Page 1 of The Muse
Chapter One
SCOTT
The shrill sound of my bloody phone wakes me with a start.
My eyes open slowly, hand brushing away hair that’s draped over my face. It isn’t mine, and the body lying next to me isn’t supposed to be here. It isn’t until I fully crack my eyelids to the continuing sound of my phone that I realise I’m not even in my fucking flat.
That fact alone makes me move swiftly to silence the phone, part desperate not to wake the form still wrapped up under the covers. She’ll be needy if I do and then start talking about dates and thinking she’s got some right to elongate whatever last night was. She doesn’t. I don’t elongate my one-nighters into anything other than that – one single night.
Feet landing on the carpeted floor, I peel out of her loose hold until I’m up and searching this place for the clothes I must have thrown in the heat of the moment. I can’t even remember getting here, let alone who the red hair in the bed belongs to. Tanya? Tina? Sounds familiar. Might be one of those.
She groans as I start pulling my trousers and shoes on, then mewls a little as I slide the shirt into place and start buttoning it.
“Scott?” At least she knows my name. Must have attempted talking with this one at some point. “Where are you going, handsome? I'm not finished with you yet."
I don’t answer her. Nor do I look as the covers start shifting around. I walk to the bathroom and do what needs doing before going back out into the bedroom to scour for my jacket instead. I haven’t got any intention of ever seeing her again, so conversation isn’t in the cards this morning. If it is morning.
Snatching at my phone, I look at the time – eleven thirty a.m. – and then slide it into my pocket rather than deal with the voicemail yet.
Coffee first.
Hair roughed into shape, I walk for the main door, less than no energy in bothering to even say goodbye. Whatever last night was, I wouldn’t have been making any promises of more than this has been. Good genes get me laid when I need it. No chat up lines. No bother with conversation other than stating the obvious. It generally works. Women seem to be more interested in verbal honesty in London these days rather than actual courtship. And luckily for me, the hard jawline and dark blue eyes I’ve been gifted seem to make me appear handsome enough that dropping their underwear happens quickly.
"Scott? Where–”
The door slams behind me before she finishes, and I start taking the steps downwards sluggishly, rolling and rubbing my neck as I go. Feels like it’s been scratched, gripped too tight. Maybe she was riding me for kicks. Can’t remember that either.
And Christ, my head hurts.
“SCREW YOU, ARSEHOLE!” is screamed above me.
I half-smile and pat my jacket pockets, digging inside them the moment I find the flask I’m after so I can tip it to my mouth. Arsehole isn't uncommon where I'm concerned. I am one. Certainly since I've been back here. It's probably not changing anytime soon either, but this whisky slides in and goes somewhere close to making me ready for whatever day of the week it is. It doesn’t, however, prepare me for the spring sun that near bloody blinds me as I walk out onto the road.
Fuck.
Faltering backwards at the onslaught of it, I lean back into the door and hide in the recess of the shadows to drink some more. It doesn’t help with the glare that much, but it at least gives me a couple of minutes of waking up time. It’s then that it hits me that it’s Saturday and this place is nowhere near my neighbourhood.
Where the hell did I end up last night? Images of Soho flash through my mind, most of them laced with women touching me and lipstick. Lots of bright red lipstick. Still can’t picture the redhead I’ve just left, but that doesn’t mean much other than just another meaningless romp.
Pulling my phone out, I eventually start walking to the main tube at Southwark to get home. The voicemail kicks in too bloody loudly for my ears to process, but I get the gist and shove the fucking thing back in my pocket before stopping in the nearest coffee shop. Lissa’s sick. Can I get to the ballet this evening at the Royal Albert Hall and review that god awful heap of shit that everyone’s been fawning over this past year. And also, just to top off the delight, can I then deal with the interview for her.
I snatch the coffee out of the barista’s hand and storm back out into the street; any amount of calm I was falling into now gone because I’ve got to deal with a load of pretentious wankers for the night. Not that I had any other plans, but dealing with trivial crap like this was not on my agenda. Still, maybe it’ll be interesting to tear the thing to shreds and give it a real appraisal rather than the bland type of critique Lissa would have delivered. It’s not like I’m not good at it, irrespective of that being my chosen path or not. Slating anything is easy for me. Always has been.
Snorting at the thought, I sip some more coffee in the hope it’ll wake me up and then take the lid off the cup so I can pour the remainder of the whisky into it. Talentless. Everything is. Nothing inspires or intrigues me anymore. It hasn’t since Paris. I was pulled back here to this hellish place to deal with my father’s failure in business, and now all I’ve got is time I hate, a city I hate, and a job I fucking hate.
Jesus Christ. Nearly forty years old and less than no enthusiasm for anything. I stop and glower at the busy oncoming traffic I'm trying to navigate my way through, downing more whisky coffee as I do. I shouldn’t be here critiquing others. I should be out there, showcasing my own work and making my way on my own. But Foxton gets what Foxton wants, that meaning my bloody father.
Bloody press. It’s all shit. And it’s all I do now. I run around critiquing other art in the hope that my own name remains current in some way. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was successful as a paper, but it isn’t anymore. It’s as trivial as the damn ballet I’m going to go to and as fucking dull.
The phone rings again as I barge my way over the crossing towards Lambeth, and this time I answer it.
“Oh, thank God, Scott. You’re there,” Lissa Thompson says. The grunt that comes out of me is the only acknowledgement I’m willing to give. “Are you alright for tonight? I’m so sorry, but I’m throwing up left, right and centre, and I can’t deal with it.” Probably banging another bloke behind her boyfriend’s back. “Scott? There’s a press pass at your place. I’ve slipped it through the letterbox. I was hoping you'd have nothing on and–”
“Fine. But you owe me.”
The gushing thanks coming across the line gets switched off before she finishes, and I head down the steps to the tube. I can’t deal with her voice any more than I have to. Couldn’t when I was the one she was fucking behind her boyfriend’s back either. She was good at it, though. Fair play. Until she started talking about leaving him for me. I wanted that about as much as I want this fucking life I now live.
~
