Chapter one
Roan
I can’t tell if I’m up, sideways, or in fucking hell when I collect my luggage from the conveyor belt.
Twelve hours is too long to sit in economy seating, let alone be trapped in the middle.
Between the armrests digging into my hips and the side-eye from the woman who sat next to me every time I took a bite of my sour candies, all my brain power had been spent on minding my own business.
But now I really need it. Stonebridge International is a maze of signs that only leads to a different maze in the car park. I turn down one row of oversized dark cars only to find another. I keep looking for the lift, but I'm only going in circles.
A car horn goes off, and the slow drip of anxiety I’ve felt about doing this suddenly bursts.
A sob catches in my throat and tears dribble down my cheeks.
I can't even use my sleeve to wipe them, because my suitcases will roll away.
I move across another aisle until I'm on the pavement again, and I can guard my luggage while I calm down.
“Oh, bobble.” My mother's condescending voice creeps into my ear as I stand in the small gallery space full of my work. “Your little hobby seems to be… going.”
I turn to look at her as my stomach drops into my shoes. No. No, she's not supposed to be here. I specifically requested the gallery be closed tomorrow morning for a private viewing for the Marchioness and her acquaintances. How did she find out tonight was opening night?
“Mum.” I try to smile as I look for my agent, but they are nowhere in sight. “What a surprise?”
“Not really. You know Vivian is a trustee, always trying to encourage smaller artists and what they do.”
She clasps her hands in front of her stomach, perfectly manicured nails and shining rings glinting in the light. “So when she told me your little friend had submitted your work, I couldn't help myself.”
Words catch in my throat at her implication. Since university, I've done whatever I can to pay rent for my accommodations and studio and supplies. I even go by a different name so I don't get the initial advantage that Darrington brings to submissions and applications.
I worked my ass off for months preparing my portfolio and presentation, and then several more months refining my pieces for this show.
We thought this was going to be my big break.
I thought I was finally out from my mother's thumb.
Instead, I was only given a solo show, even for this short run, because of my mother and her title.
“You know,” she says, “this would look absolutely lovely at a Mariton. You know Sandra was just saying she stayed at a lovely one in–oh wherever it's called that they like to holiday.”
I've taken a lot of verbal punches from Lady Angelic Darrington, Marchioness of Farrador, but somehow, this one makes them all pale in comparison. My mother can say what she likes about my hair, my tattoos, my weight even, but insulting my art feels like a cut right to my soul.
All the little parts of me that I bared to the world with each stroke of my paintbrush amount to nothing more than hotel art to her. Some sort of mass-manufactured piece of that she'd sooner turn her nose up at than think about.
My cheeks heat with shame and embarrassment as she compares my work to that of hobbyists and the elderly who need something to keep their minds active.
She has no regard for the looks and whispers as she boldly passes judgement on my work, despite the fact she has never once in her life dared to think anything unbecoming .
“I suppose it's all well and good that your brother intends to take the peerage rather than you,” she sniffs. “But you must settle down, bobble, find a lovely husband who will support you the way I have.”
I can’t remember most of the night after that.
Too many glasses of Prosecco followed by pints at a nearby pub have blurred out the rest of our encounter.
I know I'm privileged, a part of the upper crusts of society most people can't even dream of.
I've been told my whole life exactly what slim little box I should fit into–how to speak, how to dress, who I should be acquainted with and who I should look down upon.
Everything about what I'm feeling right now, the entitlement and loss, doesn't matter when compared to the rest of the world. A regular being could navigate an airport, and I am a regular fucking human being. I can suck it up and figure this out.
I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and look for the nearest sign.
“Shuttle to Stonebridge Hellhound Station, floor 5.”
The arrow points forward, and after one more confusing sign that leads down instead of up, I catch the shuttle bus that will take me downtown to the coach bus that will drop me off at my final destination.
See, I'm navigating and travelling without a security detail or driver just fine.
I'm capable of this, just like I'm capable of succeeding without my mother's interference.
I sit quietly in the back of the bus, swiping away notifications from my family while the city fades into the countryside.
It's smelly in here, bodies all pressed together.
My headphones barely silence the loud children screaming, but they prevent a headache from forming.
It occurs to me that I should be hungry this late in the evening, but I'm too shattered to feel anything but exhaustion.
I fight to stay awake, reminding myself why I am doing this while I take my lucky handkerchief out of my pocket to stare at the faded red fabric.
The art I produce is meaningful. It captures people's attention and drags them in so they question the meaning of my subject matter. Every painting I create, a little piece of my soul is mixed with the oils and canvas. I can’t just give up on all those little parts of me.
If I believe in myself, and keep working hard, good things are going to happen for me without my mother’s meddling tendencies.
My whole scheme is to prove to her ladyship that I don't need her or her influence.
Hallow's Cove is so unlike any of her social circles and so far away from our sphere of influence that there is no string to be pulled or friends to ask for favour.
I applied for this artist residency and was accepted by my own merit.
I bought my plane ticket with the money I made teaching a painting course for college students.
I will prove to them all my art career is serious, and something I want to do for the rest of my life.
Nobody will know who I am and nobody will look at me differently. This is my chance for my talent to shine unburdened.