by Anna Bloom
“And I’ve been Facebooking.”
“Facebooking? The baroness’ son is on Facebook?” I chuckle under my breath. “What is your title? If your mum is a baroness, what does that make you?”
He turns, his smile enigmatic. “Elijah, it makes me Elijah.”
He flicks the indicator and turns into a small car park lined with rose bushes. I lean closer, peering through the windscreen. The roses are a similar colour to the ink on my chest: dusky pink and cream.
“I saw your tattoos and thought of this place.”
“You didn’t plan to come here?”
He shrugs but neither of us move to get out of the parked car. “I change my mind frequently.”
That sounds dangerous. I swallow hard and reach my hand for the chrome handle.
“Why?” I ask.
“It’s just who I am.”
The lapis blues meet mine. Message received perfectly clear.
Like a scolded child, I want to take back every giggle I’ve bestowed on him.
Chapter Six
“Why London? You could have gone to so many other places to study Art? Couldn’t you have stayed in Brighton, even?”
“What have you been looking at on Facebook?”
He smiles over the rim of his coke. The barmaid had known him by name when we came in. I tried not to let the fact irk me as I’d stood and ordered my wine. It wasn’t any of my business anyway. “Nothing, really. It’s clear you only have contacts in Brighton, and a few from London. Gerard Steers being one of them.”
His gaze makes me squirm on the hard, wooden chair.
“You know, you could have friend requested me instead of just lurking and judging my friends and contacts.”
“We aren’t friends, though.”
I take a sip of wine. “No, we aren’t.”
“I could, though.”
I shrug. “You could.”
“Would you accept?” There’s teasing in his smile.
Another shrug. “Maybe. It depends how busy I am.”
“I looked through your portfolio.” His change in conversation blindsides me. “You are exceptionally talented.”
I flush, but my instant reaction to protect myself flares into action. “Thanks. Are you an expert?”
He shrugs and makes it look far cooler than I do. “So, what do you do with your time?”
“Stuff.”
“Stuff? That sounds vastly entertaining.”
“I manage to keep myself amused.”
Sure you do. God, this man is making me regress to teenagehood. Is there such a thing as teenagehood? If there is, I’m hurtling towards it at a great rate.
“So… you and Gerard. How long have you been friends?”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “Peter is Gerard’s friend.”
The pointed way he says it makes me frown.
“Well, he’s been good to me. He’s made me stay the course when I could have left so many times.”
“Course he has.” Elijah’s face hardens.
“What does that mean?”
He spreads his hands and shrugs again. “Don’t mind me, it’s schoolboy history. Oh, and call me Eli, please.” He smiles broadly, and I stare, my eyes open wide. That smile… have I ever seen anything like it? “Elijah makes me feel like I’ve stepped right out of the bible.”
“Highly religious, are we?”
He gives a small shake of his head. “You’re like a razor.”
“Don’t get too close then,” I retort.
His face falls flat, all signs of joking evaporating. “I won’t.”
“Good,” I say. Whether I mean it or not I don’t know.
“Tell me about the roses.”
My hand flutters to the skin under my collarbone. “There isn’t much to tell. Before I came to London I fancied something pretty.”
“Who did them?”
“My uncle.”
“Wow, that’s a delicate hand for a man.”
“I drew them.” I blush. I don’t know why. He’s had my portfolio for two days, it’s not like he doesn’t know what my drawings look like. These are different though; they are mine and on my skin.
His gaze burns hotter than the pen used to draw and colour them. “How did he get the blending like that?”
“A nine pin needle.” I’m exposed under his scrutiny and I pull my jacket together, cutting off his view. It doesn’t help. That unsettling blue drifts to my face like he can read everything there.
“Will you come to see Bowsley? See if you think it could work for you.”
My shoulders sag. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime, so why does it seem so dangerous? “And you don’t live there?” My face scorches.
He grins. “Am I so awful that’s the deciding factor?”
“Yes, that exactly.” I giggle again—someone get me a training bra please.
“I don’t live there; can’t think of anything worse.”
“You don’t need to make my decision not to come any easier.”
“My mother lives there—”
“When she’s not sipping sherry at The Ritz,” I interrupt.
That gaze brightens on my face again. “Well remembered. She’s um, determined.”
“In what way?”
“In the way that we should all be doing the right thing. Marriage, children, heirs to the family name.”
I blanch. “Married? How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Four years older than me. Why am I even working that out?
“Tell her to worry when you’re forty-eight and still driving around town in that chick catcher car.”
He laughs so loudly the rest of the pub garden turn to look. “Chick catcher?”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “You know what I mean.”
He holds his hands. “Guilty as charged, apparently.”
“I’ll come.” The decision is made.
“Thank you.” We watch one another, and I study the profile of his face.
“You know, if you turn to the side.” Leaning across the table, I tilt his face so the soft rays of the setting sun land along his nose and the tip of his chin. “You look like one of those beautiful cameo brooches the Victorians used to wear.”
He turns, my fingers still on his chin. Is it me or is his skin alarmingly hot?
“Aren’t they usually female profiles?”
I shrug, my hand still on his face. “Let’s not be sexist about it.”
His lips turn at the edges. “You just called me beautiful.”
I drop my hand. “I did not.”
He laughs, his shoulders rising and falling. “You did. You called me beautiful.”
Glaring, I narrow my gaze into a steely look. “I’d better go home before I change my mind about Bowsley.” I drain my glass.
I can’t sit here on this bench any longer.
In an hour with Elijah Fairclough, I’ve spoken more words to someone of the opposite sex than I have for five years—excluding Gerard. Normally there aren’t any words at all.
It’s been three days since my unexpected but short drink with Elijah Fairclough. I thought maybe I’d hear from him about visiting Bowsley.
Gerard’s been forgiven. Not because everything is all hunky dory, but mainly because I need him to help look at my pieces and decide which ones might be good enough for Bowsley. I’ve nearly finished with the marble, but it’s not what I intended to do with it—nowhere even close.
My phone rings and I see Abi’s face on the screen. “Hey, you.”
I give her an enthusiastic smile and shuffle myself around to hide the three sheets of blue silk I’ve hung from the ceiling.
I’m obsessed with the colour. And I can’t stop thinking about Elijah—no matter how hard I try.
“Why are you smiling? What man was it, and what did you do to him?” she quizzes.
“Why do you always think there’s a man involved?” I plop down on the small sofa and grab my packet of cigarette
s. Sliding one out, I light it quick.
“Normally you only smile when you are on a sex come down. You’re basically like a praying mantis who needs to eat males.”
“I am not a stick insect.” I chuckle and suck in a lungful of smoke.
“You know what I mean. You’ve always been like this. You’re a predator: no feelings, no attachments, just sheer pleasure.”
I screw my face up and remember the guy from the bar the previous week. I’m not going to tell her there wasn’t much I found pleasurable about that. Why ruin her high expectations?
“What you up to this evening?” I change the subject away from my sex life.
“Oooh, it’s Friday. So, uh, I think I will stay at home and watch the telly.”
“Can’t you get a babysitter and go out somewhere? You are allowed to have fun.”
“We can’t all be single and shagging our way around London, in some free-wheeling display of independence.”
I frown and drag on my smoke. Seriously is that what she thinks I do all the time?
“Listen, I saw Al yesterday.”
My chest tightens. Abi has her serious face on. The one I don’t like. “Yes?”
“He’s not looking good, Faith.”
“What do you mean by good exactly? I talked to him the other day and he seemed fine.” I run my finger over my lightning bolt, my heart pinching a little into a sharp ache.
“He’s weak. You can just see his body is giving up.”
“So why isn’t he in hospital? Getting treatment… help?”
Abi’s eye is steady on the camera. “It’s too late for that. Dan says he just wants to live while he can.”
The blood in my veins runs cold. I can’t imagine making that decision. Can’t imagine saying the words “That’s it, it’s my time.”
“How is Dan?” I light another cigarette, knowing I’m being ridiculous doing so when I’m talking about one of my favourite people of all time succumbing to cancer.
“He’s okay. Says the shop’s keeping him from worrying too much. But I think he’s struggling.” Underneath her innocent statement are unspoken words. I should come back and help… I shouldn’t leave them all like this.
How can I not? I can’t be there. Not now.
“What they going to do when he gets worse?”
“Dan says Al has chosen a hospice.”
God, I want to be sick. I want to wash away in a sea of tears, never to surface again. What’s the point of living if it all comes down to this?
“Have you really not got any plans for the weekend?”
Abi offers me a little smile. “Wine, television, family time, and maybe some sex with my husband. I’m content with that.”
A little stab digs deep in my stomach. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have sex with the same person time and time again. It’s the one rule I will never break.
“You should try monogamy some time, it’s not all bad.” Abi cracks a grin.
“Who, me?” I laugh. “One guy, forever? Please just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
She chats about her children for a while. “Anyway, what’s the latest with you?”
“Well, I’m going to see Bowsley Hall tomorrow.”
Abi chuckles. “Wow, I still can’t believe you are considering living in a stately home for weeks.”
I grin back, my smile for my friend growing from the inside out, genuine and honest. “I can be a lady.”
Abi howls laughing. “Okay, Lady Hitchin.”
I giggle. We say our goodbyes and end the call. Standing, I turn and find the angled free-standing mirror. In my denim cut offs and scrappy vest, with my stories on my skin I am very, very far from being a lady. And that’s a good thing. I’ll go surprise Abi on Sunday. It’s only a train ride, and I want to see Al. It’s as though time is ticking too fast and it won’t slow down. But he’s my champion, the one who’s always had my back, and I can’t allow my time with him to pass. I can ignore those I don’t want to see, those with distrust in their eyes, just so I can spend time with those I care about.
I still haven’t decided how I feel about Bowsley. Whether it’s a ridiculous mistake, or is an opportunity not to be missed.
I slip on some espadrilles and grab my bag and keys. I need to go shopping for something to wear tomorrow. And I need to get laid. Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about Elijah Fairclough.
I check all my appliances are off, and glance at the remaining marble. A fine sliver of marble, sanded until it’s nothing more than shell thick, holds an etched profile of a delicate sloped nose and a high brow. It’s the most fragile thing I’ve ever made. I won’t be able to hand it in, though—it’s too far from my style, from the coursework I’ve created to go with it. It was supposed to be a solid piece, not a glorified item of jewellery. On a whim, I pick it up and place it on my bookshelf. Then I turn and go to find the smog of London, some new clothes, and hopefully a release from the unsettled sensation in my chest.
Chapter Seven
It only takes me an hour to find a pleated, black, ankle-length chiffon skirt. The material is see-through, but underneath is a shorter underskirt. The material is just dark enough that the pictures on my thighs won’t show. Not that I particularly care.
I found a matching blouse with a cute collar I’ll be able to tuck in. Pleased, I head back to the apartment. There isn’t anything at the studio left for me to work on. Only the mess I’ve created with that damn marble. What was I thinking?
I wonder if the guy with the surfer blonde hair found his friends again? It had been easy to walk into one of the packed bars of Covent Garden and find a random and take advantage.
Maybe I am a praying mantis?
My phone vibrates, so stopping in a doorway I check out the message. I know I only spoke to Abi this morning, but every time my phone makes a noise, my heart leaps into my mouth thinking it could be the call I never want to arrive.
It’s a Facebook notification. Pressing it and opening the app, I hold the phone closer to see who it’s from.
Eli Jones.
I don’t know an Eli Jones. There isn’t a profile picture, so I click on his ‘friends’. There are only five and none of them are anyone I know. But I do know an Elijah. His words come into my mind. Call me Eli. Then there was our conversation about Facebook friends. Would you accept?
Is that why he’s Facebooking me? To find out the answer? But then maybe it’s about tomorrow. I accept the request and shove my phone back into my bag. It’s hot and sticky, and I want to go home for a shower.
The water does its trick, washing away my London encounter and the grime of the city. When I come out, I wrap myself in my giant bath towel and open the lounge windows. I love this building, it’s perfect. Art deco and with wonderful windows, it might be tiny but it’s a little slice of architectural perfection. Overlooking the Thames from the south, I’d fallen in love on the spot. What the rooms lack on cubic square feet, the ceiling makes up for in height and vaulting. I could never have afforded this in my wildest dreams, but when Al gave me the chance to work in his shop to save money for my escape to London, I saved every penny. Men pay a lot to be tattooed by someone like me. I sometimes wonder if they get an erotic kick out of my inflicting pain on them. Oh well, I don’t care if they pay well.
I light a cigarette and grab my phone. A Facebook message is on the home screen.
Eli Jones: I decided to stop stalking.
I roll my eyes and drag on my smoke.
Faith Hitchin: Thanks. I feel so much safer now.
I go to throw my phone onto the sofa, but it beeps before I have a chance.
Eli Jones: I’ve increased your London friends by 50%
Well that’s damn rude.
Faith Hitchin: Don’t do me any favours.
Eli Jones: Actually, can you do me a favour? Can you send me a screen shot of your roses?
I stare at the screen. Can I do what exactly?
Faith Hitchin: I am not sending you
a picture of my chest.
Eli Jones: I’m not a pervert. I just need to see the colour.
Faith Hitchin: Why?
I’m going to send him a get-the-hell-lost-you-weirdo response, or maybe I’m going to just shut off my phone and ignore his random request. Or perhaps I will take a picture of the roses along my collarbone and send it.
Yes. I’ll do that.
I don’t hear back. Nothing.
Well, that was weird, and don’t I feel like a dick for sending him a picture of my skin.
I grab my laptop and Google Elijah Fairclough. If he was being serious the other day and his older brother Peter is something in line to the throne—how completely ridiculous—then surely there’s got to be something about the younger brother on the net. Everything’s on there isn’t it? If Elijah had had the foresight, he could have Googled rose tattoos with Brighton and it probably would have bought up some image floating around of my roses. Al’s a bugger at spreading his work, especially when he’s proud of something.
I light another cigarette and squint at the screen. My glasses are over the other side of the room, and even when dressed in only a towel and completely by myself, I like to maintain my vanity.
Some younger images of Elijah flash up. His hair’s longer, less severe, but those eyes are the same. I zoom in. What colour are they? Now I look closer I’m not sure if they are Lapis… What do they remind me of? I open another tab in Google and type in porcelain. Images flash up of blue on cream. The blue is vibrant, but it’s not quite right. Another tab and I type in Wedgewood. That’s too pale, too wishy-washy. Not piercing enough.
In the end, and cringing as I realise I’m the worst artist in the world I type vivid blue flowers.
I scroll the results knowing I will see what I want when I see it. I can get like this, I hate not knowing something, especially when it’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
Then I see them. Tall and brilliant, a bunch of delphiniums. That’s the blue. Delphinium blue.
I flick back to the tab with the images of Elijah and then to the one with the flower. Yes, that’s definitely it.
I read some of the words on the screen, but my eyes constantly wander back to the pictures. There are numerous photos of him at racecourses, normally with a blonde on his arm. Not always the same blonde.