Tribar Mews meanders just shy of two furlongs south of the High Street; about half-way down it doglegs to the right. A few doors in on the left lies
The Mitred Abbess,
the local for the neighbourhood working classes. Hard by the end, still on the left, sits
The Slap and Tickle
, magnet for fun-loving uni students from the surrounding boroughs. These two public houses occupy four converted stables, but across the way
The Fleeting Muse
fills only two, one each above and below the dogleg.
The pub signs, per common practice, hint at the source of the names. The stern image of a stout female cleric attired as a bishop graces The Mitred Abbess
, whilst
The Slap and Tickle
boasts a colourful painting from the waist up of a toothsome wench with her hands in the air, sporting a look of delighted surprise.
The Fleeting Muse
shows aught but what appears to be an unfinished sketch of someone swanning off in the distance.
-§§§-
It was a typical slow Wednesday afternoon in The Fleeting Muse. Perhaps a third of the tables were occupied by two or three women of varying ages and sizes, dressed a touch closer to evening than business. At the far end of the bar, two mid-30s men were doing their best to avoid notice. The soft hum of conversation flowed and ebbed, occasionally punctuated by the click-clack of heels as a woman navigated to the bar for another glass of wine or half of cider.
One group was different to the others. Not far from the hallway to the toilets two tables were pushed together, holding the drinks and mobiles of eight women, a mixed bag of young to not-so-young, slender to stouter, pretty to plain. Occasional theatric groans or giggles punctuated conversations at the other tables, but the talk here remained subdued, the faces solemn.
This was the weekly gathering of those assigned as muse to writers who posted nothing but comments on Loving Wives stories written by others. Commonly held to be the prima donnas of the commentariat, their contributions ranged from the occasional single word, such as
Great!
—but more commonly
Garbage!
—to essays of seven or eight hundred words, sometimes even longer, that pointed out flaws in the plot or defects of the characters, usually in excruciating detail.
Some also cast aspersions on the skill, intelligence, and/or morality of the author; a few went so far as to tell what the characters actually did but lied about, regardless of what the author wrote or even intended. The most offensive comments were usually posted anonymously, but those cowardly souls were not assigned a muse; they obviously needed no inspiration, let alone encouragement.
One morose muse drained her glass and put it down a bit harder than she had intended. "It's bloody embarrassing, that's what it is. These other dollies are all about their guy's latest Romance that got over 100 comments the first day or the Mother-Son Incest ripper that had over 100.000 views in a week. Now, I ask you, what am I supposed to say? 'Crikey, is that all? My fella made over 30 comments just yesterday, four of 'em on the same story!' Not bloody likely, is it?"
She waited for the obligatory nods and words of understanding, then stood. "I'm having another shandy. Anyone else want something? The others declined. As she headed for the bar, one of the not-so-young muses noisily sighed. "She'll learn, won't she? I've had no success with my 'fella'"—she crooked her fingers in air quotes—"going on 15 years now." She took a long drink from her pint. "But I'll keep at it. It's our duty, isn't it?"
The others offered desultory replies to the effect that yes, it's disappointing, but what's one supposed to do, one must work with what one's given, musn't one? Just as the frustrated young one returned with her shandy, a tall, elegantly gowned woman wearing a wreath of ivy walked up to the group, her face breaking into a wicked grin.
"Well, well, well, is it Wednesday again already? My, how the time flies. What's new, ladies? Read any good Loving Wives stories lately?" She laughed—actually more of a cackle—at her barb, then turned mock serious and addressed the buxom brunette at the far end of the tables who had recently sighed. "Still no luck, Clio? You must be getting pretty discouraged by now. What's it been, 10 years?"
"Almost 15. I just don't know what to do, Thalia. He writes well, has a lot of good story ideas, but never completes one, just tosses off these comments on other writers' stories. They're often nasty, sometimes very nasty. He can't let go just patching off about a story, he often says rude things about the author, then some of the other blokes start bashing him. It's mortifying, that's what it is. I do the best I can, but..." She trailed off, near tears.
Thalia neither looked nor sounded sympathetic. "Have you ever snogged with him at high noon on the High Street, Clio? Left your knickers at home and gone dancing with him? Served him paté on your tits? Sucked his dick? Given him your back door?"
Clio was incensed. "Well I never—"
"There you go, ducks, figured you hadn't. No wonder he acts the trog."
"You're saying if I did such low things he might...could actually write and publish a story?"
"Got it in one, love. Who knows, you may discover that those things aren't so 'low'—more air quotes—"as you imagine. Godess knows, girl, you might even find that you like them."
