Jessie Burton - The Muse

‘You’re not lonely?’

‘No.’

‘Writing anything?’

‘A little.’

‘Can I read it?’

‘ Read it?’

‘Well, that’s what people usually do with writing, isn’t it?’ She looked amused.

‘I don’t—’

‘I’d be honoured if you showed me.’

‘It’s not very good,’ I said.

She pulled a face. ‘Does it matter whether you think it’s any good?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘Well — because — because I have to be critical of it, to make it better.’

‘Well, that’s a given. But isn’t writing something as natural to you as breathing?’

‘In some ways. But I have to work at what I write,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘Every writer does.’

‘But you pick up a pen and write without much preamble.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And are you proud of breathing? Do you revere your ability to breathe?’

‘It’s who I am. So if it’s not any good, then neither am I.’

She stared at me. ‘Do you mean as a person?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, no. Don’t be moral about this, Odelle. You’re not walking around with a golden halo beaming out of you depending on the power of your paragraph. You don’t come into it, once someone else is reading. It stands apart from you. Don’t let your ability drag you down, don’t hang it round your neck like an albatross.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘When something is considered “ good ”, it draws people in, often resulting with the eventual destruction of the creator. I’ve seen it happen. So whether you think it’s “ good ” or not should be entirely irrelevant, if you want to carry on. It’s tough, but there it is. And of course, whether I think it’s good should also be neither here nor there. Even more so, in fact. I think you’re worrying too much.’

I was silent. I felt like I’d been shot.

‘Do you want to publish your work, Odelle?’ she went on, as if we were talking about nothing so substantial as a train timetable.

I dug my shoes into the grass and studied the tips intently. ‘Yes.’

Surprisingly, my honesty created a companionable silence, a moment of reprieve. To publish my work was what I wanted; it was the only goal I’d really ever had.

‘And do you hope to marry one day?’ she asked. ‘Have children?’

This was a swerve, but I had grown used to her staccato, jumping thoughts. Often with Quick you got the sense there was a whole other conversation going on underneath her words, one that only she could hear. The idea of being a wife was vaguely odd to me; the thought of being a mother, completely alien. Even so, the mind is elastic, so I thought of Lawrie and leapfrogged prematurely into the future. ‘Maybe one day,’ I said.

‘The only problem is, children grow up. Or maybe that’s a good thing, in your case. They can look after themselves, you can look after the words.’

‘Can’t I look after both?’

‘I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never tried.’ I considered the house behind us; Quick had no sign of a family, children or otherwise. I tried to imagine Quick as a child, and I couldn’t do it. She was too sophisticated and strange to ever have been such a rudimentary being.

Quick placed her cigarette in the ashtray. She readjusted her glasses, and forked a tomato with such expert precision that not a seed escaped. She plunged it into her mouth, and swallowed it. ‘Mr Scott brought his painting to the Skelton because of you,’ she said. ‘Didn’t he?’

My stomach flipped. ‘I — what? — I—’

‘Don’t worry, Odelle. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘He didn’t — it wasn’t me, it was the Skelton’s reputation — he—’

‘Odelle,’ she said firmly. ‘I saw you kissing in the reception.’

‘I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have — I don’t want—’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Are you happy?’

I thought about this. ‘Yes.’

‘Just be careful of him.’

I sat back in my chair, overwhelmed. ‘Do you — know him?’

Quick lit another cigarette, her fist gripped so tightly round the lighter that her knuckles had turned white. She breathed out the bluish smoke. ‘No, I don’t know him. I’m only looking after you. That’s my job. I recruited you, and I value you, and I want you to be all right. Men are not always — well — just make sure you don’t do anything you don’t want to do.’

I realized then, that Quick was not a person to make herself vulnerable. That in fact, she would do anything to avoid such a predicament. ‘I won’t,’ I said. It felt like Quick was admonishing me; this flash of a harsh demeanour had curdled the garden’s lovely atmosphere, where even the bees seemed to fall silent. ‘He’s not like that.’

She sighed. My bones felt like lead. But I could have got up, I could have thanked her for the pork-pie quarter and the bit of bread which was all I’d managed to eat, and walked through the cool bare corridor, back out to life and Lawrie and Cynth and the future, and never have talked to Quick personally again. Things might have been easier if I had.

‘Has he told you anything about the painting?’ she went on.

‘Only that he’s pleased it might be an Isaac Robles,’ I said, dully.

‘But he’d never heard of Isaac Robles before this?’

‘No.’

She looked thoughtful. ‘Why do you think he wanted a copy of that photograph?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, trying my best to hide my irritation. ‘To look at it more closely, I suppose. To put the pieces together.’

‘Odelle, does Mr Scott understand that Mr Reede would like to make this painting a big splash — not just for the Skelton, but for himself? He spoke of the possibility of an exhibition. Is that what Mr Scott wants?’

‘I don’t know what he wants. But surely an exhibition can only be a good thing.’

‘Men like Edmund Reede are circus masters. They will spin a reputation from thin air. They will wrap it up and increase its wonder, just so what they possess increases in value. What I mean is, Odelle — be careful to remind Mr Scott what he’s actually looking at. Don’t let Reede take what he has away from him.’

‘But I thought you agreed with Mr Reede that the Skelton should keep his painting safe.’

‘Only until Mr Scott has made his decision.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and stared into the hollyhocks. ‘If I was Mr Scott, I would keep it. I would keep it and enjoy it. His mother clearly did, and so should he.’

‘But if it is an important painting, he could sell it, he could use the money. He’s stuck, you see.’

She turned to me. ‘So he does want to sell it. He’s worried about money.’

‘I don’t know the ins and outs. But the painting could be useful. If there was an exhibition of it — a long-lost painting come to light, that sort of thing — I’m sure that would be popular. Lawrie could be involved. He could help with organizing. He’s very clever. Enthusiastic. People like him.’

‘You’re not his mother.’

‘And you’re not mine.’

The words came out before I could stop them. Quick winced; I was horrified. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry—’

‘No — you’re right,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right. You must think I’m interfering.’

‘I didn’t mean — I’m only trying to help him.’

‘Mr Scott isn’t stuck,’ Quick said. ‘I’m sure he could do many things. His existence doesn’t hinge on that painting. He should just take it home and enjoy it for what it is. A very good painting — an excellent painting, designed for private pleasure.’

‘But isn’t it better that more than one person can see it?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that the ethos of a place like the Skelton — shouldn’t it be shared?’