Page 7 of Tears of Ink

I straighten myself up. “Hey, I’ve been offered the chance to apply for an installation.” I pause to allow my words to sink in. “It would insane to not take up the chance.”

“True thing, babe.”

“I’ve got to go, Al.” I don’t want to add that my chest aches a little and I want to crumple into a ball because one of my favourite people in the whole world is being eaten alive by cancer. “Hang in there, I’m coming to see you real soon.”

“I’ll tell Dan.”

“Don’t. I could do without the puppy dog eyes and general moping.”

“You two will end up married one of these days. I know you pretend to hate him.”

I laugh. “You’re losing your mind, old man. Dan and I will marry when hell freezes over.”

“That’s good, we’ll all be together down in hell anyway.”

“Love you, Al.”

“You too, bright spark.”

I smile as I hit the red button at his familiar use of my childhood nickname. Seems silly to be called a bright spark at the age of twenty-four, when there is nothing bright about me at all anymore. But I still like it, just like the six-year-old version of me did before my shine was eroded by darkness.

I pace up the stairs and launch into the studio, pulling the cloth I’d thrown over the marble the night before onto the floor. Sadly, nothing has changed. It still remains untouched, just like it has been pulled from the earth.

What am I going to do if I can’t finish it? What will I hand in instead?

Why the hell can’t I get to grips with this bloody lump of rock? I’ve never struggled before. That’s why I’m studying Fine Art and sculpture… because I’m good at it. Well, I used to be. Now I’m not sure if it wasn’t all a bit of a fluke.

Yet, Gerard had put me forward for that installation with no hesitation. It could open so many doors. When I get home and haven’t been waylaid by wine and stranger sex, I’ll look up Bowsley Hall and see what it’s about, what they are trying to achieve. That’s what the internet is for right? Some light stalking and research.

Unbuttoning my shirt, I fling it on the back of a chair and place my apron over the sports bra, tying it around my back. Then I grab my chisel and step up towards the marble like I’m going to war. Which I am. I’m fighting for my degree, the First class honours I’m so desperate for, and the future that will never take me back to that tattoo shop in Brighton.

C H A P T E R T H R E E

The chilled wine slips down wonderfully and with a deep sigh I shut my eyes for a moment and rest my head back on the sofa. My muscles ache from hunching and sitting in a scrunched position for hours. I give my shoulders a stretch, lifting them to my ears and dropping them back down. They are stiff and reluctant, and I straighten up having another sip of wine that I’m pretty sure will help ease them. Before I can drift off and lose focus, I pull my laptop onto my lap, opening the lid and quickly adding my password one-handed so I don’t have to put my glass down. My hands are sore—light cuts and nicks scratch the surface of my skin. They're all chisel inflicted, although I’m aware of how they look to the untrained eye. It’s why I came home and declined Gerard’s call of a drink.

I type in “Bowsley Hall” waiting for Google to provide me some insight into my possible summer accommodation. Could I live in a strange house for the summer? I don’t play well with others. It’s why I’ve lived by myself the previous two years of my degree. That and the fact I started older than the other students. And I look different. Not that I give a flying fuck about looking different, being different. But girls stare at me in alarm, and guys want to see how far the tatts go. They see a girl who’s free with ink and think she will be free with her morals. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I’m not. It all depends.

Bowsley Hall… I blink when images fill the top couple of results. There is no way! I can’t stay in that; it’s nothing short of a huge castle. Spiralling chimney stacks—more than surely any building could hold—and turreted corner wings, focus the sprawling mass of red brick. Architecture and buildings aren’t my speciality, what with me being more concerned about what goes inside buildings than outside them, but I’d hazard a guess and bet my favourite potter’s wheel on it being Elizabethan in origin; at least the main part of the house with the chimneys. I remember being in a lecture once on style and the lecturer had pointed out that the more chimneys, the greater the wealth in the Elizabethan period. Rather like when a hundred or so years later there had been the glass tax and all the many windows of splendour had been covered with brick. This house had all its windows and all its chimneys—honest, I felt sorry for the cleaners.

I scroll down, ignoring the looming presence of red brick and try to discover more about its owners. Gerard had said it was his friend, but that couldn’t be right, surely? Some images flash up of a couple and their children. They look wealthy, their clothes simple yet expensive. Smooth and manicured, tailored and sharp, without trying too hard. Lucky for them.

I open Facebook and click on a Messenger chat. Gerard’s online as I knew he would be. He’s a social media addict, although he’d deny it to anyone. I thought it was strange at first when my lecturer friend-requested me, but then when I looked at his friends list I realised I wasn’t that special at all. He’s friends with as many members of the world’s population as Facebook allows. I type a quick message.

Faith Hitchin: I can’t stay in that house. Offer it to Meg. She will fit in so much better.

Gerard Steers: Too late. Mrs Fairclough wants to see you next time she’s in London.

Next time she’s in London? Is she swanning in to check the sights?

Faith Hitchin: It’s a bad idea. Please give it to Meg. Leave me to serve warm beer all summer. I’ll enjoy that far more.

Gerard Steers: This is a big opportunity. It could lead to galleries wanting you. If I know the Fairclough’s, then there will be press all over this.

I cringe and shut the laptop with a bang. For a moment, I lean my head back and close my eyes. The press. I don’t want them anywhere near me, or anywhere near my work. But then if I want to be an artist—a world class artist, no less, the kind who has galleries in London begging for their work— won’t I need them?

Shaking my head, I stare at the crack in the ceiling.

I could go back to Brighton, pick up a tattoo machine and do that for a living. It’s good money. Very good money. But then who would I be? The girl from the fucked-up family. At least here in London no one knows me. They might look, but I’m hidden behind the ink they see first.