I don’t want her to. That much is obvious, to me, and surely to her. But, more than that, I don’t want her to close me out of this conversation. I’m genuinely curious about her life. It makes very little sense, and yet I feel it.
‘Are you keeping secrets from me?’ I aim for teasing but I think the words emerge as a little mocking.
‘Never, Mr Rose Tattoo.’
She has a fair point. I clearly put an end to her questions the night before; she’s returning that, but not in a tit-for-tat way so much as reminding me of the boundaries that we never discussed but are both observing.
Her finger moves to the tattoo, swirling around it, and I close my eyes for a moment, something unlocking within me. I shift a little, my body moving closer to hers, my free hand lifting to her hair, and then I open my eyes, look right down at her and find myself speaking.
‘I got it when my mother died.’
Her finger stills, as if snagging on my skin, then begins to move again, more gently, kindly.
‘Oh.’ A soft exhalation.
‘I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Years. She’d been sick and I was very angry with her. I barely knew her in the end.’
She nods thoughtfully. ‘So the tattoo is a tribute?’
I frown. ‘That’s one word for it.’
‘You have another?’
‘Not really.’ I shake my head. ‘Show me your photos.’
She frowns, looking towards the camera. ‘In a moment.’ She catches my hand, lacing her fingers through it.
‘I’m really sorry about your mum.’
I tilt my head, my expression grim.
‘Why the rose?’
Jesus, she’s really not going to let this go. ‘She had roses in her garden, where I grew up, before she sent me to live with the Harts.’ The words are flattened of emotion, just like Ryan taught me.
‘How old were you when you went to live with them?’
‘Young. Why?’
‘Was she sick? Is that why you were sent away?’
I stiffen. ‘Your mother is not a person I care to discuss.’ ‘No.’
Her eyes probe my face; I keep my expression neutral. ‘Did your dad sue for custody?’
Nausea almost winds me. ‘No.’ She’s not going to let this go. I turn to face her properly, meeting her eyes as though it doesn’t cost me. ‘She didn’t want me any more. I wasn’t particularly conducive to her lifestyle.’
‘What lifestyle was that?’
‘She liked to entertain. She was glamorous and I was a hindrance.’
Her eyes narrow, as though she can’t make sense of this. ‘So she sent you to live with your dad and...what? Had you on holidays? Weekends?’
My heart shifts. ‘I only saw her a few times after that, never for long. The first I knew she’d got sick was when she died.’
Cora’s expression shows an abundance of pain and sympathy. She moves towards me and puts a hand on my chest, her features soft and beautiful, stirring something to life inside me. ‘And that hurt.’
It’s not a question. I can remember every detail of that afternoon so vividly. My mother taking me to a huge building, a skyscraper with offices, leaving me sitting in a waiting room filled with expensive leather furniture while a nice woman, Mrs Adams—she was one of my father’s assistants—ferried lavender shortbreads and sweet tea to me, in between waiting on Ryan Hart and my mother. I remember the exact taste of those biscuits, the smell of the sun-warmed leather furniture, the sound of the air-conditioning humming, the sheen of the polished tiles beneath my feet. I remember the boredom that seeped into my bones right before shock took over. I push the memories aside.