Still Life with Strings (14 page)

One Saturday lunchtime
about a year ago, I had a guy grab my money hat and run off with it. Of course
I got down from my box and chased after him, but he’d easily disappeared into
the crowd, and all the cash I’d made that day was gone.

I like to imagine it
made for a good visual, though, even if I did get robbed. Imagine it, a woman
with wings all dressed in blue chasing a thug through the street like her life
depended on it. Yeah. Perhaps I entertained a few people.

Hat on the ground. Box
situated. I step up onto my little stage, which is probably about two square
feet at most, and I become something else. I’m a statue in a museum full of
priceless art. A mythical creature turned to stone in the White Witch’s
courtyard in Narnia. A marble angel wrought by the hands of Michelangelo in a
church somewhere in Italy.

Or just a girl on a box
who finds comfort in the anonymity of white paint and fake hair.

A group stops to look
at me, and I’m as still as a feather in a world with no air. One of the women
smiles and steps forward, dropping a two-euro coin into my hat. Ah, for this
she gets a present.

Some living statues
give lollipops to kids. Some give pretty flowers. I, on the other hand, slowly
reach up and tug a blue feather from my wings. Graceful as a dancer in the
Bolshoi Ballet, my arm comes down as I bow to her and present the feather.
Smiling whimsically, she takes it from my hand and says thank you. I allow the
faintest of smiles to touch my lips in return as I rise back to my upright position.

After another minute or
two, the group moves on.

I don’t give feathers
to all the people who leave money in my hat. It always depends on the person.
It’s like I have this internal radar that tells me who will throw the feather
away at the nearest dustbin, and who will bring it home, put it somewhere safe,
and cherish it like it’s a precious diamond they found buried deep in the
earth.

When I go home, I
replace the feathers by sewing in new ones. I have a big bag of them stuffed in
my bottom drawer. One time when I was babysitting Mia for Lara, I left her in
my room playing with her dolls, and when I returned I found her sitting on the
floor surrounded by blue feathers.

I didn’t stop laughing
for at least half an hour.

The sneaky little thing
had discovered my secret stash. For weeks afterward I was finding blue feathers
in random places around the house, and every time I found one it would make me
smile to think of Mia’s face full of delight as she threw them up into the air
and giggled.

A couple of hours of
standing still pass before I call it a day. On the way home I count my money,
which amounts to fifty-two euros and thirty-four cents, one brown button, a
five-cent coin from Singapore, a piece of paper with the words “Art Slut”
scrawled onto it, another piece of paper that says “I love you,” and a Trebor
Extra Strong Mint.

Nobody can say this
work isn’t colourful.

Also, I think “Art
Slut” would be a great name for an all-female punk band.

Reaching my house, I
take a shower to scrub the paint from my hands and face, have a quick bite to
eat, and then head off for my shift. An American travelling orchestra are
playing tonight. I don’t like the disappointment of knowing I’m not going to
see Shane, but I soldier on.

I hate the way we left
things last night, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Not a single
call, text, voicemail, or Facebook message. And believe me, I’ve been checking.
Perhaps he’s waiting for me to make the first move?

Ugh, I hate thinking
about this stuff.

Deciding to be brave, I
shoot him a quick text telling him the address to meet me at on Sunday if he’s
still up for coming. Then I shove my phone in my pocket and go to take my place
at the bar. Hopefully I’ll lose myself in work, and I won’t be fidgeting to
check my messages every five seconds.

As it turns out, the
bar is packed even though it’s an hour before the event. We have a nice
spacious place here, so often people like to come and socialise before the
show. Also, since you’re not allowed to bring any alcohol into the actual concert
hall, people like to get their drink on in advance.

Now that I’m sober,
even the smell of alcohol turns my stomach slightly, but I’ve learned to
tolerate it — kind of the same way you get used to the cloying smell of petrol
when you work in a gas station. And I used to work in a gas station, as it
happens.

I’ve worked in a lot of
places.

“Hey, could we get a
Heineken and a white wine spritzer?” comes an unsettlingly familiar voice from
behind me.

It’s almost time for
the concert to start, so the bar has emptied out a good deal. I pause, as I’m
crouched low, slotting bottles into the fridge. I haven’t yet turned around,
and I’m not sure if I’m physically able to. Just as I regain the ability to
move and slot the final bottle in, it slips from my fingers and crashes to the
floor, liquid and broken glass going everywhere.

My hands are shaking.

The bar is loud because
of the music streaming through the sound system, so I don’t think he heard me
drop the bottle. It’s times like these that I wish they’d put two people
working on this bar instead of one. That way I might be able to avoid seeing my
ex-boyfriend, Jason, a man I haven’t set eyes on in years.

Unfortunately, there’s
no one else around to serve him but me.

I don’t get what he’s
doing here. He never listened to classical music when we were together. Turning
around, I find him standing by the bar in a dark shirt, with a red-haired woman
beside him. She’s a little older than he is, and there’s an air of class about
her that enlightens me as to why Jason is here. The concert was obviously her
idea.

His eyes widen when he
recognises me, and within the next three seconds a whole barrage of memories
hits me fast. Him going out and having sex with other women. Me drinking a
bottle of vodka and spending the rest of the night in the bathroom puking my
guts up. Fights. Break-ups. Make-ups. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Drinking. More
drinking. More fighting.

I blame him for the
fighting. I can’t blame him for
all
of the drinking though. That started
long before he came on the scene.

My heart is going
ninety as I swallow down what feels like a rough stone jammed in my throat.

“Jade, wow, it’s been
awhile,” he says, eyes flicking between me and the woman he’s with.

“Hi, Jason. Yeah, it
has. I thought you moved to London,” I say, trying to appear casual and busying
myself making the drinks he just ordered. Better to get this over and done with
quickly rather than drag it out.

A Heineken and a white
wine spritzer.

Heineken. White wine
spritzer.

He scratches his head
and smiles. “I did. That’s where I met Beth. She’s my fiancée.”

The redhead, Beth,
smiles at me, probably thinking I’m just some old acquaintance, and flashes me
her ring. Well, now, it’s some rock, and it surprises me because Jason was
never the type to fork out for flashy items.

“Oh, gorgeous,” I say
to her, putting the pint of Heineken on the counter and going to fetch the
wine.

“I moved back to Dublin
six months ago. My company set up new offices over here.”

Perhaps he finally got
his act together and scored a high-paying job. It would definitely explain the
several-thousand-euro ring. It’s kind of annoying to realise you were the shit
part of a person’s life before they moved on to the good part. And here I am,
still working for just over minimum wage, still living in the same house where
I grew up.

“Cool, well, here are
your drinks. That’ll be eleven euros, please.”

Jason hands over the
money and stares at me weirdly. Maybe he’s annoyed I’ve abruptly cut off any
chance of a conversation. He has no right to be if he is. My life with him is
the past, a past I’d much rather forget.

Beth takes her wine and
walks over to a table where a group of men and woman are sitting. They must
have all come together. Jason stays at the bar, and I don’t get why he isn’t
going with her.

“You look good, Jade.
How’s your family?”

Looking up, I raise an
eyebrow and fold my arms. “Are we seriously doing this right now? Go and have
fun with your fiancée, Jason. And please, if you could make it so that you
don’t come here again, that would be great. I’d rather not see you at my place
of work, if it’s all the same to you.”

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.