Page 4 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
Aspiring, I should say. Just like me.
“That piece is coming together,” I say, giving him a smile.
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow, Gustave.”
As the door closes behind me, I bring my palm to my nose. My hand smells like a peach. I’m sure of it.
I’m not sure, though, if it means I’ve gone mad, or the world has.
2
After an evening lecture the next day, I walk home along the inky quiet of the Seine, earbuds in, streaming pop music on Spotify. It works to disrupt the loop of my thoughts about girls and paintings, but in its place is an obnoxiously catchy refrain about infatuation and longing. I’m searching for something to replace that as I turn away from the water and wind through the streets back to my neighborhood.
Running feet pound the uneven pavement behind me.
“Julien! Wait up, mate!”
I pull out one earbud and whirl around. Simon slows to a jog, coming closer. Smart man, because when he gets close enough, I can tell he’s had a few drinks. Simon came to Paris four years ago for university and he’s stuck to a rigorous training regimen of living life to the fullest all four years.
“Congratulate me, my friend, because I return triumphant from the battlefield of love—also known as the bar around the corner—with the spoils of war.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and grins maniacally. I raise a doubtful eyebrow, and my Scottish friend admits, “Okay, right. I have to ask a favor.” Then, with a frown, he adds, “And also, it’s not the spoils of war. Spoils of the bar? That sounds naff.”
I manage to get two things out of that ramble—it must be a big favor, and there is likely a female involved. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say your amorous efforts were well rewarded.”
“Reward. Yes, that’s good.” He waggles his phone at me, grinning again. “Nothing less than the digits of one long-haired, long-legged beauty who may have been custom-made for me.”
“Do tell.”
“Her name is Lucy, and she is tall, hot, and totally witty. She’s from London. She was there with a friend, who’s French. Her friend I’ll save for you.”
“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not generous,” I say dryly. The nationalities have little to do with his choices – both Simon and I speak English, of course, and French.
Simon waves his hand as if to erase any negative impression. “No, no. The other one, Emilie, she’s just kind of shy. But she’s a dancer. Very limber, you know. So if you’re not game, I’m sure I can manage them both,” he says with an exaggerated leer.
“Have fun with that,” I tell him, taking it as seriously as he meant it, which is not at all. “I’m headed home. I have catching up to do on this term’s independent study.”
“Wait,” Simon says, and I stop because he looks a bit green with . . . are those nerves? “I have a date with her Thursday night. With Lucy. I need something interesting to do. Not the same old thing.”
I keep a stern face. “What am I? Your social director? Date planner?”
“It’s because you’re the creative one, idiot,” Simon says.
“That’s no way to talk to someone you want to plan your date,” I say, drawing out the torture. “I could give you a list of lame ideas to choose from, but with your taste, how would you know which were good?”
“Come on, Julien,” he wheedles. “Be a pal. We can make it a foursome. I’ll see if her friend can come along. The dancer, remember?”
“I remember.” But the only dancers I’m interested in roam the halls of a museum at night.
God, what am I thinking? I can’t be honestly comparing some kind of hallucination with reality.
And yet . . .
“Please?” Simon asks, and I don’t want to let my friend down. Not when he’s done so much for me.
Besides, maybe this is a stroke of serendipity. His friend is a dancer. The first painting that shimmied out of its frame was Degas’s dark-haired dancer. And last night, we talked. Or at least, I imagined we talked. Maybe it’s best I zero in on reality. “I think I can suffer through a date with two attractive people plus you.”
“And you’ll come up with a plan? A fun plan?” He sounds excited but like he’s trying not to show it. He must really like this Lucy.
“I will.”
“You’re a champ.” He moves as if he aims to give my shoulder an oafish punch then pulls it back at the last moment, laughing. We part ways with plans to make plans—Simon off to catch the Metro and me headed down the quiet, lamplit street leading to my flat.
The one I share with my sister. She has a doctorate in art history, and at age thirty-five, she’s young to run someplace like the Musée d’Orsay, but she’s built a reputation as a curator working in New York and London. I’m proud of her, and lucky too. Intern or not, I wouldn’t have as much free run of the museum as I do if I wasn’t Adaline’s brother.
