Still Life with Strings (12 page)

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.”