Page 10 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
“Hey. My lecture was a snoozefest. I think I’m going to ask for my espresso intravenously.”
“That’s one way to do it.”
The café is hardly a walk at all, and we order our usual and luck into a table.
"So, you asked for my most excellent date planning services for tonight,” I remark.
He sits up straighter. “I did indeed. Lay it on me. Lucy’s bringing Emilie along, so the answer to this question may determine the future of our friendship.”
“As it happens, I’m invited to a party tonight, but I can bring friends. Which I suppose you are. Technically.” I tell Simon about Remy’s un-surprise party and his house full of oddities, and he rubs his head thoughtfully, leaving his hair sticking up in all directions.
“Well,” he says, “Lucy is kind of arty, and it’s something no one else could take her to.”
I shrug, casually. “You wanted something unique, didn’t you?”
That’s why he asked me—he didn’t need my help to plan a date to a café and a movie. And he really seems to like this woman.
Plus, I quite like the idea of the party. The idea of being in Remy’s home again.
For two very powerful reasons.
“All right, I’m in,” he says, taking out his phone. “Since technically I suppose you’re a mate.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”
He laughs deeply. “I’ll text Lucy to meet us in Montmartre.”
And I count down the hours.
Lucy is indeed arty, with enough personality to hold her own with Simon. Her friend Emilie is unmistakably a dancer, from her posture to the way she walks with her toes pointed out. She’s also sweet and sort of shy.
We sit outside a crowded café near Remy’s home, a place with sleek metal tables and creaky wooden chairs, the perfect mix of old Paris and new Paris. Nearby in the square, an a cappella group performs, upbeat tunes directed by a pristinely put-together older woman, as passersby drop coins into a hat. Lucy and Simon are down the street, checking out Lucy’s favorite American retro shop.
“Do you ever go to the ballet?” Emilie asks me, leaning closer as Lucy and Simon laugh loudly at a mime artist performing nearby.
* * *
“Sometimes,” I say. “My parents were total fanatics—still are. Season tickets, the whole works.”
“That’s marvelous,” she says. “What was the last ballet you saw?”
I answer without thinking. “Swan Lake, just the other night.”
She tilts her head, her frown puzzled. “Here in Paris? I didn’t know it was being staged anywhere nearby.”
Of course she doesn’t, because I’m an idiot. The impromptu Swan Lake hadn’t been staged anywhere but at the museum for an audience of one.
“It was just a little indie company,” I improvise.
“Oh, how fantastic.” She sounds genuinely interested. “What was it like? Good production?”
This time, I consider before I speak, and when I do, I smile at a joke as private as the performance had been. “It looked just like a Degas painting.”
She nods pseudo-seriously. “You can never go wrong with a Degas vibe.” Then she breaks into a grin that suddenly makes it easy to picture her onstage.
We talk more about dance, then segue to music, downloading each other’s recommendations, and after that, she feels less like a stranger and more like a friend.
The reverse must be true too, because she leans closer and whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’m auditioning for the ballet next week.” Emilie pushes a hand through her black hair, which is straight as a blade.
“The Paris Opera Ballet?”
“The one and only.”
I am beyond impressed. “Emilie, that’s amazing! Why are you keeping that a secret?”
“Because there’s no way I’m getting in.” She waves a hand, dismissing the very idea. “Which is fine, but I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”
I catch a strain of music—not the techno-pop we exchanged earlier, and not the a cappella group. It’s familiar and orchestral.
Funny, because it sounds like a ballet I’ve seen, and here we are talking about ballet.
“I seriously doubt the Paris Opera Ballet gives auditions to dancers who are anything less than outstanding,” I tell her.
“I know! I’m sure it was totally a mistake.” Her laugh is self-deprecating, and the music crescendos, and I finally recognize it as the ballet Giselle. “Hopefully I’ll have an early slot, before they realize I’m not supposed to be there.”
The notes swirl around Emilie, wrapping her in a cocoon of sweet sound. I don’t let it distract me, since it doesn’t seem to distract her.
“I’m pretty sure the Paris Opera Ballet double-checks stuff like that. I’m also pretty sure that means you’re fantastic.” She has to be. I’m surprised at how certain I am.
The violins from Giselle keep playing, and I have to ask, “Is your phone still streaming?”
She frowns and shows me her screen. “See? Off. Why?”
Terrific. Now I’m hearing things.
Art comes alive, music plays of its own accord – welcome to your new reality, Julien Garnier.
