“And you’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

I roll my eyes at Gerard. I wish I hadn’t let him in the apartment now, but it’s done and he’s sat there on my couch making himself look at home. His eyes are trained on the skin above the edge of my vest top where small scabs still line the shard of glass Dan inked for me on the day of Al’s funeral.

“No, I think I should meet her by myself. If I’m going to think about this project, even contemplate one on the scale she’s suggested, then I need to be the one in charge.”

Gerard doesn’t need to ask why I won’t relinquish control.

He leans back on the cushions and rubs his hands down his indigo jeans. “And have you thought about Uni yet, are you going to try to come back to finish?”

The scowl chiselled onto my forehead makes my face ache. “No, I’m not coming back. I told you that quite clearly.”

He sips his coffee before broaching the subject again. “Okay, I respect that, Faith, but come on. I made a mistake, and just because you have this rule about second chances, I think you’re being really hard on yourself and not giving yourself one.”

The air slowly puffs out of my lungs as I sigh. This is the same thought I had yesterday in the pub. I can’t keep holding myself back by decisions I made years ago.

A wave of exhaustion sweeps across me like a desert storm, battering my defences until I want to curl up and hide. My hand rubs my face. I just want to sleep and not dream of blue eyes and shattered glass.

“I’ll think about it.” The words sneak past my control. “Jeez, I’m tired.” Gerard’s eyes fill with concern. “I blame myself, you know. I should never have suggested you for Bowsley.” His head shakes from side to side and he tuts loudly.

A small wry laugh escapes me. “You don’t know, do you?” I sit up a little straighter.

“Elijah already knew he wanted my work. He’d bought all my pieces from Whitlocks before you even asked me, before he’d even approached you.”

Gerard’s expression is one of genuine shock. “Jeez, he played that well.”

I scowl some more. I’m going to have a migraine the way things are going. “He’s a skilled actor.” Inside a burning knot of anger threatens to explode and overwhelm me.

He waves his hand as if we should forget all about it. Believe me, I’m trying. “Anyway, fuck them. You’re the one with the meeting with Channel 4.”

I smile. “Yep. Honestly I have no idea what this evening’s meeting could involve.” I don’t even know if I want to be on a show about art. But hell, I’d be crazy not to go to that meeting. Al would never forgive me.

I stop myself. It’s not the first time I’ve forgotten to put him in the past tense.

It hurts.

I need to ring Dan, but part of me can’t. I don’t know what to say. I wish I hadn’t ruined everything by letting you inside me.

What a mess.

“So have you thought about what terms you are going to angle for? I think you can ask for anything you want, well, that’s the impression Angela gave me at the—” He stops his words.

“At the ball?” I roll my eyes at him again. I need to stop that otherwise he’s going to think we’re friends again. “We can mention it. It’s not like I will forget anytime soon.”

His head tilts to the side. “Do you think you could make that heart again? It was spectacular. Damien said he reckoned they could have sold that for three thousand.”

Three thousand pounds? I shake my head. “No.” I don’t say anything else. There is no way I could make that again, that heart was Elijah’s. It was full of him. Now it’s broken and there won’t be another one.

“Shame.” He places his cup on the coffee table and makes to get up, grabbing his papers and leather satchel off the sofa. “I’ll leave you to get ready.”

“Thanks.” I walk him to the door, not that it’s necessary, it’s clearly visible from the lounge. “Wish me luck.”

He turns and for one awful moment I think he’s going to kiss me. God, no. Instead he sends me a small smile. “You don’t need it. Everything you touch turns to gold.”

I laugh, it doesn’t. Everything I touch turns to shit, as a rule.

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Good, thanks.” He pushes his glasses back up. “And think about Uni. You’ve still got a few days to decide.”

I pull the I don’t think so face, but he ignores it.

“You never know, it might turn out well being a big art-world TV star. That degree might help you with whatever comes next.”

With a small wave, I send him on his way. Then I lean against the door and attempt to get my shit together.

I don’t know what tonight is, or what it could lead to. I don’t even know if I should be going. Making logical decisions isn’t one of my strengths—says the woman covered in tattoos, but if I don’t go what will I miss out on?

When the front door rattles on its hinges and then closes with a slam, I sit up straighter. “I’m in the bath!” I holler, before Tabitha can come storming in. She’s obsessed with going to the toilet every five minutes to see if her period has started. I’m hoping at some point soon she’s going to come to terms with the fact that it won’t be for a fair while.

I dunk my head under the bubbles and try to hide from reality for a moment. Having Tabitha here is a little like stowing a runaway. As much as I hate Jennifer Fairclough and think she’s a bitch of the highest order, I’d hate for her to worry about her only daughter.

I can’t dwell on it too much because then I start wondering if she would worry.

I treat myself to my expensive body wash and then when I’m out, I rub myself in a matching body oil. The room fills with the scent of roses and my ink glistens with a soft sheen. With a look in the mirror I study myself. A multi-coloured, many patterned surface, the cream and pink roses across my collarbone stand out the most because they are lighter than the other tatts I have. It’s a real shame I hate them now because they are kind of prominent. I lean forward and inspect the shard of glass Dan placed above my heart. He did a good job; it’s delicate and light, with beautiful shading. Al would have been pleased and I know it would have been snapped and ended up on his wall of fame. Funny that Dan and I didn’t even think about taking a picture of it that day. I guess we had other things on our minds.

I twist my hair up into a knot, not bothering to dry it. My hair is always up. I keep it long, but being an artist, and when I’m working on someone’s skin, it always has to be up.

Elijah loved my hair.

Fuck. Why do I keep thinking of him?

Shut it off, Faith.

With my towel wrapped around me, I walk back out into the lounge. Tabitha is asleep on the sofa. I hesitate, unwilling to wake her. Abi explained to us before we left Brighton that it is normal to be tired all the time. I tuck the blanket from the arm of the sofa over her and then pad around getting dressed.

I can’t decide what to wear. It’s not like Angela, the Channel 4 producer, hasn’t seen my ink before. In the end, I choose a black playsuit with spaghetti straps and a pair of black heels that make my already tall frame towering. Tabitha is still sleeping when I slip my phone and keys into a black clutch. I hope I’m not overdressed. But it’s an evening meeting in a wine bar, it’s not the sort of thing you’d go to in jeans and a jumper.

I scrawl Tabitha a quick note telling her there’s stuff for sandwiches in the fridge or some ginger biscuits in the cupboard if that’s all she can manage.

Outside the evening is balmy and I breathe in the warm London air, allowing the mix of tastes to tingle on the top of my tongue. I wave down the first black cab with its light on and tell him to aim for Kensington. Giving him the address of Marguex’s where the meeting is, I settle back and try to calm my nerves.

Come on... I was the girl who walked into The Ritz to meet a baroness. I can do this. Angela seemed nice for the three minutes I met her before I smashed a giant glass heart in front of her.

Oh, God. I lean my head on the window and breathe to calm the jangled clanging in my head.

Angela is waiting at the bar and she has on a shift dress and heels. Phew, I’m not overdressed. She air-kisses me and then pushes me back so she can inspect my face. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” I nod, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Thank you. It’s been a tough couple of weeks. My uncle died, so I’ve been in Brighton helping arrange his funeral.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Faith.” She gives me a genuine warm smile and gestures me to the bar. “I remember when my father died. I had no idea how much was involved in the planning. It’s not easy.”

From the corner of my eye I assess her. She doesn’t seem old enough to have lost a father.

I give a wry chuckle under my breath. Dan’s just lost his dad, and he’s in his twenties. Sometimes I think utter crap.

“I’m sorry.”

We seem to be having a largely apologetic conversation. It needs to move on. “Anyway, thank you for agreeing to see me, and still being interested in working with me.” I send her what I hope looks like a genuine smile.

“Of course. I still love my idea, and I’m convinced you are the right person for the job.” Her eyes appraise me. “I mean, you are very camera friendly, and from what I can see you have an amazing skill at getting people to enjoy art.”

I shrug. “Well, I didn’t set out for that. I should tell you straight up, I think I got lucky with the group of kids I worked with.”

Her lips purse and her eyes narrow slightly. “I’d be inclined to disagree, but let’s not worry about that now. So, I thought we could talk a bit about my ideas, you can give me some feelers for the project, and then I can tell you how something like this would pan out. I’m sure you can imagine it’s not a case of deciding it’s a go and then it happens the following week.”

I nod. Though I have no idea how these things pan out. “Shall we get a drink?” I suggest as the barman looks at us expectantly, his eyes darting over my skin.

“Yes, wine?”

“Sounds great.”

She orders something I haven’t heard of and we watch as glasses are slid across the bar. The bartender in a white shirt and dark waistcoat fills them, although I can sense his focus is on me rather than the drink he’s pouring. I straighten my back and stare at him in return until he flusters and mumbles something about letting us know if we need anything else.

“Yes, Faith, you see it’s all about backing, money, and scheduling. Especially for a show like this, made by the corporation itself. It’s different for formats that are pre-recorded and then sold to us. Things take longer in-house.” She smiles and I can see how enthusiastic she is. It fills me with a little bubble of the big E and my mind starts to whirl with what could be. I mean who would watch a programme like that? Who would take part? What would they want to win? I’m so distracted in my own ideas I almost don’t tune in to what she’s saying. “It’s lucky we have a backer. That’s one less argument with the board I have to navigate.” Her eyes shift over my shoulder. “Ah, here, now the meeting can start properly.”

I don’t turn. I just know. My stomach plummets, my soul crumpling into a small ball.

“Faith.” Elijah’s voice makes my insides liquefy into molten lava.

From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of navy material. Did he really wear my favourite suit? What sort of sicko is he?

Finally, somehow finding some semblance of willpower, I turn and look into his face. And fuck isn’t it handsome, and aren’t his eyes so damn bright, and hell doesn’t it hurt so much I want to die on the spot. “What are you doing here?” There is no disguising the wobble in my voice or the shake of my legs which is making me clutch onto the brass rail around the bar. “Please tell me you aren’t the backer.”

He smiles, not a care in the goddamn world. “I sure am.”