by Anna Bloom
The delphinium blues glint and shine. “That’s exactly what we want.”
Chapter Nine
I push my chair back and it scrapes against the tiled floor. If I had the time to stop and look properly, I’d admire the intricate, Victorian—I would hazard a guess—pattern. “That’s not an installation.” I place my napkin on my empty plate. Lunch hasn’t even been served but I already know I shouldn’t be here.
Installing art behind closed doors and then walking away before it’s seen is one thing. What they’re suggesting is something else entirely—and that’s not happening.
“I’m sorry. I’m not the right person for this.” I turn to Peter, “I suggest you talk to Gerard.” Because I’m never going to talk to the cheating scum again. “And ask him to give you Meg’s contact details. She’s highly talented.” And loves an audience.
I turn to Jennifer. I wish I had pockets to shove my hands in. “Sorry I wasted your time. Thank you for showing me your beautiful home.”
A deep sensation of disappointment fills me as I turn away. I can’t bear to stop and pretend I’d ever consider staying somewhere working with the public watching me. It’s just not viable.
My work is deeply private. It comes straight from my heart, inspired by my scars and yearnings, my feelings.
I think of the cameo, the delicate etching inspired by Elijah. I go to turn back. To say sorry. Sorry for wasting his time. Sorry he took me for that drink and made an effort with me. Sorry I couldn’t offer what he wanted. But I don’t. I walk away.
“Hey.” Firm fingers grab the black chiffon of my sleeve. “Where are you running to?”
I turn with my stomach tangled in knots. Elijah is standing behind me, his hand sliding through his short hair. A deep crease runs between his eyebrows, and his gaze is full of worry. He still looks beautiful though, and it makes me slow my need to run. “I’m sorry, but there is no way I can work in front of people. Gerard knows that. I won’t even work in front of him; lectures and workshop time on campus are painful.”
“How do you tattoo people’s skin then?” His question makes me stop.
“What do you mean?”
“How can you tattoo people’s skin if you can’t work in front of people? How does that work?”
I frown. His change in direction takes the wind out of my sails. “That’s different. That’s just instinctive.” I pause. “How do you know?”
“I told you. Facebook is a wonderful place.”
Jesus, how long did he waste researching Facebook for boring facts about me?
“You need to get a life.”
His eyes settle on my face and it gives me an uneasy sensation down in the pit of my tummy. “I have one, thanks.”
“You aren’t the only one who can research.”
His eyebrow rises, and he smirks. I’d punch him if he was one step closer. “What have you been finding out?”
“Like, you’re engaged?” To a skinny social pariah.
The smirk drops, and he shrugs. “So?”
And so I’ve been obsessed with the colour blue for days, and it annoys the fuck out of me.
“Nothing.” I straighten and regain my composure. “Look, I need to go home; I’m going to Brighton tomorrow.”
He nods. “Can I show you something first?”
I hesitate. He’s kind of hard to say no to. “Okay, but it has to be quick.”
I step to the side and he points his hand down one of the fine gravel pathways. “This way.”
He leads us around some formal gardens, and through an old red bricked wall, an archway trailing with roses leads us into what seems to be a full and vibrant kitchen garden.
“Where are we going?”
We walk around a bricked low wall and enter what look like old outhouses. He twists a key
on the outside of a white door and pushes it open.
“Is this the cellar where you put naughty guests who don’t behave at lunch?”
He rolls his eyes, which I find a little too cute.
As I walk into the room, he hangs back and waits, his eyes on me.
“What is this?” My voice comes out breathless. I fold my hands across my chest to stop my fingers from shaking. Inside the room is a pretty white metal bed with cream bedding. French cream furniture is fitted over grey slate floors. A sheepskin lies on the floor next to the bed. But it’s the walls that are making my legs shake. The tone of dusky pink is the exact same as the roses across my skin.
“Is that why you wanted a picture of my tattoos?”
He smiles. “I don’t randomly request pictures of women’s tattoos. I’m not some weird collector of ink.”
I laugh, but it’s nervous and awkward. My skin reveals me as the weird collector of ink. Not him.
“How did you get this done?” I stutter. “And why?”
“I did it.” He gives me an offhanded shrug. “I just thought you’d like something pretty.”
“You thought the girl covered in tattoos would like something pretty?” It’s my turn to roll my eyes, but truth is, I love it. It’s beautiful. Clean, simple, elegant, and the colour of my roses. My roses. My freedom, my fresh start.
“There’s more.” He motions back down to the small hallway. The outhouse has a low uneven ceiling crossed with beams. Every so often Elijah has to duck to miss hitting his head. He opens the other doors down the hallway. Inside each one are individual studios. “No one is putting you on display, Faith. You’ve got your own workspace. It’s up to you if you open this up to the public. All we ask,”—he steps closer, the smell of his aftershave is intoxicating in the small space—“is that you come and see our visitors and tell them what you’re doing; why you’ve done what you have.”
“That’s all?” I tilt my head to the side.
“Can I be honest with you?”
Hell, will someone be honest with me! I burn with chagrin as I think of married Gerard Steers. Married?
“My mother would twist this and make it sound something it was never meant to be.” I read his face. “She’d make it into some media frenzy, but all I want is to get the local kids in and get them involved with art, give them somewhere to come for free where they can explore and create.”
“And you care about kids in art because…”
I’m being harsh. I don’t care.
He doesn’t answer. He just watches me, evaluating and reading.
“Shall I take you home?” He doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Yes, please.”
Chapter Ten
Warm air rushes through the train. It’s sunny, with a clear sky above, and pleasant to be outdoors, but the train is hot and cramped. Lots of people are here to escape from London for a day at the beach on a Sunday morning. In the double seat across from me, a child watches me, her dark eyes sweeping across my skin. She is mesmerised by the ink I have on show. Whirling patterns, leaves, petals, words, secrets. I give her a smile and a small wave, but her mum pulls her close. With a despondent sigh, I stare out of the window and watch the South Downs roll by. Soon we will be by the sea. Thousands of tourists all roasting to pink on the pebble beach, screaming and laughing on the pier.
Abi doesn’t know I’m on my way. It’s a surprise for her and the kids. Although it’s also a guilty retreat for me. I need a day away from London. I need to think.
Elijah Fairclough has managed to worm his way under my skin.
I want to scrape my fingers across thick blue paint.
I also want to kiss him; have his fingers against my ink. My hands in his hair.
What does he care about kids needing something to do during the holidays, those long summer weeks that stretch out in an endless golden haze? I remember those days.
Days spent reading, listening, sketching. Sketching dreams that would one day take physical form in clay beneath my fingers. Days filled with the hum of ink machines buzzing the air like a swarm of bees. The groans and curses of grown men wishing they’d never laid on the table.
&
nbsp; I wished I’d asked Elijah more. I left agitated and confused, and now I don’t have the right amount of information to make an informed decision. The ride back to London in his stunning MG crackled with a heavy atmosphere and neither of us attempted to lift it. He seemed frustrated as I exited the car.
I don’t know what he wants from me. To create art in front of people? I can’t do that. Sometimes I can’t even create it for myself.
My phone vibrates, so breaking eye contact with the curious child opposite, I root about in my bag.
Gerard Steers: How did you get on?
I frown. I can’t believe what Peter alluded to at lunch… I should just ask him. Are you married? Because if you are, I’m going to cut your knob off with a Stanley knife.
I put my phone back. I can’t believe he might be married. Not that it matters. Well, it does. But then, what of the other men I’ve slept with? I’ve never asked them. But then, I’ve never even talked to them, nothing more than a few niceties. It’s just physical, and most of the time I’m already over it before the act is even finished.
But Gerard’s my friend. My confidante. Someone who I trust, within the very limited allowance I give myself to trust.
The train pulls into the station and I’m happy to sit and wait for everyone to get off and start barging for the beach. There will be a scrum for space. Thank God, I’m not doing that.
When the carriage is empty, I grab my bag and jacket off the floor and step out. The lingering scent of salt and brine fills the air and I breathe in deep.
I can’t ever say I miss home because I no longer have a home to miss. Not bricks and mortar anyway. I won’t be walking down a pathway and sliding a key into a lock that contains my childhood memories. The house is still there, but the memories are evil demons and I won’t allow them to dance in my heart anymore. There is no longer a heart to dance in.
Instead, I turn in the opposite direction, knocking on a smart red door after a short walk through the back lanes.
For a moment, I wonder if there is anyone home, but then I hear the familiar slam of the back door. Abi opens the door, and I love watching her face drop in shock and little tears spring from the corners of her eyes. “You aren’t supposed to cry.” I smile.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” She grabs me in tight and pulls me over the threshold. Light splatters of water land on my shoulders.
“Hey.” I smooth a hand through her brown waves and lean back to check her face. “Are you okay?”
She squeezes me again. “I’m just pleased to see your ugly mug, that’s all.”
I chuckle, despite the odd wave of emotion that washes over me.
She turns and pulls me into the neat and tidy home. “Adam,” she screeches. “Look who’s home.”
I smile at her use of “home”. She’s my best friend and she will always be home to me.
“Are you going to stop by and see Al before you get the train back?” Abi puts another mug of tea down in front of me. I stroke Charlotte’s curls as she sleeps on my lap. Roger has gone to bed, but Charlotte fought sleep until the last minute, her eyes fluttering shut even as she adamantly told us she wasn’t sleepy.
It was cute with a dollop of adorable on top.
A seagull squawks as it flies overhead. It’s getting late. The long July evening is stretching out, but I know the train to London is calling. “Do you think he will still be up?” I ask.
“For you? Yes.”
I nod, and she points at my mug. “Drink your tea. I’ll come with you.”
An unsettled, unwelcome pinch pulls on my insides. I’m scared to see Al. What if he’s so sick I barely recognise him? What if it’s the last time I ever see him? I’m not ready for a last time yet.
Abi walks around the garden table and hangs her arms around Adam’s neck, dropping her chin onto his shoulder and kissing his earlobe. He squeezes her joined hands and pecks her cheek. “You take Faith, and I’ll sort the kids. We’ve still got to get the school uniform ready.”
Abi rolls her eyes and glares at me. “You see how rock-and-roll my life is, Faith? Bloody school uniform washing is all I have to get excited for at the weekend.”
I laugh and shake my head. These two, they are so damn loved up, so bloody perfect. I don’t understand how they met so young and made it work. While I fell apart, they found everything. I’m happy for them. I could never be that settled. Inside me, the twisted memories I run from won’t ever let me have anything like what they maintain together.
Adam lifts her arms over his head and comes over to where I’m sitting, lifting the sleeping mop-haired angel out of my arms.
I stand unwillingly, my legs moving as if they are wading through sea water thick with seaweed. Why don’t I want to see Al? He’s been my stabilising force my entire life.
I know why. It’s because I’m scared of saying goodbye.
Abi gives me a sympathetic smile and holds out her hand. “Come on, Faith.”
The house is in darkness. The flicker of a television screen flashing through the net curtains the only indication someone is home. I knock hesitantly. This is all so foreign. Al used to work all hours, his shop a hive of activity, sometimes until the early hours of the morning. Sometimes all night if his customer could withstand the pain for that long. Now he’s in bed? I should have called—announced my intended visit.
The door opens a crack, and I hold in a gasp as Dan peeks his head through the gap. God, he looks so tired. Worn and faded like a pair of much-loved jeans. “Faith?”
“Hey, Dan.”
He opens the door and steps forward, grabbing me tight. As close to me as any brother could be, we’ve grown up side-by-side. His smell washes over me. Strong soap and his hair wax mingle, pulling memories from deep within me.
The scruff on his cheeks scratches my face and his lips brush mine. A simple welcome. “What are you doing here?” He pushes a hand though his hair, making it stand in a tousled mess. My mind slips to a buzz cut and long fingers scratching through dark hair.
I nod my head behind me. “I came to check on this loser. Thought I’d better stop in and check on the other loser in my life.” I grin, but the stretch of my lips is like a dam holding back a torrent of water.
He steps back and makes room for us to enter. Abi slips through after me, closing the door behind her.
The lounge is in darkness. Scattered cans and pizza boxes decorate the coffee table top and some of the floor.
“Keeping the place nice, Dan.” I smile up at him and lean down to switch on a lamp. I kind of wish I hadn’t as the light illuminates the mess some more.
“Shut your face, Hitchin.” He grins though and leans in, wrapping his arms around me in a giant squeeze. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” I talk into his neck, and random tears threaten to spill. Once Dan could have been so much more than a lifelong friend. We were on the cusp of experimenting with new emotions and sensations when everything was destroyed.
I love him, though. But much to Al’s disappointment, I know the love will never be enough. Not for Dan. He deserves more.
“Want a beer?” He asks, turning for the kitchen. I follow him while Abi hangs behind, giving us some space.
“Yeah, thanks.” I slip my hands into the pockets of my denim shorts and lean a hip against the counter. The kitchen is cleaner than the lounge, but I’m not surprised. Clearly, food comes out of cardboard delivery boxes.
He hands me an open bottle and we click the necks together. “How are you?” I rest my eyes on his face before giving him a full body sweep.
Despite the tiredness smudging soft lines into his face, his body is still impressive. Smooth round muscles covered in ink. His T-shirt is tight, stretched across well-developed pecs.
“I’m okay. It’s good to see you.” He smiles and pushes his sandy hair out of his face. “I thought you were never going to come back.”
“It’s only for the day.”
He frowns. “It
must be nearly the summer holiday. Aren’t you coming home?”
I shake my head. “You know I can’t, Dan. I don’t want to see Dad. We have nothing to say to one another. And I don’t want to see…” I trail off. I can’t say the name. “I don’t want to be gossiped about.”
“It’s Brighton, it’s full of gossiping queens.” He pulls the face he always pulls when he thinks I’m being ridiculous. It’s all doh mixed with a bit of duh.
I grin. Sometimes I miss the sheer cattiness of the homosexual community. In London, everything is more proper, and diluted into the vast population.
“Anyway.” I change the subject from myself. “How’s Al?”
Dan’s face freezes for a moment before his lips curve into a smile that’s too small to mean anything. “Okay.”
“Where is he?”
“Asleep upstairs.”
“Would you rather I didn’t wake him?” I watch him carefully. “You look like you could do with some sleep yourself.”
He smiles that rueful grimace I know so well. “What you saying? Don’t I look as handsome as normal?”
“Always.” I snigger. “Always.”
I place my now empty bottle on the side. Abi is moving around the lounge and I can sense her cleaning—there is no way she can ignore that level of mess. She’s probably been desperate to get in here and help for weeks; at least me talking to Dan has given her an opening. “I’m going to pop up and see him.”
“Okay.” Dan nods but doesn’t meet my eyes.
I work my way up the wide stairs. It’s a nice house, comfortable but not flashy. Al’s done well out of his skill with an ink machine, but he’s never been rolling in it. I’m guessing Dan must be earning well, now he’s taken over the running of the shop. I don’t think I can ask though. I was the one who ran away to London. Not that I had much choice.
I slip into the front bedroom. The sun still hasn’t set, but the shadows of dusk creep across the grey carpet, heralding the late hour.