Confessions of a Muse

by Edeline Wrigh

  It was absolutely, definitely going to get me into deep trouble. It was only a matter of time.

  I didn’t know that then, though; all I knew was that there was a handsome man devoted to his work who was prepared on a beyond-soul level to progress to the next stage of his artistic career and there was a beautiful woman who had long ago abandoned her dreams of dancing onstage to get a very-respectable job in a very-respectable hotel, and they were both depending on me and the person I had made myself out to be.

  No. The person I was and am. I just needed to decide who that was.

  Selene Katrina Carrington. I said the name countless times, countless ways, feeling the way my lips caressed its noises as they formed the words.

  Selene Katrina Carrington.

  Many people never truly consider the power of a name, of the way people address you, and nearly no one does the way I did in that moment: the way it tasted in my mouth, the colors it formed in the air, the way different cadences changed its effect. Low and slow, like a jazz singer. Higher pitched and quick, like a cheer. I sang it in scales and arpeggios, enunciated the consonants with staccato accuracy, tried it on in different accents.

  It was the name of an heiress. I rode horses when I was young, perhaps, the perfect English daughter of the perfect English family. I probably went to boarding school when I was young too—not the disciplinary sort led by nuns with rulers but the sort where future leaders went to receive the most prestigious education a child could receive.

  That would account for the way my voice sounded. That plus all the traveling I’d done. It was true, too; to this day I have what sounds like a British accent set off by some number of other dialects. What I can tell you is the truth, if it’s something even I can trust, which is that I have an otherworldly accent that’s both placeable and not. It exists only to act as a mirror upon which people can cast their most elaborate projections.

  I am a consistent being, even if part of that consistency relies on the paradox of being terribly inconsistent at the worst possible times.

  But, again, I’m getting ahead of myself. What was important in that moment was establishing who I would be in New York City that summer to the people I’d never met and was absolutely, definitely, going to meet. And that was everyone and no one, a cliché of existence, that which was the artist who could be anything she dreamt of becoming.

  For all of my abstractions and intellectual games, there was one specific puzzle I had to figure out. In most cities for most people, 11pm is too late to be making business calls, but I wasn’t most people and this wasn’t most cities and nothing as silly as the human illusion of time would stop me.

  Sensing a pattern here? Yeah, you all make up some extremely weird stuff to bring order to your lives. Funny, that.

  So, anyway, I dialed some numbers and talked to a range of artistic directors and their assistants. I straightened my back as I talked to them, doing my best to sound the part of an important individual.

  Then, finally, in what I can only describe as synchronicity, I connected with my opportunity.

  It came from a woman with the voice of a too-long cigarette smoker. She answered on the first ring, and her “Hello?” came through the line with an earnestness that would have been startling had I not been the type of person who is constantly seeking it in others.

  “Ms. Devonie,” I started, “this is Selene Katrina Carrington. My company manager told me you were scrambling to get your performance for tomorrow night figured out. Something about a last-minute call-off or two?”

  The sigh of relief was palpable. “You’re... who?” she said, though, all professional and to-the-point despite the urgency I could feel from her even through the phone line. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Yes, I’ve had a soloist or two call off for... personal reasons.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me. I’ve been performing all over the city for the better part of two months now. But I suppose that’s how these things are, anyway.” I smiled to myself, and truthfully even I was a bit sold. Besides, I wasn’t sure I was lying. All that ballet skill had to have come from somewhere, right? “What you need to know is that I’m good at what I do, and I can do any part you need me to do, and I can be there promptly at call time. Which is...?”

  “4pm. Be here at 3. We’ll need to go over contract stuff and I need make sure you’re as good as you say you are.”

  “I’m better,” I told her. “But of course. 3pm it is.”

  I imagined her shaking her head on the other end of the phone. “If you can passably dance, it’s better than having to redo all of my choreography. But you’d better come through or I’ll make sure the grapevine knows about it. You understand?”

  “Of course. I’ll be there. Just one favor to ask.”

  “If you save my ass, I’ll write you into my will.”

  “I just need you to get me a guest ticket. Best seat in the house.”

  It was that easy. In retrospect, I should have known it would be, but in my defense I had no memories to draw on but my incident with Ryan, and...

  Well.

  Let’s be honest.

  A warm-blooded man who’s also an artist isn’t going to not be attracted to me. I’m, like, their dream girl. There are multiple tropes about me in fiction. So it could have easily been a coincidence that I could get him to do everything I needed.

  This wasn’t the case with the woman I spoke to on the phone.

  It was all far too much to ponder, so instead of continuing to wonder, I dialed the only phone number I knew. I’d stared enough at the scrawled numbers to have it memorized already. I dialed him from the hotel phone, trusting he’d be awake. It was a stereotype, perhaps, but something told me the man I’d caught spraying monster designs on the side of an upscale banking building wouldn’t mind me calling him at this time of night.

  “Hello?” His voice betrayed his absolute confusion at the audacity of a phone call rather than a text, but I found enough music in my voice to respond anyway.

  “I’ll be buying a new phone tomorrow,” I told him, “but for now all I have is the hotel phone.”

  There was a pause, and I imagined him nodding on the other end of the line. “So?” he asked, “What are you doing calling me in the middle of the night?”

  “I had an idea...” I started, then backpedaled. “Wanna come over and help me hash it out?”

  He chuckled. “This has to be the most transparent booty call I’ve ever received, blondie.”

  “Not a booty call,” I assured him. “Like I said, I had an idea, and I think you might be interested.”

  Ryan was a smooth talker, that much was certain. Well, at least he was a smooth talker when we were in any position other than the one I met him in. Something about me seeing him commit what was technically a crime must have ruffled his feathers, so to speak, because when he came back to the Bellevue, it was like he was another person altogether.

  Well, it was, and it wasn’t. He was still the outrageously handsome man in nice clothing artfully arranged on his body, but man, the way he side smiled and soaked me in with his eyes was breathtaking in another way entirely.

  I’d told him that this wasn’t a booty call, but a business meeting, and I was regretting my resolve. But if my senses on him were right, the dude probably had a few steady contacts for that already, and honestly?

  I wondered how much of him was ready for someone to see something else.

  He was hot, and he knew it. I wouldn’t have denied that. But he was also an artist, an artist almost desperate for his work to be taken seriously.

  Or, if not seriously, at least to have an audience that could identify him with his creations.

  ‘Cause he was skilled, but he didn’t trust anyone else to know that. Not really, at any rate. And he’d probably come here assuming he could distract me from his skills in art with his skills in bed.

  Or something.

  This is my confessional, and I’m editorializing, just a little. O
r maybe a lot. Who knows, really? Not me, not anymore.

  But what I can tell you for sure is that he arrived at my suite, and I was in a silk nightgown that I probably should have changed out of. But it was a midnight meeting, even if he had arrived for us to talk business. I prepared some champagne, not to woo him but to celebrate, and even if the city lights twinkled like stars, the reason for the romance was not our attraction to one another.

  No, I did not bring him here to make him fall in love with me; I summoned him here to help him remember how in love with his dreams he was, even if he had long ago abandoned the idea that he might one day accomplish them.

  “Thank you so much for being willing to meet with me,” I told him, stepping aside so he could enter the suite, then leading him out to the balcony where the bottle of champagne waited.

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised at the turn of events. “So it really isn’t a booty call?” he deadpanned, following me outside.

  I laughed, entirely too aware of the way it spread inspiration, silver sparkles flowing off my body as I did so. “Were you hoping it would be?”

  “Kinda,” he said, looking at me askance. “But I guess this way I know you aren’t lying to me.”

  Oops.

  But instead of taking this moment to fess up, I giggled and flipped my hair and took a sip of champagne and let the moment sit. Of course I was lying about who I was and what connections I had. But I wasn’t lying about my ability to help him. I knew I’d come through with whatever promises I made to him, no matter how outlandish and no matter how many of those promises were fueled by the backdrop of the city or the feelings of alcohol as it seeped into my system.

  I totally could see why so many people wrote their words while intoxicated. It definitely made the inspiration flow more freely.

  But, anyway.

  I didn’t know how I’d come through, just that I would, and that felt like it was enough tonight.

  “So, listen,” I started, “from the way you’re eyeing me, I think we should establish some professional boundaries.”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  I continued, “Like maybe you shouldn’t be looking at me like that.”

  He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, and smiled widely, making a show of looking me over this time. “Miss Selene,” he started, “I can stop looking at you like this if that’s what you want. Just tell me.”

  I was flustered.

  I’m telling you, dear reader, I wanted to maintain my composure, and I had no trouble lying to the guy, but he was fucking with my sense of propriety. Like I told you already: I didn’t really have it in me to let down an artist. And I didn’t have it in me to tell him I didn’t find him attractive when I so clearly did.

  None of it mattered, because it took me too long to answer, and besides, I was blushing.

  He nodded, his smile growing wider. “Thought so.” He held his pose for a moment, and I looked over him, the way the action emphasized the musculature of his body and the mound of his crotch. I thought I heard him chuckle, a low sound, like he hadn’t meant to let it escape.

  I wasn’t sure, and I sure as hell would not ask for clarification.

  He saved me the trouble. Thankfully. He wiped the expression off his face, then moved himself forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he looked out over the city. “So. Business.”

  I swallowed. “Right! Business. So, I’ve been thinking over my contacts and I think I know just the person I need to get your work in front of in order for you to get some coins. But I want to hear what you want to make.”

  “What I want to make?”

  “Yeah. The world is your oyster, or something, right? Do you want to do murals or do you want to make something else? There're all kinds of places that could use some monster illustrations that aren’t 8 feet tall, ya know?”

  He nodded, thinking about something. “They’re not just... one off monsters. You know that, right? I have an entire world around them. An entire story.”

  Ah, now we were getting somewhere.

  “Sure, of course,” I said. And he was right, to an extent: I had known there was more to them. It was clear in the way it’d flown from his fingers that first day. But I needed him to say it aloud, to admit there was more he wanted to do with them, before I could suggest it. “So what are you thinking? Like a comic book?”

  “You think I’m into that nerd shit?” he asked, but the silvery glitter of inspiration betrayed him.

  He was absolutely, definitely, in love with the idea of turning his monsters into comics.

  It was my turn to chuckle. He could play my sex drive like an instrument, perhaps, but I would always have the upper hand when it came to knowing what set an artist’s soul alight.

  “I mostly want to know why you’re referring to something that excites you so much as ‘that nerd shit,’” I said.

  He glared at me. “What gave you the idea I’m excited by it?”

  Literally everything about the way you responded when I suggested it, dude.

  But I couldn’t say that, so instead I said: “No reason. Just an idea I had. Guess it was stupid, huh?”

  In the light from the city, I saw him clench his jaw and look away from me. I’d put him into a corner. He couldn’t tell me it was stupid, not in so many words, and also maintain the playboy persona he’d been trying so hard to cultivate around me.

  He was a massive nerd who’d learned it wasn’t cool to be one far too many years ago, and that alone was the thing he needed to get over to be happy.

  “It wasn’t stupid,” he said, almost defensively. “But no. I don’t want to make comics.” He leaned back, a smile on his face again, but the there was a tension in his form that hadn’t been there the last time.

  He wouldn’t distract me with his body. Not again, not this time, not this easily. I was winning this fight, and we both knew it.

  “So if you don’t want to make comics,” I started, “then what is it you want to do?”

  His shoulders jolted forward as if the question shocked him. I was nearly offended; this was the obvious one, and I wasn’t even trying that hard here. But I let the question sit in the air, like a whisper, hoping my silence would summon an answer. Or at least a retort.

  “You know what, Selene? I think I just want to keep spraying monsters onto buildings. You can call it installation art if you wanna be pretentious about it. Try to get an article about me or something, I don’t care.” He drained his champagne in one go and stood to leave.

  I sighed. Well, internally I sighed, anyway, but externally I just smiled and rose to walk him to the door. His frustration could only be underscored by my complete sense of calm, and I did the thing I knew was likely to aggravate him most in such a circumstance: Take him exactly at his word.

  “Okay! I’ll find a friend who can run an article on you. I’m sure I know someone who knows someone who works at-”

  “I was joking, Selene. I don’t need your help.”

  Ouch. That would have hurt if I hadn’t known he was lying to me to make himself feel better.

  “Okay, well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me!” We were at the door now, but I was in front of it, blocking his exit. “Have a good night.”

  I was all smiles and kindness. It irritated him, and I loved it.

  He had the sense to be embarrassed, at least enough to say, “Yeah. You too. Thanks for trying,” as I let him out. He looked back at me for one long moment before turning his back on me and walking away.

  He’d be back, I was sure of it.

  I was right.

  A couple of mornings later, I got a message from the desk I’d received a package, and the very helpful receptionist who had stars in her eyes whenever she looked at me—almost literally—offered to bring it up to my suite.

  It was... a cell phone! My very own cell phone, beautiful and sleek and the newest model, tied cleanly and elegantly with a bow. Why it wasn’t in its origi
nal packaging wasn’t entirely clear to me from the get-go, but that wasn’t what was most interesting to me about the package, anyway.

  No, what was most interesting about this was the letter that came with it.

  The letter... from Ryan.

  “I’m sorry,” it read, “I should have been nicer to you a few nights ago. The truth is you were right, and I was scared...”

  And then it unpacked everything: an entire childhood of being told to be more manly, of being picked on for wearing glasses in school. He’d given himself a makeover in his teenage years just to escape the words of his peers and parents and left behind the ambitions of his childhood in the process.

  Or, at least, had tried to leave them behind, but had actually just pushed them so far back into his mind that he had almost entirely forgotten about them until the day someone had put a can of spray paint in his hands. Then he’d remembered, and he painted the things he used to draw, trading out the backs of school assignments for the brick of downtown.

  And even then, he’d done his best to avoid admitting to himself—let alone anyone else—that he still wanted to put them on pages and not on buildings, at least until he met me, and my unwillingness to bed him made him face himself.

  Okay, I admit it: he didn’t say that last part. I’m editorializing. But he may as well have.

  I untied the bow from the phone and flipped it over in my hand a couple of times. It was nice, and the letter said he’d added me to his phone plan. I couldn’t tell how much of this was because he felt bad for mildly being an ass, because he was still trying to fuck me, or because I had forced him to face down his own demons, but that wasn’t a puzzle that super concerned me.

  That he was actually, in fact, kind of loaded was an interesting surprise, though.

  I texted him a thank you on the phone and told him he hadn’t hurt my feelings. After all, I had known he was lying, and not just to me. I was just happy he was ready to be honest enough to go after what he wanted. And that, too, was the truth.