The Third Date 01: Clueless of Cotham

"Stop arguing Jenny. It's 10pm, you have to be up at 6:30. I get up at 8am and have a 2 minute commute. I'm helping. Hand me the mark scheme. Is it the same one as before?"

She sighed and handed me over a pile of paper. "Thank you. I've prefilled the feedback slips, you just need to highlight..."

"Green for good, red for areas to improve, I remember. Do you want final grades too?"

"No, just feedback. I'm going to give them a chance to improve their work before I grade it. Thanks Priya, this is so wonderful of you."

"Not a problem babe. Happy to help."

"Seriously, I don't know where I'd be without you and the others."

"Ok, you love me, I get it, now shut up and let me mark."

Smiling, she bent her head to whatever other task she had to mark. 30 students to a class. Teachers' workloads are crazy. I got stuck in.

Truth be told, I enjoyed it. I'd done Literature A Level and considered doing English at University, but Music was my first love. However, I still loved reading, and Austen was one of my favourites (I'd lied about Pride and Prejudice being my favourite: it was Emma!) Call me old-fashioned, but I still loved reading, mostly historical fiction if not the classics themselves. Minette Walters, Ken Follett, the Bröntes, George Eliot, Phillippa Gregory. I loved them. Shame men like that only seem to exist in books, and in the past at that. Reading the students' essays was nowhere near as rewarding, but I did get a little thrill on my friend's behalf as I corrected and annotated, seeing how Jenny had been able to guide them to an understanding of Austen's craft and themes. She was a good teacher and I was proud of her.

I'd nearly finished, just two books left, when the front door opened and voices came in. It was 11:30.

"What's up babes!" Nadine came in from the hallway carrying her guitar case, "what's going down, a marking party?" Her almond eyes flashed with humour from behind her springy dark fringe.

"Yeah, you missed all the fun! How was the gig?"

"She was fucking brilliant, as usual," chimed in Melissa, throwing her jacket onto the back of a chair. "Had them eating out of her hand."

"Aw, stop it....but yeah, for real, it was good. Would have loved some cello and harmonies up there with me fam..." she looked at me meaningfully and I frowned, so she immediately backed off, "...but it was all good. Solid. Sold 11 CDs and got paid, so I can definitely pay rent this month."

"Shut up! Keep it, you earned it," said Jenny.

"Don't you fucking dare," growled Melissa, wagging a finger mockingly.

Nadine was trying to make it as a singer-songwriter. She'd been on my course, and had met Jenny through me. Melissa, who I'd gone to school with and had known since we were 11, had been Nadine's flatmate in Halls. We'd all met up in the first term at a gig and all hit it off straight away, then had moved in together in our second year and had never left. That was 4 years ago now. Melissa, a junior solicitor, Jenny and I all earned enough to be able to get our own places if we wanted to, but we had no motivation to do so. We liked living together and could afford to live in trendy, central Cotham by pooling our resources. Plus, it meant we could support Nadine. She had been working in retail until last June, but then we'd encouraged her to quit to focus on her music full time, forcing her to accept our support. Between the three of us, we could easily cover her share of the rent. She was brilliant, a soulful singer with a captivating stage presence and tender, hooky lyrics, kind of like a modern day Joan Armatrading or Tracy Chapman. She was building a following online and live, but getting a record deal these days was so hard. She'd self-released 2 albums (both of which I'd played and sung on), but Spotify's stupid payment system meant she got nothing from streaming, though she had a few Patreon supporters. The bookings, however, were coming in, and Melissa often drove her to gigs - they'd been in Bath that night. We didn't want her money. She was our friend and we believed in her. That mattered way more. Anyway, she did more than her fair share of cooking and housework to make up for it. Melissa and Jenny often had to work late, so it all worked out.

Clearly embarrassed, Nadine changed the subject. I kind of wish she hadn't.

"So, how was your date Priya?" she teased, pulling up a chair next to Jenny.

"Um..." I paused, wondering how I could do this diplomatically. Tim was Melissa's colleague. He'd come along to one of Nadine's gigs and had apparently asked Melissa about me the next day, though he'd barely spoken to me at the concert. I looked at my buxom, brunette housemate, but she was already frowning.

"That bad, huh? Sorry, Priya. But thanks for trying." Melissa sat down next to me, resting her hand on my arm.

"It's ok. I tried to let him down gently, so I hope he isn't in a sulk with you."

"Don't worry, I'm a big girl. I deal with bruised male egos all the fucking time. I'll give him a copy of Asian Babes and a packet of Kleenex tomorrow and tell him to sort himself out."

"Urgh, Melissa, that's gross!" I protested, as Nadine whacked her on the arm.

Melissa snickered, "Soz. But yeah, don't worry about it, it'll be fine."

"Thanks," finally relaxing a little. I let out a giggle. "Sorry, it was really bad. He was 50 minutes late, spent the whole time talking about himself, kept trying to get me to try his food even though I'd told him I was veggie." They rolled their eyes in sympathy. "The best thing about the date was the waitress."

"Oh yeah?"

So, I told them about Kate, how thoughtful she'd been, how clever she was, and what a great listener she'd been. About halfway through I noticed Melissa was sharing strange glances with Jenny, which I couldn't parse despite them being my best friends, while Nadine's grin stretched ear to ear, bright white and pink against her tempered chocolate skin. As my embarrassment grew, I started talking faster which got them giggling.

"Oh shut up!" I half-shouted over their laughter, "It was a bad date! I was trying to find a silver lining!"

"Sorry Priya, she sounds really cool. We should get her to come out with us," Nadine said, leaning across and touching my arm.

"Yeah, well..." I felt flushed and awkward. I knew what I wanted. I needed my baby in my arms. "Do you girls mind if I play my cello?" Although we had a "soundproof" booth (egg boxes and foam) in the basement that Nadine used for recording, the vibrations from the cello still travelled, so I always checked first.

The three of them shared a look for half a second. I wasn't sure what it meant.

"Go for it babe, and thanks for your help, you're a lifesaver. I've got about 15 minutes left to go here," said Jenny.

"Yeah, I'll put the kettle on," said Melissa, "want anything?"

"No thanks," I replied as Jenny and Nadine called out their orders.

"Of course, you know what this means," Nadine called after me, "I get to set up your next date!"

"Ugh! Whatever!"

At the bottom of the stairs, I carefully lifted my baby out of the case. I was tingling in anticipation, a warmth spreading through my core and my excitement building. This was the real reason I hated playing live: playing the cello was so sensual that it turned me on, a fact I felt deeply ashamed of. I tried not to think of it, but my very first orgasm had been aged 14 while playing the cello, during a private lesson. My teacher, an older woman named Ms Foxen, has given me such a look of disgust and revulsion that I'd fled. I'd quit the lessons (so had she) and I had refused to play the cello in front of anyone else since. It became my dirty secret, one I played behind locked doors whenever the need took me.

(Luckily, I was a very good pianist and tinkling the ivories didn't quite have the same effect on me, as long as I avoided Listz, certain Brahms' pieces and any overtly sexual rock n 'roll pieces. It was my piano playing and singing that had got me onto my Music degree.)

Playing the cello thrilled me in ways none of the men I'd been with ever had. Perhaps it was the posture: legs spread, body pitched forward, the back pressed against my breast, arm up as if caressing a lover's neck. Maybe it was the way the vibrations tore through me deliciously, in complete sync with my movements, pulling these beautiful sounds from my cello's curved, graceful body in a way that no man had ever been able to replicate with mine.

I was breathing heavily. I was strangely excited. I wondered why: overcompensating for how crap my date with Tim had been, maybe? Weird, because he'd been awful, so these kinds of feelings should have been furthest from my mind. Whatever was causing it, I knew what I wanted. It was late too, so no point in spending ages warming up. Forget foreplay.

I was wearing a high slit skirt, so it was easy to grasp my baby between my thighs. I could have held the cello further from me, but I spread my legs as much as possible to get the body as high up as I could. Tightening the bow strings, I quickly checked the tuning, tweaking the G string slightly, then, taking a breath, I plunged in, my bow pulling a deep, resonant thrum from the strings as my firm fingers pressed into the neck.

Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor. The one made famous by Jacqueline du Pre. It was what had drawn me to the cello in the first place, seeing footage of her playing, loving her sensual, fluid style. I'd begged for lessons, which I'd fit around piano and dancing.

The music flowed through me, my arm sawing back and forth, the muscles in my arms rippling, my breath coming in heaves. The middle movement drew me back from the edge, but as the theme built again, I felt a flush building on my upper chest, and my nipple pressed into the back of the cello so hard it hurt. The tone moved lower and my thighs ached as the vibrations ran through them into my core, which was buzzing. The final crescendo came as I let loose, my head shaking, my legs trembling. 8 minutes of heaven. Meeting my need, instead of the gentle fade, I added my own extra crescendo, increasing the tempo, my breath coming in gasps now.

Unable to cope any more, I practically threw down the bow, pushed the cello away from me, and stroked my free hand up, up under my skirts.

I was soaking. Sliding my fingers gently inside me, I leaned the cello against the wall and brought my other hand into play, teasing my clit the way I'd pull a vibrato note.

I was so aroused, it took seconds before sparks went off behind my eyes and I shuddered to orgasm, my body spasming in ecstasy, my mouth releasing involuntary moans as I doubled at the waist.

Wow! That was fast! Even though I'd known at the back of my mind that this was my intent, I hadn't planned on getting off in the booth. I'd normally wind myself up, then take care of business in bed over 15 minutes or so. That had barely taken 15 seconds. What the hell had gotten into me?

I briefly felt guilty about masturbating in the booth - after all this was Nadine's workspace. Plus, I couldn't go back upstairs yet - I'd not been down here for 10 minutes and the girls would wonder why I was back up so soon.

Grabbing a tissue, I wiped my hands as best I could, then picked up my bow and cello again. I shook out my arms, and absent-mindedly started playing a scale while I reviewed my mental inventory of learned pieces, trying to decide what to play. As I did so, I found my mind drifting back to earlier in the evening, and watching Kate move through the Lounge with her long legs and graceful stride. I found the rhythm of my bow arm was attuning to my memory of her movements. I moved to a higher octave, imagining her handsome head twisting, her blue eyes flicking across the crowd, ever aware of the space around her. I found a major chord to capture her confidence, modulated it to mimic her laughter. Surprising myself with my subject choice, I decided to go with it, improvising some pizzicato to imitate her graceful steps as I pictured her dancing around tables. Remembering the way she'd listened, so intently, her eyes always on me, I brought the bow back, warming the mood with slow, deep passes. I got lost in the piece, letting my mind go blank and allowing my hands and fingers to guide me to phrases and movements that seemed logical and natural. It was how I liked to compose. A certain six note refrain repeatedly drew me back; coming out of my meditative state, I found I liked it. Taking a more conscious role in my playing, I repeated it, tinkered with it, trying it in different octaves, different tempos, shortening and lengthening the attack and delay of the notes, fiddling with the phrases. It was beautiful, hooky and memorable. A smile crept over me and found myself singing along with it, clear pure notes, then snapped them into harmony. It was a way to ensure I remembered it, though I was fairly certain muscle memory would do that too by now. I adjusted the tempo - quick, quick, glide, step, glide, step - like Kate skipping around a fellow server, and suddenly I realised where this refrain belonged. I played it six or seven times more to be sure, and to make sure I had it, then with a flourish I stopped.

There was always manuscript paper down here, so I grabbed some, made the annotations, then sang them back to myself to check, before running as lightly as I could upstairs.

I knew Nadine would be up for a bit working her social media streams and, hopefully, engaging with new fans from the gig she'd just played. She also had a gig in Cardiff on Saturday, and another in Cheltenham on Sunday, and needed to drum up some interest.

There was light coming underneath her door, so I scratched gently and cracked the door open.

"Nade? Can I come in?" I stage whispered. I didn't want to disturb Jenny, who was opposite.

"Priya? What's up?"

"Have you recorded that new song yet? Morning?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Give me the file. I've just written a cello part for it. I think you'll like it."

"For real? Great."

Back in the booth, I settled myself, adjusted the microphones around me and queued up Nadine's song on the 8 track. Then I hit record.

I let it play through the first verse, just her singing and finger picking her guitar. She was pitching low, her gorgeous smoky voice soothing and soulful. The lyrics were ostensibly about sunrise, but really it was about carrying on after loss. She was playing on "morning/mourning". On the chorus, addressed to the dearly departed, I began to add some bow, just harmonising with her voice at this point, a slight delay adding syncopation. But when the second verse started I brought in the refrain. The pattern matched her phrasing almost exactly. A chorus again, and on the third verse I upped the intensity, which unfortunately rekindled my libido. The key change was coming, and it brought goosebumps and a flush on my chest, the pitch of the cello and her voice snapping together in perfect thirds. I couldn't help but smile as I played. I knew what I'd done, and I'm sure Nadine would too when she heard it. Hers was a great song, but the cello part had just made it an earworm. People would be humming this for days. The song moved into the final chorus, and instead of just harmonising as I had in the previous choruses, I kept the refrain going, a melodic counterpoint, almost a descant as she increased her volume, strumming hard, keening out the pain the song's persona felt. Pleasure washed through me, and I bit down on my lip to maintain my focus. The two melody lines contrasted and complimented each other, teasing me, which I felt fitted with the opposing images of the song, death and the new day. As the guitar faded, I kept the refrain going, cooing wordlessly along with it to release some of my pent up tension, my eyes firmly closed. Slowly, I reduced the tempo, extended the notes, matching my voice to the strings, before bringing the piece to an end, managing to keep a lid on my rising arousal.

I listened through, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing in my crotch and fighting the desire to have a second orgasm. The recording wasn't perfect but it sounded fine: she'd obviously want to re-record it, but it was definitely good enough to give her the idea. I rendered and downloaded an mp3, then rushed upstairs.

"Here, listen."

She popped on headphones and closed her eyes, while I stood nervously by her desk, chewing on my lip. Somewhere in the second verse (or so I guessed) her eyes snapped open, locked on mine. Her face split into the hugest smile, which I couldn't help returning. By the end, her eyes were shining with tears.

"Bloody hell Priya fam! I could kiss you! No, screw it, I am going to kiss you!"

I blushed, as she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me hard on the cheek.

"You liked it then?"

"I bloody loved it! You've just made that song, for real! That was epic!" She started humming my refrain. "Oh, that's such an earworm, trust. Bloody hell!" She gave a wordless little yelp of joy and jumped up and down in excitement.

"Listen with me? Pretty please?"

We listened twice more, and discussed how we might adjust it as I squirmed. I had no plans for Friday night, so I promised her we'd record some new takes the next day, though I gulped at the thought. She wanted it on Soundcloud and Bandcamp asap. "I can totes hear that on the radio." I had to agree. I started to protest when she began promising me a co-write credit, but she insisted. "You've made that song, babe. It was good before, but now it's diamond. It's your refrain that peeps will remember; that's the hook. No doubt."

I got up to go, as Nadine was fully intending to put word out on Social Media about it already, whereas I was ready for bed.

"Where did that come from anyway?" she asked as I was poised at her door.

"Oh, I was just improvising and thinking about how that waitress had moved tonight."

"How she'd moved?!" Nadine's voice was slightly incredulous.

"Yeah, she was so graceful, so in command. The refrain just came from there, her movements, her command over her space, her confidence. Then it just seemed to fit your song: the way your lyrics navigate the pitfalls of life after a death."

"Wow. You're deep, you get me Priya? I have to meet this woman now, trust. Invite her to a show and put her on the guestlist."

"Ok. I'll try. Maybe I'll pop in next week when she's working and see if she'd be up for coming."

She looked at me strangely, then leaned in for a hug.

"Love you babe. I so appreciate the way you support me. For real. You're amazing," she whispered to me as she squeezed me tight. "You know that there's nothing about you that will ever change that, don't you fam? Nothing that could shake my gratitude?"

I wondered where this was coming from. Confused, I pulled back and looked at her. In the dim light of her room, it seemed like she was waiting for me to say something, to make some kind of confession, but I couldn't for the life of me think what. With no clue forthcoming I just said, "Thanks sweetie. Sleep well."

Kate

There she was again, Priya, the pretty South Asian girl with the silky hair and to-die-for smile. I'd been daydreaming about her all week, and had looked out for her yesterday. When I had first noticed her checking me out last week (though was that what she'd been doing?) I'd figured she was gay. Then, when her date turned out to be male, I thought maybe bi. But maybe my gaydar was off. Still, I'd been hoping to see her again.

"Hi there Priya. What can I get you?"

"Oh, hi Kate, oh God." Gosh she was blushing. This was too cute.

"Two of three?"

"Yes, yes... I didn't think you worked Fridays?"

So she remembered? Sweet. I raised an eyebrow.

"No, I don't usually, but the girl who works needed a night off, so I swapped my Tuesday shift with her."