Heart (8 page)

Garrett didn’t let go of my hand after helping me out of the car and I was glad to have something, someone, to hold on to in this strange world of more money than sense. He guided us to a shop on a prominent corner of the narrow lane of designer boutiques and cocktail bars. Unsurprisingly, this was not a part of Brighton I had yet become acquainted with. Holding the door open for me, he ushered me into the shop which I swear only had about twenty things hung up at intervals around the clinical white space. What was that all about?

The sales assistant worked out that Garrett was the one with the money and sashayed over to him, an inane smile fixed on her plasticky face.

“Good morning, Sir. How can I help you today?” Preferring to run in the opposite direction when confronted by salespeople, I was surprised by the ease of his reply.

“Good morning. I’m looking for a gift for my mother. Something small preferably, as it will need to be shipped to the US.” Plastic-face almost dropped her knickers at his deep American voice. The clothes clearly had more class than she did. Not trusting my firecrackering tendencies around her, I wandered over to a display of dresses on the opposite side. Most of the stuff was hideous; all leopard-skin patterns or diamante-embellished satin whispering the promise of upscale Christmas parties. Out of bemused interest, I looked at a couple of price tags. Oh, my freaking God! Those god-awful dresses were several hundred pounds each! I mean, who would want to spend that much money to look that trashy?

Then it caught my eye. Alone on a nearby hook was
the
dress. You know what I mean: the dress you know will make you look so beautiful, men will fall at your feet with declarations of undying love. This dress mocked all of the other dresses in the shop by virtue of its simplicity. It was a dusky-rose-coloured lace skater dress; demure but sexy, girly but sophisticated. Before I had a chance to touch it, to fall further in love with it, I heard Garrett bring me back to reality.

“Neve, which do you think is best?” He held up two silk scarves, each edged with fur.

“Umm,” I deliberated, unsure whether to say they were both awful. “The grey?”

“Yes, that’s the one I preferred. I’ll take this one,” he told the assistant, handing it over before fishing his wallet from his back pocket.

“Excellent choice, Sir. Fox fur is very this season. Would you like it gift-wrapped?”
Fox fur?
He was buying bloody animal fur?

Before he could pay, I stood close and whispered as close to his ear as I could get.

“You can’t buy real fur. That’s hideous.”

“Grow up, Neve. It’s practical. Boston is much colder than here; Mother will need something warm.” He had angled us so the sales assistant could at least pretend not to hear us whilst she wrapped the scarf in layers of tissue paper.

“Yes, but it’s fur. Buy her a bloody North Face jacket or something if you’re worried about the cold.”

“Don’t be so provincial. This is a Gucci scarf. The fur will have been humanely sourced. Now just let me pay.” His tone allowed no further disagreement so I walked out of the shop and stood next to his car. I was unsure about what to do next: ethically, I would never buy fur, but he wasn’t buying it for me. Did I want to turn this into a bigger deal than I’d already made it?

Garrett appeared next to me, no sign of a shopping bag in sight. Inwardly smiling at what he had done, I hugged him. Breathing in his smell, I wondered that I hadn’t noticed the clean combination of an unrecognisable aftershave and soap. He smelt expensive. Rich.

“I don’t want us to fight,” I said as he smiled down at me, drawing the hug out slightly longer than I had intended.

“Neither do I.” He glanced around. “Shall we get an early lunch?” At my murmured agreement, he took my hand and guided me over to a small tapas bar nearby.

Once we were settled at a table by the window, I relaxed. Picking at the selection of small plates which appeared after Garett reeled off a list of items from the menu, I was more interested in finding out more about him.

“What’s your mum like? Do you get on with her?” Most of his stories the other day had centred on his dad and there hadn’t been much mention of his mum.

“As much as anyone gets on with her, I suppose. We’re not close, but she’s my mother. I respect her.” What an odd thing to say.

“You called her a wasp the other day. Isn’t she very nice?” I pushed.

“I meant Wasp, with a capital W. You’d call her a snob. She can trace her ancestry back to the Mayflower, the first English people to land in America. Her whole life is connections and status. It’s why she married Dad; she wanted that old English name to match her roots. Unfortunately, he isn’t quite
English
enough for her. She would prefer someone more reserved, more distant. So she spends all of her time at the country club or organising huge charity affairs which boost her profile.”

“She must be happy you’re here then? You know, becoming more English?” His laugh suggested I was more than a little naïve.

“No, Mother might be happy if I had gone to Oxford or maybe St. Andrews, like Prince William did, but she doesn’t really understand the more bohemian appeal of Brighton. She doesn’t approve of my grandmother, either. Mother doesn’t approve of any of us, really. She’s a sad, bitter woman.” He sounded pretty sad and bitter himself.

“Well, it sounds like you have a good dad and you’re now able to spend more time with your gran.”

Garrett reached across the table and took my hands in his. “You’re so special, Neve. The way you see the positive in things. The way you stand up for what matters to you. I like having you on my side.” He lifted one hand to his mouth and dropped a feather-light kiss on my knuckles. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

As we drove back to uni, I reflected on that knuckle-kiss. Was it supposed to be romantic? Sexy? Just friendly? Garrett was strangely silent and gave no clue to help me understand what his intentions were. I was still completely clueless when he parked next to the library.

“I don’t have any classes this afternoon so am going back home. Thank you for this morning. I enjoyed it,” he said, taking my hand and grazing his mouth once more across my knuckles.

“So did I.” I raised the hand he had kissed and stroked the smooth plane of his cheek. “’Bye.” Before he could do the whole gentlemanly thing, I opened the door and got out, waving as I ran away.

Ran from his car.

Ran from what might be happening between us.

I walk in to the tattoo studio, not sure what to expect. After all, my last one had been done illegally, in the back room of a piercing place, as I was underage. I’d been lucky; it hadn’t turned out to be the complete disaster that some unprofessional tattoos were, and I’ve seen enough pictures on the internet to know it could have been a hell of a lot worse. But this time, it’s different. I’m not a kid anymore and this time I want it done properly. It’s the least she deserves.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” The girl behind the desk has more piercings than I’ve ever seen on one person and it’s not like I’ve led a sheltered life. If only. Her black curls and scarlet lips add a glamour to what would otherwise be a pretty intimidating look.

“I’m after a tattoo. I want an existing one turned into a half-sleeve.”

“Okay, what sort of thing are you after? Each of us has our own style and I’ll try to match you up. Let’s take a look at what you’ve got there already.” I roll up the sleeve of my tee shirt to show her Dad’s oak tree. Her non-committal hum is filled with artistic judgement.

“I know. It was done illegally when I was sixteen. That’s why I’m here this time round. I’ve seen the stuff you guys do on your website. I’d like another plant filling the space around the branches, sort of winding in and out of it. I’ve got a drawing.” I pull out the botanical illustration of myrtle I’d downloaded earlier.

“Ah, let me see if Dave’s free,” she says, as soon as she sees the drawing, before going to a room up some steps. I admire some of the photos of past clients hanging on the walls as I wait and know I’ve come to the right place. It is the beautiful, intricate work of real artists.

A bear of a man follows Glamour Girl out and shakes my hand. Looking at his own floral sleeve, I know she’s made the right choice.

“Hi. Dave. Cally says you’re after a cover-up?”

“Not really a cover-up, more like an enhancement.” I show him my arm and the drawing, again explaining how I wanted the myrtle and oak tree to be fully joined.

“Yeah, I can do that. We can cover up some of the bad lines with bits of the myrtle. It’ll take a few hours. You’re lucky as I’ve got a cancellation today, if you want it. Can you come back at two? I’ll be finished with my current client and have some stencils made up by then.”

By half past two, I am beginning to regret my decision. Maybe a sixteen-year-old’s sense of rebellion is a better pain suppressant than the paracetamol I took earlier, but, shit, this hurts more than I remember it doing last time. My arm is raised over my head so Dave can work on the underside and I’m tempted to tell him not to worry about that bit as it’s not that visible. Telling myself off for being such a pussy, I clench my fists and think about the reason for going through this.

Neve.

Myrtle.

In a weird way, this is about me proving I can take more pain than I am expecting her to cope with. This is real pain I can man up to. I have no defence in the face of the agony caused by the hundreds of thousands of shards I broke my heart into.

I was so naïve to think it would get easier as time passed. Every day, another ounce of doubt is added to the weight of the pain I carry wherever I go. If Neve is feeling even one-tenth of the pain I am, I will always hate myself for putting her through this.

Do I wish I had kept my mouth shut and not gone through with it? Definitely.

Do I wish she had got in touch in one of my weaker moments? Hell, yes.

Do I still believe it was the right thing to do? I don’t know.

Since almost breaking down when bloody
Fix You
by Coldplay came on the radio at one of the houses I was working on, I’m doing everything I can to keep myself out of pain’s way: listening to some god-awful thrash metal on my iPod and steering clear of Grace’s sympathetic glances, encouraging me to bear my soul.

Yet here I am, putting myself through this burning pain because it distracts me from the real pain that I can’t get rid of any other way.

“You okay, mate?” Dave smoothes Vaseline into the area he was working on.

“Yeah, just forgot how much it hurts,” I admit.

“It hurts more the second time. Not so much adrenalin. Just say if you need a break or want to grab a drink. No problem. It’s coming along great.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” I say, pretending that I am.

Other than taking a quick piss break, I manage to contain myself for the next few hours, watching other clients come in and out. Dave senses the time when I want to talk, filling it with banter about past jobs and the numbers of feathers he inks onto girls, and keeps quiet in my more reflective moments. The whole experience is completely different to the first time. I smile ironically, remembering the snarling of Staffies which had been the only soundtrack that day.

“There, you’re done,” Dave says, with a last wipe of paper towel across the back of my shoulder. “Take a look.” I stand and admire his handiwork in the full-length mirror, twisting to see it from every angle.
Wow
. It’s fucking amazing. The whole top-half of my arm is filled with myrtle, delicately winding in and out around the oak tree. Even the tree looks so much better than it did before. I tear up, glad that this is honouring Dad better, as well as permanently keeping Neve with me. The two people who have truly loved me. The two people I have truly loved. Forever with me in the only way they can be.

“It’s great. It’s amazing.” I’m sure he can see how much it means.

“Cool. Sit back down and I’ll wrap it.” I do as he says. “So, can I ask, why myrtle?” I can’t tell him about Neve, about love, about me starting to realise I might have made the biggest, most fucked-up mistake of my life.