Still Life with Strings (15 page)

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.