Still Life with Strings (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ugh, I know the
feeling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” he
asks.

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

“What’s yours?” I
counter.

“Shane.”

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

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

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