Page 42 of Tears of Ink

Unfortunately, I’ve just taken a sip of my iced water which I nearly choke on.

Connie carries on, regardless of my spluttering. “Oh yes, my mother entertained Virginia Woolf here in 1916; they played croquet on that lawn right there.” She points with her fork to the immaculate lawn outside the dining room window.

Virginia Woolf… and now what? They have me?

I’m being hit by a wave of loser syndrome.

Connie nods, her mind someplace else. “Ooh, yes, all the greats.” Her eyes snap onto me, bright and clear. “Now tell me, dear, which of my grandsons do you plan to fuck?”

“Mother!” Jennifer’s face pales, and she holds her hand across her mouth.

What the hell did she just say to me?

I don’t know how to react. Tabitha is squirming in her chair, her pale and pretty face a vibrant red. My mouth flaps open gormless and stupid.

I know it’s what people think of me when they see the tattoos. So it’s what I give them. It’s easier that way then being the woman who lives under the ink.

I shrug nonchalantly. “I really can’t decide. I think I may have them both at once.”

Tabitha howls with laughter, and Connie stares at me. Her eyes scanning over my face, a small smile lifting her mouth. I push away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to being a pretend artist.”

I push from the table and stalk for the door, while my heart pounds wildly in my ribcage.

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.

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

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.