pete. Go on, see what happens,” I warn him, and I must have a scary look in my eye because he backs down.

When I leave the room, I find both April and Alec standing outside with identical looks of horror on their faces.

“Did I hear all that right?” Alec asks, working his jaw.

I sigh and slump back against the wall. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he replies in a soothing voice, and comes to rub my shoulders. “You go and have a lie-down. You’re all worked up.”

“Could you take him to school, too?”

“Sure, I’ll even wait to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak back out.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and April looks at me sympathetically.

I didn’t even get the chance to ask Pete if he’ll take music lessons from Shane.

Mustering my strength, I pull my sister into my room and ask how she’s getting along with Mia. We talk for a little while, and then she has to go and get ready for work. At least one of my siblings is doing okay. My shift doesn’t start until the afternoon, so I decide to don my costume and go busking for a while.

Standing in front of my mirror, I hold my tub of white face paint in my hand, using a sponge to rub it over my skin until it erases all of my features. When I’m done I feel like a blank canvas waiting for an artist to come and paint on some lips, a nose, and a pair of green eyes.

It used to take me forever to become “The Blue Lady.” Now it takes me a grand total of ten minutes. I have it down to a fine art. I step outside my house in my full costume, blue wig, wings, and all, locking up before I set off. My neighbour Linda who lives across the street is standing at her door in her pyjamas, a cigarette in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

She sucks in a long drag of her smoke, watching me like I’m a flying pig that just sailed into her mundane little world. Most of the people in my area are well used to my antics by now, but still, I doubt they like what I do. I’m the local freak. If it weren’t for what they all know happened to my family eleven years ago, then I’m sure they wouldn’t be so accepting of my eccentricities.

Normally, in a place like this you can’t be different. Everyone has to be the same. I once read about an experiment where they put an albino turkey in with a bunch of regular turkeys, and because the regular turkeys couldn’t understand why the albino was different, they killed it.

In this particular case, I’m the albino turkey.

But because of the tragedy that befell me, nobody is going to kill me. It’s sort of the same way nobody wants to be seen to be cruel to a blind girl or a girl in a wheelchair. So I get a free pass to be as different as I like.

Ten minutes later I’ve reached my usual busking spot on Grafton Street. I wave hello to Marcus, who’s setting up a couple of shops down. He’s a flamenco guitarist who plays mostly on weekday mornings. You make more money on the weekend, but I think he’s a bit frightened of the bigger crowds. They can become rowdy sometimes.

One Saturday lunchtime about a year ago, I had a guy grab my money hat and run off with it. Of course I got down from my box and chased after him, but he’d easily disappeared into the crowd, and all the cash I’d made that day was gone.

I like to imagine it made for a good visual, though, even if I did get robbed. Imagine it, a woman with wings all dressed in blue chasing a thug through the street like her life depended on it. Yeah. Perhaps I entertained a few people.

Hat on the ground. Box situated. I step up onto my little stage, which is probably about two square feet at most, and I become something else. I’m a statue in a museum full of priceless art. A mythical creature turned to stone in the White Witch’s courtyard in Narnia. A marble angel wrought by the hands of Michelangelo in a church somewhere in Italy.

Or just a girl on a box who finds comfort in the anonymity of white paint and fake hair.

A group stops to look at me, and I’m as still as a feather in a world with no air. One of the women smiles and steps forward, dropping a two-euro coin into my hat. Ah, for this she gets a present.

Some living statues give lollipops to kids. Some give pretty flowers. I, on the other hand, slowly reach up and tug a blue feather from my wings. Graceful as a dancer in the Bolshoi Ballet, my arm comes down as I bow to her and present the feather. Smiling whimsically, she takes it from my hand and says thank you. I allow the faintest of smiles to touch my lips in return as I rise back to my upright position.

After another minute or two, the group moves on.

I don’t give feathers to all the people who leave money in my hat. It always depends on the person. It’s like I have this internal radar that tells me who will throw the feather away at the nearest dustbin, and who will bring it home, put it somewhere safe, and cherish it like it’s a precious diamond they found buried deep in the earth.

When I go home, I replace the feathers by sewing in new ones. I have a big bag of them stuffed in my bottom drawer. One time when I was babysitting Mia for Lara, I left her in my room playing with her dolls, and when I returned I found her sitting on the floor surrounded by blue feathers.

I didn’t stop laughing for at least half an hour.

The sneaky little thing had discovered my secret stash. For weeks afterward I was finding blue feathers in random places around the house, and every time I found one it would make me smile to think of Mia’s face full of delight as she threw them up into the air and giggled.

A couple of hours of standing still pass before I call it a day. On the way home I count my money, which amounts to fifty-two euros and thirty-four cents, one brown button, a five-cent coin from Singapore, a piece of paper with the words “Art Slut” scrawled onto it, another piece of paper that says “I love you,” and a Trebor Extra Strong Mint.

Nobody can say this work isn’t colourful.

Also, I think “Art Slut” would be a great name for an all-female punk band.

Reaching my house, I take a shower to scrub the paint from my hands and face, have a quick bite to eat, and then head off for my shift. An American travelling orchestra are playing tonight. I don’t like the disappointment of knowing I’m not going to see Shane, but I soldier on.

I hate the way we left things last night, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Not a single call, text, voicemail, or Facebook message. And believe me, I’ve been checking. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to make the first move?

Ugh, I hate thinking about this stuff.

Deciding to be brave, I shoot him a quick text telling him the address to meet me at on Sunday if he’s still up for coming. Then I shove my phone in my pocket and go to take my place at the bar. Hopefully I’ll lose myself in work, and I won’t be fidgeting to check my messages every five seconds.

As it turns out, the bar is packed even though it’s an hour before the event. We have a nice spacious place here, so often people like to come and socialise before the show. Also, since you’re not allowed to bring any alcohol into the actual concert hall, people like to get their drink on in advance.

Now that I’m sober, even the smell of alcohol turns my stomach slightly, but I’ve learned to tolerate it — kind of the same way you get used to the cloying smell of petrol when you work in a gas station. And I used to work in a gas station, as it happens.

I’ve worked in a lot of places.

“Hey, could we get a Heineken and a white wine spritzer?” comes an unsettlingly familiar voice from behind me.

It’s almost time for the concert to start, so the bar has emptied out a good deal. I pause, as I’m crouched low, slotting bottles into the fridge. I haven’t yet turned around, and I’m not sure if I’m physically able to. Just as I regain the ability to move and slot the final bottle in, it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor, liquid and broken glass going everywhere.

My hands are shaking.

The bar is loud because of the music streaming through the sound system, so I don’t think he heard me drop the bottle. It’s times like these that I wish they’d put two people working on this bar instead of one. That way I might be able to avoid seeing my ex-boyfriend, Jason, a man I haven’t set eyes on in years.

Unfortunately, there’s no one else around to serve him but me.

I don’t get what he’s doing here. He never listened to classical music when we were together. Turning around, I find him standing by the bar in a dark shirt, with a red-haired woman beside him. She’s a little older than he is, and there’s an air of class about her that enlightens me as to why Jason is here. The concert was obviously her idea.

His eyes widen when he recognises me, and within the next three seconds a whole barrage of memories hits me fast. Him going out and having sex with other women. Me drinking a bottle of vodka and spending the rest of the night in the bathroom puking my guts up. Fights. Break-ups. Make-ups. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Drinking. More drinking. More fighting.

I blame him for the fighting. I can’t blame him for all of the drinking though. That started long before he came on the scene.

My heart is going ninety as I swallow down what feels like a rough stone jammed in my throat.

“Jade, wow, it’s been awhile,” he says, eyes flicking between me and the woman he’s with.

“Hi, Jason. Yeah, it has. I thought you moved to London,” I say, trying to appear casual and busying myself making the drinks he just ordered. Better to get this over and done with quickly rather than drag it out.

A Heineken and a white wine spritzer.

Heineken. White wine spritzer.

He scratches his head and smiles. “I did. That’s where I met Beth. She’s my fiancée.”

The redhead, Beth, smiles at me, probably thinking I’m just some old acquaintance, and flashes me her ring. Well, now, it’s some rock, and it surprises me because Jason was never the type to fork out for flashy items.

“Oh, gorgeous,” I say to her, putting the pint of Heineken on the counter and going to fetch the wine.

“I moved back to Dublin six months ago. My company set up new offices over here.”

Perhaps he finally got his act together and scored a high-paying job. It would definitely explain the several-thousand-euro ring. It’s kind of annoying to realise you were the shit part of a person’s life before they moved on to the good part. And here I am, still working for just over minimum wage, still living in the same house where I grew up.

“Cool, well, here are your drinks. That’ll be eleven euros, please.”

Jason hands over the money and stares at me weirdly. Maybe he’s annoyed I’ve abruptly cut off any chance of a conversation. He has no right to be if he is. My life with him is the past, a past I’d much rather forget.

Beth takes her wine and walks over to a table where a group of men and woman are sitting. They must have all come together. Jason stays at the bar, and I don’t get why he isn’t going with her.

“You look good, Jade. How’s your family?”

Looking up, I raise an eyebrow and fold my arms. “Are we seriously doing this right now? Go and have fun with your fiancée, Jason. And please, if you could make it so that you don’t come here again, that would be great. I’d rather not see you at my place of work, if it’s all the same to you.”

His mouth flattens as he yet again runs a hand through his dark blond hair. He always was overly fond of those locks. In this moment I feel like taking a razor blade and shaving them all off.

My anger is warranted. The last time I saw him, he was going down on some brunette in our dingy studio apartment. That was the tipping point for me. I packed up my stuff and moved back home. Two months later I gave up drinking altogether. Several months after that Mum passed away.

“I’m sorry — did I do something to offend you?” he asks abruptly.

“Yeah, you’ve done plenty.”

“You’re being rude.” He pauses, and a sly gleam comes into his eyes. “I should have a word with your manager.”

He definitely hasn’t changed a bit. Still the petty fucker he always was. “Do it, and I’ll tell your pretty fiancée all about your previous antics. I think she’ll be particularly pleased to hear how you slapped me across the face because I wouldn’t give you money to go out drinking with your mates.”

His expression turns glacial, and my heart pounds. It hurts to even think about our history, never mind put it into words.

Go. Please, just go.

“You’re a little bitch.”

I just stare at him, hoping that if I stare long enough I’ll realise that the last five minutes were a figment of my imagination and that Jason was never here at all.

He stands back and taps his toe on the floor, like he’s waiting for me to apologise or something. Finally, he gets the message, picks up his drink, shakes his head, and walks away. I walk straight to the back of the bar and let out a long exhalation like I’ve been holding my breath under water.

Tears catch in my throat, but I swallow them all back. I can’t start blubbering in the middle of work. A buzzing comes from my pocket as my phone rings on “silent.” Pulling it out, I see Shane’s name on the screen, and that in itself soothes something inside me.

“Hello,” I answer, my voice a little shaky.

“Hey, just calling to let you know I’ll be there Sunday,” he says, somewhat hesitantly. I guess he’s unsure where things stand between us after last night.

“That’s great. I’m really looking forward to it.”

Shane laughs, and there’s a faint note of relief to the sound. “Me, too, even though I don’t know what we’re doing. Hey, is everything all right? You sound a bit off.”

I rub my forehead. “I’m working, and I just had a run-in with my ex-boyfriend.”

Shane sucks in a breath. “You mean the ex-boyfriend? The one who made you swear off all relationships?”

The lilting, almost teasing tone of his voice makes me feel better than I did five minutes ago.

“The one and only. He’s still a prick.”

“A giant gaping prick,” Shane agrees. “You’re too good for him. Don’t be sad, Bluebird. You’re too pretty to be sad.”

“Aw, shucks, you know just the right things to say to a girl.” I laugh. “So what have you been up to today?”

I hear some movement before he replies, “I went for a run, then practiced and watched House of Cards on Netflix.”

“Good times. Well, I suppose I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

“Yeah, see you Sunday, Jade.”

Stuffing my phone into my pocket and feeling a whole lot better after only a short conversation with Shane, I head back out to the bar. The bottle I dropped earlier still needs to be cleaned up, but the bar is empty since the show has started. Going to the storage closet, I grab a dustpan and brush and a mop.

All the doors to the hall are closed, muffling the sound of the music. But then one of my co-workers slips out and hurries off on some errand; the door catches and doesn’t shut properly, so now I can hear the music full throttle.

Paul Dukas’s “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” streams out, and my heart lifts. Leaving the cleaning for a moment, I close my eyes and listen.

Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…

Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…

And then comes what I like to call the big extravaganza, that part of a piece where the whole orchestra comes alive and the power of the music feels like it could knock you off your feet. The music goes quiet again, building, building…

The roll of industrial paper towels on the counter starts to twirl, unwrapping in a long train of blue. It sails to the liquid on the floor, soaking up the spillage, then balls itself up and shoots into the bin. The dustpan I’ve left by the bar moves the tiniest bit. And again. I smile. Both dustpan and brush rise into the air and shuffle toward the broken glass. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty.

Now the mop comes to life from its spot resting against the bar. It shimmies to the site of the accident and twirls in a dance as it cleans away the sticky spot of beer left over. Soon the floor is shiny and clean again.

“Jade, you can go on your break now,” says my floor manager Ciaran as he approaches the bar.

“Thanks, Ciaran,” I say, pulling off my half apron and grinning like I know a secret. All the bad feelings from Jason’s unexpected appearance are gone completely.

I love music. And I love my brain.

 

My Sunday morning Tai Chi class feels like it’s heaven sent. All the stress of a long working week floats out of my body on a sea of calm. I go for coffee with two of the women from the class afterward, and then I head home to throw together a family dinner.

We don’t always get to eat together, but I try to at least have everyone at the table on a Sunday. I spoke to Pete last night about letting Shane teach him some music stuff, but he adamantly refused to do it. I’ll keep working on him, though. I’m not going to force him, but he could agree to it eventually.

Evening arrives, and I dress up nicely in a calf-length swishy silver skirt and a cream knitted top. I leave my hair down and put on some natural-look makeup. I know that tonight with Shane isn’t a date, but still, I like to make an effort.

When I reach the place I told him to meet me at, I see Shane standing by the steps that lead to the front door. He’s tapping on his phone, so he hasn’t noticed me approaching yet. I take the opportunity to study him dressed uncharacteristically casual in denim jeans, a dark grey T-shirt, and a black jacket. He looks good. I mean, really good, so good my breath catches a little.

Deviously, I sneak up behind him, whispering, “Boo!” into his ear. He jumps, and I break out into riotous laughter before giving him a friendly hug hello. What sounds like the loud yet melodic bang of a cymbal echoes from the house, and you can hear the people boisterously chatting inside even though the door is shut tight. It’s a brown door on a three-storey Georgian building with a red and black ladybird painted on it.

I lead Shane to the door as he murmurs something about me looking beautiful. He says it so quietly, though, that it’s easy enough for me to pretend I didn’t hear. Taking the knocker into my hand, I bang it once, then three times, then five times fast. A minute later it swings open, and I’m greeted by Mary, a long-haired brunette in her fifties, the resident hostess.

“Jade! We haven’t seen you in a while. Come in, come in,” she says, welcoming me into the packed hallway. Sitting on each step of the staircase are the members of a folk band playing a dreamy version of “Just like Tom Thumb’s Blues” by Bob Dylan. A bunch of people stand in the hall, holding drinks and swaying to the music.

“I’ve been busy with the family,” I say to Mary. “This is my friend, Shane. It’s his first time here.”

Mary’s eyes light up as she smiles and shakes Shane’s hand. “Wonderful! Welcome to Ladybirds, Shane. I hope you enjoy yourself.” And with that she saunters off to take care of other guests.

“What is this place?” Shane asks excitedly, keeping close to my side as I lead him out to the back garden.

“Hmm, do you want the straightforward answer or the urban legend?” I reply.

“Both, I guess.”

We reach the garden, which is lit up with glowing white fairy lights and Chinese lanterns. There are people all around chatting and drinking, and on the grass a woman is standing on some plastic sheeting while a guy paints her entire naked body in silver and gold. Shane raises an eyebrow and suppresses what I’m thinking is an embarrassed grin. We sit down on a bench to talk.

“Well, the straight answer is that it’s an artist’s club. It’s open to all, and you can use the rooms for practice space. On the weekends they throw big shindigs like this one. The urban legend says that the house was bought by a homeless street performer in the late eighties. A guy named Bob Farrell who used to sit on O’Connell Street with his dog and play guitar for passers-by. One day after finishing up, he looked in his hat to find the usual bits of change, but there was also a crumpled piece of paper that turned out to be a lottery ticket. Can you see where I’m going with this?”

Shane’s golden-brown eyes dance in the darkening light. “Sort of.”

“So Bob goes to check the numbers, and lo and behold, he’s won the jackpot. Keep in mind this was the late eighties and the jackpot was probably only a couple hundred thousand at the time. Still, he managed to afford to buy this house smack dab in the middle of the city and opened it up to his fellow struggling artists. When he came to view it for the first time, he found two little ladybirds on the windowsill in a room on the second floor. From there on out he christened the place ‘Ladybirds,’ and it’s been a haven for art ever since.”

“That’s some story. Where’s Bob now?”

“He’s still here. He lives upstairs, but he’s pretty old, so you don’t see him around all that much. Sometimes, though, he’ll make an appearance and play a few songs on his guitar.”

“Is he any good?”

I nod, remembering the first time I’d heard him sing and how it gave me goose bumps all over. “He’s got one of those Tom Waits character voices. Sometimes an out-of-key singing voice feels more real to me than a perfect one, especially if the emotions are raw.”

“I’d love to meet him sometime. What he’s done here is amazing.”

“You haven’t even seen half the inside yet. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I take his hand in mine, tingles shooting through my skin with the contact as I feel his trademark hardened fingertips. Musician’s fingers. They’re not callused, but they’re slightly leathery from the friction of constantly pressing on strings.

I lead him upstairs to the first floor, where there’s a big open room. Every year Bob hires someone to paint it entirely white, making it a new canvas, and encourages guests to paint pictures on the walls. Since it’s late in the year, there’s not much white left now. The room is a riot of colour; some parts of the walls look like they were done by master painters, while others are more amateurish. I glance to the spot over one of the windows where I painted a blue sparrow flapping its wings as though trying to break free of its two-dimensional concrete prison and fly out into the sky.

I know, sparrows again.

Everybody’s got a theme, I guess, and those birds are mine.

Shane walks into the room, running his hand over the gigantic mural of a woman’s face, tears streaming down from her sad, dark eyes. Then he glances up. A couple of months ago a group got together to paint the ceiling indigo and glue scrunched-up pieces of tin foil to the plaster to look like stars. They twinkle and shimmer against the lights, giving off a magical effect.

“This place must be the best-kept secret in Dublin,” he says, coming to stand in front of me.

“Yep,” I reply, tapping the side of my nose conspiratorially. “You’ve got to know the right people to get in. Luckily, you met me.”

He breathes out slowly. “That was lucky.”

We eye each other for a long minute before Ben’s recognisable voice calls, “Jade, Shane, over here.”

Shaking myself out of the tension, I turn and put on a smile for my friend. Ben and Clark are sitting on a red heart-shaped love seat in the corner. I hadn’t known they were coming tonight, but I’ll admit I’m relieved they’re here.

Whenever Shane and I are alone together, there’s this palpable tension, like I’m constantly aware of how much distance there is between us and how easy it would be to close it. That brief chance I got to feel his skin the first night we met wasn’t nearly enough, and so even though my brain knows it’s not a good idea to give in, my hormones are raging for me to fail.

“Shauna’s dance group is starting in a minute,” says Ben excitedly. “Come and sit.”

Shauna is a friend of Ben’s who teaches interpretive dance classes. Most people roll their eyes at me when I mention the words “interpretive” and “dance” in the same sentence, but this group is really good. It’s not all prancing around. I mean, some of the stuff they can do with their bodies is just incredible.

The room is packed with people, so aside from the space that’s been cleared for the performance area, there aren’t too many places to sit. Shane tugs on my hand just as the lights are dimmed and the music starts up. Before I can react, he’s pulling me to sit between his legs, my back against his chest, while he leans against the edge of the love seat Ben and Clark are perched on.

For a moment I fumble, unsure of what to do with my hands. In the end I just rest them in my lap, since that feels like the safer option rather than putting them on Shane’s thighs. Unfortunately, I’m not out of the woods yet, as his arms come casually around my waist and I think I stop breathing for a second.

His mouth is close to my ear when he bends forward and asks, “Is this okay?”

I catch Ben’s eye as he watches us with a pleased expression. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, so I simply nod and focus my attention on the dancers. There are six of them in all, and they’ve formed a crouched circle in the centre of the floor. A soft, piano-based instrumental song plays as they slowly rise to stand, then begin twirling in practiced patterns. They’re all dressed in white and remind me of a cloud floating gently across the sky.

Shane’s hand moves along the cushioned part of my stomach ever so slightly, and if I weren’t so aware of him, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. He stops for a moment, then moves again. I wonder if he’s aware of how much he’s turning me on. Just the barest brushing of his thumb over the fabric of my top seems to have the ability to completely unravel me.

I let my body relax deeper into his. I’d been holding myself up a little, wary of getting too close. But now I can’t resist feeling his hard chest press into me. I close my eyes for a second, and I can feel every ridge of muscle. His arms around my waist tighten, and a whoosh of breath leaves me. I turn my head a fraction, and his mouth is right there, hanging slightly open.

Making the mistake of looking up into his eyes, all I see in them is want. They’ve grown hot and needy from just a minute or two of having me close to him. Christ, is a platonic friendship even possible for us? I feel like the only way I won’t find him attractive is if I go to hypnotherapy or something.

Which, by the way, doesn’t work. I tried it when I was weaning myself off alcohol. The guy told me I didn’t have a suggestible enough mind, whatever that means. I think he might have been a bit of a charlatan. And there’s a hundred euros I’m never going to see again.

The dance comes to a close, and the assembled audience claps. Then the group gets into formation for the next routine. This one is completely different from the first; the music is edgy, with drums and electric guitar, and the dance is fast-paced. The lights that have been set up are flashing all different colours. In other words, all of the attention is on the performers, and it feels like I’m in my own private little world with Shane.

His face moves to my hair as he sucks in a deep breath, scenting me. My hands, which had been resting idly on my lap, go to his thighs, holding on rigidly as though begging him to stop.

“Shane,” I whisper, but I can’t tell if he hears me over the loud music.

His hand keeps stroking my belly, bringing all sorts of sensations to life between my legs. I’m aching for him, and when I adjust my body on the hard wooden floor, I feel the stirrings of his erection nudge against my lower back.

Why is he doing this?

“I can’t help it,” he breathes into my ear, and I realise I asked the question out loud.

“Stop.”

His hand stills, and his arm around my waist loosens. He doesn’t say anything, but at least he’s done as I asked him to. A couple of minutes later the lights come back on, and the performance is over. I practically leap to my feet, mumbling about needing to use the bathroom, and then I hurry from the room, leaving Shane with Ben and Clark.

There’s a small bathroom just down the hall, and it’s mercifully unoccupied as I step inside and close the door tight behind me. Walking to the sink, I turn on the tap and splash some water on my face, hoping to cool the redness of my cheeks. What just happened in there with Shane was too much, provoked too many sensations.

What the fuck do I think I’m doing, being friends with him?

Playing with fire, that’s what I’m doing. But the pain of cutting him out of my life would be worse than the agony I go through when I’m with him, the willpower I have to expend in order to keep things in neutral. It’s not my fault he has this subtle way of pushing things into high gear.

When I return from the bathroom, I find Shane still with Ben and Clark, but they’re talking to a thin blond guy I’ve seen around before but have never met. He’s wearing a long white shirt, open to display his pale, scrawny chest. His hair is long and hangs down below his shoulders. On his chest somebody has scrawled the word “Happy,” which immediately informs me he’s something of a character.

Perhaps he used a mirror and wrote it on himself.

“This is Keith,” says Ben, introducing us. “He wants to know if we’ll take part in his interactive art installation.”

“Ah,” I reply, folding my arms and going to stand by Shane. “And what does it entail?”

I can’t hide the sceptical note in my voice. An interactive art installation usually equals embarrassment in some form or another. It could be anything from sitting on a stack of mattresses while people throw basketballs over your head to stripping naked and frolicking about like a nudist on a tropical beach while a choir sings the lyrics to “Over the Rainbow.”

Not that I’ve done either of those things. Ahem.

Keith starts to explain excitedly. “You partner up with someone, but it has to be someone you know personally, and you use a non-permanent marker to draw the first words that come into your head when you look at different parts of their body on that particular body part. I call it ‘Words and Skins.’ There’ll be a small audience watching. It’s all about opening up and losing your inhibitions.”

Christ, I knew it was going to involve nudity. Didn’t I just say it was going to involve getting naked? Sometimes I think these “installation artists” are simply perverts who spend their time coming up with ways to see a few tits and arses.

“So we have to strip for this?” I question, my cynical eyebrow almost hitting the ceiling.

“Just down to bras and knicks,” Ben puts in with a cheeky wink.

“Bras and knicks, you say? In that case, I hope you wore your good ones tonight. Otherwise your date might be unimpressed,” I quip, nodding to Clark.

“Actually, I went shopping in Ann Summers this week. The word ‘crotchless’ was involved,” Ben shoots back.

I nearly choke on my laughter when he says it, which puts me in a good enough mood to turn to Keith with a grin and reply, “Okay, I’m in. How about everyone else?” Then, turning back to Ben, “Also, Ann Summers? You classless swine. Get thee to Brown Thomas the next time, or I’ll refuse to have any further associations with you!”

Ben looks to Clark, who’s sputtering a laugh.

“Have you been teaching her how to speak like a dandy again?” he asks him, hands on hips.

“I might have been,” Clark manages to get out past his laughter.

Ten minutes later, we’re in a different room to the rear of the building. There’s a large stage set up, and about twenty people are sitting on bean bags on the floor. The audience, I presume. I watch Shane as he chews on his lip, and I place a hand lightly on his arm.

“Nervous?” I ask with a touch of a smile.

“I have no idea how I managed to be talked into this,” he replies, letting out a quick breath.

“It was probably the prospect of seeing Ben in his crotchless lingerie that got you going,” I joke, and he gives me a little amused scowl.

“But seriously, you can back out. This night is supposed to be fun. However, I will remind you that you wanted me to teach you how to live, and this, my friend, is living,” I say, gesturing around the room.

He gives me a confused look. “Stripping off in front of a bunch of strangers and baring your feelings is living?”

“It’s all about throwing away your inhibitions and putting your trust in other human beings. Believe me, letting this bunch see me in my unmentionables isn’t something I’m comfortable with, but I want to push my boundaries, see how fearless I can be.”

“You stand on the street in the middle of the night in a fairy costume. That’s fearless enough for one person, Jade,” he replies, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “And now that you mention it, I’m kind of looking forward to seeing those unmentionables.”

“Ah, I knew you were a scoundrel,” I reply with a laugh.

“A total cad and a bounder,” he says, voice low and hushed as he leans over to my ear. The way his breath caresses my neck gives me tingles and by the look on his face I’d say he knows it, too.

“You’re a cruel master, Shane Arthur, to tease me the way you do,” I tell him with false indignation just before Keith starts ushering us up onto the stage.

Those participating in the installation include me, Shane, Ben, Clark, and three other pairings, all male/female. Keith puts on some peaceful sort of meditation music and hands us each a marker, and then we begin to take off our clothes. I’m aware of the fact that this is going to be the first time Shane has seen me sans clothing, and me him. I caught one or two glimpses of him at the photo shoot, but nothing substantial. The night we had sex doesn’t count because it was dark and we only exposed the parts we, uh, needed to expose.

Although I’m not getting into my full birthday suit on this occasion, so there will still be parts left to the imagination. I’m like a high-class French courtesan who knows that partially covered flesh can be far more enticing than stark nudity. The unknown is sexier than the revealed. All magic tricks are a disappointment once you learn how they’re done.

Not that I want to be enticing here. Ah, crap, this really isn’t working.

Shane is already in his boxer shorts by the time I’ve dragged myself from my thoughts. He’s watching me, waiting. Only a minute ago I was the one telling him not to worry, and now I’m the one who’s stalling. Quickly, I lift my top over my head, revealing my ivory silk bra. I undo the zipper at the back of my skirt and shimmy it down my legs until there’s nothing left but the matching panties underneath.

“Do you want to go first?” Shane asks, his voice throaty, his eyes on the swell of my breasts.

I grip the marker in my fist, my palm growing sweatier by the minute. I’d been so caught up on the stripping part of this installation that I didn’t get the chance to think about which words I’m going to write on his skin. What do I see when I look at him?

I nod and swallow before stepping forward. Like all Band-Aids, it’s best to pull them off quickly. Uncapping it, I raise the marker to his collarbone and begin to write.

 

A few seconds later the word “vulnerable” is scrawled across Shane’s collarbone. For some reason he has his eyes closed, and I’m glad he probably isn’t going to be able to see half the things I’ve written on him unless he gets his hands on a mirror.

I’m hoping he decides to forgo the mirror and simply wash himself clean, because this shit is going to be embarrassing in the cold light of day. I lift his hand, and on each finger I write one letter until they form “skill.” His eyes are open now, and his attention is solely focused on what I’ve written.

I take his other hand and turn it palm up before scribbling “warmth.” On his abs I simply write the word “hot,” and he cranes his neck to see, looking pleased with himself when he reads it.

“Did you ever think this was what you’d be doing when I asked you here tonight?” I say, smiling up at him as I lower myself to my knees.

“In all honesty, I had no idea what to expect. You’re full of surprises, Bluebird.”

“Hmm, that was a good answer. By the way, those two girls sitting on the red bean bag are eyeing you up like you’re a prize turkey.”

His eyes crinkle. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure,” I reply sarcastically before lifting my marker to the defined muscle on his outer thigh and writing “strength.”

“Jade, you’re on your knees, and your face is right by my crotch. That’s the only thing I’m noticing right now,” he replies, all husky.

I start at his words and glance up at him again. Our eyes lock, and there’s a definite moment, though what we’re trying to communicate I couldn’t say.

“You’ve got a dirty mind, Mr Arthur.”

“And you’ve got the best cleavage, Miss Lennon. I mean, like, the best cleavage I’ve ever seen. I just want to put my mouth on it.”

“Somebody’s feeling frisky,” I observe, trying to sound calm and ignore the hot blush that’s spreading across my chest. In my head all I can see is Shane bending over me, his tongue flicking my nipple.

I stand again and move on to his shoulder. For some reason the word “regal” pops into my head. There’s something refined about the sharp lines of his muscles there that reminds me of royalty. On his inner forearm, the one that holds the bow when he plays, I write “strings.” On the left hand side of his chest, right where I imagine his heart to be, I write “pain.” I don’t know how he’s going to react to that, but I’m being honest when I write it. When I look at him, I see a heart that was badly broken and is only just sewing itself back together.

He stares at the letters for a long time and swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple moving. His eyes close then, and I wonder what he’s thinking about.

“You see a lot,” he whispers a moment later.

“We all see a lot when we decide to truly look,” I respond as I write “sex” on the “V” of his hip. He opens his eyes to see what I’ve written, and his gaze heats up.

“Why sex?” he questions intensely.

I smooth my hand over the word and bite my lower lip. My voice is barely a whisper when I say, “Because when I look here, all I can think about are your hips thrusting when you fucked me.”

“Jesus.”

“You asked the question.”

From across the room where he’s sitting in the audience, Keith rings a little bell and calls, “Okay, now it’s time to switch.”

Looking anywhere but at Shane, I screw the cap back onto my marker and wait. I was wrong when I thought being the “writer” was the hard part, because being the “writee” is much worse. The anticipation of knowing you’re going to find out what someone thinks of each part of you strips you bare. You’re completely at the mercy of their judgement, and that judgement could make you either plummet or soar.

This whole thing suddenly makes sense. Who we think we are is completely dependent on what others perceive us to be.

I now realise that Keith must have had a moment of pure genius when he came up with the idea for this installation. And to think I thought he just wanted to get his rocks off.

The first place Shane decides to write is on the side of my neck. I hold completely still, barely breathing as the soft brush of the marker moves across my skin. His other hand is on the opposite side of my neck, as though to keep me in place, but the only thing it’s really achieving is making me burn. Jesus, I’m practically panting here, and all he’s doing is touching my neck.

“What did you write?” I ask on a deep swallow once he’s finished. “That felt like a long word.”

To be honest, it probably just felt long because every second he has his hands on me feels like an hour.

“Wait and see,” he replies, and when I meet his gaze I find his eyes still haven’t lost their heat.

His marker goes to my breasts, where he scrawls “soft,” and then to my hip. I have to bend slightly to see he’s written “need.” Oh, God. His attention moves to my chest again, to my heart, and I swear I feel tears forming when I see him write “too big,” but I swallow down the emotion. Let it sit in my belly; better there than to seep through my eyes.

He turns me around, brushes my hair aside and begins writing along the expanse of my shoulders. It doesn’t feel like he’s writing, though. It feels more like he’s drawing something. I twist and glance over my shoulder, but it’s pointless. I can’t see a thing.

“That’s cheating,” I pout, and he reaches up quickly, rubbing his thumb over my bottom lip. I suck in air.

“You look cute when you do that.”

He bends down and writes something on the lower part of my arse, and again, I can’t see what it says. Damn him, it’s almost like he’s intentionally selecting parts he knows I’m not going to be able to read. His hand cups my cheek lightly, the touch making my heart pound. Moving along, on the top of my belly he writes “still” and on the bottom “life.”

Ha. That was clever. When I’m being a living statue, I find stillness in my core. I’m alive but I’m also a statue.

He takes my hand, and on each finger spells out the word “touch.” Then he turns it over and writes “me” in the centre of my palm. Wow. Does that mean he wants me to touch him?

I look at him, and it’s like he can read the question in my head because he answers, “All the time.”

My entire body is burning up, and right now I’m just hoping for this to be over so that I can wash his words off me and try to forget how he makes me feel. A moment later I get my wish when Keith rings his bell, signalling the end of the installation. Unfortunately, movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I realise that it’s not quite over yet.

Curtains that have been hung all around the stage, and which I thought were there simply for decoration, begin to be pulled back to reveal dozens of mirrors. There are big ones and small ones, round, square, and rectangular ones. Some of them have fancy wooden or metal frames, while others have no frames at all.

Okay, that Keith is one evil genius. I really hadn’t been expecting this, hadn’t thought that there would be a big finish. The audience is clapping and gasping as the lights in the room reflect off the mirrors.

Suddenly I’m catching glimpses of myself from all different angles. The other couples are going to the mirrors to study themselves and see what’s been written on them. For a long time I can’t move at all, afraid of what I might see. Then somebody’s taking my hand in theirs. Shane. He pulls me over to a large full-length mirror and positions me in front of it.

I stare at his elegant handwriting, and now I don’t want to wash it away. I want to tattoo it onto my skin so that I can keep this feeling, become the beautiful thing he thinks I am.

On my neck he’s written “swallow,” but for some reason I imagine the bird rather than the action. He knows I have a thing for birds. I turn around and crane my neck over my shoulder to see my back. My eyes trail to my arse cheek, and I giggle when I see the word “peach.” But that’s not what holds my attention. What holds my attention are the musical notes he’s drawn from one shoulder to the other. “What do they mean?” I ask.

He purses his lips, holding in a smile before answering, “It’s the musical notation to ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ by The Beatles.”

I laugh. “I love that song!” Sometimes I think my brain might be a Beatles track. You know, one of the trippy ones that don’t make any sense.

“Well, I would imagine so. You did write it in another life,” he teases.

“Ah, yes, very true,” I agree with a pleased nod.

He lets the smile free now. “It reminds me of you, the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”

“My eyes are green.”

“Not to me. I see a world of things in your gaze, Jade,” he replies mysteriously.

 I look at him through the mirror for a second but I don’t get the chance to question him because Keith hops up onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ‘Words and Skins,’ and I’ll leave you with one question. Is your identity an organic thing or dependent on what other people perceive of you? Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed this installation. If you’d like to take part in the next one, you can contact me on Twitter, Facebook, or through my website.”

The audience claps, and I go to grab my clothes. As I’m pulling on my top, Shane comes up beside me, buttoning his pants. “I think he kind of ruined the message with the social media bit at the end,” he whispers jokingly.

I roll my eyes in agreement, trying not to stare at his bare chest. “I know. I was thinking he might have some real substance until he did that.”

The doors are opened as the audience members start to leave, and loud music streams in from the other room. Once I’m dressed I look around for Ben and Clark, but they’ve already gone. They’re headed home to shag each other’s brains out, no doubt. Not that I’m jealous or anything.

Shane and I go in the direction of the music, back to the big room with the painted walls. Inside are an instrumental band that consists of an acoustic guitarist, a keyboard player, a drummer, a violinist, and an accordion player. Mary is going around the room with a tray of drinks as the band plays a rendition of Coldplay’s “The Scientist.” She hands Shane a plastic cup with some sort of orange cocktail, and I wave her off when she tries to give one to me. I can smell the rum in it from here.

We go and sit on a couple of pillows a few feet away from the band, and I notice the violinist’s eyes widen when he sees Shane. He definitely recognises him. Perhaps he’s even a fan. This is so exciting. I’m friends with a “sort of” famous person. I think Shane’s noticed, too, because he’s shifting uncomfortably as he sips on the cocktail Mary gave him.

“How’s the drink?” I ask.

“Completely awful,” he replies, and I burst out laughing.

“Why are you drinking it if it’s awful?”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

I shake my head and take the cup from him before setting it aside. The song comes to an end, and I watch as the violinist goes to whisper animatedly to the guitarist. The guy is only about nineteen or twenty, so it’s very likely that Shane is someone he looks up to. My suspicions are confirmed when both the violinist and the guitarist start waving Shane over.

“I think you’re wanted,” I tell him with a pleased expression.

His posture goes rigid. “No, I’m not.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Yes, you are. Now stop being antisocial and go over there and talk to them. Make some new friends.”

He gives me a long-suffering look before getting to his feet and walking to the musicians. I watch as the violinist gives Shane a big excited handshake and a pat on the back. The band all clamour around him, chatting animatedly. I sit back and watch. They’re obviously trying to get him to play a song with them because Shane’s shaking his head and I’m lip reading a whole bunch of “no” and “I can’t” responses.

I wonder how he can be so comfortable playing on stage with an orchestra, or even before with his string quartet, and yet he looks like playing here for this relatively small gathering of people is the last thing he wants to do. Perhaps it’s because there isn’t an actual stage here. There’s no formal line between him and the general public. Here he is the general public, and not some untouchable virtuoso on a grand platform. There’s no shield of distance.

Finally, it looks like the band has convinced him to play. He’s nodding his head and then making his way back over to me.

“They want me to play a song with them. Just one song. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, not at all.” I smile. “Go knock ’em dead.”

He gives me a small smile in return and then goes back to join the band. The violinist hands over his instrument to Shane and then retreats into the audience. The band starts up, and it takes me a second to realise they’re playing a modern song. Apart from his attempt at David Bowie in my bedroom, I haven’t yet heard Shane play a non-classical piece. I recognise it immediately as “Just the Way You Are” by Bruno Mars. The beat of the drum fills my ears, purple sound waves drifting up to the ceiling. The violin is like the voice, the rest of the instruments the backing track.

Whoa, he looks hot up there. He catches my eye then and doesn’t stop looking.

Feeling uncomfortable under his attention, I try to fix my stare on the other players, but it’s no use. I can still sense his gaze on me. Some people get up and start dancing to the catchy beat, some even sing the lyrics. It’s the kind of song that you can never feel sad after.

Once it’s over, Shane accepts some applause from the room before returning the violin to its owner.

“That was amazing,” I exclaim when he reaches me and sits back down. “I didn’t know you played modern songs, too.”

He shrugs, his eyes alight. I’ve noticed he always seems more energised after playing, more centred. “I learn them sometimes to take a break from my usual repertoire.” Pausing, he looks like he’s considering whether or not to tell me something. “My counsellor encouraged me to learn that one.”

It’s news to me that he sees a counsellor, but I don’t want to pry about it. “The Bruno Mars song?”

He grimaces. “She said I should learn some happy songs. There was a period of about six months where all I could play was funerary music.”

This piece of information concerns me, but I file it away for later. Deciding to make light of it instead, I whisper, “Did you go through a Goth phase, Shane?”

He laughs. “No, I was just sad.”

I venture a guess. “Because of Mona?”

“She was a part of it. Anyway, once I agreed to move on, I was glad. Funerary violin is beautiful, but it’s also pretty depressing.”

“I can imagine. So, have you had fun tonight?”

He grins. “Yes, in the most bizarre way possible.”

“Will you come again? Get to know the people.” I nod over to the band. “You’ve already made some new friends.”

“I’ll come again, but only if you’re here.”

“I’m here every few weekends. Next time I’ll bring you up onto the roof. It’s great to just sit in the dark and look at the night sky, see how many stars you can count, see if you can count any at all.”

Shane doesn’t say anything, and when I look at him his attention is focused intently on my mouth. He looks into my eyes then, and I get caught. I hadn’t realised until now just how close we are, just how cosy we must look sitting huddled together on these pillows.

He swallows hard and says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Promise not to get mad at me or not want to be my friend anymore?”

Wary now, I reply, “I’ll try not to.”

He moves even closer, taking my hand into his and smoothing his fingers over my knuckles. It feels nice.

“When we’re around each other there’s this…tension.” He pauses for a second.

Yeah, he doesn’t need to explain further, because I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“It’s fucking agony, Jade, not to touch you,” he continues, like he’s baring his soul. “And I know you’re not interested in a relationship, so I was thinking we could have an arrangement.”

I raise an eyebrow, not liking where I can see this heading.

“‘An arrangement?’” I question. He stares at me and I can’t take the atmosphere, so I have to crack a joke. “I hope you’re not suggesting a Pretty Woman scenario here?”

The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.” He draws closer so that he can whisper into my ear. “I want to be inside you again.”

I whimper, and his tongue flicks over the shell of my ear, turning my entire body to jelly.

“You want us to be fuck buddies,” I say, my voice barely audible.

“I prefer the term ‘friends with benefits.’ I have so much respect for you, Jade, and I promise to treat you like a queen, but I need you. I’ll be your friend, but with more…”

“Shane, I…”

“Please don’t say no.”

“I have to think about this.”

He pulls me to him, resting his forehead against mine and exhaling. “Okay.”

“I’ll let you know…I mean, I think we need to call it a night.” I draw away, but he grips my hand.

“I’ll drive you home.” His eyes flick back and forth between mine as though trying to decipher my thoughts. “Jade, tell me I haven’t fucked up.”

“You haven’t fucked up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

And with that he pulls us both up to stand, leading me from the room and out of the building.

 

The next morning I’m chatting with my neighbour Barry a couple of houses down from mine when I see Pete leaving for school. I say my quick goodbyes to Barry before cutting down a side alley that I know will bring me directly onto Pete’s path.

“Hello, stranger, fancy meeting you here,” I say as I fall into step beside him.

His sleepy eyes drift to me as he shakes his head. “What do you think you’re doing, Jade?”

“Taking a stroll,” I answer with a shrug. “Thought I’d keep you company while I’m at it.”

A sigh. “I know what you’re up to.”

He’s not getting mad at me, which is a good sign. “Uh, yeah. Like I said, I’m taking a stroll.”

“Herding me to school, more like.”

I let out a big long chuckle and smack him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, you teenagers are such suspicious creatures.”

He doesn’t say anything, and we continue walking. Once we’re around the corner from his school, I wave him off. He takes a few steps before turning back around.

Scratching at his head, he asks, “Does your friend still want to give me music lessons?”

I’m surprised he’s asked this, and given the open-ended way I left things with Shane last night, I’m not certain what’s going to happen between us, but I’m sure he’ll still work with Pete if I ask him to.

“Of course.”

“And he’s not just doing it because you’re making him?”

“Of course not!”

“Okay, well, you can tell him I’ll do it.”

Wow, that was easier than I thought it’d be. I imagined I’d be in for at least another couple weeks of sulking before he came around. I salute him, then turn on my heel and head home.

Last night Shane dropped me off at my house, walking me to the door and giving me a long, question-filled hug. We parted ways, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since. I hardly got a wink of sleep, which is why I was up early enough to make sure Pete got himself to school this morning.

When I think about what Shane’s asked of me, my entire body screams that it’s the worst idea in the history of Jade Lennon. And believe me, there have been some bad ones. Every part of me wants to be with him, but at the same time every part of me says that I won’t be able to keep my emotions from getting involved.

At around lunchtime I get a text from him politely asking how my morning went. Politely skirting the real question. Even seeing his words on the screen of my phone makes me feel all anxious, and I can’t bring myself to reply. Later on I arrive at work and check the roster to find I’m on the front of house box office. This makes me relax a little, because Shane won’t be able to come see me like he does at the bar.

Midway through my shift, Lara ventures over from her station in the merchandise shop to slide a walnut whip through my window slot.

“What’s this for?” I ask with a grin.

“You look a bit down in the dumps today. I thought chocolate would be a good cure.”

Really, this girl has a heart of gold.

“You had the right idea. Thanks,” I say before she moves out of the way so I can deal with my next customers. There’s a show about to start in fifteen minutes, so the lobby is packed with people queuing to get to their seats. I’ve barely even noticed what’s on since I’ve been in such a daze all day.

“We have tickets reserved for collection,” comes a vaguely familiar voice as my next customer steps up to the booth.  I slide the walnut whip under my seat and glance up to find Mirin standing before me with a man I presume to be her husband beside her. He’s got the same brandy-coloured eyes as Shane, but that’s the only resemblance.

My heart pounds. God, why did she have to come to this booth? I feel anxious enough right now as it is, since last night her son had the good grace to proposition me with an arrangement my brain refuses to work its way around.

“Oh, hello, Mrs Arthur. Are the tickets under your name?”

“No, my husband’s. Reginald Arthur.”

“Right,” I say as I flick through the reserve drawer. Mirin doesn’t bother to introduce me to Reginald, which leads me to believe she doesn’t want him to know me. Finding the tickets, I slip them through to her. All the while she’s staring down at me like I’m a slice of stale bread someone’s just put on her plate. She swipes the tickets up into her talons, I mean, hands, and away they both go.

Thank fuck for that being short and sweet.

Once the show starts, I join Lara in the break room to enjoy my walnut whip with a cup of tea. Lara has one, too, and we both chow down in contented silence. I always get a craving for sugar after a long day. She tells me how pleased she is with April as her child minder, and I’m pleasantly surprised that my sister’s actually taken to the work. I’ve even seen a marked improvement in her mood, since she’s now got a purpose and some regular money in her pocket. And there haven’t been any older men calling to the house, which is a plus.

Now it seems I’ve just got Project Pete to contend with.

Towards the end of our break, my supervisor comes and asks me if I’ll prepare the refreshments for the orchestra’s dressing room during the interval. The girl who’d been on duty there had to go home sick. I tell him I’d be glad to, but all the while I’m cursing him out in my head. Making my way to the bar, I find a rider of requested beverages, mostly water, teas, and fruit juices.

The members of the symphony have this great big dressing room with mirrors and bright lighting, like backstage on a Broadway musical. It’s basically a giant room with long lines of tables and mirrors, each one belonging to a different musician.

I know exactly which one belongs to Shane because he probably got the seat of the concertmaster who left. Checking the rider, I see all he asked for was a bottle of water. I quickly place it on his table and move on. At the rate I’m going, I won’t be done by the time the interval starts, given I have almost a hundred people to cater to.

Normally there are two workers to do this task, but we must be short-staffed tonight, which means I’m all by my lonesome. I can hear the recognisable melody of the William Tell Overture coming to a close, and then the musicians are making their way to the dressing room. I’ve still got about twenty tables to do, so I hurry up.

Water.

Coffee.

Ginger tea.

Water.

As I approach the next table, I pause and glance up because somebody is standing in my way. Shane’s deep eyes look into mine, and I swallow hard.

“You never answered my texts,” he says as he studies me.

We’re nowhere near his dressing table, so he obviously sought me out. I move by him and set another water down on a table.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy with work, and I left my phone in my bag in the staffroom. Was it anything important?” I say, trying my best to be casual.

Shane sighs. “So this is how you’re going to be, huh?”

I flinch as I transfer more refreshments onto dressing tables. There are people moving by all around us, which makes the situation even more stressful.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re acting all flustered and pretending like you’ve forgotten what we talked about last night.”

“I’m not pretending,” I say.

I’ve just finished with the last table, and a female cellist grins at me appreciatively, taking a sip from her orange juice.

“And I haven’t forgotten, Shane,” I continue quietly. “I’m still considering things.”

We reach the door leading out of the dressing room, but he puts his arm in my way to stop me. “Don’t freeze me out. I’m dying here,” he pleads, and the sound of his voice makes my stomach clench with guilt for making him wait, despite the fact it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.

I set the wheelie tray aside and give him my eyes, placing my hand on his arm in a gentle grip. “I’m not going to do that. I just need more time.”

He stares at me seriously, and he must see something that puts his mind at ease, because his body loses some of its tension. I can feel eyes watching us through the dressing room door, but I ignore them. I never read any rules about not being allowed to have a personal relationship with a member of the orchestra. We work in the same building, but you wouldn’t exactly call us co-workers, so I don’t really care about people assuming things.

A long stretch of silence elapses between us before I say, “By the way, Pete’s agreed to the music lessons.”

A smile splits his lips, a real one, too. He genuinely wants to help my little brother. “That’s great, Jade. I’ll let you know when I’ve figured out which day will be best. We’ve got a lot of shows coming up, and I haven’t fallen into a proper routine yet.”

“That’s cool. Call me when you know,” I say, moving to go by him. “I need to get back to work now, okay?”

Reaching out, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear that’s fallen free of my bun. “Okay,” he breathes, and then he goes back inside the dressing room. I hurry to restock my tray, and then I return to see if any of the musicians need refills. I’m busy, but I can feel Shane watching me from where he sits quietly sipping on his water.

The other violinist, Avery, has the dressing table right beside his, and she’s chatting away to him. I wonder if he’s even listening because his eyes haven’t once left me. All of a sudden my white blouse feels too tight, my black skirt too restricting. He has this way of making me feel stripped bare even when I’m fully clothed.

It’s customary for me to do the rounds of the entire room, and when I get to Shane he says yes to another bottle of water. I know for a fact he has no intention of drinking it. He’s just doing this so that we’ll have to interact. Avery doesn’t want anything else and turns to fix her hair in a French twist.

When I hand Shane his second water, his fingers purposely graze mine, his stare hot, and I practically trip over my own feet to get moving on to my next stop. I can’t be certain, but I think I see his lips curve in a smirk.

Soon the interval is over, and it’s time for the performance to resume. I couldn’t be happier for the reprieve.

When I’m helping with closing up later on, I see Shane with his parents and a few other people in the lobby, all chatting in a group. Everything about them screams money, from the clothes they wear to the subtle gestures they make as they talk. Lara shoots me a funny annoyed look from across the way, where she’s closing up on merchandise. Clearly, she wants all the stragglers to push on so that we can close up properly and get home to our much-needed beds.

I keep feeling my eyes drifting shut due to my lack of sleep last night, so I have to continually blink to stay focused. I cash out my till and then go to assist Lara in fixing the merchandise shelves. Straining my ears, I try to hear what Shane and the people he’s with are talking about, but they’re too far away.

When he catches me looking, he says something to his dad before leaving the group and walking toward me. Great. I brought this on myself by staring at him like a love-hungry teenager and I know it. Still, I busy myself with the DVD shelf and try to pretend I don’t know he’s standing right behind me.

“Busy night?” he asks, one hand resting on the shelf above my head.

“No busier than usual. Did you play well?”

“I did. You didn’t get a chance to come see?”

I shake my head and give him a little smile while continuing to stack DVDs. “I rarely do. I’m hardly ever on duty in the auditorium. They mostly put me on the bar or the ticket booths.”

Shane rubs his jaw. “Yeah, I noticed it’s always the old matrons who usher.”

I grin now and whisper, “They’ve got it all sewn up. They’re like the concert hall mafia. Ushering is the easiest job. Oh, and don’t ever call them old matrons to their faces. Otherwise, you’ll be sleeping with the fishes.”

Shane moves closer, chuckling low. “I’ll remember that.”

His hand strokes my neck. I gasp and step away. “You might be off duty, but I’m still working,” I remind him, not meeting his eyes.

“It must have slipped my mind,” he mutters, his eyes boring holes into the side of my head.

His mother calls him back over, and he whispers goodbye before leaving me. I let out a long breath and look to Lara, who’s standing several feet away and who obviously observed everything just now.

“Ben’s right. He really does want to stick his Channing in your Tatum,” she says on a giggle.

I feign throwing a DVD at her head and laugh at how catastrophically badly she just messed up that sentence.

***

“I want you out of this house right now,” I demand, standing in the kitchen doorway in my nightgown.

It’s nine o’clock in the morning and Patrick, the good-for-nothing father of my three younger siblings is sitting at the table. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him and a half-smoked cigarette dangling between his dirty fingers. I hate it when all his other options have dried up, and he decides to come and burden himself on us.

His dull eyes flick to me as he takes a drag. “Greta kicked me out. I’ll need to stay here for a few days.”

“This isn’t your house, and you’re not welcome, Patrick.”

His fist slams hard down into the table, and I jump in fright. “I’ll stay as long as I like.”

“You’ll get the fuck out, or I’ll tell Alec to throw you out.”

“My son doesn’t take orders from you. And you’d do well to behave,” he replies, the threat obvious.

I can’t stand him. A couple of months before Pete was born, he and my mother broke up for good. I can’t get my head around why she put up with him for as long as she did in the first place. Mum was an intelligent woman, but she must have had a touch of low self-esteem to ever think this fool was what she deserved. I had to put up with him as a shoddy substitute father for way too long. The last time he came here, he stole fifty euros out of my purse and went to the bookies.

Then he showed up at three in the morning, shouting to get in because I’d locked all the windows and doors. After about an hour of banging and yelling, and after he’d woken half the neighbourhood, he finally gave up and left. This is the first I’ve seen of him since.

I fold my arms. “I suppose you’re here to pay me back that fifty?”

“What fifty?” he answers casually, as though butter wouldn’t melt.

“That’s it. I’m getting Alec.”

Strolling into the hallway, I call for my brother, but then my stomach sinks when I remember he’s working today. Patrick must know this already because I can hear him laughing. Now all I’ve got is an empty house and a drunkard gambler in my kitchen. Deciding to face the music alone, I march back in and lift the landline from the receiver on the wall.

“Get out or I’ll call the police.”

He stubs his smoke in an empty mug and gives me a look that says, I dare you.

I give him a steely look in return and begin dialling those three little numbers. When the operator swiftly answers, “Nine, nine, nine. What’s your emergency?” Patrick’s chair squeals against the linoleum as he gets to his feet.

“Fine. I’m going,” he spits, and I hang up the phone just as the front door opens and slams shut. Hmm, he must have been in a spot of bother with the police recently and doesn’t want any more run-ins.

Patrick’s not clever enough to be completely evil; however, he is an addict and a leech. I can’t afford to have him in this house wreaking havoc with everyone’s routines. He’s never been a dad to Pete, April, or Alec, and the only reason he ever comes here is for money and a roof over his head.

As I go to find breakfast, I look down to see that my hands are shaking, so I make a cup of camomile tea in the hopes that it will settle my nerves. I try to steer clear of anti-anxiety medication, because like Patrick I’m an addict and I can’t do drugs of any sort in half measures.

Perhaps that’s why I can’t stand to have him around, because in a way he’s like a mirror held up to my own flaws.

After breakfast I get ready for work, and I’m late so I flag a taxi on my way. There’s an afternoon as well as an evening event today, so my shift is going to be a long one. The roster tells me I’m on the ground floor bar, which is a lot busier than the one on the first floor. And it’s just my luck that when I get there both Shane and Avery are sitting on stools and sipping on coffees.

“Hello, Jade, isn’t it?” Avery greets me as I step out from the back room. Shane stays quiet and lifts his cup to his mouth.

This woman is nice, I can tell, and since I’ve always kind of felt sorry for her after Noeleen told me of her wedding obsession, I don’t like the idea of Shane using her. The fact they’re both sitting here is either a coincidence, or he’s trying to make me jealous. Okay, so maybe I’m just a little on edge after my encounter with Patrick this morning and feeling extra suspicious.

“Yep, that’s right, and you’re Avery. I hear you’re wonderful on the violin.” I haven’t heard that, but I know she plays, and for some reason I feel the need to give her a compliment.

She smiles modestly. “Thank you. Shane was telling me about the place you took him to on Sunday. It sounds amazing.”

“Oh, Ladybirds? Yeah, it’s a great club. You can come with us next time if you like.”

Her eyes light up, and I sense an innocence about her, a sheltered life. “Really? I’d love to.”

Shane’s eyes warm as he takes me in, and I suddenly realise that I was wrong. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous. He’s just trying to make a new friend, like I’ve been encouraging him to do. He sees the same innocence in Avery that I see, and he likes that I’m being nice to her.

“Great. Shane can pick you up.”

“I’d be glad to,” Shane puts in.

I wipe down the bar and go to serve a customer sitting at the other end.

“Jade Lennon, you’re in big trouble!” I hear Alec’s voice boom jokingly around the room as he walks toward the bar. I sigh, taking in his dirty work clothes and his dishevelled Mohawk. Only my brother wouldn’t think twice about walking into a classy place like this in construction gear. He slides onto a stool and gives Shane a sturdy handshake before nodding hello to Avery and winking. Her cheeks redden, and I let out another sigh. Alec never met a vagina he didn’t like.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I ask as I use a dish towel to dry some glasses.

“I heard you had a visitor this morning. I’m working on a site close by today, so I thought I’d drop over and see if you’re all right.”

“I can handle your dad, Alec.”

“I know that. But he can be a prick at the best of times. Did he say anything to you?”

“He said a few things. He always does. Had his mind set on staying at ours, but I threatened him with calling the police and he skedaddled. We probably won’t be hearing from him again for a while.”

Both Shane and Avery are quiet as they listen to our exchange.

“Yeah, he rang me, giving out hell and calling you every name under the sun. I told him straight that he couldn’t stay.”

“I’m sorry, Al. I know he’s your dad and all, but I can’t have him in the house. I’m only starting to make headway with Pete, and you know if Patrick’s around all that will go to shit.”

“I know. I don’t want him there, either.”

When I glance at Shane for a second, I find concern and protectiveness etched on his face. It makes my heart stutter.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask Alec. “Or I could grab you something from the restaurant. Have you eaten yet?”

He pats his stomach. “Nope, haven’t had the chance. If you could get your hands on a sandwich, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”

The concert hall houses a restaurant to the front of the building and I’m friends with a couple of the kitchen staff, so I know it won’t be a problem getting something for Alec. When I return with a chicken and bacon club, I find Shane gone and Alec sitting on his vacated stool next to Avery, too close really.

I put the sandwich down in front of him, and he gives me a grin in thanks.

“So, how long have you been in the orchestra?” he asks her, and I watch with interest.

I don’t like the idea of my brother with this girl, mainly because I can see him chewing her up and spitting her out, but I’m still fascinated. The two of them are so different, her refined and well-bred, Alec unrefined and rough around the edges. In some ways they’re like me and Shane. Although I like to think I’m not as rough and ready as my brother.

“Just over a year,” Avery replies shyly, focusing intently on her coffee cup as she drains the last of its contents. She looks like she might have a heart attack from Alec’s attention. “I’d better get going. It’s not long before the afternoon concert starts.”

Just as she slides off her stool, Alec puts down his sandwich and grabs her hand, pulling it to his mouth and kissing it. I try to hold back my laugh. He can be such a little chancer at times.

“Hopefully we’ll bump into each other again sometime,” he says as he looks up at her.

Avery lets out a tiny gasp and blushes yet again before quickly stealing away.

Alec turns back around in his stool and resumes eating his sandwich, a pleased gleam in his eye. I shake my head at him.

“Smooth as ever, bro.”

He grins. “What can I say? I think I’ve just acquired a taste for posh birds.”

I point a finger at him. “You leave her alone. She’s not like your usual type.”

“Oh, so it’s all right for you to punch above your weight, but not me?” he chides me playfully.

I scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The half-Asian pretty boy. I know you’ve been getting yourself a slice of action there.”

“We’re friends, Alec. Believe it or not, some people are actually capable of maintaining friendships with the opposite sex.”

“Some people, but not you two. I’m not blind.”

God, he’s so right. I hate that he’s right. “Whatever.”

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh. “Ha! I knew it. To be honest, I’m glad for you, sis. I was beginning to get worried. You haven’t had a bloke since that fuckhead Jason years ago.”

“We’re not together, not like that. We just had a bit of a thing…”

“Okay, stop right there. I don’t want any details,” Alec interrupts, wiping some crumbs off his mouth with a bar napkin.

I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, you won’t be getting any.” Sex talk with my brother is not something that’s on my bucket list, thank you very much. I serve a couple of customers while he finishes his food.

“So, I suppose I’m on dinner duty tonight,” he says, setting the plate aside.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’m working until ten.”

“No problem, I’ll grab some Chinese.”

A few minutes later he heads back to work, and I get busy as the bar starts to fill up. When the early evening crowd have gone and it’s time for my break, I find a message from Shane on my phone from a few minutes ago.

Sorry I had 2 leave w/out saying goodbye earlier. Come c me in the dressing room?

I wonder what he wants to see me for. I have to grab something to eat while I’m on my break, but I suppose I can spare a few minutes to go talk to him. The dressing room is mostly empty when I get there; Shane’s sitting, scrolling through his phone when his head comes up and he spots me approaching. I slide my bum onto the table in front of him and fold my arms.

“I saw your message. What’s up?” I say as he tucks his phone back in his pants pocket.

“Have you eaten?” he asks and winces suddenly, lifting his hand to rub the side of his neck.

“Not yet,” I say, and frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit of neck strain. It happens when you spend half your life with an instrument tucked there.” He gives me a half-hearted smile.

“Ouch. Come here,” I reply before I’ve properly thought it through.

He comes to me willingly, and I lean closer so I can gently rub his neck. Letting out a low groan, he melts into my touch, and the noise stirs a tingle between my legs. His hand rests on my thigh as I continue to massage his sore spot.

“That feels amazing. Can I hire you as my personal masseuse?”

I chuckle quietly. “I’m afraid you couldn’t afford me, sir.”

Another low groan. Wow, that noise is such an aphrodisiac it’s not funny. “Name your price.”

I just shake my head and keep rubbing until I feel him loosen up. “Any better?”

His eyes move to mine, hot and seeking. He seems to be considering something, but then simply answers, “Much better,” and pulls his chair back to its original spot. “So, do you want to go grab some food?”

“Sure. I was going to get a burrito. I need the carbs when I’m on my feet all day,” I reply. “Does that suit you?”

“Suits me fine,” he says, grabbing his coat.

We walk to the nearby burrito bar and then decide to sit in the gardens just behind the concert hall to eat.

“My brother was chatting up Avery at the bar after you left, you know,” I say before taking a big bite.

Shane looks surprised. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought she’d be his, uh, type.”

“Alec doesn’t have a type. He likes all types. But anyway, maybe you could warn her away from him? I don’t want her getting hurt when he takes her for a one-night stand and then never calls her again. She seems like a sensitive girl.”

“Oh, right, that sort of behaviour must run in the family,” Shane teases me.

I stare at him. “That’s not that same thing.”

He can barely conceal his grin. “So you’re saying I’d have seen you again if it hadn’t by chance turned out that I played in the orchestra?”

“Of course you’d have seen me again. Every time you walked down Grafton Street, you’d see me standing there all in blue,” I tease him back.

“Ah, so I’d get to admire you from afar.”

“Exactly.”

“Kind of feels like that anyway,” he says quietly.

“That’s not true. You’re always close, Shane. Too close.”

“Not close enough.”

A silence falls. I take a couple more bites of my burrito, but I know I can’t finish it. All of a sudden I’ve lost my appetite. I wrap it up in the foil and put it in my bag. Perhaps I’ll eat the rest later.

“I’m not sure if I can agree to what you’ve asked,” I say softly.

He turns to face me, his brows knit together. “Why not?”

“I just don’t feel up to that sort of an arrangement,” I answer, my voice breaking slightly.

Understanding in his gaze, he recognises my inner struggle and nods, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me to his side. “Okay, Bluebird. Let’s forget I ever brought it up.”

I rest my head on his shoulder and stare straight ahead, whispering, “Thank you.” And for the next while we sit in quiet, listening to the water crash in the garden waterfall close by.