The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  Once all the year’s awards had been presented and the master of ceremonies began his tribute to Penelope, that was Peter’s cue to move down to the side of the stage.

  ‘Good luck,’ Gabrielle uttered as he stood, giving him two thumbs up.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Peter warranted, and made his way to his mark.

  It was a thin line between nerves and excitement, but Peter felt he was leaning towards the latter as he was invited onto the stage to accept the award on Penelope’s behalf.

  It was a daunting view from behind the microphone, and whether it was the drink or the adrenaline rush that allowed him to slip into observation mode, Peter was grateful to step outside himself, to disconnect from his nerves and just allow the words to spill from his mouth. ‘It is my great honour to accept this lifetime achievement award on Penelope Whitman’s behalf.’ He reached inside his jacket and produced the envelope. ‘Penelope asked if I would read the contents of this letter, which I was advised to keep sealed until this moment, but before I do, I would like to say that never was an award so deserved —’

  A round of applause forced Peter to take pause for a moment and when it died down he continued. ‘Penelope Whitman has dedicated her life to her art, often to her own detriment. To her there is no differentiating between fantasy and reality. To know Penelope, is to become part of her worlds and to become one of her characters —’

  Many people laughed, seemingly relating to his experience.

  ‘Hence I stand here before you at this great author’s bidding.’

  There was another chuckle, as Peter opened the envelope. ‘Now to hear from the great author herself.’ He pulled out the page containing his speech, and was a little stunned and amused by what he read. ‘Three words,’ he advised, feeling how this went down would be all in the delivery. ‘“About bloody time!”’

  There was a raucous round of laughter as Peter gathered his wits to complete his acceptance speech.

  ‘Did I mention Penelope is rather to the point these days?’ he added to the jovial mood. ‘But I feel very sure Penelope would like to compliment the International Society of Authors for their excellent taste in choosing to bestow this great honour upon her.’ Peter’s gaze fell on Gabrielle, who was appearing rather woeful compared with everyone else in the room. ‘And her fabulous agent, Fabrizia Zenton —’

  Gabrielle had raised herself and was making haste towards the exit.

  ‘Gratitude to her publishers, peers, and all her faithful readers who have supported Penelope through her long and illustrious career. Thank you.’ Peter held high the award, as he exited quickly from the stage and made after Gabrielle.

  ‘That was fabulous,’ Denny told him on his way past.

  ‘What’s happened to Gabrielle?’ Peter was more concerned about that.

  Denny looked around, only just realising she was missing. ‘I have no idea, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ Peter hurried through the people patting him on the back and wanting to shake his hand, and obliging them all, however swiftly, he got to the far side of the huddle and made a break for the exit door.

  The foyer of the theatre was all but abandoned, and Gabrielle was pacing back and forth, appearing distraught.

  ‘What’s the matter? The ceremony’s not completed yet,’ Peter asked as he joined her.

  ‘I left my phone at home, can I borrow yours?’ She gave the area the once-over with her eyes. ‘I thought they might have a public phone, but I guess there’s no such thing these days.’

  ‘What’s the emergency?’ He handed over the device, eager to get back to the event.

  ‘Maybe nothing, I don’t know.’

  Peter watched her dial. ‘That’s the hospital number,’ he noted, increasingly concerned himself.

  ‘Hi Mandy, can I speak with Nurse Henly, please?’ She looked to Peter, her expression one of fearful apology.

  ‘You think something’s amiss with Penelope?’

  Gabrielle held up her index finger to beg his patience. ‘Bec, it’s me, Gabby —’

  As she listened to what Nurse Henly had to say, Gabrielle held her gut and tears began to well in her eyes. ‘We’re on our way — I know, but we’re coming anyway. Bye.’ She ended the call and handed the phone back to Peter. ‘Penelope’s had another stroke . . . I’m so sorry.’

  The news was a bombshell, but they could process en route. ‘Let’s take a cab, it’ll be faster.’ Peter took Gabrielle’s hand, and with her free hand she grabbed up the train of her skirt, and they rushed to the exit to hail a taxi.

  The rain was torrential outside, hindering their efforts to get to the hospital. As their cab manoeuvred through traffic, Peter and Gabrielle sat shocked, impatient and staring at the rainy night.

  ‘How did you know something was wrong with Penelope?’ Peter asked as they neared their destination, having had the chance to think over the night’s events.

  ‘I just had a feeling.’ She shrugged. ‘But I needed to confirm it.’

  ‘That was more than a feeling.’ Peter suspected that he wasn’t getting the complete truth. ‘You were nearly in tears before you even made the call.’

  Gabrielle didn’t seem too keen to discuss it. ‘Grandma told me.’

  ‘But . . .’ Peter frowned, about to point out Grandma had not been present.

  ‘She’s dead, Peter,’ Gabrielle abruptly confessed. ‘I never knew her, but she still talks to me all the time. There, I said it. Yes, I still talk to my dead abuelita, happy?’ She looked out the window, rather than catch his reaction.

  Peter was confused as to why Gabrielle was mad at him, when she had been the one doing the deceiving. But he had enough sense to know that this was really not the right moment to go there. ‘So you’re a psychic, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Only with Grandma.’ Her anger seemed to ebb; she was probably relieved he’d not confronted her over lying to him, still, clearly she felt guilty. ‘I would have told you the truth straight up, but you were freaked out enough about me having a psychic in the family, that —’

  ‘We’re here.’ Peter didn’t wish to discuss it. His first concern was for Penelope, and he needed out of the cab, even if it was raining.

  When he reached the covered entrance way, Peter just kept going and didn’t look back. The more he thought about Gabrielle’s lies, the more angry he became. Those predictions about him being a professional writer were probably just psychic clap-trap to feed his ego and sucker him into an optimistic delusion!

  As Peter entered the elevator en route to the emergency ward, he turned to see Gabrielle, heels and skirt in-hand, running down the corridor towards him. Should he hold the lift? Did he care how childish it would appear if he didn’t? He really wasn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss her deception at present. Did he care how upset Gabrielle would be if he didn’t hear her out now?

  ‘Please, Peter,’ she appealed, as the doors began to close.

  ‘Dammit,’ he uttered as he was compelled to press the button that opened the doors once again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Gabrielle panted, as she entered to join him, and the doors again closed. ‘Your reaction wasn’t the true reason I didn’t say something sooner, it was my own fear that you’d think I was crazy —’

  ‘You are crazy,’ he politely pointed out.

  ‘Crazier,’ she emphasised. ‘Grandma said —’

  ‘Ah!’ He held up a finger to silence her. ‘Respectfully, to you and your grandma, I am emotionally distraught at this moment, possibly a little drunk, and certainly not in my right mind. So I implore you . . . please leave this conversation for another day. Please,’ he added, as Gabrielle seemed not entirely disposed towards the request.

  ‘I understand,’ she conceded, as the lift door opened and Peter proceeded to the desk.

  As all the nurses were busy he moved straight around behind the counter to a computer, to check the system for Penelope’s whereabouts and updates.

  ‘Sir!’ The head nurse a
pproached to protest his brash behaviour. ‘You can’t just —’

  Peter turned to glance at her. ‘Gayle, it’s me.’

  ‘Peter?’ She looked him up and down and grinned in approval. ‘You look like James bloody Bond! What are you —’ She caught her breath, having figured out the answer to her query.

  ‘Where’s Ms Whitman?’ Peter abandoned the computer to ask the nurse directly.

  ‘She’s been taken to cold storage,’ she advised, ‘she didn’t make it this time.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Gabrielle gasped, having caught the announcement also.

  ‘We’ve called next of kin,’ the nurse advised, ‘but —’

  ‘They don’t want to know,’ Peter guessed the punchline.

  ‘I believe her agent is returning from overseas to take care of the arrangements,’ the nurse explained, ahead of returning to her busy desk.

  Peter wandered out from behind the station, and the woeful look on Gabrielle’s face only served to remind him that their lovely little sabbatical from reality had come to a crushing end.

  ‘Peter, I’m so sorry.’ She moved to embrace him, but he did not feel the need to be comforted right now.

  ‘Please, don’t.’ He backed away to avoid the sympathy. He needed to be alone, to process the loss of his dear friend and mentor, and his own writing aspirations.

  He made for the elevator. Thankfully Gabrielle remained where she was. As the elevator doors parted and Peter stepped inside, it was plainly obvious to him that Gabrielle was upset also, but he felt so numb that he could not bring himself to comfort her.

  ‘This can’t be how it ends.’ She appeared so dishevelled from their first date, he had to wonder why she would wish it otherwise.

  ‘Clearly, fate is a far more formidable adversary than Penelope anticipated,’ he replied coolly, and was relieved when the elevator doors closed to end the conversation.

  Privately, he regretted his conclusion. ‘Sorry, Penelope,’ he uttered, ‘I know you’d want me to have a little faith right now, but as far as I can see, I’ve got nothing without you.’ He reached in his pocket for his car keys and was forced to concede. ‘Except for a very fine car.’ The sentiment he’d felt the day she’d gifted him the Aston welled up, so he pushed the memory aside until he was home alone and could decompress.

  If he truly created his own reality, as Penelope always insisted, then surely he must be some sort of sadist to have scheduled both the best and worst events of his life to unfold on the same day! Peter felt the universal force that Penelope was always praising was a son-of-a-bitch to have given him a little glimpse of his dream life, only to have the door leading there slammed in his face. But more than his writing future crumbling to dust, he would miss his sessions with Penelope, absorbing her wisdom, and hearing her recollections about the writing life. Selfish as it seemed, what pained him the most was that he would never get to see Nathaniel, Monique, Tyme, Julian and Em through their ordeal at 4 Kismet Way.

  Upon waking the following day, reality felt harsh and his sensibilities tender. Peter recollected getting home, drinking the better half of a bottle of vodka, ranting about his misfortune, then face-planting on his bed in a heap.

  As his mind back-tracked over yesterday’s events, he remembered Gabrielle standing before him, desperate to be consoled, and he felt ashamed by his reluctance to comply. He thought of Penelope on ice in a dark drawer somewhere, and the tragedy of that fact was devastating on so many levels that he wanted to roll right over and return to his oblivious dream state.

  The phone ringing put all thought of escape on the back-burner. Peter hauled himself up to grab the item from his coat pocket and check the number, which his phone did not recognise. ‘Peter Lemond speaking.’

  ‘Peter, I’ve just landed. How are you coping, my darling?’ There was no mistaking the voice of Fabrizia Zenton, and she was calling him darling. ‘I would have called sooner, but I’ve been on a flight most of the night.’

  ‘Then, how are you coping, seems more the question?’ he allowed, not wanting to talk about himself.

  ‘Lots of coffee and tissues,’ she confessed, sounding amazingly alert and together. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Well I think we both know what the bad news is, so what’s the good news?’

  ‘The good news is that you did an amazing job at the awards last night, I could not be prouder of you, and I know Penelope would be proud too.’

  ‘I’m pleased to have been of service,’ Peter replied, determined to be gracious about relinquishing the project he’d been working so hard on. ‘I have a copy of the manuscript thus far, a file and recordings of the instalments, all of which I can have packed up for you by this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll send a courier, if that suits?’

  ‘I would very much like to keep a copy purely for myself —’

  ‘Provided you don’t show anyone that file, I have no problem with that, as I’m sure you realise my lawyer will have a field day if you do.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You are being very pragmatic about this, and I am very grateful, Peter.’

  What choice did he have? He could be a complete arse about it but that would only burn his bridge with Fabrizia. ‘What will happen with the story now?’

  ‘Nothing, I suspect.’ She sounded sorry about that. ‘A story needs an ending to sell, unfortunately, but I am greatly looking forward to reading Penelope’s last hurrah nonetheless.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t left her last night,’ Peter admitted. ‘I knew something was amiss with her —’

  ‘Peter! There are worse things than death, and non-compliance with Penelope Whitman’s will was one such thing.’

  Her view nearly roused a smile from him. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘I’m rarely wrong. The funeral is on Thursday. I’ll see you there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Let’s keep it hush-hush and away from social media.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Peter assured her. ‘I won’t be talking to anyone.’

  ‘Speak then.’ The line went dead, and he ended the call.

  No sooner had he thrown the phone aside than it was ringing again. He checked the number, and seeing it was Gabrielle, he switched the phone off. ‘I need a shower before I deal with any more drama. Actually, I’m going to take a whole day.’ He turned the phone back on to call personnel and cash in a few sick days.

  It was later that morning, after reading through the manuscript that he was handing over to Fabrizia, that Peter recalled he still had an instalment of the tale that he had neither heard nor committed to paper. This manuscript may never see publication, but he wanted to deliver this manuscript over to the literary agent as completed as he could make it.

  In his search through his jacket he also found Penelope’s house keys and the envelope containing instructions to obtain the research material from her house. He’d forgotten all about the treasure hunt, and he was a little disappointed, feeling that he should send the unopened note and keys back to Fabrizia along with the manuscript. Nonetheless, it was exciting and mortifying to realise that in the memory stick in his hand, he had one more window of opportunity to visit 4 Kismet Way and its inhabitants.

  It was an honour and a privilege to know he was one of the few people who would ever get to read this story, making this last instalment the most prized treasure that would ever be in his possession — what millions of other readers wouldn’t give to be in his position. ‘No time to be sentimental about it, just finish the job.’ Peter took the memory stick to his home office to do exactly that.

  In among the artwork of the storage room, Tyme and Monique found a case containing a cello, which had been buried behind several boxes. ‘Could Julian have seen this when you showed him the cupboard?’ Monique wondered.

  ‘He barely stepped inside the door, so I strongly doubt it.’ Tyme brushed dust from the books on the shelf.

  ‘Then this would seem to add some v
alidation to Julian’s account.’ Monique closed the case once more to prevent the pristine-looking instrument from getting dusty. ‘Maybe Em was just multi-talented?’

  ‘These have no titles.’ Tyme pulled a few books from among the others. ‘They might be private journals, as they’re locked.’ She turned them around to show her accomplice.

  ‘We could just cut the straps to get into them?’ Monique suggested.

  ‘No need to deface them.’ Tyme held the beautiful leather-bound items to her heart. ‘Locks this old can be picked with a bobby pin.’ Tyme handed the dusty books to Monique and ran her hand through her short blonde do. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?’

  ‘I’m a dancer with a long mop of hair, what do you think?’ Monique handed the dusty books back and headed out into the studio to seek a bobby pin.

  Back at the kitchen table, the locks proved not quite so easy to crack as expected. ‘I really don’t want to damage these. Maybe the keys are hidden in the cupboard too?’

  The sound of the elevator moving drew their attention to the front door. ‘It’s pretty late,’ Monique noted, moving to the door and opening it in anticipation of the arrival.

  The lift doors parted and there stood Nathaniel with far more luggage than he’d left with. ‘I’ve been given the boot.’ He hauled everything out of the lift into the entrance with him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Monique was stunned, but held the door open for Nathaniel to enter, and then closed it behind him.

  ‘Nat?’ Tyme put aside her lock picking to switch the kettle on. ‘Not you, too?’

  ‘What do you mean, “too”?’ Nathaniel off-loaded his baggage next to Tyme’s pile that was still by the door.