by Anna Bloom
What a fucking bitch. I’m tempted to screw her grandsons now out of spite.
I slam into my room and throw myself onto the bed. I don’t know why her words burn so bad. For the last six years I’ve been giving people what they see. What difference does it make if some old woman calls me on it?
It matters because Elijah has been good to me. The last week he’s helped me, he never asked questions. Never wanted to know why I’m running away from my degree. He’s just packed and lifted boxes.
I lift my hips and slide my phone out of my back pocket.
Faith Hitchin: Where were you?
I stare at the ceiling and wait for his answer to vibrate but it doesn’t come. I don’t know why it hurts.
Unable to lie still and sulk, I roll off the bed and head down to one of my workshop rooms and shut the door firmly behind me. There are rows of materials along a rack of shelves and impulsively I tug out a box of earthenware clay mix. I pool some from a pitcher and mix until the texture is a little on the wet side. My fingers delve into the pliable substance, and I relish the familiarity of it under my fingernails even though I’m in this strange house.
My phone beeps and I glance at it on the side.
Eli Jones: Sorry. I was called to London.
I don’t answer. I’m too busy sensing my way around the lump of thickening clay with my fingers.
Eli Jones: Sorry about my grandmother. She’s on a different planet to the rest of us.
I scowl at the screen and then turn my back. I close my eyes and let my hands get to work, forgetting where I am and what the hell I’m doing here.
Chapter Thirteen
The touch, when it comes, is passing, innocent. For a moment, I’m not sure if I imagined it. My brain tells me it’s a hug, nothing more. Hugs are normal in our house; we have them in abundance with lots to share. My hands are in the bubbly water. Foam seeps up to my elbows as I grasp for a slippery plate. I grip the sponge in my other hand; ready to wash away the gravy, and remnants of mash potato. The squeeze starts at my shoulders—a hand on my shoulder, kneading the top of my arm. I smile, grinning. Dinner was good—fun. It’s nice when the house is full, and laughter fills the air.
The hand slides down my arm, the grip still firm. Then the thumb grazes along the side of my boob, the small swell of softness.
At first, I think it’s an accident. But I can’t turn to check. I’m frozen as the hand runs back along the same path.
It’s not an accident.
I don’t say a thing, just carry on washing the dishes, and after a moment of holding my breath the hand moves.
I wake in sweat, my legs and arms thrashing against unwanted touches, and blankets. It takes a moment for me to remember where I am. To remember that I’ve run once again; this time, to a room with dusky pink walls.
It takes another moment for my pulse to calm enough so I can sit up, and I push my hair out of my face. It’s dark outside, so it must be past ten. I didn’t mean to drop off to sleep when I came back into the pink room. I worked for ages with the clay, twisting and turning it, allowing it to morph into an expression of my feelings—my frustration.
I slip my feet into my trainers and pull a baggy sweatshirt over my camisole. The jumper is so big, it covers my shorts as well. I’m hungry. I didn’t go to dinner as I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Connie Fairclough and her sharp tongue again.
I open my door and head down the hallway. I’m sure people are still up; not everyone is asleep by eleven o’clock being tormented by their demon nightmares.
I don’t see anyone, and I technically don’t know where the kitchen is. Irrelevant of my lack of direction, I creep along the silent hallways. This would be the perfect moment to explore; no one else would be around watching my reactions. I stay on track, though. If I’m going to keep skipping dinner due to rude family members, I’d better find out where I can scrounge food.
I follow all the places where I’ve seen Jennings hovering. He always knows when food is served; I’m guessing he knows where it comes from.
Eventually, when I’ve headed towards the yet unexplored back of the house, I find a dark wooden door with Kitchen written on an enamel nameplate.
Well, that only took about twenty minutes. Just as well I’m not malnourished and on my last legs. I push through, already decided on just getting a quick snack and then going straight on a mission back to my bed.
I stop with a jump when I see someone sitting at a massive wooden kitchen table. At first, I think it’s Jennings—maybe he’s not allowed to go to bed? But then the delphinium blues lift and rove over my face, my sweatshirt, my legs.
I hesitate in the doorway. I can’t help but wonder what’s going on. This morning he was here, then he was gone—just in time for me to get insulted by his gran—and now he’s back… my gaze drops to the table… back and drunk.
In his hand is a tumbler full of amber liquid, and in front of him—the only thing on the table—is a bottle of whisky with a label I can’t pronounce.
I hover, suspended, while his eyes sweep over the tattoos on my thighs. When they rise to my face, I can’t decipher the emotion locked within their depths. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“Hard day?” I motion at the bottle.
“You could say that.” He pauses for a moment, drifting deep into thought. “Want one?”
I shrug and step up to the table and pull out a chair, telling myself he doesn’t look all kinds of levels of serious hot. He does. God, he does.
White shirt rolled at the sleeves and pushed up to the elbow, he’s wearing a navy waistcoat. God can this man rock a suit. “You look nice,” I say, without thinking.
He turns to face me while his eyes wander thoughtfully over my face. Without a word, he gets up from his chair and opens a cupboard, pulling a short glass from within its depths. He doesn’t bother with ice, just splashes some of the honey coloured liquid into the glass.
“I’m rather drunk,” he announces as I take a tentative sip.
“Any reason why?” I tuck my legs up and pull my sweatshirt down over my knees, balancing the glass on top.
“Family issues.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “Now I’ve met your family that doesn’t surprise me at all.”
A slow smile lifts one side of his cheek, and that gorgeous dimple flashes. “I can’t believe she said that to you.”
“She’s a character.”
He concentrates on the shape of my knees under the material of my jumper. “I can’t believe you said that back. Surely you’d pick me instead of Peter?”
I take a moment to check he’s only joking. The slow smile and dimple allow me to let out the breath I’m holding. “It was a hard choice, but on the wire, I couldn’t decide.”
He chuckles and takes a deep sip of his drink.
“So why are you solo drinking in the kitchen?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t have anyone else to drink with.”
“Don’t you have friends you could have gone out with in London? Or, you could have come and asked me.” He seems kind of sad and lonely sitting in the kitchen by himself. I would have sat with him.
“We aren’t friends though, are we?” He twists his glass around, his long fingers rolling it this way and that.
“Well, no.” As cryptic as he’s been so far, there is something about him that I like. I really like. And I don’t say that about many people. My thoughts of him are living under my skin, morphing into my newest obsession. “But we could be… maybe.”
“Why did you sleep with Gerard Steers?”
My eyes narrow to slits. “Who said I did?” I shoot back my whisky and swallow as it reaches the back of my throat.
“It was written all over your face at lunch the other week.” He taps his head. “It wasn’t hard for me to work out why you didn’t want to finish your degree.”
I drop my face and stare at the table top. “I trusted him, and he lied.”
Elijah doesn’t ans
wer but pours himself another drink which he then tosses back. He really is on a mission for a headache.
“I don’t trust many people.” I hesitate before allowing the truth to slip out into the still kitchen. “And he betrayed that.”
“By having an affair with his student? I’d say the betrayal was obvious on many levels.”
I shake my head, my cheeks flaming. “It wasn’t an affair. But I allowed him to stay around, to talk, to be my friend.” There goes that word again.
“So why are you so hurt, if it wasn’t an affair?”
I nibble on my lip. The whisky burns in my veins and warms me up from the inside out. “I only ever sleep with someone once.” I can’t believe I’ve said this out loud, and I smack my hands over my face, covering my lips. He watches me expectantly, like he’s expecting me to finish the bombshell I’ve just dropped—and just like that I do. He pulls it from me with the power of those blues alone. “I don’t normally wait around to make small talk and be friends afterwards.”
He raises his head to meet my gaze. He’s probably judging me, reading between the lines of what I’m saying. I meet his look defiantly.
“You only sleep with someone once.” His voice is a low murmur, and it does something to my stomach, making it flip and flop with every word he mutters.
“I think we should focus the conversation on your solo whisky drinking.” My tipple is firing the blood in my veins, and when he pours me a fresh one I know I shouldn’t have it. “I haven’t eaten enough for this,” I say. I tip the glass in his direction.
“Because of my grandmother?”
I shake my head although I’m not going to outright lie and say I was eager to meet her again. “I was working.”
“Working?”
He leans forward, his eyebrows lifting. “Am I allowed to see?”
“Possibly.” I smile slightly, my throat burning from the drink.
“Why are you scared of intimacy?” His change of conversational direction again floors me. We never seem to be talking about the same thing for longer than two minutes.
“I’m not.” I bristle, taking another sip of my drink. I’m going to be outrageously drunk soon and then I might dive straight into those deep blues and never surface again. Shut up, Faith, you bloody idiot.
A shudder crawls over my skin at the word “intimacy”. All I can think of is inappropriate touches and hands I can’t escape from. The hairs on my arms stand on end and Elijah watches them transfixed.
“But you only sleep with people once. How do you learn them? Enjoy them?”
His question blindsides me. “What’s to enjoy?” I blurt.
He frowns, his dark brows knitting together. Slowly, his eyes focus on my face and he lifts a hand to trace a finger along the edge of my cheek. “That’s an incredibly sad statement.”
“Don’t judge me.” I bat his hand away. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me. I’m just hired by your family for a couple of weeks. I’m not here to be laughed at.”
There’s a small shake of his head and an even smaller smile. “I’m not laughing.” He drops his hand and falls back in his seat, reaching for the bottle. “What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
I snort and pour myself another ill-advised drink once he’s let go of the bottle. “An open book? You are not even close. I don’t know a single thing about you, apart from the fact you restored a classic MG.”
“Maybe it’s because it’s all so very dull, it’s not worth telling.” His lip curls into a sneer, but I know it’s internalised and not directed at me.
I sit forward a little, close enough that his whisky breath fans across my face. “I doubt that.” I wave my hand at the room but meaning the house outside of the room. “Wasn’t this your idea? Didn’t you want to set something up for the community?”
He snorts and his gaze levels with mine. “People like us should give something back.”
“People like who?” He’s not making much sense, but I don’t know if it’s because he’s drunk or I am. The alcohol burns my stomach and I tug my sweatshirt down lower. He stares at my legs, his eyes drawn to the ink spread across my skin.
“What do you do?” My question is a whisper. “You said before you did ‘stuff’.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
I nearly choke on a swallow of fiery liquid. “That’s not ‘stuff’.” I wipe at my face with the back of my hand in case I’ve dribbled whisky.
That so explains the expensive and beautifully cut suits.
“And you work where?”
His lips tighten. “In the city.”
“What sort of lawyering?” That’s not a word. The alcohol is making up words now. I giggle and slump in my seat a little. My body is heavy, and my head wants to rest on the table.
He flashes me a quick smile. “While lawyering, I work for a corporate firm.”
I make a loud snoring noise, and he chuckles, his shoulders dropping as he shakes his head in what I hope is mock pity at me. “Is that why you walk around looking so pained and uptight all the time?” I ask with a cheeky smirk.
“I don’t look uptight. We can’t all be freewheeling, tattooed artists, like you.”
Something about his words tickles my sixth sense. “Oh my god,” I’m on the verge of slurring. “That’s why you want the art thing here. You don’t want to help local kids; you want to play with the clay and paints yourself.”
I knock my hand against his shoulder and he catches my fingers, turning my wrist up to investigate my lightning bolt.
“Sometimes I take pro bono cases. If I’ve got to do this boring career chosen for me by my family, then I want to help others as much as I can…” he trails off with a shrug, while I stare at him like a lunatic.
My mouth dries as I sweep my gaze across him in his waistcoat and shirt. His jaw flexes as he thinks and his long fingers turn the whisky glass.
He is a good guy. I shake my head a little, muddled. Didn’t I know that last week when he helped me pack up without question? Not once mentioning he might have an important job… people waiting for him… clients who needed him. No, instead, he sat on my studio floor and wrapped ceramics in paper, ignoring my heavy and stewed silence.
“And the art?”
I watch in silence as his lips set into a straight line, my wrist still in his hand. “A forgotten dream.”
I hate the fact I want to know more. That tingle of inquisitiveness creeps under my skin. Didn’t it start like that with Gerard Steers? Aren’t I like that with everything? It’s an obsession, a chase—until I get it and then I don’t ever want it again.
“You could get involved here. Maybe rebuild the dream?” Why am I saying this? His handsome face stretches into a tired smile. His eyes are bleary, tired, and red with drink. “Maybe then you won’t sit in the kitchen getting drunk by yourself.”
His index finger traces the zigzag of the lightning bolt and my heart accelerates in my chest. “I need to be in London.”
I try to ignore my stomach plummeting when I realise he’s not going to be here.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” His fingers still skim over my skin, delicately following the trail of ink.
“I should go back to my room.”
But I don’t want to. I want to sit in the kitchen and drink whisky with him until the sun comes up and I’m probably too drunk to see it.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted to chat with someone of the opposite sex. Apart from Dan, but he’s different—he’s family.
It’s like he knows my mind has wandered. His next question takes me by surprise. “Why did you run from Brighton?”
For a moment, I’m wordless. “What makes you think I ran?”
“It’s what you do.”
“You’ve known me two weeks.” He’s so not wrong. It is what I do. But because it was forced into me as a necessity. I can’t trust anyone. There is no such thing as trust. Only lies and deceit.
“You ran from Gerard. Did you
even speak to him to tell him you knew the truth?”
“No,” I snap. My hands let go of my knees and I pull my hand away from his touch and push out of the kitchen chair. “I think I should go to bed.”
I march for the kitchen door. Damn, I never did get my snack.
“Wait.” He gets up from his seat, stretching slightly. He’s something else to look at in that suit; tall and powerful but without being dominating and too huge. Bulging muscles just do nothing for me. Stereotypical artistic types have always attracted me, sleek and defined. He’s some place in between, even with his lawyer suit on.
He staggers a little as he walks towards me. The whisky bottle is empty, and I only helped with a few shorts. Someone will have a headache tomorrow… who am I kidding? I will have a headache, too. I drank neat spirits on a stomach lined only with a dinner roll. “I’ll walk you.” His deep rumble of a command doesn’t sound that drunk.
“It’s fine.”
His fingers grip my elbow. “Not a chance. Peter will be out looking for you after hearing what you said to Gran.”
My eyes widen in alarm, but he winks. “Joking. But it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to let you wander around in the dark by yourself.”
“Are you always a gentleman?”
My eyes meet his. I’m rooted to the spot.
“I try.”
He can read me like a fricking book, and it’s unnerving. I try to push the thought to the back of my mind as I take in the sight of this man who’s been drinking by himself. The lawyer who takes on cases for free, the man who wants to help local kids. The man who couldn’t follow his artistic dream—I still need get that full story.
On a whim, I stretch out my hand. “I’m Faith, and I’m your new best friend.”
He hesitates for a moment and a small break in his expression pulls at my heart. “Eli, a gentleman at your service.”
“Guide me home, Eli.” I chuckle a little. The drink makes my legs a little weak.
He looks up and down the corridors. “It's that way, I think,” he decides after a moment.
I snort and tug on the crisp sleeve of his shirt. “I think I’ve got some paracetamol packed somewhere.”