Page 28 of Tears of Ink

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.”

C H A P T E R T E N

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.