Still Life with Strings

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I give him a grave nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

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

  “Fifteen, shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Surely not as awful as mine.”

  “Want to bet?”

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

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

  “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

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

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

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

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

  Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oh, nothing much.”

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

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

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

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

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