Tears of Ink (Tears of ... Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  Player.

  Then I see the words that finally snap my attention from the images.

  Younger son of Baroness Fairclough announces engagement to socialite Sienna Richards.

  I drag on my cigarette and read the words again.

  What is a socialite? Is that actually a job?

  So he’s engaged. That’s good, because it means next time I think about those delphinium blue eyes, I can tell myself to get a grip on reality and concentrate on the work I need to do.

  This is what I need. A stiff slap of realism. I can get carried away. I want something, and I pursue it despite the cost. Look at what I did with Gerard. I wasn’t going to let him go until I had him and then when I had it was enough. I lost interest. And even though he didn’t understand, apart from maybe on some level realising I’m totally fucked up, I knew I couldn’t break my one-time rule.

  I’m guessing Elijah Fairclough and Sienna Richards don’t have a one shag only rule.

  Of course, they don’t. I’m the only one with that rule.

  I shut my laptop, my snooping complete. It hasn’t made me any happier, but it has wasted what was left of the evening. I slip into bed knowing that tomorrow I’m going to Bowsley Hall and that it could be the start of an opportunity of a lifetime.

  I don’t sleep, my dreams are twisted. Sharp pens and ink chasing me. And I dream of Dad and his face when I tried to tell him the truth.

  Unrested and jittery, I get myself together. Elijah is going to be here soon; he said ten. I check my phone to see if I have any messages but there is nothing. God, I wish Gerard was coming with me. I call him, to beg, but he doesn’t answer. It is Saturday and almost the end of term. I’d say he has better things to do than listen to my ramblings and worries.

  I shower again and tell myself it’s the sticky air making me sweat despite standing under water. My outfit is all wrong as I pull it on. Maybe I shouldn’t cover my tattoos? Maybe the outfit is too formal? But then isn’t this a job interview?

  Why is this so damn hard?

  I’m hating Gerard for telling me about this. He should have given it to Meg and been done with it. Meg would have known how to cope. She would have sailed in there, crafted them some pots, made everything all pretty, and it would have been hunky dory. Instead, here I am sweating in chiffon.

  My phone beeps dead on ten a.m.

  Eli Jones: Where are you?

  Faith Hitchin: Waiting for you.

  Eli Jones: But I’m at the studio.

  I realise my error. I need a serious bitch slap.

  Faith Hitchin: I’m sorry. I’m at my apartment. I thought we were meeting here.

  Eli Jones: even though I don’t know where it is…

  I don’t know what to say. This is not a great start to a second interview.

  Before I have a chance to respond, my phone beeps again.

  Eli Jones: Send me your postcode.

  I do, along with my road address and door number. I’ve gone overboard on the details, but I’m not chancing anything again. Then I sit on my sofa and chastise myself for being the world’s biggest idiot. I should have just made my own way to Bowsley. Why did I agree to the lift? Why did I even agree to go?

  Twenty minutes later, there’s a buzz on the intercom. “I’m coming down,” I shout. Grabbing my bag and my portfolio, I launch myself out the door. I’m too slow. He’s stood at the other side in a black suit with a grey striped tie. My mouth pops open a little.

  “You’re very dressed up,” I say.

  One side of his mouth lifts. “It’s business?”

  “And the sliders the other night?” I find myself standing still, just watching his face.

  “An apology.” His steady gaze is on my face. “Are you ready?”

  I nod, my cheeks flaming. “Yes, I’m sorry about the confusion.”

  “Don’t worry, I called ahead and told them lunch was going to be a bit late.”

  “Lunch?” My heart starts knocking in my chest.

  “Of course. You are going to need to meet everyone and talk through plans. Surely that would be better over lunch?”

  I hadn’t even thought...? Suddenly I realise I haven’t been sensible about this at all. This is just another classic example of me being hasty. What was it my dad always used to call me? Flighty.

  I lock away thoughts of my dad and straighten my shoulders. “Okay, let’s go. I wouldn’t want to make lunch later than it is.”

  He grins, and it does something funny to my stomach. He’s engaged, Faith.

  I follow him down the landing to the stairwell, breathing in deep. I can do this. I can do anything that stops me going back to Brighton and living my life in the shadow of the past.

  Chapter Eight

  The car ride is awkward. Two strangers stuck in a small sports car for two hours. He tries to open up conversation, but my stomach is twisted into knots and I keep focusing on the movement of his wrists as he drives. So strong and controlled, his watch every so often flashes a ray of sunlight.

  I’m paying so much attention to his wrists smattered in fair hair, I don’t hear him speak. “So why don’t you have many London friends on Facebook?”

  I swivel in my seat to stare at him. “What’s the obsession with Facebook friends?”

  He shrugs, his fingers flicking the indicator for a left turn. His fingers… Oh my god, stop it, Faith.

  “I just figured that’s what people gauged their lives by?”

  “Do you? I checked your profile; you don’t have many friends on there, either.” I’m not worried about my lack of online friends. I’ve never been a people person. That it should extend to my digital life is no skin off my nose. What am I going to do? Tell people on a daily basis that I forgot to have dinner and instead had a cigarette and a handful of crackers? Or that yesterday I shagged a stranger in the changing rooms of Topshop because I had nothing better to do. Those aren’t the sort of things people want to know.

  “You checked my profile? Are you stalking me now?”

  I roll my eyes and stare out of the window. I wonder if he’d let me smoke in his vintage car. I’m thinking not. He doesn’t look like a smoker. He looks like someone who works out, and eats salmon and broccoli for breakfast, probably brought to him on a silver platter by his skinny socialite fiancée.

  “It would be foolish not to see who my boss is.”

  I glance back at him just as he looks at me. Our eyes meet.

  “Technically my mother is your boss.”

  “Is she going to be there today?” I don’t know why but the delayed meeting with the baroness is starting to freak me out. “Or are you our permanent go-between?”

  “That’s one of my favourite books?” His words make me sit up straighter.

  “Pardon?” My palms slick a little—crazy overreaction. “L. P. Hartley is one of your favourite books?”

  He nods, and those insane bright eyes glance over me. “Have you read it?”

  I cough a little. “Uh, yes.”

  “And?”

  “I was obsessed with it as a child. That tension, the build up, and the final tragedy.” I studied The Go Between for my English exam before my life went to shit. It’s one of my last stable memories: sitting in my room, flicking the pages; trying to get to the ending, but then realising that the exciting bit was shocking, and it hurt to read. A bit like life. “It’s hard to forget.” I add, and my voice wavers a little.

  “The past is a foreign country,” his words hang in the air.

  “They do things differently there.” I finish the famous quote.

  “You surprise me, Miss Hitchin.”

  I glare at him but find him grinning at me.

  “You don’t surprise me if you only see as far as the surface,” I snap.

  He chuckles to himself like he’s so damn amusing and I seethe in my seat. Bloody ignoramus.

  When he flicks the indicator towards a small entrance in the centre of a huge brick wall—a wall we’ve been driving past for a l
ong while without me realising—his relaxed demeanour hardens. It snaps in the air like brittle glass.

  I watch through the window, his change in body language causing a shiver of apprehension to tingle down my spine. We draw up in front of what can only be described as a palatial building. It’s bigger than a mansion. In fact, it would make a mansion look like a cottage.

  “Jesus,” I mutter. He snorts, but it lacks the warmth of a few minutes before.

  “Welcome to the crazy house.” He announces.

  By the time we’ve made it up broad, pale stone steps, I’m glad of my outfit choice. If I’ve got to sell myself—convince these people that my work belongs in their frankly giant house—then, hell, I’m going to dress right for it.

  The door opens as we arrive and a man in a suit bows as we walk through. Please tell me that’s not a butler.

  “Jennings.” Elijah greets the older man, clapping him warmly on his arm and handing him his keys.

  “Elijah, it’s good to have you home.” The man’s deep brown eyes sweep over me. “And not alone. Miss Hitchin, we are pleased you could come.”

  “Thanks,” I stutter.

  The fall of footsteps draws my attention, and as I turn towards them, I catch Elijah stiffening out of the corner of my eye.

  “Darling, you are home.” A woman of middling years walks towards us, a waft of pungent perfume which I believe may have been made in hell by Chanel precedes before her. She’s an apparition of immaculate perfection. Hair carefully coiffed, face smoother than my own which is impressive considering she must have at least twenty years, if not more, on me. Her suit is Chanel. She air-kisses Elijah and he shoots me a small smile over her lilac-suited shoulder.

  She pats his shoulders, taking in the full view of his face before turning to me.

  “Faith, I am so pleased Elijah was able to convince you to come.” Her smile is bright. But, Elijah doesn’t get his blues from her. “My apologies about our meeting at The Ritz. I am just so unorganised. Hopefully, Elijah acted like a gentleman and explained the situation.”

  I flick my gaze towards him. His face is cautious, perplexed, although I have no idea why. She grabs my arm and wheels me around, not giving me time to answer. “Now, come, let’s start a tour, or do you need a drink after a drive in that awful rust bucket Elijah insists on keeping. Sentimental fool.”

  “Why’s he a sentimental fool?” I want to turn to see him, but she’s marching me away down a marble floored hallway at a great pace.

  “Oh, it’s silly. It is the car his grandfather used to drive. When Elijah passed his test, he found someone selling it. Somehow, he managed to match it up with old photographs and bought it. He has spent far too much energy on fixing it up, I can assure you.” She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  Elijah fixed that car? I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does.

  We are speed walking through an airy hallway. Arched windows stud the wall at regular intervals. How many windows are there? I can’t stop to count, she’s towing me so fast by the elbow. I glance up and see a beautiful domed ceiling, decorated with gold stars on white. It’s quite beautiful.

  “Wait.” I pull on her hand, holding her back.

  “What is it?” She looks genuinely perplexed that I might want to do this walk slowly.

  “Can I take a moment to see this room? It’s amazing.” I slide my chiffon-covered sleeve out of her grasp and step away. I need to breathe air not tainted by Chanel. I turn on my heel and take in the impressive length of the room.

  It reminds me of the type of room Jane Austen would have had her characters “taking a turn of the room” in. Blimey, if they’d had Fitbits in those days no one would have had problems getting their steps in.

  “Faith.” She smiles at me. I’m telling myself it’s not condescending. “This is just the hallway.”

  I won’t let her budge me on. “The light is amazing. All these windows. This would be a great room for glass; you could have changes in tone throughout the room, maybe start lighter by the entrance and have it grow darker by the end.”

  I find Elijah still watching at the other end. He seems to be smirking. Shooting him a frown, I turn back to his mother. “Sorry, I get distracted.”

  She claps her hands together. “I have a good feeling about this.”

  I still need to find out exactly what this is, so with that in mind I let her lead me through the next door and see what awaits me there.

  My head swims so fast, I struggle to take everything in. So many colours, textures. I’m sweating too. So many steps.

  And they think this house is dilapidated.

  It’s anything but. It shines with fading glory like it’s whispering its secrets though crumbled plasterwork and worn wallpaper.

  I want to do every room again by myself. Taking my time. Working out what could go where and have the greatest impact.

  But my stomach, unrepressed by my lack of nicotine, is growling with hunger, so when Jennings find us and murmurs in a low, discreet voice that lunch is served, I almost faint with relief.

  “Come, let’s go to the conservatory,” Jennifer Fairclough says. We’ve been talking a lot about the project as we walk, her telling me some of the long history of the building, but I have a feeling lunch will be when the real interview begins.

  The conservatory is a large glass affair. Exotic plants cram the space, the air rich with earthy scents. It’s heaven—I’m sure. It’s not a conservatory. Well, nothing like I’ve ever seen before.

  I thought the ballroom with the star-gilded ceiling would be my favourite. But now I see this barrage of green, living foliage, I think the conservatory wins.

  A table is set with pristine white linen and gleaming silverware. Crystal glasses catch the natural light, and I think it should be hot and that I will sweat more in my chiffon, but the air is cool. I glance up and find the domed ceiling is open wide, as windows wrought in old-fashioned metal frames open to the elements. Bird chatter and the hum of insects provides gentle background sound that mixes with the fall of water. I can’t see any water, so it must be hidden in the maze of flowers and dark green leaves.

  There are two people already sat at the circular table, but only the one with the blue eyes and a dark suit rises when he sees me and pulls out a chair. “Very gentlemanly,” I tease, and the eyes crease as he grins.

  “Always.”

  A shorter, more rounded version of Elijah reaches forward with his hand. “Peter Fairclough.” He confirms. “It’s good of you to come to discuss our project.”

  I can’t help but wonder why he didn’t meet me at The Ritz the other day. If he’s the one who knows Gerard, surely that would have made sense?

  I don’t turn but I sense a heavy watchful gaze on my face. “Thanks for having me,” I reply, but I’m nervous and uncomfortable. I was happier walking around the house, dreaming big ideas. A formal lunch is not a situation I’m used to. They tend not to be a regular occurrence when growing up in a tattoo shop.

  “You know Gerard?” I meet Peter’s muted gaze. His eyes are a paler version of his brother’s, more Wedgewood than delphinium. Poor Peter.

  “Oh, Steers. He’s a laugh that one, totally incorrigible.”

  “Incorrigible? He’s a lecturer; my lecturer? He seems quite staid to me.” I smile a little. I know Gerard, he’s my friend and supporter. Hell, he’s the reason I’m here.

  “I wouldn’t want to be his wife.” Peter smirks, and I offer him a tight smile.

  “Good thing he’s not married then.”

  “Of course he’s married. We went to his wedding, didn’t we, Elijah?”

  I can’t look at the delphinium blues. My heart beats too fast. Thankfully, Jennings brings a bottle of champagne and fills the flute in front of me. I glug it down quickly, not waiting for decorum to dictate when I should drink. Married? But how? He’s always at my place… and we… and we…

  I want to close my eyes and hide in an overwhelming tide of bitte
rness. I trusted him. I trusted him, and he abused it.

  I can’t believe it.

  One dark eyebrow quirks, but the wide lips on the handsome face stay quiet. I shake it off. I can deal with Gerard, the cheating, two-timing scumbag later.

  “So, what do you think of the house?” Elijah asks. If he can sense my internal revelations he is kind enough to help steer the conversation. Thank you. I silently get myself together.

  “It’s beautiful.” I brush a strand of hair that’s stuck across my face. “I still don’t understand what you want me to do here. The house is full of so many beautiful things anyway.”

  Jennifer sips her own champagne and then smiles warmly at Elijah. “It was Elijah’s idea really. The house has never been open before, apart the odd open day for charity, but the family have resisted the urge to give The National Trust access, no matter how financially viable it may make the building.”

  “And now?” I take another sip of my drink and try not to screw my face up in disgust as the sharp bubbles hit the back of my throat. I can’t drink too quickly as I haven’t eaten, and that’s always a recipe for disaster.

  Elijah leans forward slightly as if he’s closing the space between us across the table and gives me an intent stare. “I thought maybe instead of just opening it up and making money, we could try to give something back to the local area.”

  “I thought you needed a new roof?”

  Peter snorts. “Steers is such a jerk.” He coughs and clears his throat as his mother glares at him. I kind of like her despite the fact she’s clearly on a different planet to me, let alone in a different class. “Our roof is sound, do not worry about that. Elijah wanted it to be cultural. The idea being we have an artist…” She indicates me by pointing her silver fork, “ to stay here and fill the house with wonderful creations, and the public can come and watch, help maybe? You know, get involved.”

  I stare open mouthed.

  I’m sorry. Do what?

  It’s no good, I’m going to have to ask. “You want me to create sculptures while people I don’t know stand and watch?”