Page 34 of The Muse
Chapter Fourteen
PERSEPHONE
Istir,stretch my limbs out and enjoy the pull of my muscles as I do. My head’s a little foggy from all the wine, although half of it went on the sheets. I look at the pile of white, with the deep purple seeping through it that we stripped from the bed before finally falling asleep last night.
“Would you like coffee?” I ask.
No response.
I turn over, only to find an empty spot where Scott should be. My heart sinks that he’s not there, and I absentmindedly brush the space where he should be. Then I see a note on the side table.
Gone for a run. Don’t bother getting dressed.
His gruff tone rings clear in my head as I read his note.
I close my eyes and flop back onto the bed.
After everything he told me last night, I feel sick. He’s given up his dream to come back and help his father out, and my family are ready to pounce on that vulnerability and rip the business out from under them.
When I first overheard my father and Landon talking, I knew I was stuck in a position of what to do for the best, but I never realised just how important it would be for me to tell Scott the truth. A week's gone by since I found out about the dodgy dealing. It's been a week filled with wonder and sensations and laughter and fun. Well, as much as Scott tries for fun. And God, after what he told me last night, how could I not want to tell him the truth now?
But that means coming clean about who I really am.
Should I risk telling him with no guarantee this will last longer than the argument that’s in front of us? He said the word relationship in a throwaway comment. We’ve spent plenty of time in bed, but does that stack up to something meaningful?
Does Scott Foxton even do meaningful?
All the questions descend and put me into a bad mood, so I find Scott’s robe and make myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. Fill the kettle, flip the switch, wait. The simple task gives me room to calm down, and once I’ve made it, I look around at the stillness of Scott’s apartment. I meant what I said the first time I was here. A few adjustments and the place could be stunning. The light is always good, but it doesn’t feel like a home. But then again, Earlwood is hardly a model example.
I tour the loft, taking in the unique smell that seems to have permeated the very walls of the space, and then come up against the floor to ceiling screens that have always been in place.
My feet stop, hands fiddling with my teacup. They look like they've been hand made for the room, huge grey shutters closing something off from the rest of the place. I’ve never really questioned them before, but suddenly I want to know what's behind them. Maybe Scott's some sort of manic hoarder, or perhaps he has a deep, dark secret of his own. The thought, considering my own secret, is more comforting than it probably should be.
I check back over my shoulder to the door and know that I’m risking a lot. Again. But there’s a compulsion to do it now, to find things and understand more about him. All I know is that he's an artist, or was, before becoming a critic. A very good one according to that Shaun chap. And that must be true because Scott told me that art paid for the roof over his head, although from what I saw online, it wasn’t obvious to me.
And he was drawing me last night, focused and absorbed in it. It's something that made me blush and feel self-conscious to start with, but that soon shifted to a weird sort of pride. He wanted to draw me. Another move that only made my heart beat harder for him. I’d challenge any woman not to suddenly trip into that ‘scary-serious-feelings’ position if the man she was sleeping with suddenly wanted to draw her. It was sexy and possessive and completely floored me.
And that only magnifies the moment I open the screen.
The place is stacked with canvases, all of them awash with light peeling in from two huge walls of glass. There's a makeshift rack on the side wall where pieces are filed like books on a shelf. A plain chest covered in paints and materials sits in the corner, old rags draped over the surface. That astringent smell is more concentrated here. It’s less like vinegar and more earthy—like a garden shed. It all tells me this is where Scott does his work, and I peek around at the easel that’s set up to find out what that type of work is.
“Oh, god,” I gasp, clasping my hand to my mouth.
My eyes run over the image in front of me as tears prick the back of my eyes, and I try swallowing the emotion that's consuming all rational thought.
The features are so familiar to me—because itisme.
Me?
The pose and motion of the piece takes me back to my last dance. The one that Scott criticised so harshly, and the realisation guts me. He saw something that night. In me. A purity that’s translated onto the canvas in a way I could never imagine of myself. In this piece, I look every part the Prima Ballerina I imagined when I was a child. The emotion floors me, and for the first time, I question where my decision to leave might take me.
The words he wrote in his review were critical and harsh. But all I see is beauty and poise. He must have seen something in me to be able to create a piece so inspiring.
If my heart was in danger before, it’s completely screwed now. This is all I need to quieten the uncertainty of Scott’s feelings for me because they scream from the canvas.
I collapse to the floor as both the vision of the painting and the enormity of what I have to confess hits me. There is no way I can keep lying to Scott. Not now. Not after seeing a glimpse of his soul. And I have no doubt what his art is—his means of expressing his feelings. He might have eased me into this with the drawing last night, but he can’t deny what I see in front of me.
I think back to his words from the other night—that Degas became obsessed with the ballet—and I find myself hoping that Scott might be as obsessed with me as I’ve grown to be about him. At least enough to hear me out.
