Page 22 of Tears of Ink

It’s a Facebook notification. Pressing it and opening the app, I hold the phone closer to see who it’s from.

Eli Jones.

I don’t know an Eli Jones. There isn’t a profile picture, so I click on his ‘friends’. There are only five and none of them are anyone I know. But I do know an Elijah. His words come into my mind. Call me Eli. Then there was our conversation about Facebook friends. Would you accept?

Is that why he’s Facebooking me? To find out the answer? But then maybe it’s about tomorrow. I accept the request and shove my phone back into my bag. It’s hot and sticky, and I want to go home for a shower.

The water does its trick, washing away my London encounter and the grime of the city. When I come out, I wrap myself in my giant bath towel and open the lounge windows. I love this building, it’s perfect. Art deco and with wonderful windows, it might be tiny but it’s a little slice of architectural perfection. Overlooking the Thames from the south, I’d fallen in love on the spot. What the rooms lack on cubic square feet, the ceiling makes up for in height and vaulting. I could never have afforded this in my wildest dreams, but when Al gave me the chance to work in his shop to save money for my escape to London, I saved every penny. Men pay a lot to be tattooed by someone like me. I sometimes wonder if they get an erotic kick out of my inflicting pain on them. Oh well, I don’t care if they pay well.

I light a cigarette and grab my phone. A Facebook message is on the home screen.

Eli Jones: I decided to stop stalking.

I roll my eyes and drag on my smoke.

Faith Hitchin: Thanks. I feel so much safer now.

I go to throw my phone onto the sofa, but it beeps before I have a chance.

Eli Jones: I’ve increased your London friends by 50%

Well that’s damn rude.

Faith Hitchin: Don’t do me any favours.

Eli Jones: Actually, can you do me a favour? Can you send me a screen shot of your roses?

I stare at the screen. Can I do what exactly?

Faith Hitchin: I am not sending you a picture of my chest.

Eli Jones: I’m not a pervert. I just need to see the colour.

Faith Hitchin: Why?

I’m going to send him a get-the-hell-lost-you-weirdo response, or maybe I’m going to just shut off my phone and ignore his random request. Or perhaps I will take a picture of the roses along my collarbone and send it.

Yes. I’ll do that.

I don’t hear back. Nothing.

Well, that was weird, and don’t I feel like a dick for sending him a picture of my skin.

I grab my laptop and Google Elijah Fairclough. If he was being serious the other day and his older brother Peter is something in line to the throne—how completely ridiculous—then surely there’s got to be something about the younger brother on the net. Everything’s on there isn’t it? If Elijah had had the foresight, he could have Googled rose tattoos with Brighton and it probably would have bought up some image floating around of my roses. Al’s a bugger at spreading his work, especially when he’s proud of something.

I light another cigarette and squint at the screen. My glasses are over the other side of the room, and even when dressed in only a towel and completely by myself, I like to maintain my vanity.

Some younger images of Elijah flash up. His hair’s longer, less severe, but those eyes are the same. I zoom in. What colour are they? Now I look closer I’m not sure if they are Lapis… What do they remind me of? I open another tab in Google and type in porcelain. Images flash up of blue on cream. The blue is vibrant, but it’s not quite right. Another tab and I type in Wedgewood. That’s too pale, too wishy-washy. Not piercing enough.

In the end, and cringing as I realise I’m the worst artist in the world I type vivid blue flowers.

I scroll the results knowing I will see what I want when I see it. I can get like this, I hate not knowing something, especially when it’s right there on the tip of my tongue.

Then I see them. Tall and brilliant, a bunch of delphiniums. That’s the blue. Delphinium blue.

I flick back to the tab with the images of Elijah and then to the one with the flower. Yes, that’s definitely it.

I read some of the words on the screen, but my eyes constantly wander back to the pictures. There are numerous photos of him at racecourses, normally with a blonde on his arm. Not always the same blonde.