A Stringed Instrument Ch. 04

"That's... unexpected."

"Oh yeah. But I figured it out a couple of years ago. See, when I was twelve I did a project on my family history for school... hang on a moment, I think I still have it."

Phoebe got up, pulled a plastic storage tub out from under her bed, and rummaged until she found what she was after. A faded exercise book, labelled in a girl's neat handwriting: My Family History, Phoebe K, 7H. "I found this when I was moving, and noticed something interesting when I reread it."

She handed to me, and I flipped through it. It was what you'd expect from a school project: a family tree, followed by short biographies of her family, one per page. Pasted-in photographs of her grandfather's war medals (mechanic in the Greek Air Force) and a Greek newspaper clipping about his brothers, who'd done something or other in Macedonia during the war.

By comparison, the entry on her mother was very terse — looking closely I noticed the schoolgirl tricks, larger handwriting and bigger spaces to fill the page — and I could see why a disappointed teacher had red-penned that page with "Is this all?"

I skimmed to the end (more red pen: "Interesting stories, B+, but would have been an A if you'd taken this a little further") and looked back at Phoebe. "So what am I missing here?"

"Check the family tree."

I turned back to the front page and studied it more closely. Phoebe: only child, born 1987. Her parents Helen Stephanopolous (b. 1961) and Dimitrious Karavangelis (b. 1953), married 1984. Helen: middle of three sisters, a year younger than Gia and seven years older than Chloe. Dimitrious: one younger brother, Achilles (b. 1955, d. 1961). Dimitrious' parents Achilles senior (b. 1930, d. 1990) and Kalliope (b. 1936), married 1952...

"Ah." I did some mental arithmetic. "Married at sixteen? Was that legal?"

"Only under a special license. But keep looking." She tapped her finger on two dates: the wedding in November, and her father's birth in...

"Oh. My. Quite a premature baby there. Only six months after the wedding night."

"And yet so very big and healthy. I've never quite been game to ask her about it, but from things she's said, I get the impression she was quite an adventurous young lady before she miscalculated and had to marry Grandpa. So she didn't have too many illusions about what to expect of a teenage grand-daughter."

"Well, well." I handed the book back to her and dealt the cards for the first round of game five. She picked hers up, discarded, and then looked back at me.

"So, that's our colourful past. What about you, Yvonne? Get into much trouble at uni?"

"Ha!" I discarded, breaking a perfectly good pair in order to hang onto a promising five. "Look, from age twelve I knew I was interested in girls. But coming out, at my school... no way, no how. I got stuffed in lockers more than once because my parents were teachers. Or just because I read books for fun. So the only person I ever told was my brother John. The plan was I'd keep my head down for six years, finish high school, get into uni and never come back."

Well, that was Plan A. I'd had a Plan B for those insecure moments when I thought I was going to fail my exams and be stuck in that place for the rest of my life. But I'd been spared that extremity, so I didn't feel the need to burden Phoebe with that.

"So then I'd get to uni, meet lots of university lesbians, we'd all be great friends, I'd have lots of torrid sex to make up for all the lost years, then I'd find my princess, fall in love and live happily ever after. That was the plan. Problem was, when I got there..."

I was losing, thirty-eight to fifty, not that I really minded.

"Turned out my gaydar didn't work. Couldn't find a single dyke in my classes, not so much as a crew-cut. Eventually I joined a gay students' group but it turned out to be a Marxist-Spartacist political collective. They were too busy smashing capitalism to notice me standing at the back. Didn't help that I'd spent ten years of school working on being invisible, and it turns out that's not something you can just switch off."

"Really? I never had any trouble seeing you."

"One of your many good points. Anyway, long story short, two and a half years of nothing, nearly failed my mid-year exams, decided to give up looking and just concentrate on studying for the end-year exams. Very next week after that I went to a sci-fi con, ran into a girl who'd been my comp sci tutor the year before. She offered me a lift home, we chatted on the way, she made a pass at me. I thought she was teasing at first but eventually I said yes, and we ended up sleeping together for almost three years. She helped me get out of my shell, taught me a few things I needed to know. But it was always a pretty easy-going relationship. Eventually she met somebody else and they got serious, and we'd never really been in love, so..."

I shrugged. "No hard feelings. We still keep in touch. Anyway, that's the sordid tale of my university days. Failed slut, really... oh, shit, that was stupid." I hadn't been concentrating on the game, and I'd managed to deal out six cards to each of us before noticing anything.

"Don't stress it." We fixed up the deal and played another hand. This time it was Phoebe's turn to make stupid mistakes, leading a five. Rarely a good idea in cribbage. When I made fifteen from it, she replied with a six that set me up for an easy thirty-one. After tallying our hands, I'd caught up most of her lead.

She looked pained. "Ouch. You know, I'm not sure I have the brain for this tonight."

"Me neither. Shall we play something simpler?"

So we pushed the scoreboard aside, leaving the game unfinished. Since we couldn't think of anything else that was easy for two tired-stupid ladies to play, we settled on Snap, and it turned out we were in just the right mood to enjoy playing a pointless children's game.

After a few rounds Phoebe suggested a variation: Psychic Snap.

"How does that work?"

"Same as regular snap but you don't turn the cards over. You just go on intuition, call 'snap' when you feel the two top cards are the same."

"So then you turn them over and check?"

"Nah. Honesty system."

"Okay then." We played that for a while, staring at cards and calling "Snap!" any time our non-existent psychic powers twitched, until we'd worked ourselves into a state of ragged silliness. It was then that Phoebe upped the ante again:

"Zen Snap."

"Do tell."

"Same as Psychic Snap, but without the cards."

You probably had to be there, had to be in the fretful-friendly-sleepy-buzzing state we were in, to understand it. Two grown women sitting on the floor, staring at nothing and sporadically yelling "Snap!" then falling over giggling. And it was in that spirit that I went against my better judgement.

"Ever played this one for clothes?"

Phoebe looked up at me, startled. "Not yet."

"Would you like to?" Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desire shoving prudence aside, ignoring everything she'd said that night.

"I." Her lips moved, voiceless. She looked down and closed her eyes. "Yes. But I shouldn't."

I knew how little it would take to overcome her resistance. She was tired, she wanted me, she was mine for the asking. One kiss — one word — and I could have her tonight. But in the morning...

"Then we won't." I stood up and almost toppled — god, most of my leg had fallen asleep — and I shook it out before offering a hand to help her up. "Phoebe, it's almost midnight. I'd better get to bed if I'm going to make it through class tomorrow."

"Okay... damn, I forgot to make up the couch. I won't be long."

Just a little? Please? "Tell you what. It's late, you need to get to bed too. If you trust me we can just share for tonight. I promise I'll be good this time."

We did. And I was. I took my pillow to the other end of the bed, and we slept head-to-foot. I fell asleep with my back to her; when I woke the next morning, she had her arms wrapped around my ankles, and it was all I could do to extricate myself without waking her. When I came out of the bathroom she was busy in the kitchen.

"Morning, Yvonne! Do you like pancakes?"

"Love 'em." I ambled over to watch the chef at work. She'd just finished the first pancake, and as I got there she tipped it onto a plate, poured another dollop of mix into the pan, then turned around and wrapped an arm around my waist.

"Thanks for a lovely evening. I used to have games nights all the time with Ellen and Deb when I lived in Melbourne, I've really missed it since I moved here."

"You're very welcome."

"Now, this one's yours." She handed me the plate. "Toppings on the table. Should be a couple more for you when you're done with that one. Eat up."

Strawberries on the first, honey on the next. They were good enough that I didn't say much more until I'd finished the third, and looked up to see Phoebe looking at me.

"Yvonne? Thanks for not pushing me last night."

"Uh-huh." That didn't seem like much of a reply. "I wanted to."

"I know. Me too. But I try not to make major decisions when I'm not in a state to know what I'm doing. It's not fair on anyone."

I nodded, thought it over. "And now?"

She said nothing. The silence dragged out, and I could feel tension building...

"Phoebe, can I start this conversation again?"

"Um... okay?"

"Hi, Phoebe, I'm Yvonne." I stuck out my hand and she shook it by reflex. "I have to go catch a train soon, but I like you and I'd like to ask you on a date. Tonight if you're free. I'm a grown woman and I have no expectations of you beyond the pleasure of your company. Here's my number." I scribbled it down on a notepad by the phone and handed it to her; of course she already had it, but that was beside the point. "Think about it and give me a call if you're interested."

"Uh. Okay." She looked about as flustered as I felt, so I grabbed my satchel and made my exit before things could get awkward again.

For the rest of the morning I tried (not very successfully) to avoid fretting about Phoebe and concentrate on the course. The morning was about security: validating users, protecting against DDoS attacks, that sort of thing. Less of an issue for me than some of my classmates — we don't handle money through the site, so we're not as attractive a target — but better safe than sorry.

During the morning break I got to talking with some of the other geeks. Some of them were web masters looking to sharpen skills. But most were like me, jacks-of-all-trades just trying to stay afloat, and the pros were happy enough to give us tips and argue with some of the course content.

Five minutes after we went back in, my phone buzzed.

Call me when you're free?

I tried to wait until the lunch break but after half an hour I realised I wasn't absorbing anything the teacher was saying, so I made my excuses and ducked out.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Phoebe?"

"Hi. Yes. Yes to the date, I mean."

"Oh, good!" The thump-thump in my chest said: better than good. "Would you like to come into town, see a movie? Dinner?"

"I don't know yet. Um, Luke's coming by my place this arvo to pick up some stuff he left. I don't know how that's going to go. Can I call you afterwards?"

"Sure."

I returned to class mouthing apologies to the teacher and trying not to bounce too much. At lunch I considered calling her again, but as I was about to dial I thought better of it; I wasn't sure what time Luke was visiting, and phoning while her ex was there might be poor timing. So I spent my time looking up movie options for the evening.

She texted me again just before the afternoon-tea break, and I called her back. She picked up on the second ring. "Heya."

"Hey Phoebe. How're you doing?"

"Oh... been better, been worse. Gave Luke his things back. Talked a bit. Feeling like a heartless bitch. But yeah, did you say you wanted to see a movie tonight?"

"I did, but are you feeling up to it? You sound a bit down."

A long sigh... "I'm okay. Just feeling like a bit of a hermit tonight."

"Well, if you want space, I can —"

"I didn't mean you! I want to see you. No, I'll be okay, I can come into town and meet you." But she didn't sound too enthusiastic about the idea.

"Tell you what. What if I bring the movie to you? You have a DVD player, right?"

"Okay! Yes, that would be nice. What are we seeing?"

"Surprise." I hadn't the faintest idea, but I'd think of something.

"Tease. Now, I have a rehearsal until five, and then a student from six to half-past. See you after that?"

"Deal."

By the time class let out for the day I'd figured out my plans for the evening. I stopped by a large record store and found what I was after without too much difficulty, then visited a couple of other shops for supplies and caught the train out to the North Shore. I got off the train a little after half-past, and I knew I was at the right station when a teenage boy with a cello in tow shoved past me to board.

After a short walk to Phoebe's place I let myself in at the side gate and knocked on her door. There was no answer, so I counted ten and then knocked again.

"Coming! Just a mo!" And after some further delay, she opened the door.

"Good ev— oh, my."

"Since you were sweet enough to ask me on a date, I thought I'd dress for the occasion." That was putting it mildly. A gloriously scarlet dress, slashed at the knee to show just a hint of leg, lacing up at the front to good effect. Black lace-up boots. A necklace of gleaming hematite around her neck. And just a hint of lipstick. I don't dress up much myself, but I can still appreciate it in others, and Phoebe knew how to make an impression.

"Now I feel underdressed." I was still in my work clothes, and it takes a highly-trained expert to tell them apart from my casual clothes.

"Don't. I needed an excuse to doll up tonight and you provided it. Come inside." She took me by the elbow and drew me across the threshold. I thought I saw a trace of redness in her eyes; she might have been crying, but not recently.

"Rough afternoon?"

"Yes, and we're not going to talk about it tonight. Instead, I plan to have a delightful night out with pleasant company."

"Well, then." I showed her to a seat at the table. "Make yourself comfortable while I get some things together."

I'd visited the deli on the way home, and soon we were sharing a platter of cheese and biscuits and a half-bottle of white. We chatted a bit about my day's training, and when most of the biscuits were gone I leaned forward. "And now, a movie?"

"That would be delightful. What's showing?"

I moved around to take her arm and walked her to the sofa. She sat in one corner, smiling up at me demurely, as I walked back to my bag to retrieve the case. "Black-and-white classic. 'Kind Hearts and Coronets'."

"I don't believe I know it. What is it?"

"Murder. Romance. Comedy. Joan Greenwood, Dennis Price, Alec Guinness. Bit of everything."

"Sounds intriguing!"

I set up the movie, dimmed the lights, and sat down beside Phoebe on the sofa — leaving a bit of space between us, it was a big sofa and I didn't want to crowd her — as the opening titles rolled and Miles Malleson waxed rhapsodic about the privilege of hanging a duke.

Phoebe turned and gave me an amused look, then sat back and watched as the story unfolded. It's one of my favourites, although it sits oddly in my video collection: I've never been a connoisseur of black-and-white, but as a teenager I discovered this one by accident, flipping channels late at night, and I fell in love with Joan Greenwood's voice. A few years later I found it again and fell in love with the writing, genteel politeness masking vicious barbs.

As the narrator explained his family history, I remembered the other thing I'd brought for the evening: "Popcorn, Phoebe?"

"Yes please!"

I microwaved a bag and brought back the contents. "For you, mademoiselle."

"Mmm. Just like being at the movies."

"I aim for realism. That'll be seven dollars, please."

"Wha— oh, bite me!" And she bounced a piece of popcorn off my chest.

I looked her in the eye, took her by the hand, and raised it to my mouth. Her eyes widened as I drew back my lips to bare my teeth, then bit down on her forefinger ever so softly. "Like that?"

"Not fair," she whispered.

"Never said I was." And I kicked off my shoes and sat down at the other end of the sofa again, setting the bowl on the empty cushion between us, and we watched the movie. Every so often, one or the other of us would reach into the bowl for popcorn; every so often, both of us would reach for it at the same time, and our fingers would brush against against one another before parting again.

By the time young Louis Mazzini had begun to work his way closer to the dukedom there wasn't much left in the bowl except a litter of unpopped kernels at the bottom. I rummaged, fumbling for one last morsel of corn, but Phoebe had had the same idea. Somehow, instead of finding what we sought, we ended up with our fingers intertwined.

We stayed like that for a little while — still looking straight ahead, eyes fixed on a funeral service full of Alec Guinness — and then I reached between us with my free hand and set the bowl down on the floor. Without a word we wriggled toward one another so that we were sitting side by side, hand in hand.

"This is a very wicked film," Phoebe murmured. "But so polite. It's like The Homicidal Adventures Of Jeeves."

"Indeed." I clasped my right hand over hers, extricated my left, and slipped my arm behind her shoulders. She snuggled into my embrace and I squeezed her hand as Louis started to get himself into real trouble with Sibella.

Phoebe's hair tickled my face. I exhaled softly, my breath carrying the loose strands away to expose the smooth curve of her neck and the gleaming black stones that adorned it.

Then as Louis and Sibella started to seduce one another on screen I brushed her bare skin with my lips — how could I not? — and she sighed, her fingers opening and closing in my hand.

"Phoebe? Kiss me."

She turned, and our lips met, and whatever barriers might have existed last night seemed small and insignificant. Then she turned back to the film. But she reached up behind her to sweep the curls clear from her neck, and I nuzzled her neck lightly and at length, and she pressed back against me.

At some point sitting became inconvenient, and without ever breaking contact we ended up sprawled lengthwise along the sofa, propped up by the padded arm at one end so we could still see. My right hand rested on her hip; my left arm had come around under her, fingers toying with the cool heavy stones at her throat, and her hand was at my wrist to complete the contact. I had found the spot behind her ear that made her shiver with delight, and I was teasing her with my lips and breath and sometimes my tongue...

...but not too much. For, you must understand, I didn't want to distract her from the movie altogether. It's a fine piece and deserves respect, and I wanted Phoebe to enjoy it as much as I did. Besides, it had its own understated passions, dark and dangerous, and they fanned ours.

So I kept Phoebe just short of boiling over, fingers and lips striking sparks through her, never quite enough to overwhelm. As Dennis Price brought things on screen toward a lethal conclusion we slowly melted into one another, fingers sliding and clothes shifting.

Well before the story came full circle to the condemned man awaiting his over-awed executioner, Phoebe's bodice had come unlaced. She was cooing softly from somewhere in the back of her throat as my left hand stroked her breast. Meanwhile, the skirt of her dress had drifted upwards and my right hand had intruded through the slash at the side, roving over her belly and her hips and thighs. Tracing the line of her briefs and just occasionally running between her legs, feeling her heat through damp cotton, dodging away again when her hips bucked against me. She reached back behind her head, fingers in my hair, inviting me to keep my lips at the nape of her neck...