Still Life with Strings

by L.H. Cosway

  His faraway eyes come back to me. “What is perfect, anyway?”

  “Whatever you want it to be. Think of it more as a feeling. I think perfect is just feeling content with your lot.”

  The elevator doors open just then, signalling we’ve arrived on the ground floor. Shane doesn’t respond to what I’ve said, but from the look on his face I can tell he’s really thinking about it. I ask him if he drove in, but he tells me no, that he left his car at home. Parking in the city is shit and all that jazz.

  “I have to go grocery shopping first. Are you sure you still want to tag along?”

  “Of course,” he replies enthusiastically, like I just told him I’m going on a roller-coaster ride instead of picking up a few things for dinner.

  When we reach the supermarket, I surreptitiously stand aside and pretend to be searching for something in my bag, when really I’m toting up how much money I have to spend. I think Shane notices what I’m doing but he doesn’t say anything.

  I decide I’m in the mood for something creamy, so I grab the ingredients for a spaghetti carbonara. April always complains when I cook Italian, too many carbs apparently (cue heavy sigh), but she’ll just have to put up with it for one evening. Shane follows alongside me as I stroll the aisles, like a really well-behaved dog. He watches me pick stuff up and mull over prices as though it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever witnessed.

  To be honest, it’s starting to weird me out. I’m beginning to learn that this man can be pretty full-on.

  “What do you normally like to eat?” I ask to break his rapt attention.

  He grins sheepishly. “I usually order my food from this gourmet delivery service. I never really have time to cook. They do a chicken and avocado salad that I’m seriously addicted to.”

  “Gourmet delivery, you say,” I tease him while twirling my invisible moustache. “What, is Dominos not good enough for you?”

  “Dominos is fine, but if I don’t want to put on ten stone, then I try to avoid fast food.”

  “Hmm, what do you do to keep in shape?” I ask, placing a bag of dried pasta in my basket.

  “I run. I’ve never bothered with gyms because I haven’t really been in one place for long enough to justify a membership. Running is something you can do anywhere.”

  He must run a lot, because let’s just say his violin is not the only thing that’s finely tuned, if you get me.

  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.

  Ten

  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.”

  “He doesn’t show up?” I ask in alarm. “But the school never contacted me about any absences. Aren’t they supposed to do that?”

  Mr Hegarty sighs and rubs at the crease in between his eyebrows. “The new attendance swipe cards they’ve brought in make things harder for us to tell when a student is absent. It’s a ridiculous system, in my opinion. The students are supposed to swipe them through the scanner once in the morning and then again after lunch. So we get a lot of kids having their friends swipe their cards for them, or else they come in, swipe them themselves, and then leave the school. It’s a big problem.”

  “Right,” I say with a disgruntled heavy breath. “So this is clearly what Pete has been doing. He’s seriously in for it when I get home.”

  “Miss Lennon, I’ve had
kids like Pete coming through my doors for years. If they don’t want to be here, then there’s not a lot you can do beyond supervising their every move.”

  “Yeah, and I definitely don’t have the time for that.”

  “I suggest you have a talk with him, try to get him to understand that neglecting his education isn’t going to benefit him in the long run.”

  I talk with Mr Hegarty for another few minutes while Shane sits quietly by my side. I wonder what he thinks of all this. The next couple of teachers pretty much tell me the same thing, and a few of them don’t even know Pete since he’s absent so often. It’s all a big old slap in the face, really. I knew Pete wasn’t exactly the most functional of teenagers, but I didn’t think it was this bad. And I’m also wondering why he even told me about the parent teacher night at all. Was it a cry for help, or simply a big fat middle finger?

  It’s only when we go to visit his music teacher that I get some good news, a little trickle of hope. His teacher is a thirty-something balding guy wearing a paisley shirt, and he tells me that Pete’s been doing some amazing things in class when he bothers to show up. I’m getting that this guy is more into teaching modern music than taking the classical approach. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, since he didn’t recognise Shane when I introduced him.

  So, apparently Pete’s got a whole bunch of music creator apps on his smart phone and has been creating his own tracks. Other than when he blasts all this trance and dance stuff from his bedroom, I didn’t even know he was that into music. Just goes to show that teenagers tell their parents (and guardians) sweet fuck-all.

  I thank the music teacher and then get up to leave. When I reach the corridor, which is full of parents going from classroom to classroom, I slump back against the wall for a minute, wracking my brain for ideas. I need to think of something to get Pete back on the straight and narrow, but it can’t be all the obvious stuff like grounding him and taking away his PlayStation. That kind of aggressiveness never works for long. I need to take a softly, softly approach. Something less all guns blazing and more intelligent.