Nine
My office looked like a circus tent. All the walls were now covered in garishly bright stripes, the elegant cream-colored armchairs had been replaced by two semi-circular, red velvet sectionals, and Ferrero stood in the center like a ringleader directing the placement of two mannequins and a golden sculpture of a poodle standing on his front paws. A standard poodle.
I took one look and turned to run.
Unfortunately, Ferrero had keen eyesight.
“My muse,” he called out.
Shoulders slumped in resignation, I walked into my office to face the disaster.
“Where have you been all morning?” he chided.
“Errands,” I said dismissively, hoping he would drop the topic, “I am a very busy woman.”
He waved both soft hands in front of his face. “No more,” he clucked. “From now on you are only my
