Still Life with Strings

  “Are you working tomorrow?”

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

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

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

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

  Eight

  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, Sha
ne. 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 20th 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.