Author: L.H. Cosway
Publisher: L.H. Cosway
Pages: 350
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Format: Kindle
Purchase at AMAZON
My name is Jade Lennon and I stand still for money.
The night I saw Shane Arthur watching me everything changed. A man in a suit always catches my eye, but it was the way he looked at me that was different. Like he knew me or something. He didn’t know me, especially not in my costume. My sobriety rests on staying away from men, but there was something about him that made me throw caution to the wind.
After all, I was never going to see him again, right?
Wrong.
Standing still isn’t the only way I make my money. I also bartend at a concert hall. Never in my wildest dreams did I think Shane was going to show up there. Not only that, but he’s the most recent addition to the orchestra. So now on a daily basis I have to resist one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met and he plays the violin. For me that’s one hell of a deadly cocktail.
He wants me to teach him how to live. I’m not sure how much a twenty-six year old recovering alcoholic who works in a bar and moonlights as a living statue can teach a world class concert violinist, but I’m sure going to try.
Still Life with Strings is a story of music, art, sex, magical realism, and romance that you will never forget.
The night I saw Shane Arthur watching me everything changed. A man in a suit always catches my eye, but it was the way he looked at me that was different. Like he knew me or something. He didn’t know me, especially not in my costume. My sobriety rests on staying away from men, but there was something about him that made me throw caution to the wind.
After all, I was never going to see him again, right?
Wrong.
Standing still isn’t the only way I make my money. I also bartend at a concert hall. Never in my wildest dreams did I think Shane was going to show up there. Not only that, but he’s the most recent addition to the orchestra. So now on a daily basis I have to resist one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met and he plays the violin. For me that’s one hell of a deadly cocktail.
He wants me to teach him how to live. I’m not sure how much a twenty-six year old recovering alcoholic who works in a bar and moonlights as a living statue can teach a world class concert violinist, but I’m sure going to try.
Still Life with Strings is a story of music, art, sex, magical realism, and romance that you will never forget.
They call me the
Blue Lady.
The more poetic
would say a dark angel, or an unexpected, fantastical surprise standing upon
the mundane street. I wear a long midnight blue dress, a matching wig, white
paint on my hands and face, and glorious, feathery blue wings affixed to my
back.
I feel like a gap in
reality, a moment where people can pause mid-stride and say in a breathy,
wonder-filled voice, wow, look at that. For the more cynical, wow,
look at that nutjob.
Perhaps for a moment
someone will think that they’ve stepped into a world where normal is not the
rule anymore, that the extraordinary is. That my wings aren’t false but real,
that my skin is really this white, my hair really this blue.
Unfortunately, none
of it is real.
But it’s nice, isn’t
it, for a brief moment to imagine that it is?
In reality I’m a
twenty-six-year-old woman with a stack of bills I’m struggling to pay and two
younger siblings who are reliant on me to keep a roof over their heads, clothes
on their backs, and food in their bellies.
I do this living
statue act whenever I have the free time. It gives me an artistic outlet, while
also making me some much-needed cash on the side. Admittedly, I don’t normally
do it at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of Grafton Street, but it’s a Saturday. That means there’ll be lots of tourists. More to
the point, lots of drunk tourists with loose pockets and even looser
inhibitions about who they hand over their cash to – such as women who stand
very still while dressed like a Manga fairy.
I stare directly
ahead, unblinking, controlling my breathing using a qigong method, just
as I hear the recognisable loutish shouting and laughter of a stag party up
ahead. When they come into my line of sight, I see that they’re all wearing
black T-shirts with their nicknames written across the back and Jack’s Stag
Weekend across the front.
No sh*t.
I am an island, an
inanimate object among the to and fro of humanity. I brace myself for the
possibility that the stag party is going to be trouble. Moments later, one guy
stands in front of me, waving his hand in my face and trying to get me to
blink. How original.
Sometimes I feel
like those guards who stand outside Buckingham Palace. And like
those long-suffering buggers, I have also perfected the art of remaining still
and giving no reaction at all.
“Are you blue all
over?” he slurs with a drunken sideways grin.
As a street
performer, you have to take the rough with the smooth. When you put yourself
out there, you’re going to encounter every facet of society: the good, the bad,
and the drunk off their arses. Kids are the best. They haven’t yet lost the
sense of wonder that makes them stare up at you and truly believe you’re some
sort of blue-fairy-bird-woman-thing.
“That’s a real nice
rack,” says another of the stag partiers.
Yeah, you try
carrying it around all day and dealing with the back problems, and then tell me
how nice it is, I think. Soon they lose interest and
continue on their way. A half an hour passes, and several more pedestrians
throw some coins into my hat.
The moon is full
tonight, a round white orb perched amid the stars. I want to go up there and
see what everything looks like from on high. I flutter my wings and prepare for
flight, flapping them through the air and then leaping into the sky. My ascent
is an easy one. I pluck a star out of the blackness and stick it in my blue
hair as an adornment. When I reach the moon, I find a comfortable spot and sit.
Leaning my chin on my hand, I gaze back down at the street. The people look
like tiny black ants, the buildings like less brightly coloured blocks of Lego.
I blink, and I’m
back on my box, back on the street. I was never really on the moon. My wings
are a pretty accessory, but they’re useless for flying. Sometimes I can imagine
things so hard that I feel like they’re really happening.
My eyes catch on a
group of people I recognise. They all play in the symphony orchestra at the concert
hall where I work as a ticket attendant and bartender. I don’t talk to most of
them, but I’m friends with a couple of the ladies. I know that one of the
violinists is leaving to move to Australia with his family, so tonight must be his big send-off.
Often on my breaks
I’ll sit at the back of the hall and watch their rehearsals, allowing myself to
be swept away with the music. My favourite sound is at the very beginning of
their performances, when all the instruments clamour together to get in tune.
It builds up this addictive sense of anticipation.
I envy their lives
as musicians, travelling the world and playing for amazing audiences in
historic venues. It’s so much more beautiful than the life I live. I think a
lot about the fact that I’m constantly near these people, and yet my reality is
so far removed from theirs.
None of them even
know that the woman with the painted skin dressed all in blue is the same
inner-city girl who sells tickets for their concerts and serves them drinks at
the bar after their practices.
In a way it’s quite
a wonderful feeling. For a moment I am unchained from my own humdrum identity.
By the time I
withdraw from these thoughts, the orchestra musicians are gone. Slowly, I turn
my head slightly to the left and find a new position. I stand in the same pose
for fifteen minutes at a time, and then I’ll make an almost imperceptible move
to ease some of the strain. It takes willpower and the patience of a saint to
do this. Fortunately, I’ve had years of practice being responsible for my
younger siblings.
I’m all about the
willpower, especially since I’m a recovering alcoholic who works in a bar. Most
people say that to properly get over an addiction, you have to purge all
presence of the drug from your life. I take a different approach. The fact that
I can be around alcohol and not drink it, well, I like to think that makes me
stronger. It’s been five years, and I haven’t touched a drop.
Anyway, what with
jobs being so thin on the ground these days, I can’t exactly afford to be
picky. You’ll be amazed by what you can achieve when necessity sets in.
Once I settle in my
new position, I notice a man standing by the shuttered window of a shop on the
other side of the street. He’s got brown hair in what my mother would have
called a “gentleman’s haircut” when she was alive. It’s all neatly combed and
swept to the side. His facial features are exotic yet not, giving the
impression that he was born of a white father and an Asian mother — or vice
versa.
He’s just standing
there staring at me, looking fascinated and a small bit lost. I sometimes
encounter people like this. Adults who see me and are touched by whatever
emotion my appearance has managed to evoke in them.
These are the things
I live for. Aside from the money, it’s the main reason why I do this.
Up until this
moment, though, I’ve never had someone I’m attracted to show a similar sort of
wonder. His eyes crinkle in a smile. I think he knows that I’ve noticed him. A
couple who have also been watching me for several minutes finally drop some
money in my hat, and I give them a small bow for their generosity.
My legs are starting
to get a little too stiff, so I decide it’s time to call it a night. Stretching
my arms up over my head and stepping down off my box, I pick up my money hat,
fold it in half, and shove it into the box.
The beautiful man
across the street stands up straight when he sees me move. I pull off my wig
and stick that in the box, too, loosening my real hair out of the tight bun I’d
had it in under the wig. Making sure not to damage the feathers, I shrug out of
the wings and place them inside as well.
When I glance up,
the man is standing before me, too close almost. His eyes are a deep golden
brown, like a glass of fine brandy, and his features have a delicate
masculinity. Strong yet vulnerable.
“Hello there,” I say
with a hint of amusement, pulling my long cardigan from the box and shuffling
out of my blue dress. I always wear a light slip underneath.
“Hey,” the man
replies, watching as I fold the dress neatly and place it in the box before
ducking into my cardigan. “You’re blonde,” he says then, eyes on my hair.
I’d expected him to
be foreign, given his semi-exotic appearance, but his accent is middle-class Dublin through and through.
“That I am,” I
answer, giving him a look as if to say, are we done here?
It’s almost two in
the morning, but the street still has quite a few people on it, so I don’t
really feel on edge about this stranger standing near enough that we’re
practically touching.
His gaze travels
down to my feet, a wry smile shaping his lips when he takes in my black
biker-style boots. As he scans my bare legs, I feel a shiver run down my back,
lingering erotically at the base of my spine.
Hmm, it has been a
while, and this man is utterly gorgeous. He’s wearing a dark suit with a white
shirt, no tie. He hovers over me, standing only a couple of inches taller. His
breath whispers across my skin, smelling faintly of gin.
“Would you like to
have a drink with me?” he asks, reaching out to run a hand through the waves at
the end of my long hair.
Despite his
forwardness, it feels good to be touched. Sometimes it seems like no one ever
touches me like this — just for the sake of it. I had a really stressful day
with my younger brother Pete acting the brat; a little relief would be nice. A
bit of physical interaction. Some skin on skin.
Something thickens
in the air between us as we make eye contact. The man sucks in a quick breath,
his gaze flickering back and forth over my features.
Once I have
everything put away, I close my box, pulling it along on its wheels.
“How about a quick sh*g instead?” I ask back, uncharacteristically brazen.About the Author:
Her latest book is the contemporary romance, Still Life with Strings.
Visit her website at www.lhcosway.com.
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