Page 6 of The Muse
The hassle of too many other people just winds me up further as I make my way across London Bridge and out of town. No one smiles, nor nods, or even offers a glimmer of hope. They’re all as dour as me, all as fucking irritated with their own sad little lives. Grey skin. Grey suits. Grey bloody outlook, regardless of the spring sun. I don’t even stop at Mint Street Park, a place that usually gives me some amount of joy, or bother looking at the blossoms that went somewhere close to making me smile first thing. I head straight up the six flights of stairs and then inside my flat when I get to it instead, slamming the door just to finish off the anger and frustration.
Silence.
My back leans against the door, messenger bag slung on the still unpacked boxes along with my keys and jacket. This is it. All I have and all I am, all my free money sunk into it, too. I gaze around the darkened minimalist space, taking in the lack of furniture or decoration, and then let my stare linger on the screen separating the other end of the loft.
That's the only thing that made me pay the exorbitant price for this place—the space behind them and the huge terrace outside of it. And everything’s there waiting for me. All my canvases, all my paints and years’ worth of drawings and ideas. Hidden. Or rather, made to disappear. I haven’t touched any of them since I placed them there, nor have I even tried to paint since I moved back. They’ve just sat there in the dark, dust and decay growing, and now they've helped fill me with the same sentiment.
It's nearly enough for me to slide down to the floor in despair because that's exactly what I’m doing—decaying and rotting. Maybe I’ve done it to myself somehow, lost that thing I used to have. I wish I knew. I only know that one day the want stopped, and the forced attempts became so dull I couldn't bring myself to put them on show anymore.
I move, unsure why I’m bothering, and draw back the dividing screens so I can stare at the sheets of fabric draping unfinished pieces. My fingers tap at the blind's remote unconsciously, part hovering in dread before light starts filling the room entirely. The automatic shutters keep unfolding, though, no matter how slowly, and within minutes the entire space is awash with light, both full corner walls of glass displaying London’s skyline in front of me.
What the hell am I standing here for? I should run. Get out and push through this frustration, but I find myself rolling up my shirt sleeves instead and moving a covered piece to the floor. Another large canvas is placed on the easel, as if I’m not even the one doing it, and before I know it, I’ve picked up a brush and knife.
I stand, tapping them in my hand, and glare at the huge, sparse, empty surface. Something. Anything.
Taut and tight.
Glaring some more, I squeeze out some oils and barely acknowledge the old palette covered in yellows and golds in my hand. A flash of red. Some Vandyke brown to counter it and highlight that churlish attitude of hers. It all comes quicker than I’m willing to accept, as does the softening of the brow I’m constantly trying to keep furrowed in my concentration.
Slow, long strokes from my arms. Easy and gentle at first, like her while she danced. Then slashed and rushed across the canvas more vigorously. Poised. Elegant. The curve of her thigh. The sinew and elasticity of the toned muscles in her arms. Her dainty fingers outstretched as if reaching for something. Perfectly balanced gold pointe shoes, one of them holding her weight secure against the emotions the dance must have carried for her.
It’s all loose. All bright and fluid.
All done as if emotion feeds me.
Just like it used to be.
And that very fact, whilst invigorating, makes me back off and glare again before I even get to her face. I need to run. Get my head back to thinking with it rather than with what's in my trousers. She was pretty. That was all. Pretty and just about flawless.
Chapter Four
PERSEPHONE
The funeral was a dull affair, but then, who’d ever heard of a fun one? Nobody knew Aunty Elenor anyway. I can’t remember the last time we even saw her. Daddy's always been funny about parts of the family. He’s always gone on about how important the Broderick name is, and how important the reputation we all have to uphold is, and yet he's had little to do with his own sister. In fact, Grandfather has been the only regular family member we see, and that isn’t often now considering his age.
Nobody has time for family anymore, except for occasions like this, and so Mother and Father have insisted on holding the wake at the house. Which means there are people everywhere. Family everywhere. I’m surprised they didn’t insist it was held at Tallington Hall, but then, most of us haven’t been there for years.
Although I’ve been boarding at the Royal Ballet, Earlwood House is still my home. I’ve grown up between here and the ballet. By the time I could remember anything, Landon and Ivy had left and then it was only a few years before Neve did, too. It was lonely at times, especially on the obligatory summer visits to Tallington. Daddy was always too busy for anything, and Mother seemed to drift through life—like an elegant swan—serene and in control. Although she never seemed truly happy. It made it easier to focus on what I had to through the years—dancing.
It's been years since we’ve all been at the house together. Landon has been over in The States for what feels like forever. He even forgot that Christmas was a time to spend with family at times. And with my dancing schedule and Ivy and Neve invested in their own careers, the Broderick siblings haven't often been together for more than a handful of hours at a time.
With my latest career choice, I find myself with a whole lot more time on my hands now I'm not training seven hours a day, six days a week.
While Mother and Father entertain the mourners in the drawing room, I slip out of my formal black court shoes and stretch my toes against the soft upholstered rug in the reading room. My feet are still battered from the show and sport ugly red welts that I can’t quickly cover with plasters or bandages.
“I thought I saw you sneak off. What gives?” Ivy opens the door and drops into an overstuffed chair next to where I'm taking a breather.
“Just taking a moment.” She eyes my feet and wrinkles her nose.
“That’s one thing you’ll finally be able to indulge in. Shoes. Once you get them healed up, you’ll be able to have your choice of any you want, because let’s face it, you’ve never been able to feel your feet. A little pain from a high heel won’t even register.”
“Since when are you into heels?” I ask. Ivy's usually gallivanting all over the globe, always looking for a story or an investigation. However, she’s been in London for a little while now.
“I can admire. I’d probably trip and fall on my arse in anything other than a boot heel.”
“What are you admiring?” Landon asks, striding into the room like he owns the place, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.
“Shoes. Nothing that would concern you, big brother.”
