Amazing how fast perspective could change. A few months ago, she’d pulled in a cool four thousand on a wedding—just one day of shooting and another half day processing before getting it to the client. All that money sitting in the bank, but she couldn’t touch it. Not with Joey looking for her. One wrong move, and it’d be all over.
But today, she was rich off a couple hundred bucks, a boss whose contempt had only slightly diminished, and an inappropriate attraction to a man she should be avoiding like the plague. What could possibly go wrong?
14
With her newfound riches, Uma bought jeans, a pair of ankle boots, and a few cotton tops, plus a bright-green, summery tunic from the sale rack and a navy cardigan dripping with sequins. Fully aware that her choices were completely impractical—ostentatious even, considering her finances—she bought them anyway. Maybe she could feel like a woman again. Slight progress, but nonetheless worth celebrating, right?
Joey would have hated her purchases. The thought made her smile. Weird to think that the things he claimed to like about her in the beginning—her easy laugh, dark humor, quiet vivacity—were the first to go.
She’d never been the show-offy type, but there was nothing wrong with a little attention every now and then. Uma thought that she might even have been fun, once. By the time she left him, Joey had leeched every ounce of color from her life, cloaking her in a sad spectrum of grays. Ironic in contrast to the ties and shirts he favored: pinks and purples and bright, bright blue, like his eyes. He was such a peacock when it came to his wardrobe; he must not have been interested in competition from his girlfriend.
Driving back to the house with her new purchases, Uma wondered which one she’d wear to go see Ivan later.
The idle thought brought her up short. I’m an idiot. Acting like he was expecting her when she hadn’t seen or heard from him in two days.
After dinner, Ms. Lloyd watched Uma come downstairs in the green shirt and said, “You look nice.” They both stopped moving at those three words, blinked, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Uma half expected her to finish the sentence with something like “for a sideshow freak.” Surprisingly, Ms. Lloyd didn’t temper the compliment with an insult. Of course, she couldn’t hold back her curiosity. “Where you headed looking like that?”
Uma held up a six-pack of beer she’d picked up with her precious few dollars. “Thought I’d go see Ivan and take him this.”
“Is that what young ladies do nowadays? Visit men with bottles of booze?”
“Yep.”
“Not very subtle, is it?”
“Maybe I’m not a subtle person, Ms. Lloyd.”
“Well, you tell him I’m still mad at him.”
“About the ad?”
“Yes,” she sniffed, glancing at an enormous bouquet she’d received that morning. “He’ll have to do a whole lot better than flowers if he wants to make it up to me.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Uma moved toward the door. “You have a key I can use to get back in later?”
“Not after dark. I won’t—”
“Do you have a key? Yes or no?”
After a brief hesitation and a huff that might have been for show, Ms. Lloyd pulled a key on a chain from around her neck and unlocked the bureau in her dining room. She rifled around for a bit, found a key, and pushed it hard into Uma’s palm, keeping her hand there as she spoke.
“You lose this, I will never let you back into this house. Ever. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The look she gave next was pure Black Widow, lips pursed in disapproval, one eyebrow higher than the other, eyes wide, unblinking. It was her judgmental, don’t try to play me for a fool face.
“Oh, stop it,” said Uma, before walking out the front door and locking it behind her—five times.
She could tell Ms. Lloyd had a million things she was dying to say, but she wouldn’t give her the chance. There would always be time later on for insults. Over a game of rummy, perhaps, or during one of their contentiously healthy meals.
The new-Uma, new-shirt high carried her halfway down Ivan’s drive before she realized he wasn’t home. The little cottage-like structure, up until then always blazing with light and heat, was cold and dark; no Squeak to greet her either. She stood in front of his empty workshop, deflated. Her left arm throbbed hot and tight beneath the sparkly cardigan, even in the cool night air.
He’d apparently gone out for the evening. Probably publicly unveiling his gorgeous face, sharing it with the world. She pictured him in some bar, surrounded by women, neck deep in cleavage. It pissed her off. He’d shaved for her, damn it. Then she’d gone and skipped a night at his place—one night.
Absurd though it was, for a moment she was convinced he’d taken off to punish her. Maybe I’m overreacting, she thought. Maybe not every man punishes you for perceived injustices.
The walk back up the porch steps was a sad death march compared to the twinkle toes she’d pranced out on.
“What, d’you get stood up?” Her boss’s voice was perkier than ever before.
“Nope.” Uma smiled tightly and made her way to the kitchen.
“I found it odd, actually, that young Ive would be home on a Saturday.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s never around on Saturdays. Has a standing date, I believe.”
No way would she take the bait. Uma swallowed the oily ball of jealousy that rose up to clog her throat, glanced down at the six-pack in her hand, and considered her options. It was too cold to sit out on the porch, drinking alone, and Ms. Lloyd was already being insufferable. She could imagine her saying “There goes the neighborhood” in that irritating, singsong Scarlett O’Hara voice she put on.
And Uma wanted to show off her new clothes, damn it.
That decided it.
She ran up to her room for her purse and car key, ignoring Ms. Lloyd’s pointed stare from her perch on the sofa.
“Change of plans. Headed out for drinks instead.” Uma purposely kept it vague. The woman didn’t need to know that those drinks would be solo.
Sounding smug, Ms. Lloyd called, “Don’t stay out too late!” before the door slammed.
She’d known that Ivan was never there on a Saturday and yet had let Uma waltz over there anyway, all full of hope and excitement.
Uma took a moment to seethe on the front porch before shaking it off.
“Jerk,” she whispered and tromped down the steps to her car.
* * *
Blackwood’s one and only bar was noisy and dark on a Saturday night. Uma could have driven all the way into Charlottesville with its bigger, classier places, but she liked the idea of getting to know her new town.
My new town, she thought before tamping down the possessive edge to that phrase. Blackwood was just a pit stop. She kept forgetting that important fact.
Despite what the name implied, there was nothing particularly cozy about the Nook. Had it not been for the low lighting and the warm bodies filling it, it would have had all the atmosphere of a walk-in freezer. Uma didn’t have tons of experience with places like this—a country dive.
Everything, from the neon High Life sign buzzing in the window to the oddly assorted mix of people crowding the single room—even the general air of frenetic debauchery—was all new and wonderful. The unfamiliar rush of sidling up to a bar on her own, without Joey’s heavy hand pressed to her lower back, made her light-headed.
She looked forward to sitting and having a drink. Like an adult. Like a person, for God’s sake. She pushed through that stupid fear of seeing Joey everywhere and forced herself to be strong, independence a steel rod in her spine.
The bartender acknowledged her immediately, another sign that things were going her way. He seemed efficient, so she didn’t take the attention personally, although a tiny part of her was flattered tha
t he’d noticed her at all.
“What’ll it be, dahlin’?” he asked, British accent completely out of place in the wilds of central Virginia. Was this a put-on?
“Whatever’s easy.”
“You’re in a bar in the arsehole of the world on a Saturday night, love. Nothing’s easy. But I’m in the mood for a challenge.”
“Surprise me,” she said, in part to find out what kind of beverage a British bartender would sling and partly because she had no idea what to order.
As he headed off to mix her drink, a shoulder bumped hers, and her breath caught in her throat when she saw it wasn’t Joey—not even close, but still, the stress made her jumpy.
A few minutes later, the bartender set a tall glass in front of her. “Pimm’s Cup,” he said with a flourish. It looked like a fruit salad, so spiked with garnish and decorations, there was no easy way to approach it.
“Fancy,” she said as her heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm.
“It’s good to have someone to fob all me fancy umbrellas off on. So don’t go anywhere, all right, love? This one’s on me.” He winked.
Uma forced a smile, wishing she could take a quick snapshot of the cocktail and another of the bartender, who was handsome in a blond hustler kind of way. Maybe a third shot of the couple, grinding inappropriately on the dance floor. All sweat and tongues.
Next week. Next week, she’d spend her last fifty bucks on a cheap point and shoot. Hell, she’d get a disposable camera if she had to. She needed something to filter all the newness that made up this updated version of her. My new me.
The bartender came back and pointed at her glass. “What’d you reckon?”
“It’s delicious.”
“What’s your name, love?”
“Uma.”
“Rory.” He held out a hand, and she hesitated only a few seconds before giving him a firm shake. She liked him. Confident, kind, no bullshit. “You meeting someone?”
“No, I’m not. I’m on my own.” She took a breath, ignoring the itch in the middle of her back that insisted Joey was somewhere close behind her. “New in town.”
“That so? You’ve come to the right place then.”
“What about you? Lived in Blackwood long?”
“Few years now.”
That was a surprise. You’d need a knife to cut through that accent.
“You look about bowled over. Don’t reckon I blend into good old Virgin-i-ay?”
Despite her nerves, she laughed at his atrocious faux southern drawl. “Hmm. Stick with the Brit thing.”
“You don’t need to tell me, love. The girls fancy it.” Another wink and a shrug before slapping his hand on the bar, close to where hers lay, and pushing off in the direction of other customers more in need of booze than Uma.
But I sure could use the company, she thought as the anxiety trickled back in.
He’s not here, she worked to convince herself. And to prove it, she swiveled and did a slow turn to scope out the rest of the bar, secretly hoping she’d see Ivan. He would obliterate this fear of Joey. He’d take it and bash it to bits.
This was quite a hookup place, bodies bumping and humping in time to music that was as out of place as the barman—some kind of clubby dance music, electronic and hip-hop. Nothing she’d recognize.
The tiny dance floor was crowded with people—girls in a group, a few guys apparently trying to push their way in, unsuccessfully, and some couples going at it. Around the dancers were arranged a scattering of two-tops, with a few booths against the fogged-up front window. Every table was occupied.
All these people crowded into a relatively small space made it sweltering inside. Sticky. Uma had the weirdest awareness of breathing in their air. Hot, moist, full of booze and maybe sex. Most people had stripped down to tank tops and T-shirts, and she stood out for her overdressed state and the skittishness she couldn’t quite hide.
She looked around again, in search of something she could be a part of, and boom: she felt a wave of jealousy at the sight of a tall man dancing with a woman. He’s mine, her brain spat unreasonably. A split second later, she saw it wasn’t Ivan. Not even close. Jesus. When had she become completely obsessed with her next-door neighbor?
To clear those ridiculous thoughts, Uma did another quick scan of the dance floor. Her gaze kept going back to that same couple, whose torrid moves made her insides a little heavy. She was like an intruder who couldn’t look away.
What would Ivan dance like? No matter how she tried, she couldn’t quite picture it.
She came to with a start when her sweaty glass was plucked from her hand, to be instantly replaced by a fresh one.
“Watch out. This one packs a punch.”
“Mmm!” she said with a thumbs-up to Rory. “What is it?”
“Regent’s Punch. Get it?” She groaned and went back to watching her couple.
Rory’s voice was suddenly close to her ear. “Like to watch, do you, Uma?”
She turned to find him leaning across the bar, a knowing little smile on his face.
“What?” she asked, then followed his eyes as he nodded toward the couple. “Oh. I’m, uh… I’m a photographer.”
He looked interested. “That so? Well then, I reckon you are a voyeur.”
Although she blushed, Uma bit back the denial. She’d decided to stop lying, at least to herself.
“A professional voyeur, no less. Getting paid for your fetish. Lucky girl.” He pushed off and left her to think about that. Uma watched him go. Straight back, wide shoulders, thin hips…rangy. And yet, she couldn’t have been less interested. A burst of cool air whooshed in to suck away some of the room’s stifling heat, and Uma glanced toward the door, unconsciously hopeful she’d see her handsome neighbor.
No luck, but the extra jolt of excitement remained, mixing with the booze in her veins. Lord, was she in trouble.
A little off-kilter from the booze, she spotted him. Joey. Blood rushed to her face, and she almost fell off her stool in fear when he turned and—
Not him. Thank God. Not him. Her heart continued to pound a rough beat in her chest. Too big, too much.
A few seconds later, there he was again, in the mirror behind the bar. For a long, suspended moment, she could see her pulse pumping darkly behind her eyes, could hear its thwump deep in her head.
In another heartbeat, the man shifted, morphed into someone completely different. Not him. And neither was the woman near the door, whose short hair was the only possible resemblance. Shaking so hard it must have been obvious to the people around her, she pushed her tunnel vision back and forced herself to focus.
Enough was enough. Fueled by Pimm’s and British punch, with a good dose of anger thrown into the mix, Uma made a decision. Joey didn’t get to show up in her life anymore. He didn’t get to be a ghost in her mind or smother her skin. This had to stop. Now. She got up, made a dash through a break in the crowd toward the restroom, locked herself inside with relief, and stared in the dingy mirror.
This is it. She grabbed hold of one sleeve. Her breath picked up, tight in a chest that had suddenly grown too small to contain it. Inch by inch, her right hand revealed a decorated left arm. And all the while, her eyes remained fixed on her face, defying her. She pulled the green fabric to bunch at the elbow and waited for her gaze to catch up.
A knock on the door broke up her internal duel, and she released the sleeve, relieved in a cowardly way, but also weighed down by so much disappointment.
That fantasy of the dancers? Of Ivan touching her, just wanting to touch her? How could any of that be possible if she couldn’t even look at herself?
At a second knock, she called, “Be right out!” and washed her hands, looking herself in the eye, hard and straight.
She couldn’t look tonight. Fine. That was fine, but she was done letting Joey decide her fate. No more jum
ping at shadows or hiding in restrooms.
Rory’s smile when she made it to her seat helped ground her when he asked, “So, what do you photograph?”
She blinked at the question, so mundane in a world falling apart at her feet. So practical and regular and…calming. “Weddings, mostly,” she forced through lips that were still numb.
“Right. You ever do anything more…I dunno…artsy?”
“I, uh… I used to, but recently, it hasn’t been…possible.”
“Well, if you do, let me know. We’re nothing special, but we do show art at Le Nook from time to time.” He wiped the bar in front of her with a rag and leaned down to rest on folded arms. “That wall, and that one over there.” He pointed. “We could put up some lighting, you know. Make it a bit posher for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t…” Uma stopped, made herself examine his face, open and friendly. Don’t mess this up, she thought. Don’t let Joey come in here and fuck up a real opportunity.
Okay, so she was missing a few essential things, but she had to start somewhere, right? There was no one here to keep her from doing what she wanted. Joey was at the other end of the state. Maybe farther, for all she knew.
And fuck Joey. Just fuck him for marking her like that. Fuck him for showing up here tonight. Again and again and again, if only in her brain.
So, sure. Why not show some pictures? “Yeah, that sounds nice. I’d like that. I just, uh, don’t have access to a camera right now, so—”
“No worries. Bring your work in when you can, and I’ll take a look. I could even put out some nibbles for the opening. Make it like a real gallery.”
The idea was exhilarating, the possibilities endless.
“Where are you staying, Uma?” Rory added.
“Saint George, next to the big, white farmhouse.”
“The house beside Ive Shifflett’s place?”
“Yeah.”
“Cell Block Eight.”
“What?”
“You with the old biddy next door? One who never goes outside?”
“Yep.” Uma’s lips compressed a bit at that description, honest though it was. She was oddly protective of her boss. “Why’d you call it that?”
Under Her Skin Page 14