Page 94 of Tears of Glass

“Whoa, what’s wrong? Has Mummy already called?”

He chuckles a little, low and soft. “Not yet, I have that delight to look forward to.”

There’s a beat of a pause. Eli is always someone else at work, more the man I first met than the one I’m crazy for.

“The Tate want me to do an exhibition,” I blurt unable to hold it in.

“What?”

“The Tate want me to do an exhibition.”

“Oh my god, Faith, that is extraordinary.” His voice lowers, and I know he’s not alone.

“Angela was there, and the dean. They want to make the Channel 4 show in association with the Tate. I guess trying to bring art to the masses.”

“Well there is not a better woman to do that than you. You deserve this.”

I give myself a small smile. He’s reserved, the man in the suit, but from under his cool tone I can sense the ripple of pride. “Dinner tomorrow on me.”

“Sounds like a date.”

“More than a date.” I’m grinning like a fool.

“Well that I can’t wait for.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Sunshine, I’ve got to go. I’m having a bit of a disaster here.”

“That’s okay,” I whisper. “I’ve got someone I want to see.”

“Should I be jealous?”

I chuckle, a crazed sound. “No. Good luck with your mother.”

He sighs. “Thanks.”

“I hope you still think I’m worth it.”

“Oh, I know you are.”

“Bye, Eli.”

“Bye, Sunshine.”

For a moment I stand there and look at my phone. I want to call Al and tell him what’s going on. Tell him that I’m getting there, slowly, achieving all the things he dreamed of for me. If he’d seen that headline in the paper, he would have roared his head off with laughter.

I drop my phone into my bag and straighten my shoulders, breathing in deep. Then with my head held high, I march into the packed campus cafe and order myself a double espresso like I’m the goddamn queen of the world.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It’s busy down Bankside, crowds of tourists milling around in the space between The Globe and the Tate Modern. There are at least twenty foreign exchange kids all with matching backpacks on, trying to get in through the doors of the Tate all at once. I hang back and wait for them to wedge themselves through and then I slip past and pace in the opposite direction to whatever they are going in. The Tate Modern is cavernous, with large blank spaces and elevators that could take you anywhere to see anything. If you want to see Emin’s bed, you can go in one direction, if you want to see Rodin’s kiss—the other.

I wander around not really looking for anything in particular.

I am installing at the Tate. It’s beyond my wildest dreams. Beyond any dream really. A few people glance at me—The Sun readers obviously—but I ignore them and focus on filling my chest with breaths of air, and my heart and mind with art.

I haven’t created a thing since I came back to London. I haven’t created a thing since I smashed the glass heart. What happens if I can’t erase the block in my mind? What would happen if there were ten students here all waiting to create with me and I had nothing?

I can’t think about it because fear will freeze me forever.

As usual when I come to the gallery, I end up standing in front of Rodin’s Kiss. I never used to understand it, but now in the smooth curves of the lovers and the delicate possession of their embrace I do. It’s the way I always want to be held by Eli. A soft touch of lips, a body burning with fire, his hands on my skin and the knowledge that he will be deep inside me, filling me up as our bodies slide together. My own body warms as I stare at the lovers caught in an endless embrace.