The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘J’ai des frissons,’ Monique gasped, covering her mouth to hide her shock.

  ‘You see it?’ Julian’s gut sank, and the beer did nothing to dull the creepy feeling he’d had since spying the spook.

  Tyme winced at the question. ‘Not exactly.’ She waved him back towards her.

  Julian was freaked out enough already, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever Tyme had captured on film.

  ‘Don’t be such a pussy.’ The artist noted his hesitation and urged him to get over it by waving him forwards.

  With a heavy exhale of resignation, Julian tromped over to view the enlarged still-frame capture on Tyme’s computer, and the image made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. ‘Now tell me that’s not creepy.’ He backed away from the shot of Monique’s thigh that had a clear imprint of a hand pressed upon it.

  A shiver ran down Peter’s spine.

  The Dictaphone clicked off, startling him back to reality.

  ‘That’s it?’ he protested, glancing to the clock on his computer to discover it was quite a bit later in the day than he had thought. ‘Speaking of transcendental creative experiences!’ He ejected himself from his desk chair and shot towards the shower — he was going to be late to pick up Gabrielle for their dreaded shopping date.

  Not even hot water pelting on his head could lift the shroud the story had cast over his consciousness. This was a different feeling to reading a completed book, over which he had no say in the outcome. Being involved in the writing process put him inside an evolving reality over which he imagined he held some influence. Even though this was Penelope’s tale, they’d discussed facets of the story, which he’d polished in his edit, and the old writer seemed pleased to take his ideas on board and always appeared satisfied by his efforts. Penelope wasn’t precious about her words, she was only dogmatic about her characters and her worlds and making sure he was depicting them faithfully.

  Peter had asked Penelope recently if she had ever left a story uncompleted.

  ‘Would a good teacher agree to mentor a student, then neglect him in favour of other students?’ was her response.

  Peter was well aware of Penelope’s respect for her muses. ‘Have you passed up many stories then?’

  ‘Only one,’ she was irked to advise. ‘Its muse has been exhaustingly persistent.’

  ‘4 Kismet Way,’ he suspected.

  Penelope’s wink confirmed this guess. ‘I will know peace before I die.’

  ‘If torture is being constantly pitched ideas by the muses,’ Peter said, ‘then give me hell.’

  ‘Oh, they will,’ Penelope cautioned. ‘Have no fear of that.’

  Upon turning the taps off, Peter was alerted to a pounding on his door. ‘I haven’t had another time lapse, have I?’ He wrapped a towel about himself, then headed out to see who the caller was.

  At the door was a young man, grinning from ear to ear, who had a package and a clipboard in-hand. ‘Peter Lemond?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sign here, please?’ He held out a delivery notice with scribble on it that Peter couldn’t read, but he signed it nonetheless. ‘May I say you are one lucky son-of-a-bitch, I hope you have a garage.’

  Peter frowned, wondering what this guy was on. ‘I do, but I don’t have a car at present.’ He handed the clipboard back.

  ‘You do now.’ The delivery man placed a key in his hand that had an Aston Martin keyring attached. ‘Totally made my day, man!’

  ‘There must be some mistake?’ Peter looked to the rather dated keyring, that was very weighty but in good condition.

  The lad read out the name and address on the delivery form, which Peter confirmed. ‘No mistake then, I parked it just out front.’ He passed Peter an envelope addressed to him, and waved in leaving. ‘Luckiest dude on the planet!’ he repeated, ahead of turning and parkouring down the stairwell.

  Peter rushed to the window of his unit to see a pristine sports car in British racing green parked out front. He opened the envelope and pulled out the registration papers for a 1960 Aston Martin DB4 GTZ. ‘Holy shit!’ The accompanying note read:

  First impressions are everything. And someone may as well be driving it. Accept with my gratitude, P.W.

  Peter was as elated as he was infuriated. ‘This goes way beyond scheming!’ He was falling over himself to get dressed and get down to the treasure, before someone breathed on it.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Peter couldn’t stop repeating, as he circled the pristine vehicle parked on the street outside his unit block — his principles preventing him from climbing in the car. ‘Good God, this woman can read me like a children’s book!’

  He hated the idea of knowingly playing along with the old author’s matchmaking plot, but the idea of not driving the most beautiful car he’d ever been offered the keys to was twisting his stomach into knots. ‘I was crazy to think I have some influence in this story when I don’t even seem to have any influence over my own life!’

  The trouble was this car was Peter’s very first case of love at first sight. ‘I won’t be a puppet,’ he insisted, but glancing at his watch he realised that if he didn’t drive to the hospital now, he was going to be late. ‘God damn it!’ Penelope had planned the delivery time to perfection. ‘Well, I can’t just leave it here, either.’

  Left with no option but to comply with Penelope’s wishes, Peter found it impossible to hold his angst, as driving her car proved to be one of the best experiences of his adult life. Once he was behind the wheel of this classic automobile, people looked at him with envious eyes, and women didn’t just give him a second look, they were openly staring and giving him the ‘come hither’ smile.

  By the time Peter reached the reception desk at the hospital, he couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.

  Gabrielle was behind the desk, briefing the casual nurse who worked Peter’s nights off and Gabrielle’s days off. ‘Hi!’ She served him a huge smile — clearly excited about their shopping date. ‘I’ll be right with you, just give me a few minutes to get changed.’

  ‘No rush,’ he assured her. ‘I need to have a brief word with Ms Whitman anyway. Is she awake?’

  ‘Yes, she wants to see you also.’ Gabrielle motioned. ‘Go right in.’

  Peter entered to find the author enjoying afternoon tea, and closed the door behind himself. ‘You know I can’t possibly accept your beautiful gift.’

  ‘Odd, I took you for a classic Aston Martin kind of man,’ she said. ‘Would you have preferred the Ducati?’

  ‘What?’ Peter was shocked to a smile by the question. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. That car you want to give me must be worth a fortune —’

  ‘It is! But I am hardly going to garner any more joy from it, and it has certainly put a rose in your cheek,’ she was happy to note.

  ‘But it should remain as part of your estate —’

  ‘For whom?’ Penelope asked, as if she couldn’t imagine.

  Peter had made a point of not prying into the writer’s private life, but he knew she had children somewhere — though she never spoke of them, and they never called or visited. ‘Well . . . your descendants,’ he suggested diplomatically.

  ‘Ha!’ Penelope found that notion amusing. ‘My children wouldn’t take my money if you paid them to do it! And it would be rather a shame to have some government office profit from the sale of my Aston, don’t you think?’

  Her words took all the wind out of Peter’s argument, and he desperately wanted to ask why Penelope’s children would spite her so.

  Clearly Penelope sensed the query hanging inside the awkward silence. ‘Write, and you don’t live. Live, and you don’t write,’ she said with a heavy sigh in her tone. ‘I chose to write, and my marriage and family suffered for it. Selfish as it may seem, I still don’t regret that choice. I understand now why so many artists end up alone. Once you experience how it feels to work in tandem with creation, earthly pursuits and companions just can’t compete. My family are all better
off with someone who realises they exist.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Peter felt terrible for dredging up what was obviously a painful topic for Penelope, especially after her incredibly generous offer. ‘But if that is the case, then why are you trying to set me up with Gabrielle?’

  ‘In the hope that, unlike me, when you die, it won’t just be your stories that pass before your eyes, there will be actual real-life memories too. As for the Aston, it’s just stuff, Peter; it’s meant to be used. In the end, it doesn’t matter how expensive it is, or how new and shiny you keep it, once your soul leaves your body it’s all just meaningless junk! The best you can hope for is that it gives someone else as much pleasure as it once gave you.’

  Tears were welling in Peter’s eyes and he swallowed hard to try and stave them off. ‘It certainly does that,’ he attempted to be more gracious. ‘It’s just that I’m not well practised in accepting the generosity of others, as it is not a scenario I’m very well acquainted with.’

  ‘Well, as a writer you have to get used to being gifted things, because your work inspires others and they want to give back. You’ll have to learn how to take compliments, as well as criticism.’ She cut into her cake with her fork. ‘Still, in the end, the only thing that matters is whether you’re happy with your work. And I am very happy with our efforts thus far.’ She popped the forkful of cake in her mouth and savoured it.

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ he assured her.

  ‘So, you keep the car,’ Penelope summed up, happy to have got her way — an attitude that would normally have irked Peter, yet he was having trouble not choking on his emotion.

  It wasn’t how overwhelming her generosity was. It was more the sadness he felt in realising that the woman he admired so greatly — who had been a godsend in his life — had no one more precious than himself to gift her life treasures to.

  ‘I shall cherish it,’ Peter confirmed, barely managing to hold his voice steady.

  ‘And I shall cherish that you do,’ she grinned. ‘Off with you then, and don’t come back until you have some clothes to match that car.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Her bossy tone lightened the mood and Peter roused a sincere smile.

  ‘I want to see you looking far smarter tomorrow.’ She placed aside her fork and reached for her pot to pour another cup of tea.

  ‘But I’m only shopping for the awards night,’ Peter reminded her.

  ‘Learn to plan ahead, Peter. If you meet my agent looking like a vagrant once more, I’m simply going —’

  ‘Point taken.’ He waved and turned to exit.

  ‘I would hope that getting a haircut goes without saying?’

  Peter turned back, tempted to ask if she was his mother or his mentor, but he bit his lip as Penelope raised both brows, inviting a challenge.

  ‘Of course.’ He forced a smile to remain gracious.

  ‘Stick.’ Penelope held up the item containing the next segment of their story.

  ‘Must not forget that.’ Peter was thankful to receive the next instalment. ‘I have a feeling Julian is not going to enjoy his studio time as much as he expected.’

  ‘I guess you’ll find out.’ She handed over the item, and then she shooed him out. ‘Go! And have fun. You do remember what that is, don’t you, Peter?’

  ‘I feel just like Cinderella,’ he assured her, and Penelope found his comparison most amusing.

  ‘At midnight the Aston will turn into a six-pack and pizza, I promise,’ she bantered, and he openly laughed.

  With a knock, Gabrielle joined them in the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt —’

  ‘You’re not,’ Peter assured her, before noting quietly that he’d never seen Gabrielle looking quite so fine.

  ‘You look lovely, my dear,’ Penelope noted for Peter’s benefit — he knew she was blind as a bat and couldn’t see anything beyond the tip of her nose. ‘Have fun, kiddies.’ She waved and went back to her tea.

  ‘Are you starting to feel like a character in one of Penelope’s books?’ Peter asked Gabrielle as they exited the hospital.

  ‘We should be so lucky.’ Gabrielle didn’t sound opposed. ‘They almost always have a happy ending. Speaking of which, do you have the latest pages for me?’

  Peter pulled the memory stick he’d finished with from his pocket and handed it over.

  ‘Very good.’ She slipped the item into her handbag as they headed across the staff car park towards the one car parked there. ‘Wait.’ Gabrielle came to a halt. ‘This is your car?’

  ‘Nope . . . I stole it just for today.’ The tease avoided the query nicely, and Gabrielle laughed.

  ‘It’s gorgeous!’ She emphasised her delight as she approached the treasure to admire it more closely.

  ‘Fairly distinctive,’ Peter warranted. ‘So chances are I’ll probably be arrested before our date is over.’ He pulled out the keys and unlocked her door, opening it for her.

  ‘If you stole it, then how did you get the keys?’ Gabrielle grinned as she slipped inside and he closed the door.

  ‘You’ve got me there.’ Peter rounded the car and unlocked the driver’s-side door. ‘I’m really an heir to great fortune who is working as a humble night nurse to spurn my greedy, tempestuous family.’

  Gabrielle was sceptically amused. ‘Inside every fiction writer hides a consummate liar.’

  ‘I haven’t written anything, yet.’ Peter got comfortable and started the motor.

  ‘You will.’ Gabrielle nestled into her seat.

  ‘Why so sure?’ He let the engine idle and warm up.

  ‘My grandma said so.’ Gabrielle turned her large dark eyes his way, and she appeared completely serious. ‘And her prophecies are never wrong.’

  ‘This is your Mexican voodoo grandma?’ Peter was feeling a little creeped out about that, and he wondered if it was Gabrielle who was the consummate liar.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded. ‘And now you want to know exactly what she said.’

  Peter’s grin gave him away, he couldn’t deny it. ‘Actually, I’m wondering why you were speaking about me at all?’

  Gabrielle served him a sassy look. ‘We’e working together on a project, my grandma knows that.’

  ‘So, what did Grandma Valdez say?’ Peter took the bait.

  ‘Shopping first.’ Gabrielle grinned broadly.

  ‘Never miss an opportunity to tease,’ Peter realised, as he released the handbrake and got the car moving.

  ‘Nope, I never do,’ she agreed with glee.

  The reason Peter didn’t have any new clothes was because he hated shopping, but then he’d never had such entertaining company. Gabrielle was everything he wasn’t — confident, vivacious, outspoken and at times brutally honest. He really didn’t get much say in the suit he bought, or the haircut he got, but then Gabrielle seemed to know what suited him better than he did. Still when it came to choosing her gown for the evening Gabrielle was all questions. What colour? Short or long? What about this one? And the ever infamous — does this make my arse look fat? The response ‘What arse?’ seemed to appease. Waiting around for her to change into various different dresses — all of which looked amazing on her — was as boring as hell, but watching her emerge and swish about in front of him was completely captivating.

  ‘I think this might be it!’ she called out to him, ahead of opening the doors to reveal herself wearing a flowing lilac evening dress with a plunging neckline and revealing lilac lace panels all over the place, exposing bare skin beneath.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Peter covered his eyes, unable to bear the torture any longer.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ She sounded so disappointed.

  ‘I do,’ he was quick to assure her, and could not wipe the grin off his face. ‘You look stunning,’ he admitted wholeheartedly, whereupon her beaming smile returned.

  ‘Now for shoes!’ She rushed back into the dressing room to change.

  She was going to make many old writers ecstatically happy, or give them all heart attacks — the notion m
ade Peter chuckle. He’d rather expected this date to be hell on earth, yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so jovial. Penelope’s little scheme was falling beautifully into place and he really didn’t give a damn.

  Laden with shopping bags, they were headed back to the car when Gabrielle spotted an elegant men’s shirt hanging on a rack outside a shop, which she insisted Peter try on.

  ‘We’ve already bought some shirts.’ Peter was over shopping now.

  ‘They’re just for everyday,’ she advised. ‘This one is so you have something to wear when you take me out to dinner.’

  ‘I’m taking you to dinner, am I?’ Peter grinned.

  ‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘When you finally get around to asking me.’

  Peter was flattered and affronted at once. ‘As a wise old woman once said, it pays to be prepared.’ Peter dropped his bags and took the shirt from her. ‘After this, we eat and you tell me what Grandma said?’

  ‘Done,’ she agreed happily, at which point Peter walked straight up to the counter, bought the shirt and returned to Gabrielle.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You’re not going to try it on?’ She appeared delighted, albeit stunned.

  ‘Not unless you want me to take you somewhere swish for dinner right now?’ he replied, sensing that was not really the vibe of the evening.

  ‘Heavens no! I’m not going like this.’ She referred to her figure-hugging shirt and jeans, which looked sensational in his opinion.

  ‘Fish and chips on the beach then?’ he posed and Gabrielle smiled broadly.

  ‘Abso-frigging-lutely!’

  It was coming on to sunset as Peter walked back from the fish and chip shop across the road from the beach, with dinner and drinks in hand. The beach was pretty well deserted, bar a few joggers, a couple of fishermen, and Gabrielle leaning against his car watching the waves roll in to the shore. He didn’t have a free hand to take a photo, but halted to take a still frame in his mind. Not even Penelope Whitman could write a scene that was so picture perfect — this was one of those moments in life that he’d never forget.