The Artist's Muse Page 2

  “She’s an artist.”

  “Have I met her?” Victoire knows nearly everyone, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t met Lise. She would have bragged to all and sundry. “She’s seduced you, hasn’t she?”

  “No, you haven’t, and no, she hasn’t.” I run a damp cloth over the bar, my way to keep from thinking too much about Lise and seduction.

  “That’s a first.”

  “For which?” I know I shouldn’t respond, but I can’t help myself.

  “You and Nathalie didn’t wait around, so I assume you wouldn’t with your artist either. You never do.”

  “Nothing’s happened.” I wish it would.

  “Maybe that’s good,” Victoire observes. She downs the remains of her brandy and digs a few coins from her small leather purse.

  “I don’t see how it could be.” I know my tone is sharp, but I’ve been on edge since this afternoon.

  “Think on it.” She leans over the bar and we kiss companionably. “Bonne nuit, ma chérie. I want to hear more about this artist soon.”

  “You will.” I can hardly keep Lise from my mind; Victoire won’t have to work very hard to get me to tell her more.

  *

  The concierge lets me in, and even though I’m early, I head up the stairs. There’s a clatter of hard-soled heels on the stairs above me, and I’m nearly knocked off my feet by a young man. He doesn’t even bother with an apology. I lean over the rail, tempted to scold him. He reaches the bottom stair before I can think of anything to say. I continue upstairs, pausing in front of Lise’s front door. I can hear rustling inside, and I knock.

  At first I think she hasn’t heard me, but before I can knock a second time, the door swings open and she’s there, her pale cheeks flushed, her hair in slight disarray, tumbling over her shoulders. I want to run my fingers through those silky strands, pull them away from her neck and kiss my way up her throat. I want to hear her gasp with passion when I cup her breast then go lower, to the button of her trousers.

  “Come in.” She smiles, but her gaze is already turning back into the flat. I follow her in. The bed in the alcove is unmade, and she hurries there first, pulling up the covers.

  “Did I wake you?”

  She smooths the bedcover. “No, but I let the time get away from me.”

  I shed my jacket and fold it over my arm. I’ve made an effort today, and I’m wearing one of my nicer dresses, a dark violet wool crepe I love. I rarely ever dress up before I have to go to work; it’s usually a waste since I change into a uniform, and I can’t afford to wear out my nicer dresses.

  Lise doesn’t seem to notice as she finishes tidying up, folding a bundle of clothes and leaving them on the bed. I glance toward her easel and see that she has a new canvas set there, a vast expanse of white, primed space, ready to paint.

  “I didn’t tell you about my concept last time, did I?” Lise asks, talking over her shoulder as she plumps the pillows.

  “We never got to it.” At least, I don’t think we did, not in detail. I was too busy fantasizing, and she was too busy drawing.

  Lise comes and takes my jacket, laying it on the bed. She grabs a battered book from the stack on the nightstand, and I see Louvre emblazoned on its cover. It’s full of bookmarks, and she flips open the page. I move closer, nearly touching her. I’m taller than she is, just barely, but then, I’m in shoes and she’s in stocking feet.

  “I had this idea,” Lise says, opening the book to a picture of a red-haired woman, carrying a candle, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide. Lise traces the woman’s form. “What if the Old Masters were redone, like Titian, Botticelli…I thought about making them again in the modern style. In my style.” She glances up at me. “But having met you, I like this painting by Fuseli, of Lady Macbeth, more…You are her, Colette.”

  “What is your style?” I recall the work I’d seen yesterday, all dramatic colors and shapes. She’s been studying the Expressionists, surely.

  “I don’t know what to call it.” Lise shrugs. “I love the work of de Chirico and Picasso, and the vibrant life in Munch’s paintings, but my work is just me. It’s mixing these disparate elements.”

  I’m familiar with the artists she names, thanks to spending my free time talking to their modern contemporaries in the bar, but I can’t quite imagine how the three would mix.

  “So what do you need me to do?” My hands hover at my collar.

  “I’ll need you like Lady Macbeth,” she says, “but I don’t want any of my figures in this series to be clothed. I want to see the tension in their limbs, their urgency.”

  I begin unbuttoning my dress, methodically stripping off my clothes. It doesn’t bother me this time; I already had the jitters yesterday. Now I watch Lise as I undress, looking for her to glance at me, to meet my gaze. Instead she’s busy, finding two thick pencils, fiddling with the sheet on the divan. I stifle a sigh and fold my clothes, placing them on the bed. Just one look might have given me a hint.

  I walk over to the divan and stand in front of it, waiting. Lise holds out a wooden baton and I take it from her.

  “I don’t have any candles,” she replies to my puzzled look. She steps back behind her canvas, then forward again to me. “May I?”

  I nod, and she takes my hand, lifting the baton so that it is at shoulder level, my elbow bent as in the Fuseli painting. I stretch out my other arm as Lady Macbeth’s had been, and Lise adjusts my stance, tapping my left leg to move it forward. I have no idea how I’m going to keep this pose for any length of time; already I can feel the tension across my shoulders. The wooden baton isn’t heavy, but I won’t be able to hold it forever.

  Lise moves away and picks up the pencil from her table of supplies. She stares intently and I try to stay still. The slight feeling of an itch begins just above my right eyebrow, and I try to ignore it. I hear the scratch of the pencil on the canvas, and my eyes flick over to Lise, now animated, her arm moving in great arcs as she sketches. She stops abruptly to stare for another few moments then continues. When she pauses a third time, she puts down her pencil.

  “I’d almost forgotten,” she says, more to herself than to me. She comes up to me, reaching a hand toward my hair. “May I? Lady Macbeth’s hair was down.”

  I meet her gaze and nod. Her touch is gentle as she delicately pulls the hairpins from my chignon. My hair spills over my shoulders and down my back, and she runs her fingers through it, smoothing the waves. I close my eyes, savoring her touch. The cloth of her shirt brushes the tip of my breast as she pushes an errant lock of hair back over my shoulder, and I breathe in abruptly. My eyes snap open and our gazes meet, but she moves away, back to her canvas, and I think I must have imagined the desire in her eyes. My whole body is a mass of nerves now, that one accidental touch enough to tantalize me. I take a deep breath and wish I could move, shake my arms and shift around. Anything to get rid of the tension. There’s a slight dampness between my thighs and an ache I want to soothe. Her fingers could slide down my belly; it wouldn’t take much at all to relieve the ache. I think she could touch me there but once, and I would shatter. The thought of her fingers inside me is a delicious agony. I need to stop thinking this way. It will only lead to disappointment. I force myself to focus on her flat, on the feel of the parquet under my feet, the slight draft from the window. Then, I look at her.

  Lise is sketching again, peering back at me, then at the canvas, back and forth. She looks almost like a little owl as she pops her head out from around the easel, and I try not to smile. I begin to relax; it’s hard to feel sexual tension when the focus of your attention reminds you of a small bird.

  The minutes tick by slowly, too slowly, and I see the slight tremor in my hands, the barest movement of the baton, and the curling of my fingers of my outstretched hand. I try to breathe calmly, but the growing ache in my arms is too much to bear, and I drop my arms to my sides, letting the baton fall onto the divan as I clench and unclench my hands.

  “Je suis désolée!” L
ise is surprisingly repentant, more than any of the other artists I’ve ever met would be. Most of the men at the bar have bragged about how long they demand their artists hold poses. Longer than I’d been standing. “Don’t be afraid to tell me if you need a break.” She’s almost chastising, but I don’t mind.

  “Next time I’ll say something,” I promise. Lise smiles, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Do you want to see what I have so far?”

  I come over to the canvas, and she steps aside so I can see. Her pencil strokes are light swirls of gray on the white, and I can see my form taking shape there. I wonder what it will be like to see myself on a canvas in full color. Lise steps up beside me and points to a section, my left thigh.

  “There’s tension here,” she says. “It’s the hardest to portray, at least for me. But I’m thinking about Edvard Munch’s nudes, and his colors. I want to show the muscles with color. Fuseli is all orange and dark. Munch, he’s…so expressive.” She talks a little longer, but I am distracted again by the heat of her body almost touching mine, the warmth drawing me like a butterfly to a flower.

  I realize she’s expecting my reply. “I can’t wait to see it,” I manage to say. It’s enough. She looks radiant, her violet eyes sparkling, her movements confident. She’s talking about what she loves, and it shows.

  “How long do you have today?” she asks. I bite my lip. If I could, I’d stay here all night, but I do have to work.

  “I have to be gone by five,” I reply. I’ll need time to get to the bar and to change into my usual starched shirt and waistcoat. Not that I mind the uniform. I don’t want to tend bar in sequins, after all.

  I move back into place and pick up the baton. Lise adjusts my arms and taps my knee. “Move forward just a bit.” I obey, and she returns to her place behind her canvas.

  I’m more relaxed this time, and I can hold the pose more easily. But then, my mind is on Lise and what it might be like to take her out to the bar and get her into a dark corner. We’d have cocktails, get ourselves tipsy, and discuss art in earnest detail. I would rest my hand on her bare arm, and she’d lean in closer, a soft smile on her lips. I wouldn’t even need to ask; our lips would meet. We’d break apart, perhaps shyly, but that would only be the start of many touches over the evening. I’d take her back to my flat, pour her a glass of wine, and we’d curl up on the divan together.

  My mind won’t take it any further. The image stalls and skips like a scratched record, and her gaze lingers on my face, her lips parted as if she’s about to speak to me. It’s too easy to think of her saying I’m sorry, I just can’t.

  I blink and bring myself back to the present. Lise pops her head out from behind the canvas, her gaze focused on my feet. I wish I could tell whether or not she’s gay. Victoire swears she can tell immediately if a woman is a lesbian. She says it’s something in their manner, something in their posture, their smile, the way they walk. I don’t know that I believe her. Why didn’t she say anything about Nathalie, then, if she can tell so easily? I would have been prepared. I could have let her be. Better to be alone than to have your love shattered.

  It wasn’t so much that she’d left me for someone else; it’s that she left me for a man that hurts. I had no inkling, and I thought I didn’t need to worry. She’s a lesbian; her male friends are platonic. I never worried, never felt any jealousy. Why should I? How wrong I was, how naïve.

  “What is it?”

  Lise’s voice breaks into my contemplation. I school my face into a neutral expression.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You looked…sad.” She studies me, as if wondering whether she should say anything more.

  “I was just lost in thought,” I reply. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

  “Ça ne fait rien,” Lise says. “It’s hard to pose for so long and not let your mind wander. You can always talk to me, as long as you don’t change your position.”

  I manage a smile, though the ghost of Nathalie is still too fresh in my thoughts. It seems to reassure Lise, and she returns to her work.

  “How long does it usually take you to finish a painting so large?” I ask, trying to find something neutral to talk about, something to keep my mind from Nathalie.

  “When I’m inspired, not long. This one”—she pauses and I hear the insistent scratch of her pencil on the canvas—“it might not take me too long. I can see it already in my mind, and when that happens, it’s a matter of making it real.”

  I fall silent and let her work, listening to the scratch of her pencil and the light noise of her stockinged feet on the scratched parquet. I hear her pencil click on the wood of the easel, and she comes out from behind the canvas, pushing a lock of hair off her forehead.

  “That’s it for now,” she says. “Can you come back in two days? I’ll be ready to get started in oils.”

  I lay down the baton and stretch. My shoulders protest from having kept position for so long, and I bend stiffly to pick up my hairpins from the divan.

  “The same time?” I think I can use a day away from Lise, to clear my head. Maybe Victoire will want to take in a film at the cinema, or go wander the Egyptian section at the Louvre.

  “And we’ll work until five.” Lise wipes her hands on her smock, smearing charcoal on the off-white cloth. I still haven’t seen her out of her smock, and I wonder again what her figure would be like unswathed. I brush by her to get to my clothes, purposely coming close enough that my arm brushes hers, and I turn my head to peek over my shoulder. Her smock is undone at the back, and I am rewarded with a glimpse of her dark shirt and trousers. They cling to her body, and I can just see the curve of her hip. Before she catches me staring, I return my gaze to my clothes.

  I leave the hairpins on the coverlet and pull on my underthings. My dress is slightly wrinkled, but I give it a shake and put it on, smoothing it out with my palms. When I’m ready but for my hair, I turn again. Clothes make it easier to feign nonchalance; they’re my armor, a reminder of being separate, being individual.

  “Do you have a mirror?” I ask, holding up the hairpins. I could do my hair without it, but I don’t want to have to redo it in the middle of my shift.

  “In the bathroom.” Lise gestures to a small door near the kitchen, and I make my way over. The bathroom is tiny, barely more than a wet room, but there is a small mirror over the sink. I tie my hair back and begin sectioning it out, using the pins to secure each tress. I’ve done it so many times it’s by rote, but my hand trembles and I have to re-pin the final locks to get them to stay.

  When I emerge, Lise is sitting on the divan with a cup of tea. Her legs are drawn up under her and she looks even younger, sitting like that. How could I have even thought of wanting someone so young? It would be like Nathalie all over again. I try not to shudder.

  “Would you like a cup?” Lise asks, indicating her tea. I shake my head. I should go. I’ve been silly, thinking of how lovely it would be to be with her.

  “I have to get to work, but maybe next time?” My words feel brusque, but I can’t take them back now. I shift my feet, and Lise seems to take my abruptness for worry about being late. She rises from the sofa and digs into the pocket of her smock, taking out a couple of folded bills, pressing them into my hand. She smiles at me, and I’m struck dumb by the kindness in her eyes; the slightest lines at the corners when she smiles make me want to brush my lips there, follow down her cheek and over the line of her neck, drawing the smock away from her skin so I can taste the hollows of her collarbones. I could trail my lips down farther, part the buttons of her shirt, undo the front clasp of her bra, if she even wears one, and take her nipples into my mouth, first one and then the other. When her knees go weak from my kisses, I could lower her to the divan.

  I wish.

  “I’ll see you then.”

  I give her the barest of smiles—it’s all I can manage with my mind where it is—and leave.

  *

  “You’ve fallen hard, chérie,” Victo
ire says, finishing her brandy. I take up the bottle and pour her another.

  “I have not.” A waiter asks for a kir royale, and I pour it, taking my time so I don’t have to justify myself to Victoire. She’s in fine form tonight, having already downed three snifters of brandy, but I’ll keep serving her until she declines. It’s what I’ve always done.

  “You have,” Victoire insists. “You did the same with Nathalie, but you never waxed poetic about her eyes. Bleu mauve, indeed.”

  “Whether or not I’ve fallen for her,” I say, deciding not to argue the point with a drunken Victoire, “I still don’t know if she’s one of us. I can’t tell.”

  “You should invite her here, introduce me.” Victoire grins.

  “You didn’t know about Nathalie,” I remark, my voice a little too sharp. Victoire shrugs, emphasizing her heavy bosom.

  “I didn’t know for sure, with her,” she replies, swirling the brandy in the snifter.

  I gape at her. “And you never said.”

  “I didn’t want to interfere. It’s not a science, anyway, and you were too infatuated. You wouldn’t have listened.”

  “I would have,” I insist.

  “You have to make your own mistakes, chérie,” Victoire intones. Nathalie is a mistake I’d rather not have made. Ever. Remembering Simon standing there, waiting for her to finish talking…the memory stings.

  I don’t answer, and the silence between us stretches out uncomfortably. Victoire shifts on the bar stool with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Colette,” she says finally. “You should take a chance on Lise, even if you’re not sure. What have you to lose? Worst she’ll say is no.”

  “And lose the money, too?” I shake my head. I need the cash too much to chance it.

  “Fine. Far be it from me that I should worry about your happiness.”

  I soften. Victoire’s been my closest friend, and I know she means well. “I’ll think about it, all right?”

  She smiles, her grin as pleased as the Cheshire cat. “Très bien. You should bring her with you to the play. It’s opening night, and I’ve been working hard on my role in Jarry’s Ubu Roi. There was a lot of competition to play Mama Ubu, you know.”