Synopsis
Broke and desperate after her girlfriend leaves her for a man, Colette finds a job as an artist’s model. When she arrives for an interview, she’s surprised to meet a striking young woman, Lise Beauclerc. Her relief at not having to pose for a man turns to infatuation as she observes Lise during their sessions, creating fantasies in her mind during the hours she poses.
Colette has no idea if Lise would return her affections, and when she finally gets up the courage to ask her out, their connection is more than she’d ever hoped for. However, a few days later, Lise introduces her to Marcel, her former fiancé. They seem intimately involved, and Colette is devastated. Will her dreams of Lise be unrequited?
The Artist’s Muse
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The Artist’s Muse
© 2013 By Alyssa Linn Palmer. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-084-3
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: October 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Bold Strokes Books Graphics
Cover Design: Lee Ligon
Acknowledgments
Merci beaucoup à Cathy Pegau, Aemelia Manier, Amy Parker, & Ruth Sternglantz.
Dedication
For Cathy & Tiffany.
Paris
I’ll be out on the street if I can’t make some money. I scan the bulletin board with its cluttered mishmash of notices. Usually there are a few from students wanting cheap accommodation, and my small two-bedroom flat in Montmartre would surely have some appeal. There is nothing. I silently curse Nathalie for leaving me, moving to Lyon, and following her bliss—otherwise known as Simon.
I close my eyes, blocking out the bulletin board. I’d had no idea. Nathalie had explained earnestly, but all I can remember are her words: “I love him more, he completes me. We’ll be married in the fall.” I couldn’t stand it. Nathalie and I had gotten on so well together. I’d had a twinge of worry in the beginning that being with a woman would be too much for her, but she’d assured me that she loved me.
I take a deep breath and open my eyes. Dwelling on it won’t help. My eyes settle on a small advert near the bottom corner of the board. It looks torn from a sketchbook, and one edge has a smudge of blue paint, almost a fingerprint.
Artist’s model required. Flexible hours, €10 per hour, negotiable. See Beauclerc.
There’s an address and phone number, and I take down the information on a scrap of paper I find in my purse. It’ll be a last resort, I assure myself. I tack up my own advert. I have enough money to cover the rent this month and maybe next, but after that, I’ll be in trouble.
*
By the end of the month, I’ve had three students over to view the room, but none suited. The first was a timid girl, her mousy hair pulled back in a braid, her dress buttoned to her throat, and her eyes downcast.
“I won’t be any trouble,” she assured me. “I finish my teacher’s training next year, and then I’ll be back to Rouen.”
I almost accepted her, but as I looked her over, I knew I couldn’t share a flat with her. I wanted a friend, someone who would go to the cinema with me, or out for a drink. She wouldn’t be that friend; I could barely picture her setting foot in a bar.
The second was a rabid Communist, and I showed her the door after she insisted upon us sharing all expenses and cash.
“You need a husband,” I told her, “not me.”
And the third…she reminded me too much of Nathalie, and I just couldn’t bear it.
And so I dig out that slip of paper, crumpled at the bottom of my bag. I smooth it out and lay it on the café table as I eat my breakfast, a pain au chocolat and coffee. The studio isn’t far from my flat, a blessing and a curse, as my feet carry me there before I can talk myself out of it. I don’t call, either. My nerves would fail me. I know artists; I see them in the bar, carrying on with their mistresses and their friends. They go through women like a child through nappies, always discarding them and taking up with the next. Most are their models, and I dread having to fend off amorous advances from a pompous man. Men always want to try to convert me, as if somehow they’ll be the one to change my tastes.
I ring the bell, and the concierge lets me in. She’s a tiny woman, dressed in black crepe, with short, curly dark hair shot through with gray. She doesn’t speak, just looks at me expectantly.
“Beauclerc’s flat?” I inquire. She gestures at the staircase, the varnish on the banister nearly worn through. Whoever Beauclerc is, he certainly can’t afford much. Can he even afford a model? As I climb the stairs to the garret apartment, I resolve to get my money in advance. The banister creaks and my shoes slip on the stone, worn from thousands of feet before mine. The smell of onions wafts from an apartment on the third floor, and I wrinkle my nose.
The smell dissipates as I continue upward, and I am short of breath when I reach the top floor. I pause outside the wooden door, the nameplate over the buzzer telling me I have the right flat. The door is painted dark crimson, at odds with the others in the building. But that’s what artists do—they have to be different. I knock and wait.
The door creaks, and rather than the gregarious older man I am expecting, the open door reveals a young woman, her long dark hair tied back from her face by a paint-spattered rag, a fringe of fine hair brushing her forehead, and her dress covered by a smock. Relief and surprise sweep through me, but my words die on my lips as her eyes meet mine. Bleu mauve. Mon Dieu.
“Yes?”
I find my voice, just barely. “I came about the advert. Are you still looking for a model?”
“I am.” She holds out a hand. “Lise Beauclerc.”
“Enchantée. I’m Colette Tremblay.”
A frisson goes through me when we touch, and I can’t think about anything but those eyes, beautiful above high cheekbones. Lise leads me into her flat, past a tiny postage-stamp kitchen and into the main room. An orange divan rests against one wall, opposite the window. It’s partly draped with a sheet. An easel sits opposite, but I can’t see the canvas. Her paints are spread on a small table, and a glass jar holds her brushes. An alcove has the bed, and it’s done up with a knitted cover in striped blues. The place is cozy, and I feel at ease.
“Have you modeled before?” Lise looks me over, and I wish I’d worn a better dress, but I’ll be going to work afterward, and my clothes don’t matter since the bar requires a shirt and waistcoat. It’s an affectation for me, but the owner is amused by having me dress in men’s clothes. With my red hair done up in a chignon and my shirt starched, I will serve drinks from six o’clock until the bar closes.
“I haven’t. I’m a bartender.” I didn’t think it mattered. How hard could it be, to stand still while she paints me?
Lise frowns. “I’ve never worked with an inexperienced model,” she says, a hint of regret in her voice. “But none of the others have been even close to what I need.”
“What do you need?” I want to be what she nee
ds, just so I can look into those eyes again.
“Someone who isn’t so young,” she says, moving to stand in front of her easel. I meander over, curious to see her style. The canvas is full of color, and I think I can make out the basics of a female form, with exaggerated curves. “I’ve only had schoolgirls applying, college girls.” Lise sighs. “They don’t have any life experience. I feel nothing for them.”
“Then I’m what you’re looking for.” I can see this working, see myself on the divan, half-covered in the sheet. Ending up on a canvas would be something new. Better than ending up in the street, or in a rundown hotel.
“Let’s try it,” Lise says. “Do you have time today?” She begins looking through a stack of papers, pulling a sketchbook from the pile. “I’ve been thinking of a new work, a series of poses.” She trails off, and her gaze seems to turn inward, those striking eyes looking past me into the middle distance.
I unbutton my coat. “Several hours. What do you need me to do?” I hesitate to remove anything else, my fingers resting at my waist.
“You can put your clothes on the bed, then go sit on the divan,” Lise instructs as she flips open the sketchbook and takes a piece of charcoal from a tin. She pays me no attention as she prepares, and I walk past her, laying my coat on the knitted bedcover. I slip off my black, low-heeled pumps and undo the belt of my almond-green dress, laying it on the bed next to my jacket. In my slip and stockings, I turn.
“Should I keep my hair up?” I’ll take it down if she asks, though I hate the annoyance of having to do it up again. It’s still better than when I’d cut it short in my twenties, hoping that I’d look pixieish. I’ll never do that again. Some women look better with short hair, but I am not one of them.
“Yes, keep it up for now.”
I pull the straps of my slip off my shoulders and let it pool at my feet. It feels strange undressing before a stranger, especially someone I’m not sleeping with. I shiver, my skin covered in goose pimples. I will my hands not to shake as I unsnap my garters, perching on the edge of the bed to roll the stockings down my legs. I remove the garter belt and lay it aside. Now only my bra and underwear remain. I stand.
Removing my bra seems like a completely new experience, though I’ve done it every day since I was thirteen, and stripping off my underwear has my heart in my throat. I walk unsteadily to the divan, acutely aware of the slight sagging of my breasts, the roundness of my hips, the disappointing flatness of my bottom. I am hardly model material. Models should look like Lise and Nathalie, lithe like the flappers of the 1920s, with high, small breasts and slim waists.
I lower myself to the divan, hooking the sheet with a finger and draping it over my lap. Lise comes over, bending to address me.
“Sit back, Colette,” she says, and I do as I am told. The worn brocade of the divan scratches against my bare back. She takes the sheet from my hand and drapes it artfully over my lap. “Rest your hand here”—she takes my right hand and lays it on my lap, palm up—“and your other hand here”—she moves my left hand so that it lies on the divan—“and tilt your head back.”
I let my head fall back, and my body relaxes. I look at Lise through half-lidded eyes. She touches my knee and moves my leg outward. Her fingers brush the inside of my thigh, and I want her to go higher, but she doesn’t.
“Comfortable? Can you hold this position for a while?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Keep looking just like that,” Lise says, backing away and reaching for her sketchbook. She perches on a stool and, for several minutes, just stares at me. I feel my cheeks heat and I take a deep breath. Think of the money. I will have enough for my rent if this goes well.
Lise bends to her sketchbook, the charcoal moving across the page. At first I watch her, but as she continues, glancing up at me and then back down to the page, I find my mind wandering.
How had Lise come to be an artist? Female artists rarely seemed to come to the bar, only overconfident men. I can’t picture her there, among them, boasting and sharing stories. But I can picture her lingering at the bar, in a dark crimson silk dress clinging to her delicate curves.
To get her attention, I’d have to serve her a drink. She’d probably order something simple, like a gin fizz, and I’d bring it over personally. Her fingers would brush mine as she took the glass, and our gazes would meet. I would see the invitation in her eyes, but the hesitation, also. Too many others around. I’d keep glancing over at her all evening, tracking her as she moved through the bar, conversing and flirting. Only once would I lose sight of her, and my heart would sink with disappointment. She’d be gone.
I’d take the opportunity to move the growing clutter of empty bottles to the back and then dart down to the toilets, the first time I’d have for a quick break. When I’d come out of the stall to wash my hands, she would be there. Her violet eyes would be bright in the harsh lighting, and I would stare. A slight smile would quirk the corners of her mouth, reddened with lipstick. I want to kiss her, press her back against the wall, feel the softness of her body against mine. She would unbutton my waistcoat and pull the shirt from my trousers, slide her hands up and under. We would move into one of the stalls, and in that privacy, I would kneel before her and hike up her skirt, feeling her legs tremble under my touch.
“You can move now, if you like.” Lise’s voice brings me out of my reverie, and I blink. Her fingers are smudged with charcoal and a lock of hair has come loose from the rag, drooping over her forehead.
“Will this work?” I ask. I await her answer with trepidation, doubting that I’ll be what she needs. Back to trawling the Sorbonne for a potential roommate. I know I could ask one of the regulars at the bar, but I dislike the idea of having to see someone all day, every day, especially if they’re getting drunk and expecting me to make sure they get home.
To my good fortune, she smiles, and I can breathe easy.
“It will. I’ve been thinking about a series of poses, as I said before. I’ll sketch them out then work on canvas.” She goes on a bit about symbolism and colors, but I’m entranced by her enthusiasm and miss the words. Usually I’d be eager to hear every detail, to argue and debate as I do with the artists at the bar, but I love listening to her voice. I sit forward, feeling surprisingly comfortable in my nudity.
“How often will you need me?”
Lise sets down her sketchbook, and I see the swirls of charcoal on the page, my form rising from the shadows. I want to see the rest, but I hesitate to ask. From visiting studios, I know most artists are reluctant to show their unfinished sketches. I suppose they like to pretend their work springs fully formed from their inspiration.
Lise walks into the tiny kitchen and I hear water running. I toss the sheet to the side and rise, my eyes lingering on the sketchbook as I walk to the bed. Lise calls out from the kitchen.
“Can you do every afternoon this week?”
“Of course,” I call back as I put on my underwear and fiddle with my bra. I’ll take as many hours as she wants. When she comes back into the room, I’m just getting into my dress, doing up the buttons. She digs a couple of bills from the pocket of her smock. I’d hoped she would have taken off the smock while she was in the kitchen, and I’m a bit disappointed. I want to see her in just her regular clothes, see if my imagination matches the real thing. She’s nearly shapeless in the smock; I can only guess at her body from the delicacy of her arms and her slim legs.
I take the cash from her and feel that frisson again as our fingers touch. Can she not feel it? I don’t want to ask. It wouldn’t be the first time that I propositioned the wrong woman.
“I can be here at two,” I say, finding my voice. I tuck the cash into the patch pocket of my dress. “I have to work at six at Le Château Noir.” Slipping into my shoes, I make my way to the door. Lise follows, and I pause awkwardly on the threshold.
“À bientôt.” Her lips are slightly reddened, and I flash back to my fantasy. Just one kiss…
“À demain,
” I say instead, and my heart pounds all the way down the stairs. I clutch at the banister. So close.
*
Someone shouts my name, and I blink, the bar coming back into focus. It isn’t all that busy, but the jazz band plays loud enough that it’s a miracle I even heard. Victoire has sidled up to the bar and propped her heavy form on a stool. Without thinking, I pull a snifter from the rack and pour her two fingers of brandy. Ever since I’ve known her, brandy’s been her favorite.
“You’re my favorite bartender, did you know that?” Victoire says, swirling the brandy and leaning in to take a sniff.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” It’s my standard response for Victoire, and she grins. We’ve never slept together, but we seem to manage to be able to console each other when our affaires d’amour go wrong.
“Only you, ma chérie,” she replies, taking a sip of the brandy and letting out a satisfied sigh. “You’re not still pining over Nathalie, are you?” She gives me a stern look.
Nathalie? Every time I turn around, something in me keeps hoping to see Lise standing there, as in my earlier fantasy.
“No,” I answer. Victoire raises a thinly plucked brow. I shake my head for emphasis.
“Lager, kir, brandy.” A waiter barks out the order, and my hands set up and pour, though my mind is still envisioning Lise, how she’d look, lingering by the side of the bar, sipping a cocktail. I imagine she’d be one to drink white wine, or perhaps champagne. I want to find out. I set the drinks on the counter and the waiter takes them away.
“So, who is she?” Victoire asks. That’s Victoire, always straight to the point. I hesitate. Talking about Lise, about her loveliness…I can’t do her justice.
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