Page 30 of The Muse
“We’ve not really talked since you’ve finished at the ballet.”
“Father, please, my car is waiting. Can we do this another time?” My heart pounds in my chest, proving how caught I feel and how desperate I am to escape. There’s no possible way that he’ll know my real plans, but that doesn’t help the nerves rising through me in waves.
“Well, yes, I suppose.”
“Great. Thank you.” I shut the door on him and seek the safety of the car waiting on the gravel. Coincidence, that’s all it is. My father couldn’t even muster up the interest in my career while I had it, so he shouldn’t be interested in what my plans are today. Besides, it’s the middle of the week and I’m sure he has more important things to worry about. He always has in the past. But it doesn’t stop me feeling like a naughty child.
The car drops me off at the edge of the square, and I see, beyond the huge lion statues, the steps of the National Gallery. Suddenly it all makes sense. My heart even skips a beat as I realise why Scott wanted to meet here. He’s an artist. He’s seen into my world, and now he’s sharing his. First, with his friend’s show, and now this.
The beaming smile that he always manages to draw from me is back, and I head towards the steps, perhaps expecting to see him waiting for me with an equally stupid grin on his face. My silly fantasy isn’t quite complete. Scott is sitting on the top step of the building looking just as dishevelled and unkempt as he was the first time we met. Funny, though, today I see it more as roguishly handsome.
He stands as I head towards him. “You figured it out.”
“You gave me the address, or rather the postcode. Although I wasn’t sure what we would be doing until I saw the gallery.”
He nods towards a small cart vendor outside the gallery. “Coffee?”
“Sure. But I’ll take a tea.” We wait in line, a little awkwardly. Orders are placed and cups handed over.
“I wanted to show you something.” He sweeps his arm behind my back and ushers me inside with him. I thought this would be a romantic guided tour—stopping at his favourite masterpieces to gleam some much-needed information about Scott Foxton.
I took him up on what he said and Googled him. His art is colourful and striking, somewhat dreamlike. Arresting, in some instances, although I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I expected it would give me some special understanding to the man he is. But it didn’t. And that’s probably down to my interpretation of the pieces. Without his explanation or commentary, they don’t mean a great deal to me. At least it wasn’t simply blocks of colour slapped over a canvas.
Scott rushes me through the entrance, then up the stairs to the second floor, where he proceeds to lead the way into one of the smaller rooms.
“Slow down. What’s the rush?”
“No rush. I hate half the stuff that hangs here. But this is what I wanted to show you.” He stops in front of a small painting of ballet dancers. “It’s not the best of his work. You’re probably familiar with the most famous pieces, but I wanted you to see it.”
I look at the painting of a row of girls at the ballet barre, tutus on and looking like they’re warming up. He's right, there are some famous ballerina paintings that I’ve seen over the years. Most of them nice enough, but I've generally favoured photography over actual paintings.
“Degas was obsessed with the ballet. Or rather what ballet enabled him to see of the human form. He was fanatical about representing what he saw. My preferred Degas is at the Musée d'Orsay, Paris.”
He makes the comments in an almost off-hand, dismissive way that aligns to my first assumptions of him. A grumpy journalist. “I prefer more elegant, striking drawings. Less interpretation.”
I cast my eye back over the piece that's somewhat of a letdown. Although, I’d never say that to Scott, it looks tired. The energy and anticipation of what it’s really like to dance on the stage is missing from this piece.
“What else did you want to show me?” I can’t help but feel like this isn’t something that Scott does often, and I want to take my time and savour the experience.
“Well, there’s an exhibition downstairs. Quite the highlight, so I’ve been told,” he muses, leading me from the room.
“Great. What’s it called?” I take a mouthful of my tea as we head for the stairs.
“Sin,” he deadpans.
I choke on the tea and begin coughing hoarsely as I struggle to draw breath.
“Easy there. Something I said?” He takes my arm to steady me as I continue to sound like I’m coughing up my lung.
“No,” I croak. “Nothing.”
“Come on. After what I did to you the other night, it’s me that’s committed all the sin. You’re the angel in the relationship.”
I’m still spluttering and trying to regain a shred of dignity, but I heard the word relationship. It could be a simple matter of semantics. Of course, it could. Obviously. Still, the smile that spreads on my face because of it is not something I can hide. And considering he's about to take me to something called Sin, it must mean something more than nothing, surely?
I follow as he leads me back down the stairs to the exhibition located at the front of the building, wondering if hand-holding will happen again at any point. He's a little distant compared to the park. Or maybe he isn't and I'm just making up problems that aren't there. He remains quiet as well, just perusing the room confidently.
Reading that there’s a quiet appreciation for what we’re looking at on his face, I linger back and let him have his space. Although, I'm surprised he hasn't talked me through it yet. He doesn’t seem to be someone to hold his opinion in. Especially after what he said when we were at his friend’s show.
