Page 23 of Tears of Ink

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.