by JA Low
I open the door to his studio; he would never hear me knock so I don’t bother anymore. I step inside of the white washed wall, one-bedroom cabin and what I see is not at all what I was prepared for. There, spread out on her stomach against the white canvas covered in paint is my wife, who is being fucked from behind by Yves. He’s moving her around the canvas as he fucks her harder, as if she is his own human paintbrush. My wife is moaning, calling out his name, begging for more, begging for it harder. I just stand there…caught between the utter betrayal and the beautiful art they are creating together. It’s not until my wife opens her eyes mid fuck that she screams, pushing Yves away.
“Louis, you’re home.” She grabs her white robe, quickly covering herself.
“Oh shit. I am so sorry, Louis. I…” Yves stumbles over his words.
“Get the fuck out of my house, you little piece of shit,” I scream at him, which makes him flinch.
“No.” My wife grabs Yves arm, my eyes widen in shock. “He’s staying.”
“You think I am going allow this little shit to stay in my house after I come home to him fucking my wife?” Elisabeth’s eyes widen, her body stiffens and she takes a couple of steps toward me.
“I am his muse, Louis. This is art, nothing more. You of all people should understand that.” How dare she throw how we met in my face.
“You were not married to him, Elisabeth.” She was one of my mentor’s muses, one of many who used to pose for him.
“Yes, but he loved me.” Her eyes narrow at me. “He understood I was your muse. He knew he had to let me go, so you could succeed. You of all people know that sometimes an artist’s muse is not always who you want them to be.” I’m stunned that she is validating her cheating this way.
“And that is what you are to him?” I question, pointing at Yves.
“Yes. Have you not seen his paintings? The passion that screams from the canvas.” Then it hits me. Yves’ latest works have changed from anger filled paintings to softer themes. This new direction is because they are paintings of him fucking my wife every which way. I launch myself at him. Punching him hard in the jaw. The studio fills with my wife’s screams.
“What the fuck?” I am drenched with water.
“I thought you were dead,” Daniel, my brother and agent, grumbles, a green bucket in his hand.
“I was sleeping you asshole.” I shake the water droplets off me. The last strings of my recurring nightmare still vivid. Empty bottles clink as I move the wet bedspread from me.
“Look at you.” He points at the mess surrounding me. “There are beer bottles, tequila and wine everywhere.”
“What can I say, I like it all.” I shrug. Daniel scowls at me.
“You need to stop this, Louis.” It’s the same story over and over again with him. Stop drinking. Get over it. Start painting again. You have obligations. Blah. Blah. Blah. I tend to tune Daniel out when he goes off on one of his lectures, the hidden stash of whiskey helps as well. “Do you have a death wish?” I flip him off. I search around me trying to find something to numb the pain again. “Have this.” Daniel hands me a bottle of water, I look at it as if it’s poison, but he just shakes it at me and I take it. Unscrewing the lid, I throw back the clear liquid. “Louis, it’s been four months since Elisabeth left, you need to stop wallowing.” I look up at my brother and glare at him. He’s never been in love before. In fact, I know he has a different woman in his bed every week, if not multiple. He has no idea what it’s like to be in love and then have it ripped away from you. “Don’t you want to outsell that cocky son of a bitch?” He knows that will get a reaction.
“I’m painting.” I wave my hand around my Parisian apartment where there are multiple unfinished masterpieces. Daniel lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“These paintings are…” He scrunches up his nose. “Not what your fans want.” I stare at the paintings Daniel is pointing at.
“I’m going in a new direction.” Daniel rolls his eyes at me.
“The colour palette is interesting.” He says with a grimace. So what, it’s not my normal colour palette, but I’ve changed. Now I see the world in black, white, red, grey, there is no colour left in my life anymore. It was all ripped away from me.
“This is me, Daniel.” His face softens a little. “If my fans don’t like this new direction then find new ones. It’s your job,” I yell at him.
“I guess I should be thankful you have painted anything at all while you are stuck in some self-indulgent pity party.”
“Fuck you.” My anger bubbles to the surface again. “You have no idea what I have been through.”
“Yes I do. I’ve been the one mopping up your fucking mess ever since you found out about Elisabeth and Yves.”
“Never mention their names again,” I hiss.
“You are such a fucking pussy, Louis. This bitch broke your heart. She cheated on you with your protégé. She wasn’t even sorry about it. Why the hell are you letting her hold this power over you?” I’m stunned silent for a few moments, then my anger bubbles to the surface again. I jump up from my bed and rush at Daniel, pushing him up against the wall. He doesn’t fight back.
“Go on, Louis. Hit me. Fucking hit me if it makes you feel any better.” He looks down at me, his chest heaving with adrenaline. “Go on,” he goads me. I release my hands from his crinkled suit. “Just what I thought. You’re a fucking pussy.” I ignore his barb and make my way over to the kitchen, opening the fridge I pull out a mini bottle of vodka and knock it back. “Why are you letting her destroy you?” My head hangs in shame at his words. “She was a bitch, Louis.” I whip around and glare at him. “I never said anything to you when you were together…” His words hang in the air.
“What? Spit it out. Don’t stop now. I love this confession time.”
“Elisabeth propositioned me.” My eyes widen, my fingers clench against the marble island bench top. “Not just once, many times.” My heart is beating wildly inside my chest. “She doesn’t like the word no.” If he fucked her, I don't know what I will do.
“Did you…?” He looks at me shocked.
“Seriously? You think I would do that to you?” I shrug, because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know who to trust when it comes to Elisabeth. “Why do you think I stopped coming around during the holidays?” He always told me he was busy or he was with a woman. I thought we were just growing apart. “She wouldn’t leave me alone.” I should be surprised by her antics, but I’m not, not anymore. “So, why are you letting a woman like that steal anything more from you, Louis?” He’s right. But I can’t stop it. I’m on this destructive path now, the anger has taken hold of me like a monster on my back, one that I can’t shake. Nor do I want to.
“This is me now, Daniel.” I point to the dark canvases around me. Daniel nods, the fight leaving him.
“These will sell. I don’t know if we will be able to make the millions you were making before, but still enough to make a decent living.” Not like I am crying poor, even after Elisabeth took half of everything from me. She took my home, my studios, half my money. The real kicker was when she moved him into our home. He’s no longer living in the studio in the backyard. No. Now he’s the man of the house. My fucking house. The house that Elisabeth and I were going to bring up our children in. I guess I’m pretty replaceable. “Louis, don’t you want to show her she picked the wrong guy.” I shrug. “Don’t you want her to realise that she gave up on you for some two-bit wannabe Louis Marchant.” I look at the unfinished paintings hanging around my apartment. “There is only one of you and Yves is a cheap knock off.” I look up at my brother, there’s fire in his eyes, he wants me to give a shit. He wants me to be the best I can be. But I don’t know what that is anymore. My muse has dried up and gone away and I don’t know if I am ever going to find her again. “Just think about what I said, okay?” Daniel looks at me. “I’ll be back in a couple of days, I have some stuff to sort out back in London.” I wave him goodbye and fall
head first back into my bed.
I wake up to a woman's screams, the bed moves and jolts beside me. I try and push my eyes open but nothing happens.
“Wake up, you drunk.” The sheets are ripped off of me, bright light streams through the window. There is a pissed off woman mumbling expletives beside me. “I suggest you lose his number, you can do better,” Daniel tells someone.
“Yeah, I think so too,” the woman says. I flip them off as I cover my eyes with my arm; the blinding light is trying to sear my retinas. A hard slap lands across my face waking me.
“What the fuck?” Jumping up quickly, my body wobbling as my feet hit the concrete, my head pounding. My ass falls back down to the edge of the bed as I’m unsteady on my feet.
“Get the fuck up. I’ve had enough of this. This is an intervention.” My head is throbbing; I am not in the mood for another one of Daniel’s interventions. He hands me some headache tablets and a glass of water and I wash it down. “Have a shower, you fucking stink.” I lift up my arm and he’s right, I kind of stink. It takes everything I have in me to get myself up off my bed. Moments later I stumble into the shower, the water cleansing away the sins of last night.
Feeling better, I re-join Daniel in the living room where he is cleaning up the remnants of my wild night.
“Where did she go?” I look around my empty apartment.
“The brunette?” Daniel questions me. I nod. “She left.” Dammit, I was hoping for another round. What was her name? Stephanie? Chloe? Mariska? Shaking my head, I don’t know, my brain is a little foggy. “Trying out muses again?”
“She might have been the one.” I grab a juice from my fridge.
“Doubtful, your canvases are still pretty bare.”
“We made art on my bed.”
Daniel scoffs at me. “Fucking lame, man.” I shrug and finish my juice, I wish it had vodka in it.
“Why are you here so early?”
“It’s one o'clock in the afternoon, Louis.” I look up at the clock, and so it is. I shrug, it was a wild night. Daniel just shakes his head at me in displeasure.
“I’m here to tell you, that somehow, a small New York gallery wants to host an exhibition of your latest work at the end of summer.” My eyebrow rises in surprise at him. “Yeah, I know I am a goddamn freaking legend,” he chuckles.
“You should be for the amount I pay you.” He flips me off.
“Anyway, they are happy to exhibit pretty much anything you have for them, be it this new demonic direction you seem hell bent on pursuing or the original old school Louis Marchant.”
“Great.”
Daniel looks at me frustrated. “Great. That’s all you have to say. This gallery is giving you a lifeline. If you do well here, then it’s a step in the right direction, getting back to where you once were, at the top.” I shrug. Being the best isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Been there, done that. “Seriously, I want to fucking punch you right now, you ungrateful fucking dick,” Daniel yells at me. “Wake up you fool before it’s too late.” He’s really pissed. He’s also pacing, which means he’s not happy with me.
“Fine.” I give in. This makes him stop. “This is what they get.” I point at the unfinished paintings. “I have no control over what I paint anymore. No more than the sun can control the rain. If that is what they want, then I will do it.” Daniel smiles.
“Good.” I nod and he doesn’t fight me on it. “Because I’ve just hired you an assistant.” My eyes widen in shock.
“No.”
“Yes. They will organise everything in your life, so all you have to worry about is painting.”
“No, Daniel.”
“Sorry, Louis, this is non-negotiable. I’m setting them up at your place in the country.”
“No. Absolutely not. That is my sacred space. No one is allowed there, only me and my staff.”
“Well, lucky that they will be your staff.” I don’t think I am going to win this argument.
“They better not get in my fucking way, Daniel.”
“I promise you they will not be in your way. You will hardly see them. And if it makes you feel better I will liaise with them, you won’t even notice they are there. I’ll confine them to the office.” My eyes narrow at him, I’m not happy that some stranger is going to be invading my personal space. “We need Louis Marchant back. I don’t care if you paint a million and one demon paintings all summer, I don’t care if every single one of your paintings are black. We need to fill this gallery. We need you back at the top.”
“They will get what they get.”
“Fine. I’m happy with that.” That was easy. Too easy. “But…” And here we have it, there’s more. “You need to get back out into the public.”
“No.”
“Your public image has taken a considerable nosedive these past four months.” I roll my eyes, Daniel’s being dramatic. “The images of you stumbling out of clubs with a different woman on your arm doesn’t look great.”
“Fuck what they think.”
“Most of the people with the money are conservative.”
“Well fuck them. I don’t need their self-righteous money then.”
“You look like a fucking dick at the moment, whereas Elisabeth and Yves are absolutely killing it socially; attending all the events, looking happy and in love, not like some desperado drunk.” His words are like a dagger to the heart. Looking happy and in love. Fuck those traitorous bastards. I open the fridge and pull out a beer. I’m too sober to deal with this shit right now. Daniel looks at me disappointed. “You need to up your social media game; you don’t have Elisabeth anymore to do it.” I take another swig of my beer, seething at Daniel’s words. “He has a million followers on Instagram.” Like that is meant to mean something. “You only have 350,000.” Again, like that means something. “There are pictures of them at all the hottest parties around the world.” Elisabeth would never say no to an invite. “Photos with celebrities. Endorsements from different brands. And what do you have?” He looks at me holding my beer, my normally clean shaven face covered in a patchy beard. “People are clamouring for them, just like they used to for you.” I finish my beer and grab another. Daniel lets out a frustrated growl. “You’re lucky you are fucking family, because otherwise I would have dropped your ungrateful ass ages ago if you were just a client. Get your act together, Louis, this depressive bullshit is just fucking sad.” And with that he walks out slamming the door behind him. I flip him off.
3
Emily
“Hi, is this Emily Chapman?”
“Yes it is.” Did I give my number to someone and not realise? It’s been a week since Toby broke up with me and I’ve been staying with Rosie and I have spent most of that time in a wine haze.
“You applied for the art assistant’s position.” My stomach turns, oh my God, we applied for that while drunk. I had completely forgotten about it.
“Yes, I did.”
“Your resume is impressive.” It is? “And I was wondering if we could organise an interview time.” Oh my God!
I’m so nervous. I really need this job. I don’t care how much they pay me or if I have to look after some temperamental artist, I’ll take it, that’s if they offer it to me. This could be my chance to finally work in the art industry, yes it would be as a personal assistant, probably getting coffee and other menial tasks, but I don’t care. At least I would finally be doing something in the art scene. The fact that it is based in the South of France isn’t really bad. I need to get out of London, away from my old life. I need a fresh start and this would be the perfect recharge. I will come back with a tan and a new spring in my step, armed with this new found art experience which is going to open so many doors for me here in London. I need to get this job.
Taking a deep breath, I press the bell of the Mayfair terrace. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest; my palms are sweaty. You’ve got this Emily. This job is yours. The door opens and I’m little taken aback by the man standing in front
of me. I look to the side to check if I have the right number. Because the man is gorgeous. He looks like he’s stepped off the pages of GQ. Jet black hair slicked back and the most intense blue eyes. They are almost turquoise like the Mediterranean ocean I swum in last summer with Toby. Bright blue pools that a woman could get lost in. Like you are doing right now, Emily. I notice the navy suit he’s wearing, cut to perfection over his large body. I know how much that suit costs because Toby has the same one, but he never looked this good in it. Control your hormones, Emily. This is a job interview.
“You must be Emily,” he says with a deep, timbered voice that reverberates over my body. He offers me a tanned hand to shake. I take it. It’s warm and large; so, so large. “I’m Daniel DuPont.” There is a hint of a French accent as he says his name. “The artist’s agent.” I nod in understanding. “Come in.” He holds open the door for me as I enter the luxury terrace. He ushers me along the white hallway, but I am mesmerised by the artwork that lines it, especially the beautiful multi-coloured striped canvas. He notices that I have stopped walking and am currently staring at the painting.
