“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 na?ve.
“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.