The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘God, I miss your no-bullshit honesty, Mon,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘Except for when I cheated on you, don’t forget that part.’ Monique noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table and helped herself. ‘I thought you gave this up?’

  ‘Only “for the sake of the baby”,’ he droned. ‘Well, the baby is not here.’ He grabbed a cigarette himself and the lighter; lit Monique’s cigarette for her and then his own. ‘Nope. I’ve decided I don’t like real life very much at present.’ He puffed away thoughtfully.

  ‘Hence your need to escape into your tale.’ Monique exhaled the smoke.

  ‘I confess I am obsessed with it, and I think I’ve fallen in love with one of my characters. Em.’ He opened up about it for the first time to anyone.

  ‘Why M?’ Monique wondered. ‘What’s her real name?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He smiled, rather enchanted by the challenge of finding out.

  ‘So she’s the lover Jenna thinks you’re dating?’ Monique was enlightened.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He grinned. ‘But she’s in a lot of trouble and I doubt very much if she shall live to see the end of this book.’

  ‘How sad.’ Monique faked disappointment. ‘But I’m sure your hero is up to the challenge.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Nathaniel loved that Monique didn’t shoot down such conversation to insist they talk about real people and real world affairs.

  He obviously knew it was insane to be so involved with the world he was writing about and its occupants; it was madder still that he was falling in love with a figment of his own imagination over his flesh and blood wife! Yet he seemed unable and unwilling to resist the allure of either.

  After aiding Nathaniel to a calm state and helping to clean up his mess and get him out the door, Monique was relaxing with a coffee when Tyme came stumbling in with her bags.

  ‘Praise the universe, I made it!’ She collapsed against the front door to close it and dropped all her baggage. ‘I thought I’d never get here!’

  ‘Tea?’ Monique suggested, as Tyme never drank coffee.

  ‘Hell, yes!’ She rolled off the door, head last, and staggered to the kitchen table to sit down. ‘It’s hell out there in the real world.’

  Monique gave a laugh. ‘Nat was just saying the same thing.’

  ‘Must be something going on with the planets!’ Tyme emphasised. ‘My mother is reluctant to do the extra babysitting so I can spend more time on our project, my daughter has been in my face all week when I’ve been trying to edit film! She’s recently stopped having her daytime sleep, and has been really ratty at night. It’s been a nightmare! I’ve never known her to be so demanding.’

  ‘We children,’ Monique advised, ‘resent when we notice your attention is on something other than us.’

  ‘I know I’ve been distracted,’ Tyme admitted. ‘And the fact that I have been away more is just exacerbating the issue, but I’m so obsessed with our idea!’

  ‘There’s that word again,’ Monique noted.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Obsessed.’

  ‘But I am,’ Tyme justified. ‘I went back through the footage and digitally blew up and enhanced a bunch of stuff . . . Em’s hands were all over us! It looks like we’ve done some serious special effects, with no budget at all!’ Tyme was jumping out of her skin with excitement as she moved to fetch her laptop.

  ‘M?’ Monique said. ‘That’s the name of one of the characters in Nat’s book.’

  ‘Well it also happens to be the name of our ghost,’ Tyme informed her.

  ‘How do you know?’ Monique was intrigued.

  ‘His name is on all of the paintings in here,’ Tyme explained. ‘I found a whole cupboard of his stuff by the stairs.’

  ‘But he’s a he,’ Monique stated.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But Nathaniel thinks he is a she?’ Monique grinned at the idea of Nathaniel in love with a man.

  ‘Em might be effeminate, or even gay, but I think our ghost is definitely a male.’ Tyme opened her computer, and clicked on the file she’d been working on.

  ‘I completely agree.’ Monique now suspected that her lustful encounter in the bedroom after opening night had been with the entity in question.

  ‘So what makes Nat think he’s a female?’ Tyme asked curiously.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Monique confessed. ‘I don’t even think he’s aware that there is a ghost!’

  ‘You didn’t mention it?’ Tyme was flabbergasted.

  ‘Well, you saw how Jules took it.’ Monique shifted in her seat, perturbed. ‘If they both freak out and decide to back out of the lease —’

  ‘I get ya.’ Tyme gave her a wink. ‘Good call.’ She looked back to the screen to play her rough-cut of their footage for Monique. ‘The footage of you tossing your hair around full of powder . . . once I slowed it down, well . . . Wow!’

  Monique’s eyes opened wide and welled with tears — she looked like a goddess rising from the ashes, and in another capture she appeared shrouded by celestial mist. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she uttered.

  ‘But, wait for it,’ Tyme coaxed.

  The next piece of footage was a slow-motion capture of Monique’s thigh and stomach as five invisible fingers left their impression as they moved over her bare skin. ‘That looks amazing!’ Monique was not left chilled as she had been before, only excited by the aesthetic and artistic beauty of it.

  ‘I believe we should call it “Spectral Impressions”,’ Tyme stated, and Monique squealed with delighted approval.

  ‘That suits the concept very well. J’adore!’

  ‘Looks like we have a name for our exhibition then.’ Tyme held a hand up for a high-five.

  Monique served her one gladly. ‘We rock.’

  The sound of the elevator crunching to a stop drew their attention to the front door.

  ‘Maybe Nat forgot something?’ Monique suggested, hoping she didn’t have to talk him into going home all over again.

  The door opened and Julian entered.

  ‘Jules!’ Both girls were surprised to see him and he didn’t look happy.

  ‘What brings you here? We’re not shooting any porn tonight, if that’s what you’re hoping?’ Tyme jibed as he walked over to join them, his scowl unwavering.

  ‘I’m just here to drop off my keys.’ He shocked them both as he placed the keys on the table and stepped away. ‘I’ll pick up my stuff on my next rostered day, and then I’m out!’ He threw his hands up in resignation.

  ‘What!’ The girls panicked.

  ‘But you’ve already paid a month in advance.’ Tyme pointed out.

  ‘Keep it.’ He waved off the matter. ‘It’s my gift to you while you find somebody else.’

  Tyme was on her feet now. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ he declined, backing up to the door, appearing most eager to depart.

  ‘Did Em hurt you?’ Tyme insisted.

  Jules shook his head.

  ‘If you’re going to leave us in the lurch, don’t we at least deserve to know why?’ Monique stood also and used her most charming tone to implore him to be more forthcoming.

  Julian relented and re-joined them at the table. ‘I think I might have been possessed,’ he whispered, as if not wanting the ghost to overhear. ‘Yet she was right there with me —’

  ‘Where with you?’ Monique uttered. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Em is a woman,’ Jules advised Tyme. ‘I know, because I saw her plain as day this time.’

  ‘And where did you see her?’ Tyme was intrigued.

  ‘Here,’ he replied, ‘in my music, she plays cello, and coaxed me into playing along with some Russian hit from last century!’

  Both the girls burst into delighted smiles.

  ‘Don’t!’ Julian warned against voicing their excitement. ‘I know you two think it’s all very fascinating, but I prefer being in control of my own senses, thank you very much. I’ve got no desire to be drawn back into history b
y some chick who’s been dead for the better part of a century!’

  ‘You think you time travelled?’ Tyme queried.

  ‘I don’t know what happened! Maybe she came to me? But Em is not of this time, I can tell you that much. I’ve been talking to her in my sleep, apparently, so Sofie is pissed and has left me, as of this morning.’

  ‘Oh, Jules.’ Tyme moved to give him a hug, which Julian accepted. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, on the upside,’ Julian summed up, ‘I can practise at home now, as the band are moving in.’

  ‘You’re better off without her.’ Monique waved off his heartbreak.

  ‘I disagree! But that’s beside the point.’ Julian let go of Tyme to caution them both. ‘A dead person has influenced the events of my life beyond these walls. I advise you both to break the lease and get the fuck out of here before your lives start falling apart as a result.’

  ‘But what if Em influences our lives in a good way?’ Tyme posed, seemingly unfazed in the wake of his warning.

  Julian shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve said my piece, what you do is up to you.’ He headed directly for the door, not to be waylaid again. ‘Sorry again. I’ll catch you round.’ He closed the door in his wake.

  ‘Well,’ Tyme concluded looking back to Monique, ‘this mystery just gets more and more intriguing.’

  ‘I don’t understand how M could possibly be a woman.’ Monique was bemused.

  ‘Well, admittedly we haven’t actually seen Em,’ Tyme pointed out.

  ‘But I felt . . .’ Monique was going to say felt him.

  ‘But you felt . . . ?’ Tyme prompted.

  ‘Sure M was a man, that’s all.’ Monique forced a grin.

  ‘I’m more worried about the shortfall in the rent.’ Tyme sat herself down to muse over the problem.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Monique said. ‘I feel Nathaniel may be looking for some additional studio time before too long.’ Her attention shifted towards the stairs. ‘You found a cupboard of stuff belonging to M, you said?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tyme accompanied Monique to point out the whereabouts of the door in question.

  It was as if it had just appeared there. ‘How did I not notice that before?’ Monique was stunned only for a moment. ‘There seem to be too many conflicting accounts about M. He’s a she, she’s a cellist, he’s a painter.’

  ‘Time to hunt up some facts, you think?’

  ‘Absolument.’

  A TURNING POINT

  ‘You are such a tease, Ms Whitman.’ Peter entered Penelope’s room, all spruced up to attend the literary dinner, but he was more excited by the developments in the story. ‘We are on the verge of finding out something significant about Em, I can feel it. Is it the handwritten texts Tyme spotted in the cupboard before?’

  Penelope grinned and cocked an eye. ‘Spoilers,’ she warned. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Of course,’ Peter insisted.

  ‘Well . . . I’m not going to tell you.’ She pointed to the memory stick containing the latest instalment that sat alongside a set of keys and an envelope on her bedside table. ‘The keys are to my house —’

  ‘What!’ Peter feared her intent.

  ‘I’m not giving it to you.’ Penelope chuckled at his dismay. ‘But you will need the keys to retrieve the research I did on this book.’

  ‘Oh, thank heaven.’ Peter breathed again, and was elated to learn of his literary quest, the object of which was better than buried treasure to him.

  ‘That could prove an interesting pursuit for after the gala this evening,’ Penelope hinted. ‘Feel free to make yourself at home; there will be no one about there in the evening.’

  Peter raised an eyebrow, sensing another of Penelope’s romantic schemes afoot. Yet, as this entire evening had been orchestrated by the author, he’d decided to just succumb to the experience and enjoy being one of Ms Whitman’s characters. ‘The envelope contains the instructions of where to locate the said research, I assume.’

  ‘Right again.’ She winked.

  ‘Again?’ Peter caught her slip of the tongue, as he collected the items and tucked them safely in the pockets of his suit. ‘So I was right about the story arc.’

  Penelope waved off his victory. ‘Well, we are at the first turning point, so of course something major must happen or our readers might lose interest!’

  ‘That’s highly unlikely,’ Peter gave his view. ‘And you’re avoiding my query.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your writerly instincts,’ she awarded him his due. ‘All you need is a good story to follow and you’ll be on your way.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’ Peter was actually feeling more confident in that regard. ‘Tell me more about this research.’

  ‘Blah! Why should I waste my breath when you can read it for yourself? But I will say . . .’ She paused to consider. ‘The world was not ready for this story when the muse first brought it to me, and I’m still not entirely sure if the world is ready for it now.’

  ‘Is that why you waited so long to write this tale?’

  ‘Partly.’ Penelope leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘Ms Whitman?’ Peter noted how pale and tired she appeared. ‘Are you feeling quite well? Because if you’re not, and you’re not telling me because of this evening —’

  ‘I just need a little rest,’ she assured him with a smile.

  ‘I’m going to check your blood pressure —’

  ‘There’s a nurse here, you’re not leaving me to fend for myself.’ Penelope gripped his wrist to waylay him ‘You are not using me as an excuse to get out of this.’

  ‘Why not? You got me into it,’ Peter bantered. But then, resigning himself to the fact that he might have been imagining things in order to be excused from this night’s events, all of which terrified him a little, he decided to smile and for once be gracious. ‘Thank you, Penelope . . . for the opportunity to see inside a writer’s life. It is my great honour to be mentored by you.’

  Penelope’s eyes welled with tears. ‘Well, thank you for listening to the rantings of an old fool.’

  ‘Fool? No.’

  ‘I have been foolish,’ Penelope insisted, ‘I chose my characters over my friends and family.’

  ‘I understand that —’

  ‘Some of them did, too,’ Penelope warranted. ‘But it’s still no excuse for never being there for those who loved and cared for me so well.’

  ‘And what of the millions of people you have helped and will never know?’ Peter countered. ‘Whose lives and entire perception of the world have been altered by the concepts explored in your work? Your social network is filled with such stories, and you’ve certainly stimulated my creative psyche enormously!’

  Clearly, the old author was comforted by his view. ‘Well, we can’t have it all, and I’ve had more than most.’

  With a knock, the replacement nurse opened and stuck her head around the door. ‘Are you both ready for the big reveal?’

  He must have looked like an animal caught in headlights — it wasn’t that Peter knew he was about to swoon, more that he was worried about saying the wrong thing when he did.

  ‘Yes, the suspense is killing us!’ Ms Whitman answered on his behalf.

  His failure to respond highlighted Peter’s habit of downplaying the gifts life threw at him. Playing it small was not serving anyone; not himself, and certainly not these women who had gone to such lengths to make this evening one for him to remember. So what if it did all go to hell tomorrow? If he just detached himself from the outcome, there was only this moment to enjoy for what it was. He’d been reading Penelope’s other books in his spare time and her philosophies were making more and more sense to him. ‘When venturing out of your comfort zone, do it with wild abandon and confident flair.’ He quoted Penelope quietly back at her, and she appeared overjoyed that he would take her advice to heart.

  ‘You look the part.’ Ms Whitman winked at him, as
the door was opened wide and in sauntered Gabrielle in her lilac lace evening gown. Her hair was gathered back in a bun of curls, and she wore only earrings and a bracelet — nothing to detract from her long lovely neck and plunging neckline. ‘What do you think?’ She walked a little circle for them, the train of the dress trailing behind her.

  Penelope gasped, adjusting her glasses as she strained to see the spectacle. ‘You look like a princess, my dear.’

  Peter stepped forwards and took up Gabrielle’s hand. ‘You look absolutely magnificent.’ He drank in the vision of her — equally memorable to his mental snapshot of her on the beach — and despite all his insecurities and against his own nervous character, Peter raised Gabrielle’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. It was both uncomfortable and vindicating when all three women in the room sighed, charmed by the gesture.

  ‘Why, Mr Lemond, you look rather dapper yourself!’ Gabrielle beamed, seemingly smitten by his transformation also.

  ‘Oh . . . I almost wish I was going with you.’ Both Penelope’s hands were pressed to her chest as if to contain her excitement.

  ‘Shall we tell her?’ Gabrielle prompted Peter to make their announcement.

  ‘Your lovely agent has arranged for the ceremony to be streamed live to your TV!’ Peter motioned to the screen by his patient’s bed.

  ‘Really?’ Penelope lit up at the announcement.

  ‘I have a computer here that will relay the stream that Nurse Henly will set up for you.’

  Their standby nurse gave Penelope the thumbs-up to second Peter’s statement.

  ‘So I shall expect a full critique when I return,’ Peter told Penelope, whose hands were now holding her face in shock.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, how exciting!’ She drew a deep, satisfied breath and exhaled it again. ‘Well, you had both best get moving, or I won’t have anything to watch this evening.’

  ‘We shall do our best to represent you in a favourable light.’ Gabrielle gathered up her train over one arm to make her gown more manageable to walk in.