by L.H. Cosway
His mouth flattens as he yet again runs a hand through his dark blond hair. He always was overly fond of those locks. In this moment I feel like taking a razor blade and shaving them all off.
My anger is warranted. The last time I saw him, he was going down on some brunette in our dingy studio apartment. That was the tipping point for me. I packed up my stuff and moved back home. Two months later I gave up drinking altogether. Several months after that Mum passed away.
“I’m sorry — did I do something to offend you?” he asks abruptly.
“Yeah, you’ve done plenty.”
“You’re being rude.” He pauses, and a sly gleam comes into his eyes. “I should have a word with your manager.”
He definitely hasn’t changed a bit. Still the petty fucker he always was. “Do it, and I’ll tell your pretty fiancée all about your previous antics. I think she’ll be particularly pleased to hear how you slapped me across the face because I wouldn’t give you money to go out drinking with your mates.”
His expression turns glacial, and my heart pounds. It hurts to even think about our history, never mind put it into words.
Go. Please, just go.
“You’re a little bitch.”
I just stare at him, hoping that if I stare long enough I’ll realise that the last five minutes were a figment of my imagination and that Jason was never here at all.
He stands back and taps his toe on the floor, like he’s waiting for me to apologise or something. Finally, he gets the message, picks up his drink, shakes his head, and walks away. I walk straight to the back of the bar and let out a long exhalation like I’ve been holding my breath under water.
Tears catch in my throat, but I swallow them all back. I can’t start blubbering in the middle of work. A buzzing comes from my pocket as my phone rings on “silent.” Pulling it out, I see Shane’s name on the screen, and that in itself soothes something inside me.
“Hello,” I answer, my voice a little shaky.
“Hey, just calling to let you know I’ll be there Sunday,” he says, somewhat hesitantly. I guess he’s unsure where things stand between us after last night.
“That’s great. I’m really looking forward to it.”
Shane laughs, and there’s a faint note of relief to the sound. “Me, too, even though I don’t know what we’re doing. Hey, is everything all right? You sound a bit off.”
I rub my forehead. “I’m working, and I just had a run-in with my ex-boyfriend.”
Shane sucks in a breath. “You mean the ex-boyfriend? The one who made you swear off all relationships?”
The lilting, almost teasing tone of his voice makes me feel better than I did five minutes ago.
“The one and only. He’s still a prick.”
“A giant gaping prick,” Shane agrees. “You’re too good for him. Don’t be sad, Bluebird. You’re too pretty to be sad.”
“Aw, shucks, you know just the right things to say to a girl.” I laugh. “So what have you been up to today?”
I hear some movement before he replies, “I went for a run, then practiced and watched House of Cards on Netflix.”
“Good times. Well, I suppose I’ll see you Sunday, then.”
“Yeah, see you Sunday, Jade.”
Stuffing my phone into my pocket and feeling a whole lot better after only a short conversation with Shane, I head back out to the bar. The bottle I dropped earlier still needs to be cleaned up, but the bar is empty since the show has started. Going to the storage closet, I grab a dustpan and brush and a mop.
All the doors to the hall are closed, muffling the sound of the music. But then one of my co-workers slips out and hurries off on some errand; the door catches and doesn’t shut properly, so now I can hear the music full throttle.
Paul Dukas’s “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” streams out, and my heart lifts. Leaving the cleaning for a moment, I close my eyes and listen.
Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…
Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee dum…
And then comes what I like to call the big extravaganza, that part of a piece where the whole orchestra comes alive and the power of the music feels like it could knock you off your feet. The music goes quiet again, building, building…
The roll of industrial paper towels on the counter starts to twirl, unwrapping in a long train of blue. It sails to the liquid on the floor, soaking up the spillage, then balls itself up and shoots into the bin. The dustpan I’ve left by the bar moves the tiniest bit. And again. I smile. Both dustpan and brush rise into the air and shuffle toward the broken glass. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty. Sweep, sweep, sweep, empty.
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.
Twelve
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 t
o 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.
Perhaps he used a mirror and wrote it on himself.
“This is Keith,” says Ben, introducing us. “He wants to know if we’ll take part in his interactive art installation.”
“Ah,” I reply, folding my arms and going to stand by Shane. “And what does it entail?”
I can’t hide the sceptical note in my voice. An interactive art installation usually equals embarrassment in some form or another. It could be anything from sitting on a stack of mattresses while people throw basketballs over your head to stripping naked and frolicking about like a nudist on a tropical beach while a choir sings the lyrics to “Over the Rainbow.”
