1. Rocco
ROCCO
“ S o what the fuck’s wrong with Kane this morning?” I throw my bag down behind the reception desk of Carved in Ink , the London tattoo studio where I work. “You sure he’s not just skiving off to spend more time in bed with the new woman?”
My boss, Art, is standing behind the desk, leaning over so he can use the computer and check this morning’s bookings. He doesn’t bother glancing up at me as he speaks. “Nah, he’s really sick. I could hear him in the bathroom when he called in.”
I pull a face. “Man, I bet that’s a sound you could have done without first thing in the morning.”
Art snorts. “Yeah, I might need to bleach my ears later. Anyway, sorry I had to call you in on your day off, but Kane had a full schedule. I’ve phoned around the clients to let them know Kane won’t be the one working on them today.
A couple have rescheduled ’cause Kane was in the middle of a bigger piece and they didn’t want a different artist, but some of the smaller pieces were happy for you to do it instead. ”
I rub my hand over my scruff. “Lucky me.”
Art laughs. “Yeah, sorry, mate. I guess it would have been better for you if they all cancelled, but I can’t afford for the shop to lose that kind of money.”
I shrug. “Nah. I get it. You owe me a beer, though.”
“I can do that.”
Movement comes from the back of the shop, and Art’s girlfriend, Tess, appears carrying a mug of coffee.
She and Art are managing Carved in Ink together now, since the two of them hooked up and she’s the one who owns the building.
At first I hadn’t been keen on the idea of having a woman around the place the whole time, but she’d soon become one of the gang.
Things are a bit different with the woman Kane met, however, as she has a son, but she’s hung out with everyone a few times now, and most importantly Kane seems to be happy.
I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel like the odd one out. We used to have late nights with all the guys, drinking beer and talking crap, but now everyone’s paired off and I’m left on my own. I have other friends, but it isn’t the same as with Art and Kane. The three of us get each other.
“Hey, Rocco,” Tess says in her American accent. “You wanna coffee? I was just making some.”
“Yeah, sure, Tess. Thanks.”
“Your first appointment should be here soon,” Art tells me.
“Do they know what artwork they’re having?”
“Yeah, it’s a small, simple piece. Kane emailed all the files over this morning. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“Great.”
I leave the reception area to head into the room which acts as my own private studio.
Each of us guys has our own studio with our own computers and printers for the artwork.
I’ll be able to access each of the images the clients want.
Anything that’s too specific to the stuff that Kane has drawn are people who would have rebooked for another day.
I can handle most pieces. I’ve been to Art College, and even though I know I look tough with my beard and shaved head, I have a degree in Fine Art.
My lecturers had thought I was insane to want to work in a tattoo studio in London, thinking I’d be working in art galleries all around the world instead, but this is where I feel the most comfortable.
I love art, and what could be more important than giving people artwork that they carry around with them for the rest of their lives?
Many of the pieces I do are commemorative—things that will remind the person of someone they’ve lost—and it’s those pieces of work that really get to me, seeing the combined joy and bittersweet sorrow in the face of someone I’ve just tattooed when they’ve lost someone they love.
A knock comes at the door, and Tess’s dark, silky head pops around.
“Brought you that coffee,” she says, stepping fully into the room. “And your first appointment has just arrived.”
“Already? They’re keen.” I haven’t even had a chance to look at the artwork yet.
“Yeah, I told her that you’re getting set up. She knows she’s early.”
“Cool, thanks, Tess.”
“Sure.”
She sets my coffee down on the side and leaves.
I turned my attention to the computer and fire it up. Kane has already drawn the artwork, and it’s a symbol, something I could do with my eyes shut. All I need to do is check the sizing and position with the client.
I realise I haven’t even looked at what the client’s name is yet and so scroll down through the computer until I come to the booking schedule.
My heart stops.
Sophia Alexander.
No, that can’t be right. It must be a coincidence.
The Sophia Alexander I knew vanished from my life when I was seventeen years old, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
That’s ten years ago now. She was the little girl I’d grown up with, the one I’d shared skinned knees, and games of tag, and melted ice creams on a hot summer’s day.
She was also the girl I’d watched grow from a skinny little thing who was all sharp elbows and long limbs, to a beautiful teenager who’d stolen my heart.
Stolen is the right word. She’d taken my heart with her when her family had suddenly moved away, leaving me bereft.
Those were the times before every teenager had a mobile phone or was on Facebook, and I hadn’t known how to get in touch with her.
She’d just announced one day that her parents were leaving, and the next day they were gone.
No, it can’t be the same girl, can it? There must be more than one Sophia Alexander around.
Besides, it has been years ago. My Sophia could be married by now and wouldn’t even have the same surname.
It isn’t as though we’re both from London either.
We grew up together in a small coastal town in Cornwall, miles away from anywhere.
Sophia wouldn’t be in London now, would she?
I realise I’ve been sitting here, staring at her name, lost in memories. My coffee grows cold beside me. I don’t have any choice. I’m going to have to get up and go and see if the woman sitting out in the studio is the same girl from my childhood.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified. What am I going to say to her if it is her? And, even worse, how am I going to function for the rest of the day if it isn’t?