When the artist returned home it was as if the whole of Paris knew about it. He was accepted back into the warm arms of the women he’d neglected for a year and he was given some interesting offers from all of them. Some he wanted to follow up but many he wasn’t interested in. He’d missed the gaggle of women that fawned over him. It was an enormous ego boost and if it wasn’t for the fact that his mother wasn’t prepared to let him go to Beauxbatons then they wouldn’t have felt so neglected. The artist had every intention of making it up to the girls though. Especially his favourites.
It was now mid-morning and Eli was feeling the weight of the night before on his shoulders. The girls had whisked him off as soon as they all shared hugs and kisses, to a bar that all of the artists went to. Claire disdainfully filled him in that it was the place all of the artists went to after having sex with the models and only getting half of the painting done, if that. Eli remembered rolling his eyes at that. The one thing he prided himself on was actually being able to finish the painting before getting to the more enjoyable part. Not that painting didn’t bring him joy but the models weren’t really there to sit and look pretty. They were, in essence, glorified prostitutes but if you called them out on that then you’d get your ass kicked from Paris to New York.
Of course, after charming the socks off of one of the girls he’d taken her home and engaged in his favourite pastime. It had been pure lust from what Eli could remember of it. The only bit of the night he actually remembered was when his manager burst in unannounced, woke the both of them up, shooed her out and tried to get Eli to talk art with him. The Bulgarian had been angrier at him for chasing the girl away then waking him up but that was beside the point. After making several commitments he shooed the man away and collapsed back into bed. Bloody man could never leave him alone. Never ever got the message.
Eli was more or less awake now. He was perched on his paint-splattered stool, he had a cigarette in his mouth, music was playing and he was absentmindedly sketching. It was if his morning ritual had been abandoned for the day. He couldn’t be bothered with it if he was going to be honest. He was groggy, slightly hung-over and was more than happy to chain smoke all day. Bloody French and their cheap cigarettes; oh how he loved them. Eli didn’t think anyone would want to visit him that morning. If he went down to the park then that was on his head. He didn’t want a model today, blow them. They were always easily chased away anyway. Then again, Arnold was pretty creepy.