In a terrible breach of protocol, she jumped from the catwalk and threw her arms around me and Evie, “Did you see? I did it!” she exclaimed. There was an audible collective gasp from the crowd.
“Well done, my dear,” said Evie, “But you’d better get back up there to finish the job!”
Shayla leapt onto the narrow runway like she was pouncing onto a surfboard, charming both the crowd and the designer, who planted a kiss on her cheek under a hail of flashbulbs. He took her hand and lifted it in the air like a referee at a prizefighting match. Obviously, the man was a master of self-promotion, and nobody’s fool. He knew that Shayla’s little stunt would get lots of press. A star was born, and he had the right to claim that he had booked her first.
Evie and I made our way backstage after the show, weaving through the highbrow crowd that flitted about, acting out their elaborately choreographed displays of false affection. Evie excused herself to speak to the designer while I looked around for Shayla.
I rounded a corner to find her surrounded by the press, microphones thrust in her face. She had a sassy answer for every question, and the reporters were clearly charmed by her brash attitude. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she broke free of the crowd to join me.
“Oh my God! I was so scared I thought I was gonna puke and fall flat on my face! That was so sick! You should see the apartment! Come and meet my roomies– they were in the show too!”
She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a screened off dressing area where a dozen gazelle-like girls were packing bags, removing their theatrical makeup and smoking cigarettes. Some of them scrutinized Shayla with thinly veiled envy, mimicking her casual stance, trying to suss out exactly what constituted her appeal.
Others glared at her with open hostility, seeing Shayla as an interloper, and her stunning debut as a threat to their own status. She stared boldly back at them, sending a little territorial surfer stink-eye of her own in their direction. I chuckled to myself, thinking that Shayla’s wily street-smarts would probably go a long way in the cut-throat world of fashion.
We approached a couple of girls keeping to themselves who smiled broadly when they saw her. Unlike Shayla, they seemed intimidated by the other girls, and I realized that they were the fellow newbies.
“Marina, this is Greta and Irina,” Shayla gestured to each girl in turn. They smiled sweetly and nodded. “They don’t speak much English, but Greta speaks French real good. We’re going to go clubbing tonight… You should come out with us!”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I said, “Evie might have plans.” I peeked around the screen and scanned the crowd, spotting her across the room. She was speaking to a richly dressed blonde woman that stood facing away from me. There was something in Evie’s stance that caught my eye, a rare tension. I was a little surprised to see Evie thrown off kilter; she actually looked nervous.
The blonde turned to stare directly at me. When our eyes locked I knew.
“Pleeease?” Shayla asked coyly. Nightclubbing was the last thing on my mind at the moment.
Evie was talking to one of them. One of us… a hybrid. All at once the reality of what the council meeting really meant crashed down on me. There was no going back now. I suppose I’d been in denial up until I saw her, because for a minute I forgot to breathe. When I recovered, I sucked in a sharp breath.
Shayla eyes followed mine, “Who’s that with Evie?” she asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know, probably some friend of hers.”
It was funny, really, for the woman could easily pass for your garden variety fashionista. She seemed ageless, but if I had to guess I would have placed her somewhere in her thirties. Like so many of the woman who followed fashion, she was impeccably groomed, but there was something more going on– something intangible. There was an aura about her; she was cloaked in a mantle of success and unquestioned power.
I turned away from them, a little taken aback. I always thought it was just Evie.
“Greta says she knows this really awesome club where they have like, fire-dancers and magicians and stuff!”
“It sounds like fun, but I think Evie might… have dinner reservations,” I wished that was all it was. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on, at least come check out my shack!” Shayla told me about her new apartment, going into detail about how weird everything was. Just as she began to describe the bidet in detail, Evie and Jacques thankfully interrupted us.
“Bravo!” said Jacques, stretching up to kiss both of Shayla’s cheeks. “C’est magnifique! Come now, I have a client that is dying to meet you!” He spirited Shayla away, leaving us standing with her roommates. They stared at Evie, stunned speechless.
“Greta, Irina, this is my Aunt Evie,” I said.
“B-b-bonjour,” Greta stammered, impressed almost beyond words. She elbowed Irina, “La belle Evelyn Pond!”
Evie smiled kindly at them, used to being recognized in the fashion world. She took my arm and murmured in my ear, “May I have a word with you in private?”
I followed her to an uncrowded corner where she told me that our meeting with the council was scheduled for the next night, immediately following Shayla’s second runway show. My knees felt weak, and the last thing I wanted to do was go out dancing. Evie suggested that we go back to the hotel to have a quiet room-service dinner and go over our story again.
“That sounds good,” I said, relieved to have a chance to rehearse. “But I feel bad, because Shayla wants me to go out with her and her friends tonight. I hate to let her down… She’s probably nervous, you know, being away from home and everything for the first time.”
Just then a loud voice rang out in the room, getting everyone’s attention.
“Hey! BACK OFF BUD!” yelled Shayla.
Irina was squirming to get away from an overly amorous photographer’s assistant, who withdrew his hand from her rear end when everyone stopped to stare. One look at Shayla’s blazing eyes sent him slithering away.
“I think Shayla can take care of herself,” said Evie with amusement.
Shayla came up to us, a little contrite, “Sorry about that… but these French dudes really skeeve me out! I mean, they’re good looking and all, but some of them can’t keep their hands to themselves!”
“Shayla, my dear,” said Evie with an arched eyebrow, “Wait until you meet the Italians.”
Evie and I sat up late that night, sipping herbal tea and talking about how we’d handle the council meeting. When I told her that I’d been out surfing with my mermaid sisters she was predictably alarmed. When I told her what I’d discovered when Lorelei took me out to see Nerissa she nearly choked on her tea.
“A baby mermaid?” she exclaimed in shock, “Peter’s baby?”
“Maybe he had something to do with it,” I scowled, “But she’s nothing at all like him. She’s as wild and innocent as all the rest of them.”
We sat and speculated about what had happened, and what it meant about our own ancestry, always coming to only one conclusion. Mermaids and muses were the same thing, one born at sea, another born on land.
“It must be in our X chromosomes,” I said.
“There are some mysteries that even science cannot explain,” said Evie.
I told her what the mermaids thought about being “blessed”, and what they told me about my mother. Evie agreed that if my mother had indeed spent time underwater during her pregnancy with me, it might account for my ability to transform and communicate with them.
“How do you know that you can’t do it too?” I asked her.
“I certainly couldn’t make heads nor tails of the sounds they made,” she said thoughtfully. “And I know for certain that other muses have tried unsuccessfully to transform. Swimming with mermaids seems to be quite the popular fantasy.”
“It does have its charms,” I agreed.
I didn’t mention my increased capacity for telepathy; something told me that Evie had heard enough for the time being. She see
med edgy to me, and it was so unlike her that it unnerved me.
“Aunt Evie, doesn’t it make you feel like you’re cheating? Helping people the way you do?”
Her crystal blue eyes met mine, “Not at all, sweetheart. I thought I explained that you don’t make people talented… you merely enhance them– free them from self-doubt.”
“I don’t get it. What about the bad things?”
“I’m not sure how to put it,” she sighed, “I suppose you reveal what is truly there. Something about us allows people to express their honest selves.”
Yeah, I thought, and the congressman just “expressed” himself right off a cliff. I thought about Peter’s gun finding its way into my hands. No, she had to be wrong, there was more at play here than just giving someone a little ego boost. I wondered about seeing Stella’s spirit and communicating telepathically with the mermaids, deciding again, that these things were best kept to myself.
“Have you ever tried to help someone who has no particular talent?” I asked.
Evie looked at me tolerantly, “Marina my dear, everyone has a special talent… Most people just aren’t aware of it, or they suppress it out of a fear of failure. It’s a real pity that so few people in this world know what they’re actually capable of.”
I could see the truth in what she said, but there was something else that bothered me.
“Aunt Evie, how can you tell if someone really loves you? I mean, really loves you, and isn’t just attracted to… it?”
She laughed, “What difference does it make?”
“What about Harold?” I kept pressing, asking about her late husband even though I knew it made her uncomfortable, “He was different… right?”
“Yes… yes, I suppose he was.”
“How?” I demanded, “What made him different? How did you know he loved you?”
She pressed her lips together, “Harold was a wise choice for me. He protected me when I truly needed help…” She sighed, “That’s what I want for you– Don’t you see? It’s the safety and protection that wealth can afford you. You can let your guard down, and be free to do all the great things that you were destined to do.”
I was irritated at her mention of money, “What did you need protection from?”
“Nowadays, they call them stalkers,” she shuddered, “I had someone quite obsessed with me who was getting to be a bit of a hazard.”
“What did Harold do?”
“He took care of it,” she said with finality. Evie got up to leave, clearly done talking for the evening. She suggested that I turn in as well and get a good night’s sleep. I wasn’t so sure that I could.
Just before she rounded the corner for her room she paused, facing away from me, “Marina…”
“Yes?”
She hesitated, and then spoke, “They say no to you… that’s how you can tell… they say no.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MUSEUM
The wave dropped off like a cliff, a fifty foot wall of the deepest, richest blue I’d ever seen. I flew down the face of it in a trancelike state, aware that at any moment the lip could curl down onto my shoulders; crushing me under a wave of heavy rolling thunder. A perfect tube of water opened up in front of me like I knew it would, and I entered, not even needing to crouch inside the massive cylinder of turquoise. The song it was singing rang down my spine and straight through every bone in my body.
I started awake in a luxurious bed, squeezing my eyes shut and trying with all my might to return to the dream that was already receding from my consciousness, maddeningly drifting away from me. I flopped back down, not wanting to start the day quite yet. I wrapped myself back up in the silky smooth sheets, thinking about surfing, trying not to think about Ethan.
I’d stayed up half the night, trying to recall an instance where he’d said no to me. He’d refused to take me surfing, but that was mostly work related, so it probably didn’t count. I knit my brow together, trying to remember a time where Ethan had denied me something I’d truly wanted. I recalled what he’d told Cruz about going to prom. “Whatever she wants” were his exact words. I never thought that getting my way would ever make me feel so sad.
I dressed, moving mechanically, and finally shuffled out to the lounge to find that room service had thoughtfully brought us a stack of French and English papers alongside our breakfast. They included all the fashion trade journals, still reeking of chemicals from the fresh ink. Glossy photos detailed the ups and downs of the week’s extravagant shows, and Evie and I were both pleased and amused at the enormous amount of press that Shayla got.
“Le surfer Americain!” One headline screamed, and Evie translated the article that described Shayla’s athletic prowess, calling her “La belle surfer fille”, and praising her bold style and endless legs. We both basked in the satisfaction that Shayla’s success brought, a feeling I was learning to recognize as more than just typical goodwill.
Evie turned to me with a smile, “A supermodel is born.” My vision of Shayla’s bright future had come to pass. The front desk called, announcing her arrival, and Evie instructed them to send her up “tout suite”.
Shayla bounded into the room, flooding it with incandescent happiness, “Did you see the papers? Did you see?”
“Yes dear,” beamed Evie, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek. “And we’re so looking forward to your performance this evening!”
The three of us sat down to coffee and croissants, listening to Shayla tell us about her adventures in Parisan nightclubbing. She asked me to come and see her new apartment and I looked to Evie.
“As long as you’re back in time for the show,” she smiled indulgently, “Unless you’d like to join me at the spa for a rubdown.”
I declined the massage and followed Shayla out to the street, watching her in wonder as she put her thumb and index finger in her mouth and produced a loud whistle, summoning a taxi that seemed to materialize from out of nowhere. She scrambled in like she’d been hailing cabs her whole life, beckoning me to follow. She told the driver her address and leaned back in the seat.
“You sure have the whole taxicab thing down,” I said with a grin.
“They’re alright,” she replied, leaning over to whisper in my ear, “Most of them could sure use a shower, though.”
When we got to our destination we took a narrow winding staircase up to a tiny third floor apartment. Walking in, the first thing I saw was a long girl sprawled out on a short couch, fast asleep.
“Welcome to my shack,” Shayla whispered, “Tiffany got in kinda late.” She motioned for me to follow her to the tiny kitchen area, where a mess of cups and bottles filled a small counter with a miniature washing machine whirring away underneath. An assortment of lingerie was hanging to dry on a makeshift clothesline strung over the sink. The kitchen table stood in the corner, piled high with fashion magazines and newspapers. The whole place reeked with the pungent incense of overflowing ashtrays.
I followed Shayla down a narrow hall where she proudly showed me her room, waking up another sleeping model in the process.
“They’re not really morning people,” she laughed. “Hey! We have all day before the show… Let’s go climb the Eiffel tower or something!”
“I have an idea,” I said with a smile, “Let’s go see some art.”
We pulled up at the Louvre, stepping out into the vast paved courtyard on a beautiful blue sky day. I couldn’t help wishing that Ethan was there with me.
“Whoa! Check it out!” Shayla cried when she saw the pyramid, its diamond shaped panes of glass sparkling in the sun.
“That’s where we go inside,” I told her.
We walked around to look at the fountains before entering the glass pyramid and boarding an elevator going down to the galleries. We wandered among the paintings, sculptures and antiquities, stopping to pause at the feet of the Venus de Milo.
“Recognize her?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Shayla, “What happened to her arms?”
I shrugged, and we continued on our tour, weaving through the crowds of tourists gaping in awe at some of the more popular exhibits. We approached a spectacular marble statue of Diana the huntress alongside a stag, weapon in hand.
“She looks like she could kick some butt,” Shayla said respectfully.
“I believe she did,” I said, “She was the goddess of the hunt and the moon.” I remembered that she also had the power to talk to animals, and I studied the statue a little closer. Could she have actually existed? The things I’d seen in the past few months made nothing seem out of the realm of possibility.
“Come see,” I said, motioning to a crowd gathered around a small exhibit off to the side, “Look.” It was the Mona Lisa, set in a special concrete container, protected by two sheets of bullet-proof glass.
Shayla was tall enough to see over most of the people, and announced in a loud voice, “Oh yeah, I’ve totally seen that one before.”
Several people turned to glare at her disapprovingly, and she stuck her tongue out at them.
I smiled at Shayla’s complete lack of self-consciousness as we continued to weave our way through the endless galleries. She had no expectations, and voiced her opinions about anything that struck her fancy, freely and innocently. Sometimes she reminded me of Lorelei in her naivety, and then she would randomly blurt out something so wise and insightful it was almost shocking.
I was also amused at all the attention we were receiving from the opposite sex. Shayla was always an attractive girl, but the new-found poise she radiated made her seemingly irresistible. She held her head up, and walked with a confident stride that had both the Frenchmen and the tourists taking notice.
“That dude over there is checking you out,” she said, tipping her head at a man who stood nearby. Unlike most of the others, he turned away when our eyes met, becoming seemingly engrossed in a painting.
I rolled my eyes at her, “I think it’s you they’re all noticing.”
03 The Fate Of The Muse - Marina's Tales Page 12
