𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 ; tommy shelby

10 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞

10.

        Emma lay sprawled on a blue velvet loveseat, her damp mane of golden-blonde hair trickling down over her bare shoulders as she smoked a cigarette. She wore a long, white dress, wet from jumping into the fountain a moment ago, that clung to her body and a pair of dangly pear earrings. Henry, a struggling but immensely talented painter who lived in central Paris with his artist flatmates, painted her with a meticulous but admiring hand.

She had been Henry's muse since she had met him in her hotel's bar a month ago when she arrived in Paris. He'd invited her back to his studio and hadn't stopped painting her since. The problem was, Emma had grown bored of life as a muse, and had only gone to Paris out of boredom in the first place.

"I want to paint you forever," Henry said shakily.

Emma rolled her eyes, stubbing out her cigarette. She wanted Tommy back. He was the only person who entertained her nowadays, and since meeting him, nobody had quite excited her as he did. No. She couldn't sit here for one more second.

She stood up abruptly, and ignoring Henry's flinch at her movement, strode over to look at the painting. He wasn't even past her shoulders, although he had sketched the outline of her form.

"I have to go," she told him. "I don't think I'll be back for a while."

"But... the painting," he protested.

The whole room was littered with paintings, mostly of Emma, he could do without one more.

"There's something so romantic about an unfinished painting, don't you think?" she said, pulling a tweed suit jacket over her sopping wet white dress, and picking up her bag.

Henry looked up at her from his artist's stool, as if she'd said something quite profound, and gaped as she sashayed towards the door.

"Au revoir," she called as she left.

Emma floated through the sunny streets of Paris in her wet dress and jacket, heading for the train station. She passed a little cafe outside the station that had a postcard stand under the awning. On the top row was a pretty photograph with the Eiffel tower on that read 'Paris, La Tour Eiffel'.

Emma picked it up and scrawled Tommy's address onto the back with a pen she had in her bag, planting a red-lipstick kiss on the card. Before the shopkeeper could notice she hadn't paid, the woman stuck a stamp on it and stuffed it into the nearest postbox. She was going home.