December—Cannes
Maeva's headphones rage against her ears as she slaps red paint against her canvas. Screams, guitar, more screams, drums. More red paint. Everywhere, on her jeans, on her floor, splashed over her stomach, her cheeks. She jams her brush into the canvas and drags it through the red. The result is deep grooves, sharp curves, rough, angry, and nothing at all like what had floated in her head.
She finally throws the brush down and yanks her headphones off, gasping.
King Diamond still whines from the speakers, but it is drowned out by the noise of the gallery downstairs. She hears the caterer clanking dishes, barking at waiters, the pianist tuning his instrument. Saria snarls at someone about the lighting. Maeva almost smirks at that. But glaring at her painting takes precedence.
It is three shades of red, five by four, abstract, the strokes clearly visible, curving in angry, stretched loops like rubber bands. It is a bastardization of what she sees in her head, a clumsy impersonation of the sensation she is fighting to capture. She screeches and kicks the box of brushes by her easel. The box tips and they scatter, through the splashes of red paint, over the corners of sketches, and the final few knock against the stack of red canvases behind her sofa. Five of them, five more inaccurate renditions of what she sees in her head.
She growls and turns away from it, hearing Saria's boots on the steps. She comes up carrying a garment bag and freezes at the entrance to the studio, eyes wide. Not on Maeva, coated with red like she had just slashed a throat, but on the canvas behind her.
"Oh my god," Saria breathes.
Maeva snorts, glaring at it over her shoulder, "tell me about it."
"...that's gorgeous,"
"Oh, fuck off, it is not gorgeous!" Maeva's glare grows infinitely sharper, "it's disgusting."
She puts her foot on the lip of easel and shoves it over. Wood and metal hit the studio floor with a satisfying bang.
Behind her, Saria's eyes have grown wider, and the awe is replaced by fear. Maeva could swear she sees Saria's dark knees quivering over her suede boots.
Taking a deep breath, Maeva tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "is that my dress?"
"Y-yes," Saria says, her shy voice returned, "the cleaner just dropped it off, and I put your shoes in the bag."
"Thank you, leave it on the sofa please," Maeva says, "I'm sorry I lost my temper, it has nothing to do with you. This painting is driving me batshit."
"its fine," Saria lays the dress down and wanders over to the enormous canvas by the window, "oh, you stared painting it."
Her eyes scan the fresh color on Eurydice's album cover. Most of the background is complete, and she had started on the band in the middle ground. Saria tilts her head at Corin's completed face, studying the colors and strokes Maeva had used to catch the burnished undertone to his cheeks and jaw.
"Yes, I needed to get away from this for a while," Maeva waves her hand at the red mess.
She picks up the garment bag with her dress, and doesn't tell Saria that she had been hoping to recapture the feeling that had inspired her painting in the first place. And she had, carefully painting the dimension of Corin's lips, dabbing gold into the highlight along his cheekbone. Her chest had remembered the feeling of being close to him, in his arms, as close as she could ever get, and still needing something, still stretching for more. Maeva looks from the album cover to her discarded red canvases, and curls her lip. Such a load of good the exercise had done.
"That's strange," Saria is leaning down to peer at the canvas, "I don't remember him wearing anything on his wrist when they came to sit."
Maeva turns her head, and finds Saria gazing at the two black bows painted on Corin's left wrist, perfectly draped and highlighted to show the satin against his dragon tattoo, as if they had always been there.
She lifts her shoulders in a careful shrug, eyes on her bag as she roots through it, "I drew it when they sat, so it must have been there."
One of Saria's whip thin brows rises as she looks away from the painting, "well, I'm going to be downstairs, holler if you need me."
"Yes, thank you," Maeva murmurs, heading toward her bathroom.
The sound of Saria's boots retreating is barely audible over the sound of the shower as Maeva waits for it to warm up. She stares into the water as she wraps her hair up with a ribbon. The silver drain is spotted with paint, and there is a handprint crusted in green and blue on the white tile. She puts her hand in the exact same spot to climb under the water, sighing as it rushes down her neck. Her head floats away, as it always seems to, to Corin. As she is shaking away memories of cuddling in a hotel room shower, the date highlights itself in her mind. She had promised herself she wouldn't look it up, wouldn't pay attention. But somewhere, she had seen it, or heard it, and it had stuck better than her own phone number. Corin's tour had ended yesterday.
Maybe I'll give you a call when I'm back home.
That might be alright.
She ignores the thought, pouring oil into her palm and attacking the paint on her skin. It peels from her fingers, face, and stomach, the scrubbing leaving her dark pink. She washes the oil away before stepping out of the shower.
Dry and in her slinky black dress, she consults the mirror and her makeup bag. Her teeth worry her lip as she stares at her lipstick, trying to decide if she is utterly sick of the color or cannot get enough of it. She brushes it over her lips after a long consideration, lets her waves down, and steps back. Bangs in place, black drawn in a slim line along her lashes, dress slinking along her curves with cuts taken out right where her waist dips. Her lips are bright red against her light skin, and she can't help thinking that he would take one look at her and throw her onto the nearest available surface. She snorts and shoves that away. Reminds herself that she doesn't care as she slips into her pumps.
Maeva runs a brush through her hair, attempting a last time to straighten out the little kinks and curls that refuse to tame themselves. She gives up after a few passes, slicing a last glare to her paintings before clicking down the stairs in her stilettos.
Saria is already positioned at the door to greet. The gallery is already full of satin dresses, silk suits, and cocktails. Maeva orders a waiter to make her a very strong screwdriver before joining her assistant at the door. Saria looks eerily similar to her regular attire—wearing a dress with a print somehow reminiscent of Woman in Gold. Her emerald shoes match her eyeshadow. Maeva shakes her head, smiling at the next round of people to slither out of the snow.
"It is such an honor to meet you."
The man gushes in English, while his companion eyes the paintings with a disinterested look to his face. He offers a smile as his husband introduces him.
Maeva pops her dimples back, "that's very kind of you."
"No, no, kind of you to open up your gallery," he looks behind her, "I missed both shows last year, I insisted we fly over for this one."
Saria's brows rise. Maeva raises hers back, but smiles politely and sends the American couple into the party.
They are not the first foreigners to arrive, and certainly not the last. Screwdriver in hand, Maeva launches herself into endless conversation with seemingly endless people. Regular clients and well known collectors, critics, frantically excited students, and wide-eyed art lovers, throwing question after question at her about her techniques, her inspiration, her personal life. She keeps a steady flow of dimples, responses, and cheese tarts on her lips.
Saria pulls her away from overzealous guests when appropriate, keeps the snacks coming, and swallows nervously as Maeva introduces her to collectors and critics. A glance to the side shows the other art students goggling in envy. This was why students put up with the monstrous task of assisting Maeva Leroux—it made careers in the art world.
After the first hour, Maeva leaves Saria speaking about the evolution of abstracts with a British critic, and ventures toward the opening door. Amelia and Naila come through in a flurry of compliments and lips on cheeks.
"Yes, yes, everybody looks their loveliest," Maeva waves her hand away from them.
"Or sluttiest, if you happen to be Ame," Naila lifts the edges of her sable brows at the back of Amelia's dress.
"It's no sluttier than any dress here," Amelia sticks her tongue out of her lips, "it only admits it more freely."
"Say what you want," Maeva shrugs, "she won't be sexually frustrated tonight."
"Oh, because nothing hot ever happens to you, Mae," Naila plucks a champagne flute from a waiter and leaves a mauve lip print on the rim, brows sardonic, "not in the slightest."
"We aren't talking about that."
"I do believe its December fifth, is it not?" Amelia smirks.
"We are not talking about that," Maeva walks away, "see you when I'm sick of art lovers again."
They laugh and track down food as Maeva hurls herself back into her crowd of admirers. One critic brings up an upcoming award, and Maeva shrugs off his suggestion that she might be up for it again. She stands in front of her blood spatter paintings with a student and explains her process for painting it. Another hugely wealthy collector is introduced to Saria, making approving noises over her portfolio. Maeva returns to Amelia and Naila, gossiping about Naila's rival lawyers, and Amelia's nursing drama. Maeva submits a few dry comments, waiting for her screwdriver to work its way into her system. When it does, she goes to greet a well-known sculptor as he comes through the door.
"I didn't know you left your clay to trod lowly painter's parties," she offers her hand to him.
He takes her fingers in his, "oh, only the ones who beat me for awards. You know, somewhat approaching my level. Lucas."
"Maeva. But you knew that."
"Ah, so the stories are true about your attitude," Lucas leans in, "is it true you told the curator for the Met to go fuck himself?"
His soft Scottish accent brushes close to her face. He speaks good French despite it.
She flashes her dimples, "he tried to bargain with me. Do I look like I bargain?"
"Not in the slightest," he looks out to the gallery, "so, can I get the personal tour?"
"May as well assess the competition. Let's see how smart you are."
Lucas trails her through the gallery, and they attract a crowd of students, listening to them discuss the paintings with enthralled gazes. Maeva catches the American couple from earlier out the corner of her eye, the fascinated man still fascinated, with his bored husband still bored.
"I'm not sure how I feel about the shape of this," Lucas frowns at her rainforest piece, still trapped in a bidding war, "it looks quite structured for forest imagery, I would look for something looser in a piece like this."
Maeva gives him a long look over the rim of her glass, waiting. He gives her a waiting look back. It grows a bit nervous as she lowers her glass and twists her lips.
"Well, I'm inclined to disagree. I think a 'loose' heart is just about as useful as a flaccid cock, don't you?"
Lucas frowns, and then looks at the card beneath the painting, "ah. I see. This isn't really a rainforest at all, is it?"
A dimple pops on her cheek as she sighs, "and you were doing so well too."
He breathes a sigh back at her, and folds his arms over his suit.
"Well, it seems the media has pegged you on every crude, snarky level, hasn't it?"
"I would say so."
"What it did not mention was how lovely and ironic you would look sculpted in sugar, Miss Leroux," a flirty smile punctuates his words.
"The truest opposite of subject and medium," Maeva smiles back, to the delight of their onlookers, "are you asking me to sit for you, Mister Ainsley?"
"Yes, I do believe I am. Are you agreeing?"
She swirls her drink in her glass and smirks, "oh, I know an excuse to get me naked when I see one. Enjoy the party."
The crowd parts for her to leave Lucas shaking his fair head. She makes her way back through the crowd with minimal conversation, stopping to tilt her head into Amelia's.
"Attractive, horny male artist on your six. Strong hands, cleft chin."
Amelia wags her feathery brows at Maeva and Naila, "au revior,"
She kisses over her shoulder and prowls toward Lucas. Naila watches the yellow curls bounce down Amelia's bare shoulder blades.
"If you know he's horny, why are you siccing Ame on him instead of dragging him up to your studio now?" She sips her champagne, deep brown eyes flicking down to Maeva.
"I don't date other artists."
"Mhm, and you've been ruined for hooking up by rock stars, is that it?"
"Date is a term that encompasses one night stands," Maeva knows her voice is a bit too light, and sees Naila's eyes narrow, "I'm going to go touch up my lipstick. Keep an eye on Saria, will you?"
She leaves to the powder room without waiting for a reply. The mirror shows her a bit of smudging on her lower lip, and that the little kinks in her hair have grown more copious, giving it a snaky, twisted look over her shoulders. She grumbles defeat and smooths the edge of her bangs back into place, brushes on a new coat of lipstick, and returns the tube to her clutch.
When she steps out of the restroom, her skin ripples and she freezes. It is not from the faint breeze that comes through the propped gallery door. No, it is because Corin is leaning in the doorway, the picture of patience, staring at her with those intoxicating blue eyes.
__________________________________
A/N: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments!
Song Credits: None