The Storyteller's Muse, Page 2

  Peter felt his frown deepen; what was she talking about? ‘But I don’t even have one —’

  ‘I do,’ she cut in again, and grinned. ‘And I need someone to help me put it down on paper or I shall go nuts! If I’m not already,’ she chuckled to herself.

  Peter was holding his breath — he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you asking me to help you?’

  ‘Why yes I am, Peter,’ she announced, sounding almost playful. ‘And I don’t even care if you do steal it; I just want to get it out!’

  Peter was flabbergasted. ‘I would never steal from you, Ms Whitman, but I am very honoured that you would consider me.’

  ‘That’s what the last one said, but what choice do I have?’ The old woman shrugged.

  He knew she didn’t mean to be insulting, she was just bitter about the last book.

  ‘This story needs to come out. But without putting pen to paper, the characters don’t get their say in the outcome. That would be like a director shooting an entire film without ever consulting the actors. Or visiting an exotic location without seeking the advice of the locals in regard to current events and the best places to find what you are looking for. A story is an adventure that has to play out on the page, I find.’

  Peter was mesmerised by every word she said, it had been an age since he’d talked to anyone about writing and it was incredibly exciting.

  ‘So, what do you say?’ Penelope posed. ‘I’ll pay you for your services, a hundred dollars an hour. You’ll have to sign a contract to waive all rights to my story, of course . . . how does that sound?’

  The excitement inside him burst and surfaced with a laugh. ‘Are you kidding me? That sounds . . . unbelievable! I’d be honoured to assist.’

  ‘Won’t you mind coming in on your days off?’ she queried.

  ‘I really don’t have anything better to do,’ Peter assured her. Outside of his work, he didn’t have anything; no family, no girlfriend — a few friends who he saw rarely, as they had lives.

  ‘How is your shorthand?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Not real good . . . but I am a fast typist,’ he added with more enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, maybe once we get over the initial set-up I can use a Dictaphone and you can commit the tale to computer at your leisure,’ Penelope suggested, as this way she could record her tale during her fast-diminishing waking hours.

  ‘I could set up an app on your computer to record —’

  ‘I don’t have a computer,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m too damn old to be fiddling around with gadgets that have screens I can’t see anyway!’

  ‘That’s fine . . . a Dictaphone is no problem.’ Peter suppressed his enthusiasm to pacify her, even as he wondered if he’d be able to find a Dictaphone for her to use. Her attitude to computers made him wonder if she even knew that there was such a thing as social media; most authors considered it to be a vital tool in promoting their work these days.

  This writing project would give him something to do in the wee hours at work when things got awfully slow and boring.

  ‘Thursday is my next day off, or rather Wednesday night, so I’ll be alert Thursday morning.’ He was raring to go already.

  ‘Then Thursday we begin,’ Penelope announced to finalise their arrangement. ‘I’ll have the contract for you to sign and the first chapter plotted and ready to go by then.’

  THE SET-UP

  On Thursday morning Gabrielle Valdez, Penelope’s day nurse, was more than a little surprised to see Peter in at work on his morning off. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have an appointment with Ms Whitman this morning,’ Peter said cheerily.

  ‘Oh no . . . not again.’ Gabrielle spied the laptop under his arm and came out from behind the desk to stand in his path. ‘Don’t you dare take advantage of that dear, sweet, old lady’s talents! She’s been through enough —’

  ‘I have no intention of taking advantage of her.’ Peter objected to being judged so harshly.

  ‘Well, you can’t go in there right now, Ms Whitman has guests.’

  ‘Guests?’ Had she forgotten about their arrangement? She was old, but far from senile.

  Gabrielle’s beeper went off and she immediately went to see what Ms Whitman wanted. ‘Wait here.’ The fiery young nurse cautioned him, pointing towards the waiting room.

  ‘Is Peter here yet?’ he overheard Penelope ask Gabrielle, who responded so quietly Peter couldn’t hear her.

  ‘Well . . . send him in.’ Penelope sounded annoyed by the delay. ‘All this is for his benefit.’

  All what? he wondered, but waited for his cue before investigating.

  Gabrielle returned, wearing a suspicious expression as she informed him, ‘Ms Whitman will see you now.’

  ‘Thank —’ Peter began but Gabrielle returned to her station having done her duty. She’d always been fairly nice to him in passing, and he’d even contemplated asking her out a few times. He was now rather glad he had not as he found this side of her very unattractive.

  Peter regained his cheery mood before entering the room and then was winded upon sighting Penelope’s literary agent, Fabrizia Zenton. He recognised her immediately as she was widely known as the most sought-after agent in the business. She was Italian sass at its most elegant and had a serene, almost regal, air about her. She had a swathe of dark burgundy-black ringlets that fell about the neck of her bright yellow wool overcoat; her bright red lipstick and dark eyes added to her vivacious appearance.

  There was also another official-looking businessman present. Penelope introduced her lawyer, Martyn Webster, who had drafted a contract for Peter to sign, and then introduced him to Fabrizia.

  As Fabrizia stepped forward to shake his hand, Peter’s mind was devoid of a single witty or memorable thing to say. ‘Very nice to meet you.’ Way to go, Lemond, that’s really going to make an impression.

  ‘The pleasure is mine, Mr Lemond. Penelope tells me you are her new protégé,’ Ms Zenton commented, kindly.

  Peter looked to Penelope, honoured, and a little surprised that she would think of him as such when they had yet to set pen to paper on anything. The old woman merely winked at him and encouraged him to pay attention to the very important woman in front of him. ‘Yes, I am,’ he replied as surely as he was able, but his lack of self-confidence as a writer prevented him from truly pulling it off.

  ‘I am very excited that Penelope has decided to write another book,’ Fabrizia told him, ‘and the publishers will go into a bidding frenzy when they find out! So I must thank you, Mr Lemond, for being her muse.’

  Peter certainly didn’t think he deserved that credit.

  ‘But, as the last thing we want is a repeat of the claimant dramas that arose around my client’s previous book,’ Ms Zenton accepted the contract from their lawyer and held it out towards Peter, ‘we need your signature on this waiver agreement —’

  ‘I’d be happy to —’ Peter began, but Ms Zenton held up a finger to imply she was not finished.

  ‘Not only do you waive all rights to the creative content of this book, but should Penelope, heaven forbid, not live to finish the work, all rights to the manuscript revert to me, as do all copies etc, etc.’

  ‘I fully understand that I’m being hired to transcribe,’ Peter stated soberly. ‘If I contribute any ideas, I donate them to the story as part of my paid work. If I wish to claim ownership of my ideas, then I should keep them to myself and write my own book.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Penelope quite agreed.

  ‘This is Ms Whitman’s work,’ Peter warranted. ‘And I am more than happy to sign anything to that effect.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Fabrizia smiled and led him to a seat at the coffee table where they sat down and she handed Peter her gold pen.

  As soon as the formalities were over, Ms Zenton and the lawyer took their leave. In their wake Peter appeared like he’d been hit by a tornado, but he was high on the adrenaline of the experience.

  ‘You could have warned
me.’ Peter referred Penelope to his casual attire and general dishevelled appearance. ‘I would have made more of an effort.’

  ‘You should make more of an effort anyway,’ Penelope lectured. ‘Then you might have something better to do than appease an old woman’s desires.’ She chuckled at her own wit; she was in such fine spirits today. It was refreshing to have something exciting happening, something to bother waking up for — a means to satisfy her lust for a good story.

  Peter smiled at her dig. ‘I assure you, Ms Whitman, the current top model couldn’t coerce me from your room this morning.’

  Penelope felt her heart do a little flutter when she realised he was flirting with her. ‘Well, let’s get to it, then.’ She invited him to set up his laptop on the desk she’d had brought in and positioned to one side of her bed.

  It only took Peter a few minutes to prepare, and with a blank page on the screen before him he turned to Penelope to ask, ‘So, does this book have a title?’

  ‘Yes. 4 Kismet Way,’ she divulged.

  ‘Oh, I like that.’ Peter began punching keys.

  ‘The prologue is entitled, “The Apartment”.’ Penelope allowed a moment for Peter to tap that out.

  When he had, the storyteller closed her eyes, brought to mind the interior of the warehouse apartment that was at the heart of this story, and it spoke to her. ‘It was not desirable to be vacant,’ she conveyed. ‘This place was morbid without a creative living being to inspire.’

  Peter typed away madly, but as he came to the end of the sentence he asked, ‘Whose point of view is this?’

  Penelope frowned, annoyed to have her train of thought interrupted. ‘You’ll figure it out. Now don’t interrupt, you can ask questions after it is all typed up, fair enough?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘So, where was I?’ she asked.

  Peter read from the screen, ‘Um . . . this place was morbid without a life force to inspire.’

  ‘Life force,’ Penelope noted he’d changed her wording. ‘I like that, but let’s make it creative life force.’

  ‘Done,’ Peter acknowledged her request and did not interrupt again.

  None of the potential tenants that the real estate agent had shown through the sparsely furnished apartment recently appeared attractive prospects. To suffer through another six-month lease with a high-flying, suit-wearing, executive type would be intolerable — better to just collapse the ceiling and put an end to the misery!

  The last tenant, an anal and prudish investment banker, had covered all the original painted works and furniture with dust sheets and had only ever spent her sleeping hours here. A string of mishaps in the apartment had seen the banker break her lease early, and her departure was mutually appreciated.

  The key turned in the lock and the real estate agent popped his head inside the door. After quickly scoping out the place, he gingerly entered. ‘Come in,’ he invited a young man.

  ‘Wow,’ was the prospective tenant’s initial reaction. ‘It’s even bigger than I thought! And so quiet.’ The young fellow appeared to resonate with the space.

  The agent forced a smile — the apartment was not his favourite, having caused him no end of frustration over the years. ‘Feel free to look about.’ He remained by the door, his eyes scanning the high ceilings. ‘This top floor of the warehouse was converted into a residence to service the owner mid-last-century.’

  The prospective tenant looked up, evidently wondering about the agent’s concern, but his curiosity was aroused by something else. ‘Why is all the artwork covered?’

  ‘The tenant before you was a bit of a neat freak,’ the agent explained, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat that were forming on his brow. ‘I’ve removed all the covers she had on the furniture, but I didn’t get around to exposing the artwork again. Truth be known, it is not to everyone’s taste.’

  ‘Is that right? May I?’ The young man motioned to the covered painting hanging above the large sandstone fireplace.

  ‘By all means,’ the agent granted, staying right where he was, back to the door.

  As the sheet billowed to the floor exposing the work, it seemed as if the room was suddenly filled with light. The painting depicted lovers, one on top of the other. The figures were both very beautiful and it was hard to discern which was male or female, or if indeed it was two men, or two women; the sexual details of their bodies were obscured just enough to leave the viewer wondering.

  As the young man gazed up at the picture he decided, ‘I could work here.’

  ‘What line of work are you in?’ the agent queried politely.

  ‘I’m a writer . . . aspiring,’ he thought to add. The agent did not appear at all impressed with the prospect of getting his rent out of a starving artist. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I work a desk job as well. But I need a studio to write in a few days a fortnight, which is why I answered your ad. I also happen to know a couple of other artists who need a studio space on a part-time basis and I think this would suit us right down to the ground.’

  A group of artists — that was the best news this century!

  ‘It’s the apartment’s point of view,’ Peter answered his own query, after their session was interrupted by lunch.

  ‘Bingo.’ Penelope smiled, raising her brows a few times to emphasise the mystery.

  ‘Is it haunted?’ Peter ventured a guess as to why the unusual prologue was integral to the story.

  Penelope shrugged. ‘Possessed might be closer to the mark, but we’ll see what eventuates, shall we? I have an idea, but the story may prove me wrong . . . it often does.’

  ‘You talk as if the story were your co-writer.’ Peter found this very inspiring. ‘I’ve never thought to approach my tale like a colleague . . . to me, writing has always felt more like my nemesis.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve been ignoring your muse, putting it off,’ Penelope replied rather passionately. ‘Put your muse off long enough and before you know it, you’ll find someone else has written the very book you had in mind.’

  ‘I have actually had that happen a few times.’ Peter nodded.

  ‘A muse is like a lover that, left unfulfilled, will pack up its creative assets and move on to the next promising candidate.’ Penelope pulled a small portion off her sandwich and ate it as she nodded in agreement with herself. ‘The muses like me because I make myself free to indulge them . . . as you are doing now,’ she added in encouragement. ‘For every minute you spend writing this tale, pouring your energy into creative endeavour, the more attractive to the muses you will become and soon they will give you more than just ideas.’ She raised both brows and nodded in promise.

  Peter, spellbound, snapped out of his dreamy state and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.

  ‘So we’ve met our hero, but we don’t know his name yet?’ Peter figured that would come up fairly shortly. ‘So what is the would-be writer’s name?’

  Penelope saw the aspiring writer as Peter, but it was probably better that Peter didn’t know that. ‘Nathaniel.’ The name just popped right into her head, and looking at Peter, it rather suited him too, with his dark eyes and hair, and pale complexion. ‘Nathaniel Fitzroy.’

  ‘Oooh, strong name.’ Peter voiced his approval as he made scribbled notes on a pad. ‘And where does the tale take place?’

  ‘In the apartment.’ Penelope thought that screamingly obvious. ‘Oh, and in the coffee house, down the road.’

  ‘But what town?’ Peter tried to clarify himself.

  ‘That hasn’t been mentioned, so I guess it’s not important yet.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t like to get bogged down in details . . . it spoils the flow. We want to stick with the action, and if the readers need a break from the excitement they’ll just have to put the book down . . . the trick is to make that impossible.’ Penelope gave a yawn; having had something to eat she suddenly couldn’t keep her eyes open. ‘I’m sorry, Peter, but it seems that is all I have in me today. I have more, but I —’

>   ‘That’s perfectly fine,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll read over the beginning and check for typos.’

  He was being polite, for Penelope could see he was still raring to go and she wished she still had his stamina. ‘When I awake I will record more and you can pick it up at your convenience,’ she suggested, her words a little muffled as sleep took her over.

  ‘I eagerly await the next instalment,’ he advised softly, and that was the last thing Penelope heard.

  CHARACTERS

  Nathaniel was the last one of the group to arrive at the coffee shop.

  After an early rehearsal in town, Monique had decided against going home to the suburbs and then travelling all the way back into the city. Hence she’d been drinking coffee for two hours, waiting to take a look at this studio space Nathaniel was raving about. Tyme had picked Julian up after his band rehearsal and had arrived right on time — for someone who never wore a watch, she was amazingly prompt.

  The three of them were huddled in a corner, drinking warm beverages and gazing at the pouring rain beyond the window, when Nathaniel took a seat in their booth and startled them all from their contemplation.

  ‘You’re late.’ Monique whacked his shoulder for the scare.

  ‘I’m sorry but the traffic is dreadful,’ Nathaniel defended his tardiness, removing his wet coat and placing it on the seat beside him.

  ‘I managed.’ Tyme grinned in challenge.

  ‘But you’re in tune with the universe,’ Nathaniel teased. ‘And I am . . . obviously not. But, I swear to you, this place is going to solve all our creative dilemmas. No more complaining that you have nowhere big enough to rehearse,’ he told Monique. ‘No more clambering over your artworks to get to your front door.’ He smiled at Tyme. ‘There’s heaps of space to store your supplies and artworks . . . and your guitars and sound gear,’ he told Julian.

  ‘And no more trying to think over the sound of a young family in the house,’ Monique stated the benefit for Nathaniel.