The Storyteller's Muse Page 5

  When Peter arrived to start his shift the next evening, Penelope could not wipe the grin off her face. ‘How did you enjoy the latest instalment?’

  ‘The story was very good.’ He gave a professional opinion.

  ‘And what of my new orator?’ She attempted to weasel a smile out of her nurse, but he seemed just as determined not to crack.

  ‘Very nice,’ he replied flatly, betraying nothing. ‘Although your voice would have done just as well.’

  ‘Lying does not become you,’ Penelope grouched, seeing he was going to be a tough nut to crack.

  He smiled at her frustration. ‘I’m not one of your characters, Ms Whitman, to be swayed by your will.’

  Penelope gasped at his inference, appearing deeply offended. ‘I’ll have you know I never manipulate my characters. All I do is give them options; it is they who decide where the story goes. You’d be a boring bloody character, not to have been a little aroused by our efforts?’

  ‘The story is very arousing,’ he admitted.

  Penelope grinned, watching Peter very closely. ‘There’s more.’ She pointed to the Dictaphone at her bedside and watched his face light up — rather more than usual, she considered on the quiet.

  ‘Well, as I’m up to date, I’ll take that off your hands.’ Peter was quick to retrieve the device so he could download the latest instalment onto his computer.

  ‘Thought you might,’ she said, inwardly confident that her spell was weaving its magic.

  ‘I also have a surprise for you.’ Peter sat his computer down on the desk at her bedside and opened it up. ‘Last night I set you up a social media page.’

  ‘A what?’ Penelope frowned deeply.

  ‘A networking site, where people promote themselves and their work. If people like you, there is a button they can click that will allow them to follow updates on your page. The page counts everyone who subscribes and then we know how many people are following our news, and they can pass those posts onto their friends,’ he explained with delight.

  ‘Sounds like a bit of a waste of time for someone in the twilight of their career,’ she scoffed, hating the idea of having to look at a computer when she had successfully avoided them all her life.

  ‘This is more for your readers as it gives them somewhere to discuss your work with like-minded others, or express their thanks to you.’

  Now that was interesting to Penelope, but at the same time she felt Peter was going to be disappointed. ‘I haven’t had fan mail in years!’ she laughed.

  ‘Well, you do now.’ Peter grinned, placing the laptop down in front of her, having magnified the page size so that she could see it properly.

  The first thing Penelope noted was the image of her he was using. ‘Where on earth did you find that picture?’ She admired it a moment, but was disturbed by a message that popped up on the screen explaining someone had just liked her page. ‘Goodness, someone remembers who I am.’

  Peter burst out laughing, pointing to a little box that said 39,674 likes. ‘You got nearly 40,000 likes overnight, without even posting a word.’

  Penelope’s old heart began to flutter with excitement. ‘Is that good?’

  ‘That is extraordinary.’ His excitement brought tears to his eyes as another notification sounded to alert them to another like. ‘And the likes just keep coming.’

  ‘If they all think I still look like that, I’m not surprised.’ Penelope chuckled at the screen as more notifications popped up and then faded before she could read them. She was afraid to touch anything, but eager to see more and have some control over the chaos unfolding in front of her.

  ‘Here.’ Peter huddled beside her. ‘You can read the messages your readers have left you.’ He scrolled down a little way, just to show her how many messages and comments there were. ‘But I fear it will take all day.’

  ‘Stop whizzing all over the place,’ Penelope urged. ‘You’re making me feel giddy. Go back to the top, I want to read them.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Peter complied with her wish, and turned the computer back to face her.

  Penelope drank in the words of her adoring readers, moved to tears by their testimonials of how her stories, and the spiritual beliefs ingrained within them, had changed their lives, or seen them through a trying time, by altering the way they perceived reality and the world they lived in. The other common theme that ran through the posts was the query, ‘Will you write again?’

  ‘This book must happen.’ Penelope saw that now. ‘And I shall lay myself bare as never before.’ She was determined about that, but turned her teary sights Peter’s way to assure him. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course.’

  Peter ticked his head sideways, and served her a grin and a frown at once. ‘Of course.’

  ‘But they will know the truth,’ she uttered, feeling it would be a release to finally get this untold tale out into the world.

  ‘The truth about?’ Peter posed curiously.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Penelope queried, having been distracted by her own thoughts.

  ‘The truth about?’ Peter repeated.

  ‘What?’ Penelope frowned as though she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Can I post something?’ She referred him back to the computer, changing the subject.

  ‘Of course!’ Peter returned to her side to show her, but Penelope just handed the whole machine back to him. ‘Then be a love, and type this up for me.’

  ‘Happy to.’ He forced a smile and returned the computer to the desk. ‘What would you like to say?’

  Peter sat down and placed his fingers on the keyboard, clearly more eager to get on with writing than responding to her fan mail, but to Penelope’s way of thinking, he’d started this and now must follow through.

  PLOT

  Who was she, this woman crouching on the floor between my legs and unfastening my trousers with professional precision?

  ‘Do you have a name?’ I run my fingers through the silky golden waves of her hair as her large blue eyes rise to meet my gaze.

  There is a hint of a smile on her red painted lips, her expression cool and yet smouldering. ‘Call me M,’ she replies, going down to kiss the tip of my freed member, before sinking it into the warm, wet depths of her mouth.

  Nathaniel awoke to a warm, wet unpleasantness across his lower belly, and considering the dream he’d just had, he knew exactly what had happened. ‘Oh man! I so need to get laid.’

  He reached for some tissues to clean himself off.

  ‘What is it with this place?’ Nathaniel recalled Monique’s episode the night before — was this some sort of unconscious response to that? The woman in his dream had said to call her M — M for Monique?

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Nathaniel decided. The woman in his vision hadn’t looked anything like Monique, but wow what a muse M was! Maybe I was dreaming a scene from my book? Nathaniel considered that M was rather more like the female character who had just entered his detective’s office in his story. ‘I might have to use that little bit of inspiration . . . it certainly got my attention.’

  He finished wiping himself off, tossing his tissues in the bin by his desk, having fallen asleep in his office chair. He looked back to his computer screen to read over what he’d been writing before he’d passed out.

  ‘No way.’ He gasped upon discovering that the detective in his tale had been seduced by the woman who had just entered his office. ‘I don’t remember writing this?’

  But it read very well, despite adding a rather more erotic subplot to his story. Not necessarily a bad thing, Nathaniel considered. The scene was steamy, and in all honesty he was rather surprised at his ability to step out of his comfort zone and expose his own sexual fantasies for all to see. ‘I’ll just tell the little woman that she was my muse,’ Nathaniel decided, in case his wife wondered if another woman was powering his imagination. ‘Unless, of course, M turns out to be a treacherous bitch.’

  A loud thud startled Nathaniel and when he looked in the direction of the commotion
he saw the largest painting on the wall had fallen to the floor. It took a second for him to recover from the shock and wander over, but the work did not appear to have been damaged in the fall. Nathaniel noted the artist’s signature in the bottom corner of the work.

  ‘Em Jewel.’ He uttered the name aloud. ‘M?’ Nathaniel found the coincidence just a little creepy.

  At the appointed changeover time, Monique was crossing the street towards the studio, dragging her bags behind her, and Nathaniel was taking the rubbish out front in his preparation to vacate.

  ‘So, do you feel like a real writer yet?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ he assured Monique, shutting the large dumpster. ‘Best decision I ever made.’

  Monique was pleasantly surprised to find him in finer spirits than in many a year. ‘I wasn’t too disruptive then?’ She cringed as she asked.

  ‘To the contrary; I believe you were rather inspirational,’ Nathaniel replied.

  ‘Really?’ Monique was very surprised. ‘You handled it all so well . . . I should never drink.’

  ‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it,’ Nathaniel urged, with a nudge to the shoulder.

  ‘But I would never try to sabotage your marriage, Nat; I love Jenna too!’ She was so angry at herself. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I was like, possessed or something.’ She laughed, but Nathaniel did not look so amused now. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, sorry, Mon,’ Nathaniel regained his cheer. ‘Got distracted by a thought for my story.’

  ‘Well hell, Nat.’ She thumped him. ‘If I’m going to pour my guts out in an apology, you can at least pay attention.’

  ‘You’re such a drama queen.’ Nathaniel kissed her cheek and headed for his car.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Monique was a little disappointed. ‘You still have a few hours, I’m early.’

  ‘Nah . . . my stuff is all in the car already.’ He opened the driver’s side door. ‘I need to get home and see my wife!’ he emphasised with a hopeful yet determined smile.

  ‘In that case, don’t forget to buy some flowers.’ Monique waved. ‘Expensive ones!’

  ‘Good call!’ Nathaniel gave her the thumbs-up as he climbed into his car, started it up, and drove away.

  Monique looked back to the entrance of what would be her studio for the next three days. ‘My turn to create great art.’ She dragged her bags to the elevator, delighted by the prospect.

  There was so much space, freedom and privacy to explore her self-expression that Monique didn’t even know where to start! She’d never had such a perfect situation in which to create. Now she could really test herself, away from prying, critical eyes. Monique loved to perform, but choreography was her passion, and now that she had her own studio space she intended to use her time to create her own performance piece.

  Thankfully Julian’s sound system had been installed the day they took the lease. In fact, he’d dropped off all his equipment that day and piled it up in a corner. And although the huge assortment of gear took up minimal room in the gigantic space, when Monique docked her iPod into his system the sound filled the place!

  Off with her shoes and coat, the dancer took to the floor to freestyle until inspiration came.

  Monique danced herself up a mighty hunger, but no concept for a performance.

  ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ She was not discouraged, as she microwaved some pre-prepared boiled rice and chicken. ‘I’d like to break some new ground . . . do something different!’ Monique retreated to the couch with her snack and a bottle of water. The consumption of food slowed her down somewhat, although she ate this high carbohydrate and protein diet to give her an energy boost! The lounge was comfortable, and as she lay there waiting for her vitality to pick up, a drowsiness overcame her. She still had an hour before she was due at the performance so she allowed her head to loll comfortably on the lounge as she gazed across to the people in the busy clothes manufacturer across the way. The thought of being forced to live a nine-to-five job sent chills through her, and Monique was thankful to have been born privileged, pretty, and talented.

  The sound of the lift door opening woke Monique and she raised herself to sit on the lounge, observing a huge canvas seemingly moving through the warehouse on its own. ‘Tyme?’ she assumed.

  ‘Holy shit!’ The canvas dropped to the floor to reveal Tyme squirming. ‘You scared the shit out of me . . . I didn’t expect you’d be here.’

  ‘But this is my rostered time in the studio.’ Monique was confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’

  ‘I thought you had a performance tonight,’ Tyme explained the intrusion. ‘So I didn’t —’

  ‘Merde!’ Monique sprang to her feet. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘A little before five, I guess,’ Tyme shrugged, consulting her inner clock.

  ‘Dieu merci . . . I’m not late yet.’ Monique scrambled to her luggage to collect her performance gear.

  ‘I just bought this huge canvas and some other gear, and rather than take them home, where they wouldn’t fit anyway, I —’

  ‘It’s cool!’ Monique grabbed up her bag and bounced over to join Tyme. ‘You’ve saved my arse.’ She kissed both the artist’s cheeks. ‘Legend!’ Monique ran towards the lift that was being held open by a large bucket of purple powder. ‘Is that paint mix?’

  ‘It’s chalk powder.’ Tyme strode over to remove the obstruction.

  ‘You’ve got loads of the stuff!’ Monique noted there were several more buckets in the elevator.

  ‘Every colour,’ the artist concurred.

  ‘What are you going to do with it all?’ Monique stepped over the container into the elevator.

  ‘I’m not too sure yet . . . make great art.’ Tyme removed the bucket but stuck her body in the lift opening instead. ‘I’m experimenting. How did you go today?’

  ‘No brilliant revelations yet, but I still have a few days left.’ Monique shooed Tyme out of the lift.

  ‘I’ll be long gone by the time you return, I promise,’ Tyme resisted her prompt. ‘Sorry about the intrusion.’

  ‘We are friends, you realise? You’re welcome any time,’ Monique stressed. ‘I’m not Nat, who needs silence every second of the day.’

  Finally Tyme smiled, and stood aside to allow the lift door to close. ‘Just send the rest of my supplies back up, will you?’

  ‘But of course,’ Monique agreed, as the lift doors closed before her.

  A night off allowed Peter to get up to date with his transcribing. He arrived at the hospital for his usual Thursday morning stop-in to pick up the next instalment to work on that afternoon.

  Nurse Valdez was seated behind the large reception desk of the nurses’ station, and her face lit up with excitement upon sighting him. ‘So . . . what did you think?’

  As Gabrielle was now dictating some of the tale, she knew what was happening in the story before he did.

  ‘I thought the last scene was a bit anti-climactic, to be honest.’ Peter leaned on the high side of the counter, looking over it to address Gabrielle. ‘I felt sure something was going to happen with Monique and the ghost —’

  ‘Em,’ she reminded him, her eyes widening as she dwelt on the character. ‘A man or a woman, do you think?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s just a thought form and it is whatever they want it to be?’

  ‘A thought form doesn’t usually have passion,’ she debated. ‘It doesn’t create . . . it has angst, it destroys.’

  ‘Really?’ Peter was surprised to learn this from his colleague. ‘I didn’t realise you had an interest in the occult.’

  ‘My grandmother was a Bruja,’ Gabrielle explained, and fortunately Peter’s blank expression was enough to get her to expand on the statement. ‘A practitioner of Mexican voodoo.’

  ‘Really?’ Peter found that both fascinating and frightening. ‘I won’t cross you then.’

  ‘That is best not done in any case.’ She obviously picked up on and was enjoying his
discomfort.

  ‘I just don’t see the point in Tyme showing up to drop off supplies?’ Peter got back to his critique.

  ‘Oh, there is a point,’ she assured him with a big grin.

  Peter bowed his head to hide his curious annoyance. ‘I enjoyed this process so much more when I was the one teasing you.’ The comment was a little flirty, so Peter had to look up and catch her reaction.

  ‘I know.’ She pretended to sympathise. ‘But you’re not very good at it. I, on the other hand, intend to take full advantage.’

  Her smile, and the way she wiggled her body ever so slightly when she was being playful was a delight, but Peter’s heart nearly jumped into his throat as Penelope’s buzzer sounded.

  ‘She must have heard your voice.’ Gabrielle pulled an awkward face. ‘I am to send you right in; Fabrizia is here.’

  The news sent Peter into a panic, as once again he hadn’t really made any great effort with his appearance — just jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ He brushed his hands over his brown hair that badly needed a cut.

  ‘You’ll do fine.’ Gabrielle insisted he just go in and investigate for himself.

  Peter knocked and entered Penelope’s room. ‘Good morning, ladies. Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Fabrizia served him a large, impersonal smile. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

  Peter raised both brows, curious, and grinned. ‘To what do I owe such an honour?’

  ‘It is I who is to be honoured,’ Penelope advised with a grin, her gaze turning to her agent to fill Peter in on the details.

  ‘The International Society of Authors wishes to honour Penelope with a lifetime achievement award.’ The agent was clearly delighted for her client.

  ‘That is wonderful news!’ Peter was excited for his mentor. ‘So well deserved.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Penelope was aglow, basking in the attention. ‘Some current news for you to post on your social face page.’