Tears of Gold: Tears of Ink #3

by Bloom, Anna

  His fingers lift, but he casually grasps my shoulders, not trying to get too close. He knows how to respond to me. I slump my shoulders and meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I snapped.”

  He shrugs.

  “Gah, don’t do that. You make me talk without actually asking.”

  “Do I?” He smirks though. He knows he can read me like an open book—but some pages aren’t meant to be turned.

  “I’ve just got nothing at the moment. When we were at the Mews I started playing with paints, well you saw, but I’ve gone blank again.”

  “Faith,” his voice softens, “don’t be so hard on yourself. You are going through a lot.”

  “What am I going through? Apart from fighting your grandmother and seeming to move house more than I’m sure the average person should.”

  “And the police, and the investigation… that must be hanging on your mind.”

  “There is nothing to think about. It’s done now, out in the open.”

  His head tilts just slightly to the side. “There’s a lot to think about, you need…”

  I lift myself onto my tiptoes and plant my mouth against his, running my fingers into his hair. “Not now,” I mumble. “We’ve got Jeremy coming shortly, and I still don’t have any idea what to cook for him.”

  He pulls back, the flicker deep within the depths of the blues chases quickly away followed by bright lights and sunshine. “You know, I can cook.”

  “But it’s my wifely duty,” I tease, the band around my chest unravelling with the tension in the atmosphere.

  “I’ve told you, I’ll let you know all about your wifely duty.” His face falls for a moment and with it my chest tightens again. “That’s another thing we haven’t discussed.” He rubs at his cheek with his palm and it makes a delicious scratching sound. Eli of the weekend is my favourite by far. All jeans, bare feet, and soft t-shirts. “We haven’t discussed the wedding at all, or even set a date.”

  “I think we’ve been a bit busy, and anyway, I believe Bowsley will be arranging everything.” His head drops and he rests his forehead against mine, groaning. “Listen, Eli.” I tilt my face to kiss him. “Win Melanie’s case and then we can talk about the wedding. I’m not in any rush.”

  “Well, I am.” His lips curve.

  “Go shower. Jeremy will be here soon and we will be offering him an empty plate and a glass of wine.”

  “Shower with me…” he pulls on my hand.

  “No way! We will never be ready.”

  “I’m always ready, for you.” Chuckling, he pulls me by our joined hands towards the staircase.

  “Eli!”

  “Just three minutes.”

  I fan myself down. “And to wash? Wow, you make such promises.”

  When the doorbell rings, we are both rubbing at our hair with towels. It wasn’t three minutes. It was thirty, and it was bloody divine. No one does a shower like Eli.

  He grins and it’s as dirty as hell. “You get dressed and I’ll go let Jeremy in.”

  I shake my head in mock dismay. “You are incorrigible.” I can hear him laugh all the way down the stairs.

  Heading to the dressing area which is now full of our clothes, though mainly Eli’s ridiculously expensive suits, I flick through for something to wear. Choosing black, I pick out a chiffon sheer shirt which I just slide over my black lace bra and a pair of black skinny jeans. Although I’m at home and I know Eli is walking around barefoot, I pull out some heels in a vibrant red and slip them on. Big silver hoops in my ears complete the outfit and I pull my hair to the side and then plait it, still wet, over my shoulder. I don’t look in the mirror.

  I edge down the stairs already regretting my choice of shoes and follow the sound of voices coming from the kitchen.

  “Hi.” I walk in and go straight to Jeremy, pecking a kiss on his cheek. “How are you?” He looks okay, although tired. His eyes are shadowed and his cheeks are slightly hollower than when I last saw him, but he’s not a complete wreck—I mean he’s shaved, so I guess that’s something.

  “I’m getting there.” He shrugs, a little helplessly. “Some days are better than others.”

  “Sure, I can imagine. Are you back to work?”

  “Yes, I went back last week. It seemed silly waiting around at home, expecting him to come back. Anyway, the kids take my mind off everything.”

  I chuckle, heading over to where Eli is uncorking some wine and I grab some glasses from the side. I’m sure there are better glasses in the house, probably crystal, but these are fine. “I’m sure they do. I remember all too well what we were like in high school. I think hellish covers it.” I remember all too well what I was like, but I lock it down, slamming the lid on the memory box.

  Eli offers Jeremy a glass of the chilled white which he takes and sips. “Mm, that’s nice.”

  “Peter loved good wine,” Eli says. “I knew there would be a good stash here. I thought we could open one of his reds with dinner.”

  For a moment Jeremy’s face clouds with wistfulness and I want to stamp on Eli’s feet, but then I turn to him and see his own expression. Maybe talking is what they need. Talking about Peter.

  “He kept most of his collection here because we didn’t have space at the house.”

  I chuckle and take a sip of my own. “Exactly how big is the collection?”

  Eli grins. “Come, I’ll show you.” He walks towards the door which goes towards an old-fashioned pantry now used as a glorified utility room and grabs a set of keys from a hook on the edge of a wooden shelf. I watch in amazement when, in the pantry, he lifts a wooden hatch door in the floor. A door I wouldn’t ever have known was there. Reaching down, he flicks on a light switch and points at some stairs.

  “A cellar?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “A wine vault.”

  We head down the stairs and the air is musty, but the temperature stays strangely buoyant. I’m expecting it to get colder, but it doesn’t. A string of bare lightbulbs illuminates a cavernous space which must run under most of the house. Wide brick pillars support the structure above. Along the walls, and on shelves set at equal distances, much like aisles in a supermarket is wine. Wine, wine, and more wine.

  “Holy crap.”

  Eli laughs and brushes some dust off the nearest bottle. “It’s not all Peter’s, obviously. It’s the family collection. I believe the Faircloughs used to have their own wine merchant within the city who would look out for good vintages and make investments.”

  “So, while other people invest on the stock market, the Faircloughs invest in wine?”

  Eli arches an eyebrow. “Oh, we do that, too.”

  “Well, that’s good. The most I’ve ever invested in is my flat, and I don’t even live in it anymore.”

  “Property is good for making short term financial gain, but the market can fluctuate. There will always be people who want to spend too much on a fancy bottle of wine.”

  I stare open mouthed at Jeremy. “I thought you were a teacher?”

  He smiles wryly. “My husband was an investment banker. I guess I must have been listening after all.”

  “Right.” Eli turns to the bottles and grabs one, rubbing at its surface. “This will do.” He grabs another. “And this.”

  Jeremy peers closer. “Screaming Eagle, very nice.”

  “Not the 1992 though, we’d better not drink that with an omelette.”

  They both laugh. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I grouch.

  “But can you make omelettes?” Eli raises a cheeky eyebrow.

  Bastard. He knows I can only open packets and jars and put things on a plate.

  Turns out I can rustle up a French omelette which is basically just cheese mixed with egg and cooked in an indecent amount of butter, but I do need supervision while doing it.

  We eat at the kitchen table and drink the wine. The omelette is delicious, the cheese literally makes my mouth water. Eli stares at me as I wolf it down still scorching hot. I can�
��t win. Yesterday he was worried I wasn’t eating my salad and today he’s worried I’m burning my mouth on oozing egg and cheese.

  “That was great, thank you.” Jeremy places his knife and fork on his plate and sits back with a glass of wine. “It’s so weird being here with you, when I’ve heard about you all these years.”

  Eli clears his throat and takes a deep sip of his own drink. “It must have been hard agreeing to be a secret part of his life.”

  Jeremy lifts his shoulders and then lets them fall. “I guess it was a price I was willing to pay.” His words pierce through my chest. We all have a price to pay, sometimes without knowing it. “So anyway, what is it with you two? Peter thought it was the funniest thing ever when you met. He called you Little Miss Stropster.”

  “What!” I open my mouth to protest but then can’t find the will. “Fair to say, Eli wound me up something chronic when we met.”

  “Still do, don’t I?” Eli nudges my arm, playfully shooting me a wink.

  “Every moment.”

  He gulps another sip of wine. “Faith was all about her rules; it gave me great joy to break them.”

  “Rules? Well, Peter never mentioned them.”

  I shake my head, sitting up a little straighter. “He didn’t know. I guess he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.”

  The table lapses into silence and I close my eyes, briefly, taking a steadying breath. When I open them both men are watching me, Jeremy with curiosity and Eli with an expression I can’t decipher, like he’s waiting for something.

  “I had a pretty shitty home life.” I shrug. “I was abused by my stepbrother.”

  “Oh shit,” Jeremy exclaims. “Please, don’t feel obligated to tell me anything.”

  “No.” I shoot him a small smile. We are family I guess, and anyway it’s all out in the open now.” I catch a flicker of a frown on Eli’s face. “I went to the police the day Peter died and told them what had happened. I should have told them earlier, but I didn’t.”

  “Has he been arrested?”

  “I think so.”

  “So, you don’t know. Haven’t they called or anything?”

  “Not yet. It’s only been a few weeks.”

  “You should call your liaison officer, Faith,” Eli adds. “You need to organise your lawyer if you won’t let me do it.”

  “I won’t,” I snap.

  “He is the best.” Jeremy looks between us. “Peter always said he’s the best.”

  “No. It’s not happening.” I throw back the rest of my wine to end the conversation.

  “It’s getting late, I’d better be going.” Jeremy stands and I try and hold him back.

  “Ignore me. Peter warned you I’m stroppy.”

  He chuckles and ruffles my hair. “He did, but it is late, and I should go. Eli says you are decorating tomorrow.”

  “Are we?” I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “God yeah, got to get rid of Peter’s bad taste somehow.”

  We all laugh, but I know my heart is a little heavy, and I hate seeing Jeremy step out into the cold London air by himself when he leaves.

  “See you guys soon.”

  “Dinner in the week with Tabitha?” I call after him as he walks down the steps.

  “Sure. My diary is surprisingly free.”

  We both give him a small wave and then turn back in. Eli’s hands catch hold of my shoulders, turning me towards him. “Are you okay, Faith? Answer me honestly.”

  “I’m fine.” I slide my fingers around his neck. “I’m more than fine. We are together and that’s all that matters.” I pull his mouth down to mine and show him with a kiss just how true that is.

  Eleven

  Monday rolls around too fast. Sunday was strangely domestic, for me anyway. We did grown-up things like look at paint selections and pick up small tester pots from the local and outrageously overpriced DIY shop.

  Now he’s gone back to work. Back to battling for Melanie Duncan’s name, and I’m here. I need to get to class but I can’t find any enthusiasm. I’m suspended in this stagnant place and I can’t fight it off. No art. No drive. No energy.

  “What is that awful smell?” I walk into the kitchen and find Miss Beesley at the AGA. I’m reconciling myself to the fact I’ll never be able to walk in and have the place to myself.

  “Toast?” She casts a glance at me. “Are you still off it?”

  “Apparently.” Jeez, I’m like a tiger with a bloody splinter in its paw. Someone give me a bitch slap. I know what I need. I need Abi to come and shake me the fuck up.

  “You know it’s funny, with all three of my pregnancies the first thing I hated was toast. I used to tell Graham it was the devil’s food.”

  “Well, it’s not that.” I shoot her a frown. “It must be the AGA. Maybe we should get a toaster in.”

  “Would you like a coffee?” Quite rightly she seems scared to ask me any questions.

  I gag a little bit in my mouth. “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee, too. Toast and coffee; it’s always the same first trigger foods.”

  Placing my hands on my hips I glare at her. “Listen, Miss Beesley, I appreciate your concern but…” I trail off.

  My brain is utterly blank.

  Blank.

  Nothing.

  I want to tell her I had my last period just a couple of weeks ago, but I can’t. I can’t remember when it was before Peter died, and that was weeks ago now. Everything was such a mess… time got warped and lost.

  I can’t move. I’m stuck, suspended in the kitchen.

  “Faith, is everything okay?”

  “Sure.” I manage to snap my way into action and shake it off. There is no reason for me to worry… right…? But then, Eli and I can be very spontaneous in the moment. I’m pretty good at knowing my cycle and know when not to take risks, yet on Friday we screwed on the sofa just in the lounge and it didn’t even cross my mind.

  Oh my god.

  “Faith? Did you hear me? I said I’d go and get a toaster today? Did you have a brand in mind?”

  “What? Toaster? Uh, just whatever. Cheapest, I’m not bothered.”

  I turn and start to walk back out of the room. The fog I was already in descends until it’s as though it’s shrouding me.

  After a quick shower, I get dressed and grab my stuff for class. It’s weird just having it all set out on the dining room table instead of in a studio. I’ve never not had a work space before, but just like when Eli mentioned it at the weekend, I can’t even think about it.

  Can’t think about anything.

  Blank.

  On the tube, I pull out my phone and try not to breathe in the body odour of the guy next to me. Flicking the calendar, I scroll through the dates. I can’t remember anything. Why haven’t I got one of those apps Abi is always looking at in desperation, trying to work out when she’s ovulating so she can steer clear of Adam like he has the plague?

  Abi… I want to call her. She’ll tell me everything is okay.

  Who am I kidding? She’d tell me not to be a dick and start using condoms.

  Oh, God.

  She’d tell me to buy a test.

  I want to ring Eli, but he’ll be in court by now. He should know. He should have this awful panic running through him like a tidal wave.

  Oh, God.

  In September I came back. It took him a couple of weeks to win me back… we then lived at his house… I can definitely remember having a period once we were back together, because it was mighty inconvenient. But that was September. It’s now the end of October. Peter has been gone for weeks.

  It’s utterly stupid but as the tube carriage rocks back and forth, jostling me against the guy in need of deodorant, I put my hand on my stomach. It’s still flat, still smooth, and beneath my jumper are my ink and secrets.

  No. This isn’t happening. I’m not the right woman for this to happen to. It's women like Abi, natural caregivers, people who have love at their centre, who shine bright with it. Not me.
I don’t know anything about parenthood, apart from what my dad taught me about fucking it up, and what my mother taught me about running away.

  When the tube gets to my stop, I get up and ignore the swish of nausea that rises from my tummy. Faith, calm down. It’s just nerves. Just anxiety.

  But as I get out of the tube station and walk up the stairs into the cold air, I know it’s not. I’ve been feeling like this for weeks. Since Peter’s funeral. Since Eli got hurt by Aiden and we were all black and blue.

  Somehow, I get through class, I wave and nod at the dean who tells me how excited he is by the developments with the show and then I go to Boots the pharmacy and buy a test.

  Then when I’m home I sit on the bed with my legs folded and wait for Eli to come home.

  He needs to come home. I can’t do this by myself.

  “Oh, honey, I’m home.” The thud of his bag being dropped by the front door echoes up the stairs, but I can’t move. Can’t react. Can’t even smile that he’s home and I can touch him, hold him, love him.

  I can’t do anything because in front of me is a blue box that’s absorbing all my mental capacities.

  His feet land on the stairs and with every tread tears well in my eyes, pools of salty confusion and regret.

  “And there I was hoping you were going to be on the sofa.” He swings into the room, tie just how I like it, shirt sleeves rolled up.

  “That’s Fridays only,” I say but it sounds mechanical and forced.

  “Faith, what on earth? Why are you crying? Did the police call?” I can’t hold it in any longer and tears slip one by one down my face. He steps closer, wrapping me in his embrace and I taste salt and inhale the scent of him. Pushing me back a little his thumbs slide across my cheeks catching my wayward tears. “Talk, please, you’re killing me.” The blues are intense and demanding. I wiggle from his embrace and grab the blue box, lifting it between us so he can see.

  “What?” I watch his face as it drops with surprise. “What?” he says again, and basically, he is repeating the only word I’ve had in my head all day. “Faith?” The blues shine a little. “Why are you crying?”