Page 141 of Tears of Gold

He laughs, a flash of nervousness twitching his lips. “Would have been bloody awkward if you said no.”

He gets up and catches my hand. Behind him everyone we know claps and applauds. Miss Beesley is there, Gerard, Philip, even Lewis, who for once isn’t frowning. Dylan, Angela. His gran… his fucking gran! She smiles at me and nods just once.

Poor old cow. It must be hard to lose everything you’ve battled so hard to keep.

It’s the one thing I don’t plan to do.

I link my arm with his and we walk along the promenade, turning right at the lights. Our bridal party stops the traffic. I’m alternating between crying and giggling. I’m a mess. Who cares? From the corner of my vision I catch sandy hair and tattoos. Dan. My heart swells a little.

When we stand outside Brighton Registry office, Eli turns to me and smiles. “Is this like the little girl's dreams?”

“It’s more. It’s so, so much more.”

Then he’s mine, in bands of gold and memories of glass. Of art in ink, and tears that will never stop coming but will always be fought.

And I will take them all. Fight for them all so I can be who I am. The girl in ink.

Epilogue

“These stairs, they will be the end of me.” I fall through the attic door and almost collapse. “We need a lift or something.”

Eli laughs and carefully pops his paintbrush down. I rub my tummy. It’s rock hard, the baby so big it literally can’t move anymore. “Feel this. It’s like a boulder.”

Laughing, he bends lower. “Come out, come out. Mummy is getting impatient.”

I scowl. “Mummy, Nanny, Aunty Tabitha, bloody everyone.”

“It’s only three days. The midwife said you could go up to two weeks.”

I stare at him aghast. “No, Elijah. No, you aren’t understanding. I can’t.”

“I told you, sex is the answer.”

“No. Sex is disgusting when I can barely see you because the bump is obscuring my view of reality.”

“No sex. Come look at what I’m working on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me around the easel, his face shining.

“Wow.” A massive canvas is balanced across two easels. Explosions of colour crafted with deep and thick oil sweep across the surface. Abstract, it looks like it’s nothing at all, no one subject until I see a flash of a familiar pink and peer closer. “Are those my roses?”

“Maybe.” He smirks.

“Is this me?”

“Possibly.”

“Jesus, Eli. This isn’t some abstract view of me naked is it?”

He shrugs but laughs, the sound rings around the walls. “Maybe.”

My stomach tightens again, and I wince in a breath. “Bloody hell. Why is this going so hard?”

“Let’s get you safely back downstairs. I can work on this later.”

“Have Whitlocks seen it?’

“Yep.”

“Did they know it was me naked?”