by Anna Bloom
“Nuts?” I add for her when she’s run out of words.
“Yeah, sometimes.” She gives me a sad small smile. “It makes me kind of sad, because they are all so miserable.”
“I can’t believe Jennifer would quash her children’s dreams and desires like she does. I mean, my own dad is a prize arsehole, but he would never have not let me do anything.”
Saskia looks in shock. “Darling, it’s not Jennifer, it’s Connie. Even Jennifer doesn’t get to live her life. Come on, can’t you see it? Jennifer is only in her early sixties, and she’s an attractive woman. So ask yourself why hasn’t she made another great catch?”
I shrug. “I figured it was because she was a mega bitch.”
With a shake of her head, Saskia plays with holding my hair up, exposing the ink on my collarbones and the back of my neck. “No, it’s because she’s not allowed. It wouldn’t be good for the family name.”
“Aren’t they related to the royal family? I mean come on even Prince Charles married his mistress eventually.”
Saskia chuckles. “That’s because the queen isn’t Connie. She’s a fluffy duckling in comparison.”
“So everything is Connie. Elijah is a barrister instead of an artist because of his grandmother?”
“Listen, I don’t know all of this for a fact, it’s just stuff I’ve picked up over the last few years.”
“So when Connie dies they will all get to live?”
“When? That woman is going to live forever. She won’t allow herself to die because that way she won’t be in control anymore.”
We both lapse into silence while I stare at myself in the mirror. Never have I felt more heartache for anyone than I do the Faircloughs right now. People who have everything, but at the same time who have nothing.
My phone vibrates and I jump on it.
Eli Jones: Why is my car parked outside my house but there is no you in sight?
I grin. It sneaks up on my face until my cheeks are close to splitting.
Faith Hitchin: I didn’t want to be presumptuous.
Eli Jones: Please always be presumptuous.
Faith Hitchin: How about a date?
Eli Jones: Meet me in half an hour.
I’m grinning like a buffoon when I turn to face Saskia. “I need to get out of this dress.” She gives a small smile.
“Are we buying this one?” She fishes into her bag for her Hermes purse.
Nodding, I flash her a smile. “I’m buying this one. Connie Fairclough isn’t touching my visit to the ball.”
“I’m feeling like a fairy godmother right now.”
“Do you turn pumpkins into black cabs, because I’ve got to get to Kensington?”
Saskia puts her fingers in her ears. “Don’t tell me anything, it’s better I don’t know.”
I pass her the dress as I step out of it. “Deal.”
In the end, I manage to get to Kensington in twenty minutes. I’m paying the taxi driver and battling my bags when I see Eli’s door open. My heart hammers, my palms slicking against the handles of the bags. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but I’m hungry for him again. What happens next week when I don’t get to see him anymore? I shove the thought to the back of my mind. It’s not worth wasting time on right now.
I’m stepping forward when I see the fact it’s not him walking out of his door. A woman with dark hair and olive skin is coming out. She’s smiling. She’s beautiful—so beautiful I can’t believe it’s possible for someone to look like that in the flesh. And I know who she is. I know who she is because I’ve seen her before when I first Googled Elijah Fairclough and found out he was engaged to a socialite.
She stops and reaches onto her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek. He smiles at her and gives a small wave as she steps down onto the pathway.
What am I going to do?
Inside my stomach a knife is twisting.
I’m frozen to the spot.
Does it matter he’s been with her? Is it any of my business? Well no and yes, but then also yes and no. For a moment, I hesitate, but then swallowing my pride I step forward and make my presence known. He gives me a genuine warm smile, like he truly is pleased to see me. He’s casual, wearing those grey tracksuit pants he makes look so damn sexy, and his feet are bare again. God, he’s gorgeous, and he’s been with her who’s also gorgeous. “Faith, you’re here already?” he says. I wait to see if he will lean in and kiss me or hug me, but he doesn’t.
“Sorry, I’m early.” It sounds like a question and I want to bitch slap myself. What happened to the girl who used to fuck for fun? Who had one-night-stands on a regular basis just to scratch an itch.
I know what happened to her. Elijah Fairclough.
A pulse of anger spears me.
“Sienna, this is Faith. She’s been helping me with the art project.”
Sienna smiles warmly. Fuck, she looks like she should be on TV. Maybe even the big screen. Her eyes are a warm chocolate brown and there isn’t a single thing about her which isn’t painfully perfect. And here I am in ripped jeans and an old V-neck vest showing all my many, many mistakes.
I know it shouldn’t, but Eli introducing me as the help stings deep and hard. He’s watching me though with an amused smile teasing the edge of his lips.
“Nice to meet you, Faith.” She turns for Eli and places her hand on his arm. “Elijah, I hope the files are what you wanted. If you need anything, let me know.” With a smile at us both she steps away. “I’ll see you at the ball next week.”
She’s attending the ball? Well, fuck me.
Still, she doesn’t know what I have planned—no one does.
She steps down off his front doorstep and beeps the key fob in her hand, a small silver Mercedes lighting up at her touch. Even her car is beautiful.
When she’s gone, and he’s given her a small wave goodbye, he turns to me expectantly and nods at the bags in my hand. “Been shopping?”
I’m stuck. Torn. I’m as jealous as hell to have found her here, and I want to ask him why she was there, in his home. In the space I had magnificent sex with him in just last night. But, then it’s not my business.
We are walking away next weekend.
I can’t breathe when I think about it. My throat tightens.
His fingers slide to my neck, brushing along the back of it. “I’m pleased to see you.”
“And me.”
My heart pounds. It’s impossible to worry about the future when his lips are hovering above mine and his hands are sliding along my skin.
So I don’t.
I dive straight in and then I scream his name.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Isn’t it the truth that when things go right in one area of life it falls apart in another. Tabs looks at me as I wander into the dining room and give everyone a cheery wave. I can’t lie, I’ve already had five very strong coffees in the kitchen. Five, that’s right. Now I’m buzzing.
I grin at Elijah who’s sat staring at the newspaper across his empty plate. “Good morning, Mr Fairclough,” I sing-song.
“Good morning, Miss Hitchin.”
I take a seat and dig into the pastries piled in the middle of the table. I’m starving; all this driving long distances and shagging is tiring me out. Except last night Eli drove to the gate house and then we both walked hand-in-hand under the shadows until we separated, and I went to the outhouse and he went inside the mansion of terror.
“Are you ready to help me move furniture?” I ask around some buttery goodness.
Jennifer looks up over her coffee cup. “Moving furniture? Who is moving furniture?”
Elijah meets her scrutiny. “I am. I’ve taken time off from the office until the ball.”
“And pray what furniture are you moving?” Jennifer sounds almost exhausted.
Eli grins. “Everything.”
Connie sweeps into the room: immaculate, icy, and controlled. Even Jennifer flinches. “Try not to make too much mess with this rabble of youths you’ve allowed into the
house.”
Eli straightens his shoulders. “And does the hallway look a mess? I can’t believe the amazing job Faith has done.”
“Hm.”
But Eli doesn’t let it go. “You should be thanking Faith and hoping that she lets the house keep the work she’s created.”
My cheeks flame pink although I can’t lie I’m basking under his compliments. Even I need my ego stroked every so often.
“Not quite the big statement pieces we were expecting, though,” Connie murmurs. “And for the trouble she’s caused, I’m not sure.”
Jennifer clatters her cup onto its saucer. “That’s enough,” she snaps.
We all stop and stare at her. Tabitha has her mouth hanging open.
“When the ball arrives, and we have the doors open and the press here, it will all be worth it.” Jennifer looks at me, her expression calm. “And I’m sure Faith has something spectacular planned as a centrepiece.”
I need to ask Jennings for some tips of the perfect poker face because I don’t have one and it shows.
“Of course,” I agree. “Spectacular.”
I wonder if I can put my Connie Fairclough Medusa head on display in the centre of the ballroom? Nah, it’s supposed to be about dreams not nightmares.
I grab some croissants and get back up from the table. Eli sends me a royal smirk but doesn’t say anything. “Got to go,” I announce. “Super busy.”
Before I head back to the outhouse to bang my head against the wall for not checking to see if I myself was supposed to be making anything, let alone the students, I head to the ballroom.
This room is just beyond anything I could ever have imagined. With its arched white and gilt roof, to the double staircase which leads down with marble stairs from a long mezzanine gallery, to its black and white tiled marble floor, it oozes classical Renaissance splendour. The room is filled with spectacular pieces already. Truthfully, it’s like walking through the Victoria and Albert Museum. Pedestals dot along the tiled floors holding Renaissance busts and vases. They are going to have to be moved.
My plan is to have the canvases the kids are creating on easels, natural and relaxed dotted throughout the room, creating a fluid movement which will send people to where the orchestra will be positioned.
I grin as I slide my phone out and call Damien at Whitlocks. “Is it too early?”
There’s a chuckle from the other end. “Lucky for you we are unpacking a new shipment.”
“Should I be jealous?”
There’s a louder chuckle. “No, not when Frances hasn’t stopped talking about the Bowsley Ball and how Sky Arts are going to be there.”
I rub at my face. This is going to be awful. There will be a ballroom with no centrepiece.
“I was ringing for a favour actually.”
“For you, anything right now.”
“I need one of those elaborate gilt frames. You know the type, something monstrous and gaudy.”
“You do?”
“Uh, yes.”
“What’s it for?”
I chuckle. “You’ll see next week. Listen, can I text you the measurements? If I give you my number, will you send me yours quick?”
“Definitely.”
I reel off my number and then hang up, turning to find Eli standing behind me. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing.” I shrug.
His eyes gaze about the room and I turn to take in the sight with him. I want to move over and hold his hand.
I’ve never wanted to hold someone’s hand before. It’s a first in the life of Faith Hitchin.
I don’t. If we could get through these next few days without a trauma with his family, it would make the end of this… this… whatever this is, so much better.
My eyes greedily slide over him. I’ll be walking away in a few days. Summer over, four weeks of my life gone.
Four weeks in which I have changed. I’ve broken my rules, knowing that it was going to hurt. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
“Why are you grinning like a crazy person?” He steps closer and despite the fact his family are lurking, despite the fact someone under the roof is clearly snitching on us, he kisses me, right under the domed and gold ceiling.
I love you.
The words I’ve never spoken before dart into my head.
I don’t love him.
It’s just four weeks?
Just a fling.
But his hands cradle my face, his thumbs sweeping across my cheeks and my heart beats fast and erratic.
My head swims with him; his smell, his touch, the sense of his body next to mine.
And then in a moment of clarity I know what my centrepiece is going to be.
It’s what I want to give him. My heart.
“I’ve got to go to the studio.”
“What are you doing?”
“Can you deal with the painting today?”
His eyes narrow, his hands still tenderly placed on my cheeks. “No, I don’t know anything about that.”
He knows more about painting than I ever will. He’s innately talented, a talent that’s been squandered by his family.
My gaze holds his, intense, I’m hoping he can comprehend every emotion I can’t express. “Yes, you do. It’s all about dreaming.”
I go to pull away, but his lips are back on mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, my body melting against his.
When he breaks the kiss, my blood is singing in my veins. Hot and fluid, it hums and burns. “Have a good day.” His voice is low and intense and my stomach pinches.
“I will.”
And then I leave before I give in to my carnal desires on the ballroom floor. I believe the Wicked Witch of the West would have something to say about that—and so would the cleaners.
I lock myself into the glass studio, stripping off my top and tying on an apron, and then I set to work. I don’t even know if what I’ve envisioned is possible. But I’m sure as hell going to give it a go.
“Sweet mother of God.” I wipe at the beads of sweat gathering across my forehead. When am I going to learn to think things through?
In the small kiln is a swirling pool of ruby red liquid. I clutch at the small bellow and then using a metal hook I spread the material, blowing it gently to make it spread across the metal sheet spread on the desk top. The swirls I make look like nothing more than half-hearted question marks, but I know once they are finished and fitted together where the head of one links with the tail of another it will create what I want—a ying and yang.
When the first batch is done, I put them into the kiln to bake, and then start on the next lot. I’m going to need a lot of question marks that’s for sure.
Funny that my life and my future all come down to a question mark.
It epitomises the moment I’m in. The past is fractured behind me, and unexpectedly Elijah has helped to set me free from the burning hatred and regret.
In front of me is a future I can’t yet see.
In a couple of days my work will be in front of the press. Sky Arts will be here, and they will know I created this—that all of this is mine.
The future could be anything.
Then I think of Eli, marked with my ink. The man torn between what he wants and who he’s been made to be.
The man I feel more for than I ever even considered possible.
I want to go and hunt him down; to touch him, inhale his breath, and absorb his skin and smell. But I want to honour him more, so I keep working, and leave conscious thought behind me as I throw myself into creating yet more and more glass.
It’s getting dark when I find my way to the ballroom. Everything has been moved, and the room is now a cavernous blank canvas. Exactly how I wanted it.
“Are you going to tell me what you have planned?” I shiver as I hear his voice and place my hands on my hips. When I turn, I find a wide grin on his face. The blues dance like the sea under the sun.
“Nope, not until the night. I want it to blow you awa
y.”
He steps closer, his hands finding a purchase against the skin of my stomach. “You always blow me away, everything you’ve done here is extraordinary.”
His tugs me closer, his breath fanning across my skin. I melt and allow myself to absorb into him. His mouth grazes across mine, my breath catches and a shiver of deep anticipation runs through me.
“But what about your mother and grandbaronessy?” I smile against his mouth.
“Honestly, who gives a fuck?” He hikes me up and I wrap my legs tight around his waist. He walks us to a room on the East wing. His mouth on mine, his hands firm and tight.
The door kicks shut behind us, and his gaze reads my face. “Let me love you, Faith.”
He’s said this before.
And I want to tell him that I want him to love me, just as I think I might possibly love him—as inconceivable as that emotion may be to me.
I don’t say a word when he settles me back on the bed. Instead I lay down and offer myself silently to him, praying that he can feel it even if I don’t say it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I’m lying on my back, my eyes focused on the ceiling. I can’t believe this is about to end. Tomorrow is the final day. The day of the Bowsley Ball. RSVP’s have been returned, caterers are in, and there’s a small army of staff milling around the house getting it ready. Some areas are being roped off—mainly the East wing where Eli took me the night before last. It shows how little I know about him that until that evening I didn’t know he slept in a guest room when he came here, apart from of course when he’s in my pink walled room with me, which he has been every night he’s been home.
But then, don’t I know how he tastes, feels? Don’t I know the way he moves in the dark, and the emotions that live under the surface of his skin?
We haven’t talked about what happens after tomorrow.
I said two weeks and then I’d walk away.
That now seems impossible.
It’s more impossible than when I faced down the Everest of marble in my studio all those weeks ago before turning it into a cameo of Eli’s face.
I don’t think I can walk away.