knew before too long.
In the meantime he was content to drink his Guinness—thankfully, the stock wasn’t limited to wine—and watch the woman who’d
caught his attention pretty much as soon as he’d walked in.
She was the only female member of the group of four musicians performing on the small, slightly raised area—you could hardly
call it a stage—in a corner of the room, diagonally across from where he sat.
It wasn’t that she was beautiful—no, he really couldn’t call her that. There was certainly something striking about the neat,
pointed features, but she wasn’t beautiful. Her hair, some pale color he couldn’t determine, was pulled off her face by a
wide black hair band and captured into some kind of low ponytail. No tendril escaped, so there was nothing to suggest the
length or the texture of it.
Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of small, round, dark-rimmed glasses. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but he thought
her hands were broad, the knuckles jutting sharply from her splayed fingers as they traveled over the keys of her instrument,
which, from Adam’s very limited knowledge of musical instruments, appeared to be a clarinet.
She was dressed entirely in black. A high-necked blouse fell in sharp pleats to her waist, where it was gathered into a wide
belt made of some shiny material. A long, loose skirt stopped just short of her ankles, meeting a pair of black boots with
pointed toes. The whole of her body was covered, apart from her hands and face. There was no clue to the shape that lay beneath
the stiff folds of her top or the drapes below.
Not beautiful, no. Not in the least pretty. Unsmiling, wholly focused on the music they played. She sat hunched in her seat,
her chair set back a fraction from her companions’, giving the suggestion that she was trying to distance herself from the
whole affair.
And yet Adam watched her. What drew him to examine that frowning face, to wonder what color the eyes were behind their glass
barriers, to imagine undoing the ponytail, peeling off the black hair band, and watching the pale hair tumble downward?
The other three musicians were male, and casually dressed in white shirts and chinos. One played a keyboard, another an enormous
version of a violin that could equally have been a cello or a double bass, and the third had what Adam was reasonably sure
was a saxophone.
He enjoyed the sound they produced. They played old favorites—“You Go to My Head” and “Blue Moon” and “These Foolish Things”—and show tunes like “On the Street Where You Live” and “I Feel Pretty,” and a few Beatles hits, and a couple
of movie themes—and the treatment they gave each tune, the subtle rhythms they introduced, made the songs fresh and lively
and interesting. It was music you couldn’t help tapping a foot along to.
The female musician seemed unaware of her surroundings. The buzz of chatter in the wine bar didn’t appear to bother her; she
didn’t react to the smattering of applause at the end of each piece. She flicked the pages on the stand in front of her and
glanced now and again at one or another of her fellow musicians as they moved on to another tune, but she was distanced somehow
from the warm, busy room.
“Adam, over here.” A couple he knew were gesturing to him from the far end of the counter. He took his drink and joined them,
and the next time he looked toward the musicians’ platform, half an hour later, all that remained were two music stands and
three chairs, on one of which was perched an empty half-pint glass.
“Leah Bradshaw,” Geraldine said. “She opened a beauty salon on Russell Street a few years back. Not much of a place, if you
ask me.”
“I know it,” Hannah said bleakly. “I was there.”
“Small, skinny thing,” Geraldine said. “Her figure isn’t half as nice as yours.” She stopped. “You were there? When?”
“Oh…months ago, I don’t
In the meantime he was content to drink his Guinness—thankfully, the stock wasn’t limited to wine—and watch the woman who’d
caught his attention pretty much as soon as he’d walked in.
She was the only female member of the group of four musicians performing on the small, slightly raised area—you could hardly
call it a stage—in a corner of the room, diagonally across from where he sat.
It wasn’t that she was beautiful—no, he really couldn’t call her that. There was certainly something striking about the neat,
pointed features, but she wasn’t beautiful. Her hair, some pale color he couldn’t determine, was pulled off her face by a
wide black hair band and captured into some kind of low ponytail. No tendril escaped, so there was nothing to suggest the
length or the texture of it.
Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of small, round, dark-rimmed glasses. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but he thought
her hands were broad, the knuckles jutting sharply from her splayed fingers as they traveled over the keys of her instrument,
which, from Adam’s very limited knowledge of musical instruments, appeared to be a clarinet.
She was dressed entirely in black. A high-necked blouse fell in sharp pleats to her waist, where it was gathered into a wide
belt made of some shiny material. A long, loose skirt stopped just short of her ankles, meeting a pair of black boots with
pointed toes. The whole of her body was covered, apart from her hands and face. There was no clue to the shape that lay beneath
the stiff folds of her top or the drapes below.
Not beautiful, no. Not in the least pretty. Unsmiling, wholly focused on the music they played. She sat hunched in her seat,
her chair set back a fraction from her companions’, giving the suggestion that she was trying to distance herself from the
whole affair.
And yet Adam watched her. What drew him to examine that frowning face, to wonder what color the eyes were behind their glass
barriers, to imagine undoing the ponytail, peeling off the black hair band, and watching the pale hair tumble downward?
The other three musicians were male, and casually dressed in white shirts and chinos. One played a keyboard, another an enormous
version of a violin that could equally have been a cello or a double bass, and the third had what Adam was reasonably sure
was a saxophone.
He enjoyed the sound they produced. They played old favorites—“You Go to My Head” and “Blue Moon” and “These Foolish Things”—and show tunes like “On the Street Where You Live” and “I Feel Pretty,” and a few Beatles hits, and a couple
of movie themes—and the treatment they gave each tune, the subtle rhythms they introduced, made the songs fresh and lively
and interesting. It was music you couldn’t help tapping a foot along to.
The female musician seemed unaware of her surroundings. The buzz of chatter in the wine bar didn’t appear to bother her; she
didn’t react to the smattering of applause at the end of each piece. She flicked the pages on the stand in front of her and
glanced now and again at one or another of her fellow musicians as they moved on to another tune, but she was distanced somehow
from the warm, busy room.
“Adam, over here.” A couple he knew were gesturing to him from the far end of the counter. He took his drink and joined them,
and the next time he looked toward the musicians’ platform, half an hour later, all that remained were two music stands and
three chairs, on one of which was perched an empty half-pint glass.
“Leah Bradshaw,” Geraldine said. “She opened a beauty salon on Russell Street a few years back. Not much of a place, if you
ask me.”
“I know it,” Hannah said bleakly. “I was there.”
“Small, skinny thing,” Geraldine said. “Her figure isn’t half as nice as yours.” She stopped. “You were there? When?”
“Oh…months ago, I don’t
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