Page 13 of The Muse
If it wasn’t bad enough that I was harbouring an attraction to my family’s enemy, now I have the potential career of someone who simply wasn’t in the right place at the right time on my hands.
I cut another slice of pancake and drench it in syrup.
Bastards. Both of them.
I shouldn’t let Landon get to me the way I am doing, but he can be a real bully when he chooses. And I'm so sick of his constant digs.
By the time I finish the stack of pancakes, ignoring the rest of the food choices that Sophie offered, my violent streak towards my brother has lessened. There will be time to consider my next steps, but I have a rehearsal to get to. I’ll be dancing some of my own choreography tomorrow night—something that I’ve never done publicly before—and everything is planned to show the strengths of my repertoire as a dancer. As it’s not a formal performance, and I'm not officially employed by the ballet any longer; I have nobody to answer to.
And it feels wonderful.
I challenge anyone, including Scott Foxton, to call me passionless after they see what I can do when I’m not held back or penned in.
The downside is I'll have to endure Madame Lynch. Given her speech at the reception afterwards, no doubt her disappointment at my decision will be clear.
Why nobody can see why I'm doing this is beyond me. Should I just capitulate to whomever is in charge and be grateful?
Over my dead body.
Chapter Seven
SCOTT
“The approach was to maintain spontaneity, you know? Life in movement—death in stagnation. I just wanted continuous movement, wanted it to come to life and evolve in the mind of each viewer.” I take a step back, then left, my hand on my chin as I peruse the piece in front of me from a different angle. Sadly, the young artist—Leopold ‘Leo’ Winsley—keeps talking rather than backing the hell off to give me time. “It’s all about the flow, the vibe. Texture.” Not that I can see. “The three-dimensional experience gives it that weight.”
No, it does not.
My head tilts as I back farther away and put my glasses back into their case. It’s not bad per say, but it’s hardly the sensation everyone’s banging on about. It’s been done repeatedly, by artists with a more skilful hand than his. Frankly, the eight half-finished pieces I’ve got in my flat are far better than this poor attempt. And the one standing proud in the middle of them all, the same one I’m continuously ignoring because it’s power over me is damn near destroying my sanity at present, would blow this out of the water.
I sigh and give the abstract effort another once over, at least studying it enough to give serious credence to the review I’m going to have to write, and then start walking for the woman who’s dishing out champagne.
“Scott?” Leo hassles, catching up with me. “So, what’s your feeling? I’m all about input, especially from retired artists.” My feet halt abruptly, the hand that was reaching for champagne snatched back. Retired? “It’s a shame. You were good back then until you started ...”
I stare, waiting for something to counter the rising aggravation that was already aggravated enough. Nothing comes. He’s suddenly like a deer in headlights, all mouth opening and closing and hunched shoulders. It’s not surprising given the stare I’m giving him that’s probably more like a glare of contempt.
“I mean, not … not retired, if you’re not,” he stutters. “I just assumed that because you hadn’t produced anything for so long after your last piece then …”
It trails off to nothing but him shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around for an escape. I’m partially ready to join him in the attempt. Instead, I look back at the piece he wants my opinion on and try to formulate something he needs to hear.
“It’s not terrible,” I eventually say. “A little weak in technique, and, in my opinion, nothing new, but it’s got some merit.”
What, I’m not sure yet, but it is appealing in some way. Just. Barely at all actually. But the gold hues do remind me of my own new work, and that’s bringing all the feelings back that little miss tight and taut seems to be delivering still. It’s probably why I’m being so critical of him, his work, and every other fucking piece of shit in this space. “I’ll give it a reasonable assessment, Mr Winsley. It’ll go to print next week with the others I’m considering.”
I’m not sure if the brightening smile and gushing thanks he starts delivering is intended to sway my judgement in his favour or not, but if it is, like so many have tried before him, it won’t work. Flattery is nothing but an irritation to me. As it has been this morning from some of the other young artists milling around.
Still, as I’m here, I reach for a glass of champagne again and wander off to look over the far end of the gallery, perhaps trying to distract myself from miss taut and tight.And then, after another hour of staring at bland, dull, and some completely insufferable efforts at art, I leave without a glance backwards and hover under the entrance.
Gentle spring rain falls from the skies, overcast weather proving London’s grey and dismal outlook hasn’t quite disappeared as yet. It’s adding to the mood I’m carrying around with me, pushing me further and further towards a self-serving depression by the hour. And the only thing improving it, the only fucking thing giving me even a glimmer of hope and optimism, is all wrapped up in pretty pointe shoes and barely any clothing.
Fuck it.
A week's gone by since she stormed into my flat, and she's still in my head. I grab my phone and start scanning for information, anything to give me a clue what she’s doing or where she is. There isn’t much on social media aside from the reviews and reports from her final show. Many of them my own scathing remarks. But I finally find something that seems completely at odds with the ‘giving up’ I had assumed. A performance for charity. Her. Alone. Tonight. The eventual realisation that it’s by private invitation only sends my aggravated mood through the damn roof.
My gaze goes back up to the sky, a huff of annoyance following. I doubt I’m going to be invited to that. Lissa might be, though, given the nod at press marketing is talking about. And she owes me a favour.
I’m walking for the tube and calling her before I’ve worked out how I’m going to explain my necessity to go. Thankfully, her voicemail kicks in rather than her actual voice, so I drop a reasonably curt ‘you owe me, give me the ticket if you've got one' voicemail and end the call.
By the time I reach the office late-afternoon, there’s an envelope on my laptop with a press pass and everything I need to get inside the performance. I land heavily in my chair, my legs kicking up on the desk so I can gaze at the gloomy sky and run my fingers over the gold embellished invitation. It isn’t until I eventually look back at it that I realise it’s a black-tie event that expects arrival by six.
