The rose colour walls wink at me as I sit on the white linen. Now I’m here it’s surreal. There’s a tray of tea things on the side: biscuits, and a teapot with steam coming from the spout. I told Jennings I don’t need tea brought to my room, but he didn’t seem to take me very seriously.

I’ve spent the last hour wandering around my various studios. All of them are blank spaces, apart from all the equipment already purchased on my behalf. I’ve even got a brand-new kiln, not one caked in other people’s disasters. All the studios are waiting for me to fill them with ideas, experiments, and a deep vision they hopefully will inspire within me.

I can’t believe I’m here. Me. If I think for too long on what I’ve agreed to do over the summer—to try to teach other people, to guide them, to be put on show—a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. I don’t really want to throw up in my pretty room, and the en-suite wet room is too pristine to be sullied with the contents of my stomach, so I keep swallowing it back down and trying very hard not to think at all.

“Knock, knock.” I glance up toward the voice on the outside of the closed door.

“Come in.”

I smile at Elijah as he pokes his head around the side. It’s impossible not to stare at that handsome face. My first assumption that night in the pub garden was correct—he’s beautiful.

“Why do you look like you’re about to puke?” he asks.

I glare at him, forgetting how lovely he looks as he irritates the hell out of me. “Why do you look like a knob?” I mutter under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. He chuckles and pushes the door wider open. There is someone behind him who I didn’t know was there. That’s bloody embarrassing. Way to go being professional, Faith.

“Faith, this is Tabitha, my younger sister.”

A dark head of hair peeks out from behind his broad shoulders. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. Not that I’m taking any notice of what he looks like. Much. I am only human, and he is apparently a god of good looks and easy charm.

“Hi.” I wave at the petite dark-haired girl behind him. She’s younger than me, and much younger than him. That’s an age gap of note.

“Hi.” I stretch up from the bed and step closer to shake her hand. She’s a fragile and delicate version of him. What is a handsome and strong profile on him has been delicately chiselled into fine elfin features on her, but there’s a light in her eyes that reminds me what it’s like to be a teenager—before life fucks you over.

“I love your work.” She smiles nervously. “I’m so excited to see you working here.”

I frown. “How have you seen my work already? I haven’t done anything yet.”

I twitch from foot to foot. It’s weird having the tall hulking shape of Elijah standing in the feminine pink bedroom he painted for me. I glance up at him through my lashes. He’s frustratingly elusive, blowing hot and cold. Over the last week, he’s been helping me move my stuff out of the studio and transporting it down to one of my rooms here. I’ve given my studio back to the university—I still haven’t spoken to Gerard and nor do I plan to. I’ve got the weekend to sort myself out here, and then on Monday we are opening the doors to six teenagers who will be here for three weeks. I panicked when I found out it was so soon—but Jennifer assured me the rooms are supposed to be bare, the idea being that I’m supposed to fill them over the summer.

I still don’t know if I can perform on request. All I know is I’ve got to try.

“Eli showed me the pictures from your portfolio,” Tabitha says, and I raise an eyebrow at her older brother who somehow is managing to stand there looking completely innocent.

“Did he indeed?”

Elijah shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the ceiling.

“That’s a private portfolio.” I glare at him.

Tabitha’s eyes widen, and she looks like she might cry. I let it go. Honestly what’s the point? “Would you like to see the bits I brought from my studio?” I ask.

“Can I?”

“Sure, why not.” I smile at her. She’s nothing like her brother who’s full of confidence.

Elijah smiles and waves. “Good, you two are getting along. I’ll leave you to it.”

Jesus. I’m not a bloody babysitter.

He walks off without a backwards glance and I scowl after him. He’s so bloody hot and cold. One minute he’s sitting in my apartment and supporting me as I tell him I’m dropping out of my course, clinking a glass against mine as he helps me carefully wrap my work into newspaper, while promising to keep my secret so his mother doesn’t change her mind about me.

The next he’s looking at me like we’ve never met.

Well, fine by me. I haven’t got time for hot and cold games. I’ve got an installation to launch.

I force a smile at Tabitha. “Come on. I’ll show you where we’ve stashed it all.”

She smiles and falls into step at my side. “I like your tattoos.”

I flush. I’ve decided not to hide them, unless the public are in the house. I shouldn’t have to hide anything. The Fairclough’s invited me here. They can cope with my artwork, even if it’s on my skin. “Thanks.”

We walk down the cool passageway to the room I’ve locked at the end.

“Does it hurt when you get them done?”

I shrug. “A little, I guess, though I think you can become used to that type of discomfort.”

Her eyes widen. “I’m not sure I would. I don’t like needles.”

I laugh. “It’s not like a blood test; it just looks like a pen.”

Her face lightens. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah, but don’t get any ideas. You are far too pretty to cover yourself in thoughts you can’t erase.”

I turn the key in the lock.

“You are pretty, too,” she says, and I find myself blushing.

“Here you go.” I pull on the door and allow it to fall open. She steps in and glances at all the boxes.

“It’s all boxed up.”

“Wanna help me unpack it and work out where it’s going?” I smile a little. She’s sweet, and if she’s here with me, it might stop me thinking of her brother and his broad shoulders and hot and cold games.

“Can I?” She smiles like I’ve told her she can keep it all.

“Sure.” I shrug, “Lets unpack. Sort by colour and material, and then I’ll show you what I was thinking for the house.”

I’m sure I catch a shadow by the door, but when I turn there is no one there.

“That would be so cool. I don’t know what to do with myself, school broke up weeks ago.”

“Then would you like to be my assistant?”

“I’d love that.”

I stare at her pretty little face with her upturned nose and eyes nearly as deep as her brother’s. “I’d like that, too.”

She dives headfirst into the boxes, and I sit back watching her reactions. This will be a good gauge of how my audience will receive them.

My phone vibrates in the pocket of my shorts and I pull it out.

Eli Jones: Thank you.

I smile and push the phone back in my pocket. Right, it’s time to get to work.

An hour later, when Jennings comes to knock on the door to tell us lunch is ready, we’ve unpacked everything. I’m not sure if I’ll get used to having someone remind me to eat, but my stomach is gurgling and my back aches from being bent and stooped over boxes. The floor in the drying room is covered in discarded newspaper and we crunch over it on our way back to the stone covered hallway.

Jennings clears his throat as we pass him by. “Your grandmother is attending lunch,” he says to Tabitha, and her face falls.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

She speaks out of the side of her mouth, but there is no way Jennings can’t hear. “It means lunch has become painfully awkward.” As we pass my pink bedroom, I quickly duck through the door and grab one of my oversized cotton shirts, pulling it on and buttoning it up.

Lunch is in the dining room and the large gleaming table is set with silverware. It’s just Jennifer and a woman with a white bob waiting for us.

I didn’t know we were late but neither of them look at us approvingly as we walk in. I say hi to Jennifer who has been milling around most of the morning, organising the staff into cleaning the rooms I think I might need over the next couple of days.

The woman with the white hair looks at me expectantly. It is her house, though; am I supposed to introduce myself?

Finally, after at least five awkward seconds, Tabitha notices us watching one another. “Oh, Grandma, this is Faith. She’s here for the installation Elijah and mother planned.”

I smile and reach my hand forward.

“So, you’re the artist?”

If I thought Jennifer Fairclough was immaculate and together, then she must have inherited the art of being unruffled from her mother. Her silk blouse is tucked into a straight skirt at her slender waist, a row of pearls sit under the collar. Despite the intense and unrelenting heat, she is the epitome of high-class chic. I look like a painter and decorator next to her. I wipe my hands on my loose-fitting shirt.

“I’m a sculptor, really.” I always feel I need to explain to people not to expect any masterpiece canvases from me.

‘I’m Connie Fairclough.”

“Faith Hitchin.”

“How’s it going?” Jennifer cuts in, reprieving me from the sharp gaze of Grandma Baroness. “I see Tabitha has offered her services.”

I nod and reach for a bread roll, before realising no one else has touched the food. I drop the roll and my stomach rumbles in protest. “She’s been a godsend. After lunch, we are going to walk the rooms. I’ve already got some ideas going.”

I need to get ideas going. I’ve got two days.

Tabitha offers me a grateful shy smile, and I smile back. She’s cute. We haven’t spoken much while we’ve been working. I sense she’s painfully shy, and I can remember a time when I was crippled with anxiety every time I opened my mouth.

Grandma Baroness weaves her hands together and places them in her lap, closing her eyes. What is she doing? “Dear Lord…”

My eyes pop open when I realise lunch is being opened with a prayer. A faint snicker comes from the other side of the table, and I meet Tabitha’s amused gaze. I shush her with a glare and then close my own eyes. Where the hell is Elijah? How come he’s been wafting around all morning, and now it’s time for an awkward lunch he’s nowhere in sight?

When we’ve all said “Amen”, I grab for the roll and break it open with my hands, spearing some butter curls on a small white dish and thickly smearing it on the fresh white bread. I don’t even care if I look like I’ve been dragged up in a zoo. I can’t remember the last time I ate and it’s beginning to show.

Once I’ve demolished the roll, I look up to find Jenifer watching me with an amused gaze.

“Sorry, I was hungry.” I smile apologetically.

“It’s almost poetic to have a starving artist in the house again.” It’s Connie that speaks, and I’m sure I catch an eye roll coming from Jennifer as I turn to face the older woman.

“Sculptor,” I remind her with a forced smile.

She ignores me. “You know, this house used to be a retreat for real artists and authors in its heyday?”

Real artists?

“That’s nice.” I place some cold cuts of meat, and a scoop of salad onto my plate.

“Oh, yes. We had Hemingway here once.”

Unfortunately, I’ve just taken a sip of my iced water which I nearly choke on.

Connie carries on, regardless of my spluttering. “Oh yes, my mother entertained Virginia Woolf here in 1916; they played croquet on that lawn right there.” She points with her fork to the immaculate lawn outside the dining room window.

Virginia Woolf… and now what? They have me?

I’m being hit by a wave of loser syndrome.

Connie nods, her mind someplace else. “Ooh, yes, all the greats.” Her eyes snap onto me, bright and clear. “Now tell me, dear, which of my grandsons do you plan to fuck?”

“Mother!” Jennifer’s face pales, and she holds her hand across her mouth.

What the hell did she just say to me?

I don’t know how to react. Tabitha is squirming in her chair, her pale and pretty face a vibrant red. My mouth flaps open gormless and stupid.

I know it’s what people think of me when they see the tattoos. So it’s what I give them. It’s easier that way then being the woman who lives under the ink.

I shrug nonchalantly. “I really can’t decide. I think I may have them both at once.”

Tabitha howls with laughter, and Connie stares at me. Her eyes scanning over my face, a small smile lifting her mouth. I push away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to being a pretend artist.”

I push from the table and stalk for the door, while my heart pounds wildly in my ribcage.

What a fucking bitch. I’m tempted to screw her grandsons now out of spite.

I slam into my room and throw myself onto the bed. I don’t know why her words burn so bad. For the last six years I’ve been giving people what they see. What difference does it make if some old woman calls me on it?

It matters because Elijah has been good to me. The last week he’s helped me, he never asked questions. Never wanted to know why I’m running away from my degree. He’s just packed and lifted boxes.

I lift my hips and slide my phone out of my back pocket.

Faith Hitchin: Where were you?

I stare at the ceiling and wait for his answer to vibrate but it doesn’t come. I don’t know why it hurts.

Unable to lie still and sulk, I roll off the bed and head down to one of my workshop rooms and shut the door firmly behind me. There are rows of materials along a rack of shelves and impulsively I tug out a box of earthenware clay mix. I pool some from a pitcher and mix until the texture is a little on the wet side. My fingers delve into the pliable substance, and I relish the familiarity of it under my fingernails even though I’m in this strange house.

My phone beeps and I glance at it on the side.

Eli Jones: Sorry. I was called to London.

I don’t answer. I’m too busy sensing my way around the lump of thickening clay with my fingers.

Eli Jones: Sorry about my grandmother. She’s on a different planet to the rest of us.

I scowl at the screen and then turn my back. I close my eyes and let my hands get to work, forgetting where I am and what the hell I’m doing here.