The Artist's Muse Page 3

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Bring Lise,” Victoire urges again. “She’ll love it.” She cackles as she recites a line from the play, drawing amused looks from a table of men near the end of the bar.

  “I’ll ask her,” I promise, though I’m still reluctant. Victoire’s always finding strange roles, and her latest seems to be one of the strangest. But perhaps Lise will find it interesting, or even inspiring.

  “Vivi!” A drunken man staggers up to the bar, leaning on Victoire. She gives him a nudge and he stumbles back, clutching at the wood. “You won’t turn me down this time, will you?”

  Victoire rolls her eyes. “Lavoie, unless you show me a completed script, I will not commit to anything, no matter what you promise me.” She’s restrained in her ire, even though he’s used her nickname, one she dislikes. But it rolls off Lavoie’s tongue easily when he’s drunk, and I’m sure Victoire regrets ever having given him the time of day when she was a young actress.

  “Soon!” Lavoie grins. “I promise, Vivi, it’ll be soon. Clear your schedule for me.”

  Victoire gives him a little shove, and he staggers, nearly falling to his knees. She turns on the stool and pointedly ignores him. I watch him wilt, the drink overcoming the remains of his bravery. He slinks away, and I try not to laugh.

  “One of these times he will have something finished, and then you’ll be in trouble,” I tease Victoire.

  “That’ll be the day,” Victoire scoffs. “Now, you need to finish something—ask Lise. I want to meet her.”

  *

  I rehearse what I will say all the way up the street to Lise’s flat, and all the way up the stairs, until my finger rests against the buzzer. Now or never. I’d lost my courage yesterday while posing, and it’s my last chance. Victoire will give me no end of grief if I don’t show up with Lise tonight, but that isn’t the only reason. I want to see Lise again, want to see her outside our little cocoon. I press the buzzer.

  The sound of the bell seems to echo, and I wait. And wait. Just as I’m about to give up, the sound of footsteps makes my heart contract. The lock snaps and the door creaks open. Lise peers out at me, her hair streaming down her shoulders, her body wrapped in a robe, looking as if she’s just rolled out of bed.

  I stutter an apology, but she just smiles and opens the door a little wider. “Come in.” I follow her inside and close the door. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to smooth the flyaway strands. Her robe clings, and I can’t take my eyes away from the curve of her hip, the hollow of the small of her back, the delicate roundness of her bottom. “We didn’t have a session today, did we?” she asks as she puts the kettle onto the tiny stove.

  “No, I…” My tongue and my brain can’t seem to coordinate. Lise turns, and her beautiful face helps my head to clear, and I find my words. “I’d hoped you might be free this evening.”

  “I might be.”

  I stand silent until I realize she’s waiting for me to elaborate. “I have an invitation to a production of Jarry’s Ubu Roi,” I explain. “Do you want to come with me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The kettle whistles, and it gives me a moment to get over my mixture of shock and relief. She’ll come!

  “My friend Victoire wants to meet you,” I confide. Lise looks at me over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised.

  “Oh?”

  “She wants to meet the woman I’ve been spending all my time with,” I say. The high of knowing she’ll come has made me giddy.

  “I see.” Lise smiles a small, secret smile before she turns back to the kettle, pouring two cups of tea. “Cream?”

  “Oui, merci.” I take the cup and we move to the divan, though I hover for a moment, wanting to see the canvas set up in the corner. Her paints and brushes are still strewn about, and I’m sure she works on the portrait when I’m not here. She settles into the cushions as I pace to the easel.

  I’d glimpsed the painting when I was here yesterday, but it had been momentary. Lise is shy with her work, and I’m a bit surprised she’s even letting me take so long a look today. Lady Macbeth—me—dominates the frame, the shadows of my body delineated in hues of orange and purple. The influence of Fuseli’s work is barely noticeable. This is all Lise. And all me. A lot of me. I reach out and trace a finger along the line of my leg, careful not to touch the damp canvas.

  I’m majestic here, strong and poised, my red hair a bright flame of crimson paint. How can she see me this way? I want to be this strong in real life, the triumphant Liberty. Instead of Lady Macbeth’s candle, I can picture the tricolor flag. I glance over to Lise, who is watching me over the rim of her teacup.

  “What will you do next?” I ask to break the silence.

  “What would you do?”

  “Delacroix,” I say immediately. She rises from the divan and comes to stand beside me. I sneak a glance and can just see the shadow of cleavage at the fold of her robe. My stomach flutters.

  “Which one?” she asks, though I’m sure she already can guess my thoughts. She’s remaking masterpieces, and La Liberté guidant le peuple is his best known work.

  “La Liberté,” I reply. She takes my chin in her hand and I let her, closing my eyes at her touch, the movement inadvertent. She’s close enough that I could kiss her. My weight shifts forward and my eyes open.

  “I can see you as Liberty,” she says, “with a kerchief in your hair, your dress askew.” Her hand floats down to rest near my collar. I’m sure she can feel my heart beating. My world is bleu mauve as she looks into my eyes. How can she not know? My giddiness falters. She’d do something if she did know, wouldn’t she? I can’t make the next move, I won’t dare. Better to lust from afar than never see her again.

  “Will it be your next project?” I manage to ask.

  “Maybe.” Lise lets me go and drifts over to the alcove. “When’s the performance?”

  Performance? Right, the play. “Eight.”

  “How about I meet you there,” she suggests. “I have work to do before then.” She smiles. “It’s a good thing you woke me, or I’d have slept the day away.”

  “All right.” I give her the address. “I’ll look for you.” I won’t be able to do anything else. I imagine how beautiful she must be when she’s done up. Her hair would be glossy and smooth, her lips slightly reddened, her eyes enhanced by shadow. Gorgeous.

  My tea’s gone cold when I take a sip, and Lise notices my moue of distaste. She takes the cup from me. “Next time we’ll have to have tea instead of art.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. I want more than tea. Or art.

  *

  The small theater is crowded, and I crane my neck to see over the heads toward the door. This space in the Marais only holds about a hundred, but by the look of it, the full hundred and then some have arrived.

  I hold a glass of cheap champagne and sip it as I wait, glad to have something to do with my hands. I spot Lavoie among the crowd and watch as he looks about for Victoire. That man is obsessed, and I stifle a smile. We’ll have to watch out for him later, else he’ll join our party, and Victoire will never be rid of him.

  “Colette!”

  I spot Lise weaving her way through the line of people queuing to go into the theater, and my heart contracts. She came. Her hair is done up in a chignon, much like my own, and when I see her fully, all other thoughts leave my mind. She’s wearing a short dark coat, and it’s undone, so I can see her slim-fitting black skirt and a blouse that is so pale it’s almost skin colored, with a wide neckline that makes her look slender and delicate.

  I’ll never be able to concentrate on the play.

  She reaches me and we exchange bisous; I close my eyes and briefly savor the touch of her soft cheek on mine. I catch a whiff of her perfume, and it reminds me of the first day in her flat. I’m feeling some of that nervousness again, but there’s no time to think on it too long, as the crowd shuffles us along into the theater. Victoire’s managed to get us seats close to the stage, yet
off to the right. It feels almost private as we settle into our spot in the middle of the short row. There’s no one to the right of us—yet—and the pair of men to our left are busy chatting to friends across the aisle.

  Lise and I don’t even have to discuss which seats we’d take: she lets me sit farther to the right and settles herself next to the men. Nathalie and I had always jostled for seats, as she hated sitting next to anyone else. I let my hand linger on the armrest between us and lean forward to peer into the wings. I can just see Victoire, and she waves to me, though her gaze immediately flits to Lise. If she could come across the stage without making a disruption, I know she would, just to get a closer look.

  The house lights begin to dim, and the conversations die away. Lise leans over to me, laying her hand on mine.

  “Have you seen Jarry’s work before?” she whispers. I shake my head and see her grin just before the theater goes dark. “You’re in for a treat.”

  The stage lights come up.

  “Merdre!”

  There are a few gasps, but when I look over at Lise, she’s smiling and trying not to laugh. I hear Victoire speak her first lines, but whatever she says is lost; I am too busy watching Lise’s reaction. Her eyes widen and finally she does laugh, and I glance to the stage, where Victoire is flouncing about, wearing a purposefully tatty pasteboard crown and a dress so hideously bright that I flinch. Her costar, Jean-Pierre, is grotesquely huge, and the pair of them together would be cringe worthy if the play weren’t so obviously a farce.

  When Victoire turns to face our side of the audience, I can clearly see the false nose, long and pointy. She cackles her next lines and the audience as a whole begins to laugh. Lise clutches at my hand as she laughs, and though I am laughing, too, my gaze keeps sliding over to her. The warmth rises between our clasped hands, and I can think of little else.

  By the intermission, my face hurts from smiling at Victoire’s antics onstage, and having Lise’s hand in mine. We rise and reluctantly let go, though once we reach the lobby, Lise slips her hand back into mine. I give it a gentle squeeze, and she winks at me.

  “Drink?” I ask, hoping the slight tremble in the word doesn’t betray my state. I want to see the rest of the play, and Victoire afterward, but still I’d rather take Lise home or at least to somewhere more private, where I can finally kiss those reddened lips.

  Lise orders champagne and passes me a glass. We retreat to a corner and she leans in close to me.

  “I love coming to the theater,” she says. “I can people watch, and no one notices.”

  “To paint them later?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. It’s fun. Look at that man over there by the door—surely his whole outfit has been dug out of some old wardrobe.” I glance over. The man she’s talking about is young, but his suit is hopelessly out of fashion by several decades.

  “He’d fit in onstage,” I joke, and Lise smiles.

  “Possibly.”

  I think back to what she’d said just before the play began. “Have you seen this play before?”

  “No, but a friend of mine put it on as a laugh once, at university.”

  A bell rings, and I take a deep sip of my champagne. I never manage to finish my drinks before the end of intermission. Lise does the same, and we move toward the door to the theater. We leave our glasses on a table. The men next to us are already in their seats, and they are practically draped over each other. I envy them their ease.

  The lights go down and Lise’s hand finds mine. I try to focus on the stage. As the last act commences, Lise’s thumb strokes over mine, and she releases her hand. I suck in a breath of disappointment, but her hand lands on my knee. I freeze. I’ve dreamed of this moment, and I don’t want to do something to keep it from continuing. Her hand travels up my leg, and when I glance at her, her gaze is still fixed on the stage. I can feel the heat of her hand through my skirt, and I wish suddenly that it could be shorter, so her hand could slip underneath the fabric and reach the tops of my stockings. She presses into the apex of my thighs, and I shift to allow her to settle her hand over me. I can feel her fingers curl and she strokes me gently.

  The heat rises in my cheeks and I’m glad for the darkness. Lise’s touch becomes more forceful, her strokes harder, finding my clit through the cloth of my dress. I take in a short breath, and she glances over at me, her touch stilling. When she sees I’m not upset, she resumes, and I tremble. I press my lips together. I won’t make a sound. The pleasure builds and I reach over, grasping her knee. I hear her indrawn breath, but that’s all. I bow my head and close my eyes as the pleasure swiftly overtakes me. I’m stiff against the chair and I want to cry out. Instead, my hand clutches at Lise.

  When I’m brought back down to earth, she removes her hand, gently prying my fingers from her knee. She brings my fingers to her lips, brushing delicate kisses over the tips and then the palm.

  I’m disappointed when the play ends, though I couldn’t tell anyone what had just happened. We stand, and Lise gives me one of her secret smiles. I’m feeling flushed and shaky. I don’t want to get through another few hours of socializing, even with Victoire. I promised her I’d meet her back at the bar, so instead of waiting around, we slip out the door into the cool evening air.

  “Where to?” Lise asks, buttoning her jacket up to her throat.

  “My work,” I say, taking her hand. “We’ll have a drink.” And more besides. Or so I hope.

  *

  “You’re in on your day off?” My boss, Laurent, chuckles. “What can I get you?” He’s manning the bar in my absence and he’s good at it. I love watching him work; the ease with which he takes down glasses and pours liquor is something to behold. I pause and turn to Lise.

  “What will you have? My treat.”

  “A gin fizz,” she says, and my heart flutters. If she were in a dark crimson dress, it would be more like my early fantasy, but this is as close as I need. Laurent makes the drink and then looks at me.

  “Your usual, Colette?”

  I nod, and he pours me a whiskey over ice. I pay him and wave away the change. We take our drinks to a clear table by the window. We won’t have much time alone.

  “What are you doing later?” I ask. I want to settle our plans before Victoire sweeps in on her wave of gaiety from opening night. She’ll take over, and my chance will be lost.

  “Whatever you want.” Lise looks at me from under her lashes, those eyes dark in the low light of the bar. “I wasn’t sure about you until I saw you today. And now…” Her gaze is direct, wanting, as if she’s undressing me with her eyes.

  I have a hard time not gaping. Until tonight, I’d worried. I can’t dash out with Lise just yet. Victoire would never forgive me. I try to think of something to say, but my mind comes up blank. What do you say to that?

  “How—?”

  “The way you keep looking at me,” Lise replies, as if it were so simple.

  “How do I look at you?” I thought I’d been discreet, for all that I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  “When you thought I wasn’t watching you,” she says, “you followed my every movement. And your awkwardness when I came close—it reminded me of my first crush.”

  “But what about today?”

  “Your face lit up, like you’d been thinking I wouldn’t show.”

  I open my mouth to deny what she’s just said, then close it again. If I’d been a bit more trusting, I wouldn’t have worried. “So what do you want to do now?” I ask, regaining my composure.

  “We should wait for your friend,” Lise says, “but later, I have no other plans.”

  “Good.” I hope Victoire makes it fast; I want to take Lise back to my flat. Wait. That’s what Victoire said I always do, move too fast. I want to make this one last.

  Lise sips her gin fizz, looking at me again from under her lashes. Tonight she’s become the coquette, and it’s been so long since I’ve truly flirted that I don’t know what to do. Nathalie and I had been together long enough th
at I’d put most of it aside, and afterward…it’s hard to flirt with a broken heart.

  I reach out and stroke a finger along the outside of her bare forearm, and I can see her shiver. Emboldened, I take her hand as she’d taken mine in the theater. I want to do more, but I can’t. Not here.

  “Tu es jolie,” I murmur. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours. The color…bleu mauve…”

  I am rewarded with a blush, and I think perhaps I haven’t yet lost my talent for flirtation.

  “Why haven’t I met you before?” I ask. “I’ve met most of the artists in these parts, but I’d never seen you before I answered your advert.”

  “I only moved back to Paris six months ago,” Lise says, “and I don’t often go to bars.” Her lips quirk in a smile. “All the men in my profession are braggarts, usually. It gets dull.”

  I chuckle. “It does indeed.” So many nights, listening to them try to top each other with boasts…I can’t see Lise taking part in that at all. “Where were you before?”

  “Marseille. Lovely, but I just couldn’t stay.” She shakes her head, looking down at the table.

  “I’m glad you moved,” I say and raise her hand to my lips. Her breath hitches when my lips press her knuckles.

  “Someone could see.” Lise tries gently to pull her hand away, but I keep hold of her fingers.

  “No one here cares,” I tell her. “And if they did, it would only be because they’re jealous of me.” I wink at her, and she relaxes.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I rest our hands on the table once more and take a sip of my whiskey, which has become diluted from the melting ice cubes.

  “So, what about you?” Lise asks.

  “Me?”

  “How long have you been in Paris?”

  “My whole life.” That sounds so dull when I say it, and I wish I could tell her that I’d traveled around the world, seen the Pyramids, or gone to America.