Page 18 of Tears of Glass

“Well, yeah.”

“So, Frances—who may I add is pretty pissed you didn’t take the time to talk to her when we’ve been the ones selling your work all this time—wants some of it.

“Really?” I frown. “Well she’ll have to take that up with Bowsley.”

Damien chuckles. “Oh, she has. It won’t be sold. It’s a private collection, apparently.”

It takes a moment for his words to make sense. “No, it’s not. I never agreed to that.”

“Take it up with Bowsley.”

We all know I’m not going to do that.

“So, will you have time to do more?” Damien asks, oblivious to my internal conversation.

“I guess. I haven’t studio space anymore, though.”

“Where are you, Faith?”

I sigh. “I’m in Brighton. My uncle died the night of the ball.”

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Listen, I’m going to be coming up to London again soon. I can’t leave my apartment unused for too long, it’s a waste of money.”

I hadn’t actually decided this until this very moment.

But I’ve got Lewis and Tabitha to sort out. Lewis’ father is London based, and I’m sure he’s going to want to know where his son is.

And I can’t hide out here with Dan forever. At some point soon, I will have to put on my big girl pants and deal.

“Faith, you still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

There’s a pause. “Listen, I was told not to tell you this. Frances didn’t want our exclusivity with you compromised. But I like you, girl, and I want you to do well.”

“Uh, thanks. What’s up?”

“After you left the Ball, or should I say stormed out like you were going to take down the entire world, the head of acquisitions from the Tate came up and asked if we had any of your stock left.” Damien pauses for a dramatic effect. “And well, we don’t because someone bought them all, but still, I thought you should know. I tell you, Faith, since the Bowsley Ball the little jungle drums in the art world have been beating nonstop about you.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. None of this makes sense. “What are they saying?”

“That the artist who broke the glass heart is the one to watch.”

Fresh in my memory the smack of the glass heart on the tiled floor of the Bowsley ballroom rings loud and true.

“So, you guys want some pieces?” This is good. If I can make something, I might have someone who can sell it—this might be something. Something from nothing.

I cling onto it and it turns it into a thread of hope.

“Yes, Faith, it’s what I’ve been saying.”

I say goodbye swiftly and hang up. Reeling, I stand in the kitchen and try to make sense of everything I’ve heard.

The Tate Modern?

Whitlocks?