Page 108 of Tears of Ink

“Hey.” I launch into the room not bothering to knock. Jennings is serving drinks, and he gives me a small smile when he can. I’m still hanging out in the kitchen with Lewis, to hell with Jennifer and her false appearances. Elaine and Jennings have been looking after me, making sure I eat and rest, drink enough water, etc. Who knows why they’re making such a fuss, but it’s appreciated.

“Faith, lovely for you to join us. What fireworks can we expect today?” Peter smirks with his greeting. I will punch him soon, purely for the fact he’s breathing and annoying me.

“Shut it.” I scowl and turn to Gerard. “Why didn’t you tell me my pieces had sold at Whitlocks?”

“That dump,” I hear Peter grumble, but I’m not giving him the time of day.

Gerard hold his hands up, but the look on his face tells me he can’t believe it took me this long to ask the question. “I didn’t want you to ditch your degree because you started making money.”

I step closer, toe-to-toe with my once friend. “You didn’t want what?”

“Come on, Faith. You would have sold a few pieces and then been offered more contracts. I knew you’d decide to drop out.”

“How did that work out for you?” I sneer in his face. “I left anyway, because of you.”

“Yes, well, I’m still hoping you might come back.”

My head shakes with a force of its own. “I’m not coming back. I don’t trust you, no matter what you say. Even more so now, I can’t believe that, Gerard.”

“You didn’t need the money anyway, you’ve got all that tattoo money tied up in that apartment of yours.” I sense Peter’s attention sweep in my direction.

“Money’s got nothing to do with it.” I throw my hands in the air. “It would have been good to know someone wanted my work, that somewhere, something I created was sitting on a mantlepiece being admired.”

Gerard places a hand on my arm. “Faith, your work is appreciated everywhere. Why do you think you haven’t been turfed out of here yet?”

“Yet,” Peter snipes, but we both turn to him and shout.

“Shut up,” in unison.

Gerard tries to make eye contact with me, but I won’t meet his gaze. “It’s because you are ridiculously bloody talented. The Faircloughs need you here because when they have the national press descend at the end of their little art project they need the finest work possible waiting for them. It’s why I wanted you to take this job—not Meg, or anyone else.” He catches my fingers and holds them up until I look at them. “These are gifted. And if I’ve done wrong by you, then I’m sorry.”

Bollocks. The guy’s got that hangdog thing going.

“I’m so fricking furious, Gerard.” I sigh a breath. “This place is messed-up; it’s not healthy.” It’s not healthy for my heart I know that.

“And when the acquisitions buyer from The Tate Modern is staring at something amazing you created, on the night of the ball, how messed up will it be then?”

More messed up than I can contemplate.

“I’d better give them something amazing then.” I turn to leave. I need to go and think, to clear my head.

“What’s the theme again?”

I turn at the door but can’t quite raise a smile. My emotions have been through the ringer these last few days. “Dreams.”

As I walk the stairs up to Elijah’s secret attic studio, I wonder what I would dream for if I could have anything my heart desired.

My hand turns the handle and with a sinking dismay I know the answer. Him.

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - T W O

Everything is covered in a fine layer of dust, but the paintings are still as wonderfully vibrant as the first time I saw them. I wonder how much someone would pay for one of these. As I turn to the roses, so thick and lush and beautiful, I can imagine them sitting in a gilt frame on some swanky Burlington Arcade gallery, stark and bright against a black background.

I step closer to run my fingers across the thick paint and then I see the envelope tucked against the edge of the easel. What is that? I pick it up and see my name scrawled across it. It’s heavy and lumpy. Tearing it open, I tip the contents into my palm—the MG ignition key landing on my hand. “What the hell?” My voice reverberates back from the bare walls. A card slips out into my hand. It’s a business card: Elijah Fairclough, Barrister, imprinted in embossed ink on the thick vellum card stock. I frown at it and then turn it over. An address in Kensington is scrawled in biro across the back.

My heart—it near on takes to flight.

Did he leave this for me days ago? Have I been sending him one-word answers to his messages while he’s been waiting for me to come up here and find a car key and a card with an address?