Page 9 of The Muse
Another run through some reasonable quiet, and I turn up through the houses for the final stretch to get me home. Cars start getting in my way after a while, people milling around the roads on their daily errands. They’re bloody lucky I’m not kicking them too, as I navigate across the main road and back up the side street.
I eventually stop running and pace, hands on my hips and breath heaving back to somewhere near normal, as I check the distance. Fourteen point six miles. Far enough. It makes me head to the flat's entrance, pulling the main door open so I can sprint up the stairs to get to my door. My T-shirt is tugged over my head the moment I’m through, the waistband on my shorts shoved low down for some cold on my skin.
The coffee machine is put on, and I go around the flat opening all the windows in the hope of air. There isn’t much, but by the time the coffee’s dripping, there is at least a light breeze running through the space. I sit at the small table and sling my T-shirt around my neck, trying to work out why I called in sick today. I’m clearly not, other than the normally present hangover. I haven’t been sick for as long as I can remember, but I am low for some reason. Not that my near-permanent mood of generally pissed off wouldn’t come across as anything other than that, but this is different. I’m blue, tired. Which is completely opposed to the feeling looking at this new canvas brings on.
I stare at it, sipping my coffee, and let my gaze drift over the lines I’ve created. They’re strong, bold, daring and provocative even. It’s not my usual work. Or what used to be usual. It was always softer before, whimsical in nature. This is harsher, more vivid and challenging on the eye. Stark. Hard lines hacked across the surface; the brush angled differently to create more aggravated layers.
The look of it tips a half-smile as my brain whirls and wonders what Mike Matthews, my old mentor, would say of this style. He’d probably tell me to keep it moving, do another, find the balance in the new formation of colours and feeling. The thought has me standing and walking over, coffee still in hand, so I can follow my new lines over curves up to the flow of her throat in full stretch. Beautiful. Evocative. Powerful. For such a small creature, she's owning this entire room around me and every thought I've currently got.
She still needs a face, though.
Picking up a pad and some charcoal absently, I walk back to the table and push the paper with my review of her aside. She’ll probably have seen that by now, endured my cutting remarks about entitled millennials and their below-par abilities. Or maybe little divas like her don’t bother to take critique seriously. She should. She was dazzling out there. Shining. Just a little more passion, more age and wisdom, and she’d have the rest of the world in the palm of her hand. Instead, she’s given up or been kicked out. Presumably choosing a new path rather than work harder to prove her worth.
The harsh, black lines I'm scratching in intensify at the thought of giving up, angled lines replicating the perfect cut of her jawline and then sweeping up to the hairline. Soft tendrils and wisps flick over the cheek, my finger smudging in shadows to highlight rigid bones and soft hollows. It’s as bloody seamless as the main canvas was, as easy to forge through my fingers.
Why? I tried this for over two years back in Paris, tried to find myself in the middle of my stagnation, and now this little waif of a girl comes and infiltrates parts of me somehow? I frown and throw the pad and charcoal on the table facedown, annoyed with myself and yet fucking ecstatic that something’s coming back. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so cutting. She deserved it, though. Fucking little madam with her attitude and perfect pointy nose.
A sudden knock on the door has my eyes snatching a glance that way. No one comes here. I grab my coffee again, hoping they’ll just go away and leave me alone. They don’t. The knocking gets louder and louder, to the point where it’s turning into hammering and I'm throwing my glasses on the table.
Walking to it, I open it as furiously as this mood descending again is worth. I’m so shocked by the vision standing there that I falter back half a step. It’s her. Seffi Castlewood, all five foot whatever of her glaring up at me as if she’s got something to say. Her face softens for half a beat, her eyes fluttering away and down for some reason. It’s then that I remember I’m only half-dressed and still wearing a sheen of sweat from the damn run.
I slam the door in her face immediately, part in surprise, part needing a fucking reprieve from the actual lines of her body, and needing to pull the screens together in case she comes in.
My back presses to the door, eyes searching for my T-shirt, as the hammering starts again instantly. Christ. This was unexpected. I walk and get the screens pulled closed, eyes still manically searching for my top, as I listen to the constant hammering that’s getting louder and louder again.
Eventually, I give up searching because of the attack on my door and swing it wide, somewhere near appropriately prepared for the onslaught of her up close.
“Yes?” I snap.
She barges past me into my space, her frame going under my arm until she’s standing by the table. Three seconds is all it takes for her to take note of The Herald spread open on the table, the picture of her on full display.
“Pleased with yourself, are you?” she snips, at least walking away from the damn thing. Considering the drawing she could be looking at if it hadn't landed face down, yes, I am.
“What can I do for you, Ms Castlewood?” I ask, standing firm.
“Putting some bloody clothes on would be a good start,” she replies, turning to look through the window.
Shit, I forgot about that. I scan for my T-shirt again, only to finally realise it’s around my damn neck.
By the time I’ve shoved the sweat ridden thing over my head, I find her looking back at me with her arms crossed and the glare back in place again. “It was an unfair critique, Mr Foxton. I want a reprint.”
I snort, astonished at yet more diva behaviour. “Not a chance, Ms Castlewood. It was fair and balanced. Your performance was substandard at best. Tally that with your attitude at the interview and you’re lucky it was even slightly pleasant.”
Her mouth opens at the hostile response, eyes like slits as she walks closer. My whole frame backs away instantly. “And I need to ask you to leave. You’re probably the type to accuse me of sexual harassment because you can’t get your own way.”
“How dare you! I would never accuse anyone of anything of the sort.”
“Of course not. I forgot. Sleeping with people is how your sort get to the top of your game in the first place.”
What was simply indignation and outrage on her features turns damn near violent for someone her size.
“I did not, and have not, slept with anyone to get where I am. Take that back.”
“No.”
She shrugs out of her long, thin cardigan, slinging it on one of my chairs. The very movement flings her billowing summer skirt around, giving me glimpses of everything I should not even notice let alone think about. Tight and taut. Light, creamy skin like silk under the sway of vibrant green.
The matching pistachio heels move towards me again, making me look back up at her face quickly. Sadly, it’s not quick enough for me to bypass the swell of her pert breasts under a partly sheer blouse.
