Muse and Cupid by Yuqing Weng
An aspiring author moves in with a washed-up artist and they both try to find direction in their lives.
Freya dreamed of a book launch for her debut novel A Bower of Myrtles. A bookshop converted from an old church. Stained glass windows cast speckles across animated faces. She saw her short blond curls, usually so unruly, now perfectly classy; her nose pert, not flat. Her long satin dress reflected the blue of her eyes, folding and flowing, capricious as the sea.
"Could I get a signature?" A woman approached, strangely familiar, "Your writing captures the female struggle so poignantly. It's given me courage to face my life." She looked like Mum, Freya thought.
"Thank you so much! You've no idea what that means to me." She found a Montblanc fountain pen in her hand and signed the title page.
"Sorry, where did you sign?"
Freya looked down, and couldn't find her signature anywhere. She wrote again. The pen left no mark. "Freya Buckley. Freya Buckley." She mumbled, and her scrawls left gashes on every page. The fountain pen in her hand changed to a quill, a ballpoint, a marker, and all the pages of her book turned blank.
The bookshop faded into a derelict churchyard. In place of shelves, seats, and readers emerged reticent gravestones. Freya stood alone, her hair lank and white. Her face was a furrowed field assailed by everlasting drought, her sobs grating like a jagged saw. A grave cracked open. She plunged in.
Freya sprung up and fumbled for a pen. Her wrist knocked against Neil's vintage brass lamp, and she realised where she was - not a graveyard, but a temporary shelter. The nude female paintings on the wall no longer unsettled her. In the hazy morning light, the faceless human forms seemed rather intimate, as if stretching after a catnap. Heaving out a sigh, Freya hugged her knees and let the erratic noises of a London morning close in on her.
You still have time. She told herself as she got up to wash, and laughed uneasily at the 26-year-old face in the mirror. Her hair was frizzy, nose flat. But, for now at least, she was young. If A Bower of Myrtles was turned down, she could still redraft it, or write a new book. Could she, really? Could anything of hers last?
She'd poured her heart into the novel, the story of a woman who married "above her station" only to be tossed aside once she'd lost her youthful beauty. As her waistline grew, her husband took a "business partner" home - an ugly woman with a truckload of consulting jargon - and had her wait on them while their thighs touched under the table. After the divorce, she got a flat to live in with her daughter, and a handsome alimony every month. A housewife for ten years, she didn't work again. Instead, she threw herself into teaching her daughter about makeup, skincare and weight management. When the daughter blamed a bad breakup on her, their relationship reached breaking point. The woman finally found strength within herself and opened a flower shop. The novel ended with her daughter coming to buy a pot of clivia.
Freya wished the ending was true. Facing the mirror, she slowly dragged the contour stick along her nose. Though Mum wasn't here, she could still hear her voice. You have to shade the bridge. Your dad's nose is your worst feature. It was. Mum's nose was straight like a Greek statue. Hers had a low bridge like Dad's and her paternal grandfather's. She used to like Grandpa a lot, yet when she pleaded with him over Dad's affair, he said, "Your mum isn't educated like your dad. He needs someone who can understand him." Freya painted the tip of her nose with highlights. She did not want anything to do with that family.
Although not planning on seeing anyone today - in fact, she'd barely left the apartment the whole month she'd lived here - she still finished her makeup. Sand-coloured eyeshadow and plum tinted lip balm, above the formless old T-shirt she wore for sleep. Traipsing back to the bedroom, she fished her laptop out of a pile of clothes on the carpet, and sat on the bed to check her email. Nothing, except an ad from Vivienne Westwood. 20% SUMMER SALE. As if the discount would make a difference to someone so broke. She refreshed the page twice. Still nothing. Five months ago, she sent A Bower of Myrtles to twenty agents. One speedy rejection. The rest was merciless silence. Since she was fired from her copywriting job, she had been fixated on her novel, the success of which could be a lifesaver. If one agent, just one, believed in her, she wouldn't mind getting another soulless job to make ends meet while continuing to edit the manuscript.
Moving out of Mum's Kennington flat probably wasn't the soundest decision. However, without the refuge of work, Freya couldn't bear being stuck with that woman, who was surprisingly upbeat about her unemployment and suggested they spend the spare time bonding. God knows there was only one kind of bonding with her. A few days ago at lunch, she studied Freya for a few seconds and said, "Shopping time! Let's go get you some eye cream." Freya almost spit out that mouthful of lasagna. After she went back to her room, she threw all her cosmetics into the bin, but later picked them out one by one. If she was able to get her novel published, Freya swore, she really would throw them all away.
When she saw this Bethnal Green apartment on Spareroom available at only £900 for two months, she jumped at it. Neil, the landlord, was letting it out while he would be in Brighton on a painting retreat. Living amongst Neil's stuff wasn't a big problem. She just needed a foothold to figure things out. And Neil wasn't charmless. So she brushed aside her misgivings about the nude art, even though she shuddered at the faceless female bodies on the verge of breaking into meaningless shapes. After all, hadn't she written some explicit scenes herself?
Neil was a 41-year-old painter, a tall, slim man with a clean-shaven oblong face and sleek dark hair, who moved his long fingers deftly, as though always wielding a paint brush. When Freya came to view the property, he opened the door and shook her hand, his hooded brown eyes locked on hers, making her feel like a delicately handled art piece. She had expected the flat of a middle-aged, noteless artist to be all unwashed glasses and takeaway boxes, and was relieved to see it was clean and tidy. Too clean, almost. Before long she found herself on the sofa in Neil's studio, where he seated his models. He sat on a high wooden stool by the easel. The conversation went beyond small talk when he asked her about her novel.
"It's about beauty, desire, and selfhood." Flatly, she gave the standard summary - the one she put in her query letter, which clearly hadn't interested any agents.
"Beauty, desire and selfhood," Neil repeated, "The unreachable, the unbanishable, and the unsalvageable. It must have been hard to write." Such a long-decocted pain flowed through his voice, that Freya knew he'd understand her.
"It was," she murmured, and she told him everything. Recent dismissal, parents' divorce, and the unrealised dreams of writing.
"My mum read a few chapters of the novel and said it didn't make any sense. 'You'll never find a boyfriend if you keep filling your head with that self-important nonsense.' Oh well, maybe I never will. So what?" She had grown up surrounded by suitors, yet sooner or later she ghosted them. When they complimented her looks she would suspect superficial interest; when they didn't she would sink into a spiral of self-doubt.
"To self-important nonsense." With a wry smile, Neil raised an imaginary glass.
"Self-important nonsense," Freya raised her hand as well, "What about you? I mean - has it been hard for you?"
Neil went silent for a moment, his eyes strayed to the portraits on the wall. He shrugged, "Well, I'm unsalvageable. I just keep going."
Sitting crossed-legged in bed, Freya couldn't help but lean back on the pillows - Neil's pillows, harder than her own, still smelling faintly of cigarettes, hair pomade, and Cool Water perfume. Soon she was sliding down into the duvet. It took all her willpower to prop herself up and open her resume, which was supposed to be sent out a long time ago. Instead, she stared at it for an hour, her hands frozen on the keyboard. Her eyes prickled at the corporate vernacular that so failed to do justice to the few short stories she had published. She couldn't bring herself to edit her novel, either. It had taken seven lonely years of work. If it still wasn't good enough, it never would be. The low battery alert came to her rescue. She snapped the laptop closed and stood up to stretch.
When she'd first moved in, she'd tiptoed around and kept away from Neil's belongings. That was before the scent of paint that wafted through the apartment lured her into forbidden fantasies. Now she rifled through drawers, wardrobes, cabinets, piecing together the imagined life of a sensitive, gifted artist. On the balcony, she pictured Neil pruning his forget-me-nots in the threadbare robe she'd found. In the bathroom, she pictured him drawing on the steamy mirror after a shower, as droplets of water slithered on his pale, warm skin. Today, she went to the studio again. Inhaling the sweet, sharp smell of paint, she pictured him looking intently at a model stepping from behind the screen, two fingers loosely holding one end of a pencil, the other end resting on his lower lip. She wished he was here on the stool, and together they could condemn the capitalist machine that had consumed too many creative talents.
The blank paper on the easel drew her eye. "Feel free to use the art supplies if you like," Neil had told her just before he left, which came as a surprise. Given how compulsively orderly this flat was, she'd assumed Neil would be protective of his work space. Up till now, she hadn't taken up the offer because she couldn't draw, but perhaps it was time to have some fun.
She picked up a paint-stained pencil from the ridge of the easel, its graphite tip elongated. The first thing that came to mind was flowers. The dormant cyclamen and blooming marigolds left in the care of her mother; Neil's forget-me-nots, which she'd made a ritual of watering every other day at sunset. Her pencil wiggled across the paper like a caterpillar, the ugly doodles strangely therapeutic.
Having filled the paper, Freya took it off the drawing board to be replaced. A small picture fell from behind it. She caught it as it drifted to the floor. A charcoal sketch of her. Pert nose, classy curls, and blue eyes - all her frustration and doubts crystallising into a glamorous, timeless sheen. She looked happy almost, not a careless joy, but a life force that could shine through all shadows. Face burning, Freya gripped the paper so hard the edges began to crumple. Is this how Neil sees me? Is the portrait meant for me?
Portrait in hand, she paced through the apartment, comparing it to Neil's other works. He hadn't depicted any face other than hers. There was no other woman treated with such tenderness and admiration. She tried to get on with her day, but ten minutes into her half-hour Pilates routine, she snatched the portrait from the studio and dashed to the bathroom, holding it up beside her face in the mirror. This wasn't right. She knew she'd end up like Mum if she lived to be an image in a man's head. Yet her face was dull, a pool of stagnant water compared to the radiance of the portrait. That night, after showering, she slid into the studio, disrobed and lay down on the sofa. If her creation could not last, perhaps she could last in someone else's. Meeting the gaze of the easel, Freya caressed herself in melancholy pleasure.
Neil dreamed of a life-drawing. He was in a room identical to his studio, but windowless, dim. A model reclined on the sofa, back facing him, face propped on her palm, her elbow an elegant, decisive angle. He rejoiced in the curves of her body, and with his brush, traced every dip and rise, like moonlight contouring the tides. Some gentle white to highlight the fair skin, a dollop of violet for the veins, and a subtle blend of green to deepen the shades. This would be his masterpiece, the perfect form. His hand was steady, while his heart pounded against his ribs.
As the painting neared completion, Neil realised he hadn't seen the model's face. He knew he shouldn't distract himself, but the urge was too strong. A mirror appeared in front of the model, and out of it loomed a face without features. The model turned, stood up, and stepped towards him. Now her body was engulfed in shadows. Only the faceless face glimmered.
Neil backed away, tripped, and fell on a stack of paintings. His hand grasped something metallic. A pistol. He shot her several times. She disappeared into the darkness.
When he turned to his painting, he saw it blasted by bullets, the perfect form torn apart. Laughing hysterically, he turned the pistol towards his head, and pulled the trigger.
In his sister's guest room Neil awoke, panting, at the mercy of his gallstones. He gently pressed below his ribcage, yet the cutting pain intensified. He gave up and clenched both fists, smothering his groans in the pillow.
Even after the pain receded, the faceless model continued to haunt him. He tried to recall the faces of models he'd worked with. They were all blurred, save one, who wasn't really his model. She was the love of his life, his muse. Neil had settled into an advertising job when they met. She'd rekindled his passion for art, but refused to be his model, only his girlfriend. He didn't push further, and they had the most beautiful seven months together. In summer heat, he tenderly slid the tip of his nose along her perspiring abdomen. In the autumn wind, she threw herself into his coat and breathed warmly into his neck. Until one day, he saw her coming out of the shower, head tilted, wringing her waist-long hair. Again, he asked her to be his model, and again, she refused. He burned at the sight of her, begged her, fought with her, apologised, and kept begging. Within a month she had moved out, and he found himself stalking her. It had to stop. He booked the next available flight and ended up in New Zealand for two months, hiking one trail after another. He never saw her again. Neither did he go back to that advertising job. One model after another he hired. There was none like her.
Or is there? Neil stared at the ceiling, thinking of the girl in his apartment. Has she seen the portrait? After their conversation in the studio, they had gone out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Freya seemed somewhat disoriented as the city throbbed around them, but smiled at the sight of his budding forget-me-not. Her still tearful eyes shimmered with youthful longing, a light guttering in the abyss. In that fleeting moment, Neil saw his muse reborn. He wanted to render that image into its perfect form, to eternalize her beauty with lines and colours, searing it into the canvas of humanity. He yearned to melt into one with her body, which was to be his Sleeping Venus. No. No. She was young, and he was old, ill, and penniless.
What's she doing now? Perhaps slumbering in his bed, eyelashes quivering with each soft breath. His mind permeated by the image of Freya, Neil dozed fitfully on until his older sister's agitated whispers pulsated behind the door.
"It's not a big deal. He's an artist. I'll talk to Jake and explain it properly."
"Not a big deal? Tia, our son is twelve!"
It must be quite late. The edge of the curtain was glowing. "He's only trying to be a fun uncle."
"Drawing naked women for a twelve-year-old is not fun! What's wrong with your brother?"
"Shhh - he might hear us. I'll tell him to stop, okay?"
"No, this is it. I want him out."
"Don't make a fuss! It's not so different from the stuff you see in a gallery."
"That's real art. He's just a pervert."
"Carl! He's my brother!"
"I know that! Why do you think I've put up with him for so long? Why is he here anyway? He's got your parents' flat to live in."
"Can you please let that go? It's been years!"
"Yes, years, and he's still a waster. Shows up out of the blue. Eats our food every day. Never offers to do anything. Never gets up till midday and stumps around the house at midni-"
"Enough!"
A brief silence. Then Tina took on a low, appeasing tone.
"I think he needs help. He's too proud to say it, but he doesn't seem well. Please give me more time to figure out what's wrong."
"Tia. He's not your problem."
The door swung open. Neil stood livid, one hand holding the door jamb, the other on his upper right abdomen, "He's right, Tia. I'm not your problem. I'll go."
He strode out in the midst of his sister and brother-in-law shouting at each other. His nephew Jake ran after him and asked when he would come again. He crouched down, "Maybe you can visit me in London one day." And they bumped fists.
Neil leaned on the fence at the far end of Brighton Palace Pier. Behind were children laughing and shouting on the merry-go-round. The smell of sizzling grills filled the air. There he was, his only companion the frayed rucksack lying crooked by his feet. The sky was cloudy. The sea was a vast, turbid green. Wind from the south brought with it the taste of salt and decaying algae. Wouldn't it be cosy? To wither away in the wind and return to the womb of all life.
He wanted to return to his flat, but how could he? He'd have to admit he was an absolute parasite, living off his parents' legacy, so desperate as to be still suckling its value for an operation on his pathetic body. He'd have to tell Freya he'd messed up even this already messed-up plan, and now there was nowhere to go. Fuck Carl, that philistine his sister married for God-knows-what reason. If it weren't for Carl, he could go back to Freya in a month, and she would think he'd successfully completed his art retreat.
His phone rang with Debussy's La Mer. It was Tia calling for the fourth time. He finally picked up and told her she was alright.
"I'm sorry about Carl. Now be honest with me. Tell me what's wrong!"
"I just wanted to spend some time with you, with Jake. I thought it would be nice to hang out."
Tia sighed. She sounded like their mother. There was no anger or disappointment, only a deep concern that made him so, so ashamed.
"Do let me know if there's anything I can help with. You know Mum and Dad always supported your art, and I'll do the same. I believe in you."
No, she doesn't. He had always been, and would always be the incompetent, over-indulged little brother.
"Thanks, Tia, I really appreciate it. I'll let you know."
Aimlessly, Neil strolled off the pier, along the beach. He paused by a caricature artist, who was drawing a boy while his fascinated parents stood by. Looking down at the uninspired portraits of exaggerated, idiotic faces. Neil sneered at both the customers and the "artist", a man with a baseball hat and a few markers selling a cheap facsimile of happiness produced in ten minutes. Real art was a diamond of pain, dug out from the depths of human souls and cut a thousand times.
Two seagulls flew past, straining against the wind. Side by side they were tossed up and down. Neil thought again of Freya, the way she blinked to stop tears from falling, the way she bit her trembling lip. Separately, they were broken, worthless souls, but with her as his muse, he could create something to rival Van Gogh's Sorrow and Picasso's Femme assise.
The rain pattered the window. Freya sat on the bed cross-legged, scribing her name again and again on the thinly fogged window. Half-formed letters against rivulets of raindrops.
A rejection letter from the Black & White Agency had come this morning. Really, she should be grateful: at least they had the courtesy to notify her. At least now she knew what a failure she was. Her mother was right. She should stop daydreaming and focus on maintaining what beauty she had, while she still had it.
Bleary-eyed, she wiped away the fog and glimpsed a spindly figure on the street. The figure looked up, hooded, soaked, with wisps of hair stuck to his forehead. A reckless passion in his eyes found her through the curtain of rain.
Neil clenched the hem of his jacket as he observed the face at his window. A frown. A hand touching her neck. A hesitant smile rippling around her lips. He pulled his hood back, and waved.
Maybe she shouldn't, but Freya opened the window, and waved back.
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"Could I get a signature?" A woman approached, strangely familiar, "Your writing captures the female struggle so poignantly. It's given me courage to face my life." She looked like Mum, Freya thought.
"Thank you so much! You've no idea what that means to me." She found a Montblanc fountain pen in her hand and signed the title page.
"Sorry, where did you sign?"
Freya looked down, and couldn't find her signature anywhere. She wrote again. The pen left no mark. "Freya Buckley. Freya Buckley." She mumbled, and her scrawls left gashes on every page. The fountain pen in her hand changed to a quill, a ballpoint, a marker, and all the pages of her book turned blank.
The bookshop faded into a derelict churchyard. In place of shelves, seats, and readers emerged reticent gravestones. Freya stood alone, her hair lank and white. Her face was a furrowed field assailed by everlasting drought, her sobs grating like a jagged saw. A grave cracked open. She plunged in.
Freya sprung up and fumbled for a pen. Her wrist knocked against Neil's vintage brass lamp, and she realised where she was - not a graveyard, but a temporary shelter. The nude female paintings on the wall no longer unsettled her. In the hazy morning light, the faceless human forms seemed rather intimate, as if stretching after a catnap. Heaving out a sigh, Freya hugged her knees and let the erratic noises of a London morning close in on her.
You still have time. She told herself as she got up to wash, and laughed uneasily at the 26-year-old face in the mirror. Her hair was frizzy, nose flat. But, for now at least, she was young. If A Bower of Myrtles was turned down, she could still redraft it, or write a new book. Could she, really? Could anything of hers last?
She'd poured her heart into the novel, the story of a woman who married "above her station" only to be tossed aside once she'd lost her youthful beauty. As her waistline grew, her husband took a "business partner" home - an ugly woman with a truckload of consulting jargon - and had her wait on them while their thighs touched under the table. After the divorce, she got a flat to live in with her daughter, and a handsome alimony every month. A housewife for ten years, she didn't work again. Instead, she threw herself into teaching her daughter about makeup, skincare and weight management. When the daughter blamed a bad breakup on her, their relationship reached breaking point. The woman finally found strength within herself and opened a flower shop. The novel ended with her daughter coming to buy a pot of clivia.
Freya wished the ending was true. Facing the mirror, she slowly dragged the contour stick along her nose. Though Mum wasn't here, she could still hear her voice. You have to shade the bridge. Your dad's nose is your worst feature. It was. Mum's nose was straight like a Greek statue. Hers had a low bridge like Dad's and her paternal grandfather's. She used to like Grandpa a lot, yet when she pleaded with him over Dad's affair, he said, "Your mum isn't educated like your dad. He needs someone who can understand him." Freya painted the tip of her nose with highlights. She did not want anything to do with that family.
Although not planning on seeing anyone today - in fact, she'd barely left the apartment the whole month she'd lived here - she still finished her makeup. Sand-coloured eyeshadow and plum tinted lip balm, above the formless old T-shirt she wore for sleep. Traipsing back to the bedroom, she fished her laptop out of a pile of clothes on the carpet, and sat on the bed to check her email. Nothing, except an ad from Vivienne Westwood. 20% SUMMER SALE. As if the discount would make a difference to someone so broke. She refreshed the page twice. Still nothing. Five months ago, she sent A Bower of Myrtles to twenty agents. One speedy rejection. The rest was merciless silence. Since she was fired from her copywriting job, she had been fixated on her novel, the success of which could be a lifesaver. If one agent, just one, believed in her, she wouldn't mind getting another soulless job to make ends meet while continuing to edit the manuscript.
Moving out of Mum's Kennington flat probably wasn't the soundest decision. However, without the refuge of work, Freya couldn't bear being stuck with that woman, who was surprisingly upbeat about her unemployment and suggested they spend the spare time bonding. God knows there was only one kind of bonding with her. A few days ago at lunch, she studied Freya for a few seconds and said, "Shopping time! Let's go get you some eye cream." Freya almost spit out that mouthful of lasagna. After she went back to her room, she threw all her cosmetics into the bin, but later picked them out one by one. If she was able to get her novel published, Freya swore, she really would throw them all away.
When she saw this Bethnal Green apartment on Spareroom available at only £900 for two months, she jumped at it. Neil, the landlord, was letting it out while he would be in Brighton on a painting retreat. Living amongst Neil's stuff wasn't a big problem. She just needed a foothold to figure things out. And Neil wasn't charmless. So she brushed aside her misgivings about the nude art, even though she shuddered at the faceless female bodies on the verge of breaking into meaningless shapes. After all, hadn't she written some explicit scenes herself?
Neil was a 41-year-old painter, a tall, slim man with a clean-shaven oblong face and sleek dark hair, who moved his long fingers deftly, as though always wielding a paint brush. When Freya came to view the property, he opened the door and shook her hand, his hooded brown eyes locked on hers, making her feel like a delicately handled art piece. She had expected the flat of a middle-aged, noteless artist to be all unwashed glasses and takeaway boxes, and was relieved to see it was clean and tidy. Too clean, almost. Before long she found herself on the sofa in Neil's studio, where he seated his models. He sat on a high wooden stool by the easel. The conversation went beyond small talk when he asked her about her novel.
"It's about beauty, desire, and selfhood." Flatly, she gave the standard summary - the one she put in her query letter, which clearly hadn't interested any agents.
"Beauty, desire and selfhood," Neil repeated, "The unreachable, the unbanishable, and the unsalvageable. It must have been hard to write." Such a long-decocted pain flowed through his voice, that Freya knew he'd understand her.
"It was," she murmured, and she told him everything. Recent dismissal, parents' divorce, and the unrealised dreams of writing.
"My mum read a few chapters of the novel and said it didn't make any sense. 'You'll never find a boyfriend if you keep filling your head with that self-important nonsense.' Oh well, maybe I never will. So what?" She had grown up surrounded by suitors, yet sooner or later she ghosted them. When they complimented her looks she would suspect superficial interest; when they didn't she would sink into a spiral of self-doubt.
"To self-important nonsense." With a wry smile, Neil raised an imaginary glass.
"Self-important nonsense," Freya raised her hand as well, "What about you? I mean - has it been hard for you?"
Neil went silent for a moment, his eyes strayed to the portraits on the wall. He shrugged, "Well, I'm unsalvageable. I just keep going."
Sitting crossed-legged in bed, Freya couldn't help but lean back on the pillows - Neil's pillows, harder than her own, still smelling faintly of cigarettes, hair pomade, and Cool Water perfume. Soon she was sliding down into the duvet. It took all her willpower to prop herself up and open her resume, which was supposed to be sent out a long time ago. Instead, she stared at it for an hour, her hands frozen on the keyboard. Her eyes prickled at the corporate vernacular that so failed to do justice to the few short stories she had published. She couldn't bring herself to edit her novel, either. It had taken seven lonely years of work. If it still wasn't good enough, it never would be. The low battery alert came to her rescue. She snapped the laptop closed and stood up to stretch.
When she'd first moved in, she'd tiptoed around and kept away from Neil's belongings. That was before the scent of paint that wafted through the apartment lured her into forbidden fantasies. Now she rifled through drawers, wardrobes, cabinets, piecing together the imagined life of a sensitive, gifted artist. On the balcony, she pictured Neil pruning his forget-me-nots in the threadbare robe she'd found. In the bathroom, she pictured him drawing on the steamy mirror after a shower, as droplets of water slithered on his pale, warm skin. Today, she went to the studio again. Inhaling the sweet, sharp smell of paint, she pictured him looking intently at a model stepping from behind the screen, two fingers loosely holding one end of a pencil, the other end resting on his lower lip. She wished he was here on the stool, and together they could condemn the capitalist machine that had consumed too many creative talents.
The blank paper on the easel drew her eye. "Feel free to use the art supplies if you like," Neil had told her just before he left, which came as a surprise. Given how compulsively orderly this flat was, she'd assumed Neil would be protective of his work space. Up till now, she hadn't taken up the offer because she couldn't draw, but perhaps it was time to have some fun.
She picked up a paint-stained pencil from the ridge of the easel, its graphite tip elongated. The first thing that came to mind was flowers. The dormant cyclamen and blooming marigolds left in the care of her mother; Neil's forget-me-nots, which she'd made a ritual of watering every other day at sunset. Her pencil wiggled across the paper like a caterpillar, the ugly doodles strangely therapeutic.
Having filled the paper, Freya took it off the drawing board to be replaced. A small picture fell from behind it. She caught it as it drifted to the floor. A charcoal sketch of her. Pert nose, classy curls, and blue eyes - all her frustration and doubts crystallising into a glamorous, timeless sheen. She looked happy almost, not a careless joy, but a life force that could shine through all shadows. Face burning, Freya gripped the paper so hard the edges began to crumple. Is this how Neil sees me? Is the portrait meant for me?
Portrait in hand, she paced through the apartment, comparing it to Neil's other works. He hadn't depicted any face other than hers. There was no other woman treated with such tenderness and admiration. She tried to get on with her day, but ten minutes into her half-hour Pilates routine, she snatched the portrait from the studio and dashed to the bathroom, holding it up beside her face in the mirror. This wasn't right. She knew she'd end up like Mum if she lived to be an image in a man's head. Yet her face was dull, a pool of stagnant water compared to the radiance of the portrait. That night, after showering, she slid into the studio, disrobed and lay down on the sofa. If her creation could not last, perhaps she could last in someone else's. Meeting the gaze of the easel, Freya caressed herself in melancholy pleasure.
*
Neil dreamed of a life-drawing. He was in a room identical to his studio, but windowless, dim. A model reclined on the sofa, back facing him, face propped on her palm, her elbow an elegant, decisive angle. He rejoiced in the curves of her body, and with his brush, traced every dip and rise, like moonlight contouring the tides. Some gentle white to highlight the fair skin, a dollop of violet for the veins, and a subtle blend of green to deepen the shades. This would be his masterpiece, the perfect form. His hand was steady, while his heart pounded against his ribs.
As the painting neared completion, Neil realised he hadn't seen the model's face. He knew he shouldn't distract himself, but the urge was too strong. A mirror appeared in front of the model, and out of it loomed a face without features. The model turned, stood up, and stepped towards him. Now her body was engulfed in shadows. Only the faceless face glimmered.
Neil backed away, tripped, and fell on a stack of paintings. His hand grasped something metallic. A pistol. He shot her several times. She disappeared into the darkness.
When he turned to his painting, he saw it blasted by bullets, the perfect form torn apart. Laughing hysterically, he turned the pistol towards his head, and pulled the trigger.
In his sister's guest room Neil awoke, panting, at the mercy of his gallstones. He gently pressed below his ribcage, yet the cutting pain intensified. He gave up and clenched both fists, smothering his groans in the pillow.
Even after the pain receded, the faceless model continued to haunt him. He tried to recall the faces of models he'd worked with. They were all blurred, save one, who wasn't really his model. She was the love of his life, his muse. Neil had settled into an advertising job when they met. She'd rekindled his passion for art, but refused to be his model, only his girlfriend. He didn't push further, and they had the most beautiful seven months together. In summer heat, he tenderly slid the tip of his nose along her perspiring abdomen. In the autumn wind, she threw herself into his coat and breathed warmly into his neck. Until one day, he saw her coming out of the shower, head tilted, wringing her waist-long hair. Again, he asked her to be his model, and again, she refused. He burned at the sight of her, begged her, fought with her, apologised, and kept begging. Within a month she had moved out, and he found himself stalking her. It had to stop. He booked the next available flight and ended up in New Zealand for two months, hiking one trail after another. He never saw her again. Neither did he go back to that advertising job. One model after another he hired. There was none like her.
Or is there? Neil stared at the ceiling, thinking of the girl in his apartment. Has she seen the portrait? After their conversation in the studio, they had gone out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Freya seemed somewhat disoriented as the city throbbed around them, but smiled at the sight of his budding forget-me-not. Her still tearful eyes shimmered with youthful longing, a light guttering in the abyss. In that fleeting moment, Neil saw his muse reborn. He wanted to render that image into its perfect form, to eternalize her beauty with lines and colours, searing it into the canvas of humanity. He yearned to melt into one with her body, which was to be his Sleeping Venus. No. No. She was young, and he was old, ill, and penniless.
What's she doing now? Perhaps slumbering in his bed, eyelashes quivering with each soft breath. His mind permeated by the image of Freya, Neil dozed fitfully on until his older sister's agitated whispers pulsated behind the door.
"It's not a big deal. He's an artist. I'll talk to Jake and explain it properly."
"Not a big deal? Tia, our son is twelve!"
It must be quite late. The edge of the curtain was glowing. "He's only trying to be a fun uncle."
"Drawing naked women for a twelve-year-old is not fun! What's wrong with your brother?"
"Shhh - he might hear us. I'll tell him to stop, okay?"
"No, this is it. I want him out."
"Don't make a fuss! It's not so different from the stuff you see in a gallery."
"That's real art. He's just a pervert."
"Carl! He's my brother!"
"I know that! Why do you think I've put up with him for so long? Why is he here anyway? He's got your parents' flat to live in."
"Can you please let that go? It's been years!"
"Yes, years, and he's still a waster. Shows up out of the blue. Eats our food every day. Never offers to do anything. Never gets up till midday and stumps around the house at midni-"
"Enough!"
A brief silence. Then Tina took on a low, appeasing tone.
"I think he needs help. He's too proud to say it, but he doesn't seem well. Please give me more time to figure out what's wrong."
"Tia. He's not your problem."
The door swung open. Neil stood livid, one hand holding the door jamb, the other on his upper right abdomen, "He's right, Tia. I'm not your problem. I'll go."
He strode out in the midst of his sister and brother-in-law shouting at each other. His nephew Jake ran after him and asked when he would come again. He crouched down, "Maybe you can visit me in London one day." And they bumped fists.
Neil leaned on the fence at the far end of Brighton Palace Pier. Behind were children laughing and shouting on the merry-go-round. The smell of sizzling grills filled the air. There he was, his only companion the frayed rucksack lying crooked by his feet. The sky was cloudy. The sea was a vast, turbid green. Wind from the south brought with it the taste of salt and decaying algae. Wouldn't it be cosy? To wither away in the wind and return to the womb of all life.
He wanted to return to his flat, but how could he? He'd have to admit he was an absolute parasite, living off his parents' legacy, so desperate as to be still suckling its value for an operation on his pathetic body. He'd have to tell Freya he'd messed up even this already messed-up plan, and now there was nowhere to go. Fuck Carl, that philistine his sister married for God-knows-what reason. If it weren't for Carl, he could go back to Freya in a month, and she would think he'd successfully completed his art retreat.
His phone rang with Debussy's La Mer. It was Tia calling for the fourth time. He finally picked up and told her she was alright.
"I'm sorry about Carl. Now be honest with me. Tell me what's wrong!"
"I just wanted to spend some time with you, with Jake. I thought it would be nice to hang out."
Tia sighed. She sounded like their mother. There was no anger or disappointment, only a deep concern that made him so, so ashamed.
"Do let me know if there's anything I can help with. You know Mum and Dad always supported your art, and I'll do the same. I believe in you."
No, she doesn't. He had always been, and would always be the incompetent, over-indulged little brother.
"Thanks, Tia, I really appreciate it. I'll let you know."
Aimlessly, Neil strolled off the pier, along the beach. He paused by a caricature artist, who was drawing a boy while his fascinated parents stood by. Looking down at the uninspired portraits of exaggerated, idiotic faces. Neil sneered at both the customers and the "artist", a man with a baseball hat and a few markers selling a cheap facsimile of happiness produced in ten minutes. Real art was a diamond of pain, dug out from the depths of human souls and cut a thousand times.
Two seagulls flew past, straining against the wind. Side by side they were tossed up and down. Neil thought again of Freya, the way she blinked to stop tears from falling, the way she bit her trembling lip. Separately, they were broken, worthless souls, but with her as his muse, he could create something to rival Van Gogh's Sorrow and Picasso's Femme assise.
*
The rain pattered the window. Freya sat on the bed cross-legged, scribing her name again and again on the thinly fogged window. Half-formed letters against rivulets of raindrops.
A rejection letter from the Black & White Agency had come this morning. Really, she should be grateful: at least they had the courtesy to notify her. At least now she knew what a failure she was. Her mother was right. She should stop daydreaming and focus on maintaining what beauty she had, while she still had it.
Bleary-eyed, she wiped away the fog and glimpsed a spindly figure on the street. The figure looked up, hooded, soaked, with wisps of hair stuck to his forehead. A reckless passion in his eyes found her through the curtain of rain.
Neil clenched the hem of his jacket as he observed the face at his window. A frown. A hand touching her neck. A hesitant smile rippling around her lips. He pulled his hood back, and waved.
Maybe she shouldn't, but Freya opened the window, and waved back.
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