Page 47 of Tears of Ink

Eli Jones: And I didn’t… embarrass myself?

Fuck, I’m grinning like a lunatic.

Faith Hitchin: Well you did use my studio basin as a urinal.

Eli Jones: I did not. That’s not funny.

Faith Hitchin: It is a little bit, come on.

Eli Jones: My head hurts too much for this.

Faith Hitchin: Are you coming to breakfast to protect me from your evil grandmother? Is she a wolf dressed up as a sweet old lady, ready to gobble us all up?

Eli Jones: lol

Faith Hitchin: Are we lol’ing now? We must be friends.

Eli Jones: I’m in London. I hope to be back later.

No. My stomach drops. Stop doing that. It’s not good.

Faith Hitchin: Okay, have a great day being a corporate high flyer.

Eli Jones: Thanks, I won’t.

Faith Hitchin: Hey, it’s Sunday.

Eli Jones: The law stops for no man.

Faith Hitchin: Loser syndrome, I told you.

Eli Jones: It’s a free case. I’ve got to work it on my own time. I’ll see you later.

I stare at my phone. Is that it now? Are we friends? Are we going to act like we’ve known each other forever?

He doesn’t know a thing about me, and if he did, he’d run for the hills and never look back. I push down the blanket and raise my arm, keeping my gaze studiously turned away from the lightning bolt Elijah had touched last night. Instead I look at the Māori decorations I have weaving along my right bicep. Feminine but powerful, they remind me of a time when I thought I could fight. After three weeks in New Zealand, spending some bonus money Al had given me for a large set of sketches I’d done him, I’d decided to have them inked before my return. I wanted to come back a Māori warrior, ready to defeat my enemy and achieve freedom.

I nibble on my lip. The battle hadn’t been won.

Can I be that woman again, the one who fights?

I sit on the edge of the bed, throwing back the duvet. My head aches, my stomach is turning, but hell am I going to let some old woman with a vicious tongue keep me penned in my room. I pull on some clothes, put my hair up in a bun, and decide to go to war over the breakfast table. I need to eat to absorb the alcohol still sloshing around my stomach. I can’t work with my brain foggy and distracted. And I want to work. I resist the urge to go and see my stoneware creation of yesterday. Bacon first. Then work.

Tabitha’s at the table and I nearly fall at her feet with joy. Nearly, but then she says, “Jeez, you stink of booze.”

I glare at her and grab the jug of organic juice in the centre of the table, pouring it into a ridiculously small glass that can only hold about two sips.

Jennifer is sitting behind a broadsheet. Either something’s very interesting, or she doesn’t want to make eye contact with me. I slide into a seat next to Tabitha.

“What did you do yesterday, Faith?” Tabitha asks, her cheeks tingeing with pink just from making conversation with me.

I offer her a smile and a wink. “After your grandmother was mortally rude to me and accused me of being a slut?”

Tabitha catches on quick. I can see us being friends. Exactly how many Faircloughs do I plan to be friends with?

“Mm, she put you on the spot asking you to choose like that.”

I pick up a bread roll, although I know I have to manage to eat more than that today. “I know, I mean it’s such a tough choice. On one hand you’ve got Peter…” I pick off a piece of bread. “You know he’s in line to the throne so that’s in his favour, but let’s be honest he doesn’t look anywhere near as fu—”