Page 61 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
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 itisher? And, even worse, how am I going to function for the rest of the day if it isn’t?
2
SOPHIA
Ido my best to look comfortable in these alien surroundings, consciously making an effort not to bounce my leg up and down or chew my lower lip. I pick up a magazine on tattooing, but the shivering of the pages each time I turn one only makes it obvious as to how badly my hand is shaking.
My nerves haven’t been helped by the information that the tattoo artist I’d originally met with to discuss my design was sick for the day, and I’ll be getting someone else called Rocco. They’d given me the option to rebook for another time, but I’d worked myself up to this moment for the last month and had barely slept last night in anticipation. The American woman I’d spoken to had assured me that this Rocco was just as talented, if not more so, than the original artist I had booked, though, the woman had added, I’m not allowed to tell anyone she’d said that. I couldn’t stand the thought of going through the build-up all over again, so I’d agreed to go ahead with the other artist.
A big, scary-looking guy with spiky dark hair and a silver hole through one of his ears, which I can see right through, is standing behind the reception desk. At first, I’d wondered if he was the one who’d be working on me, but he hadn’t said asmuch when I’d come in, and there are a number of rooms, so he obviously isn’t the only artist here. He seemed friendly enough, but I still can’t stop myself from staring at the numerous tattoos crawling up his arms, and even up the side of his neck. As I’m staring, a short woman with dark hair comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist and presses herself into his back. My heart clenches at the sight, and I blush and glance away from the intimate moment. I wish I had that for myself, but the years of my adult life haven’t been easy so far, and men who get involved with me tend to realise I’m not going to be as much fun as I look. As soon as they figure out that being with me isn’t going to be simple, they take off for the hills. Sure, I have my family, but that doesn’t mean I’m not lonely sometimes.
“He won’t be too much longer,” the brunette behind reception calls to me.
“Oh, thanks. No problem.” I smile, trying to hide my nerves.
A door opens, and a voice I haven’t heard for ten years speaks. “Sophia?”
My heart lurches as I turn towards him.
It’s only one word, and yet it tumbles me back in time to a place where I’d been the happiest in my life. To a time when I’d felt loved and cherished and adored. To a time when I’d had a scruffy boy, whose brown hair had always ended with blond highlights in the summer, but then had darkened in winter. A boy who’d always protected me and made me laugh and had been there for me every step of the way, until life had forced us apart.
My gaze finds his face, and my heart stops again. It’s him. He looks so different and yet somehow exactly the same. He’s filled out from when he was seventeen, his shoulders broad beneath his t-shirt. A short beard hides his chin, and the brown locks I’d loved so much have been shorn right down to his head. But his eyes… His eyes are exactly the same. Deep brown, almostblack in lower light, while golden honey and specked with amber flecks in the sunlight. He’s ten years older, and bigger, and harder, but it’s him, without a doubt.
I get to my feet, though my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. “Richard?”
His perfect lips twists. “I don’t go by that any more. Everyone calls me Rocco.”
I nod, in a stunned daze. “Rocco,” I say, tasting the name on my tongue. “It suits you.”
He takes a step towards me and then stops, as though he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do next. Hug me? Kiss me? Shake my hand? So instead we just stand opposite each other, staring, while the two people behind the counter watch the awkward interaction with curious confusion.
“How…? How have you been?” he asks.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Okay. I’ve been okay.”
I don’t want to get into all of that now, not standing here, in the middle of a tattoo studio.
Richard—Rocco—must become aware of our audience as he turns to the other two people, who are watching with amused expressions by the counter.
“We knew each other as kids,” he explains to his colleagues. “I mean, we were friends. We basically grew up together.”
It was more than that,I want to say.We grew up as the same person. We shared each other’s skin. Every experience one of us went through, the other was there right by their side.
My first memory is of us at a birthday party, sitting on a rug outside on the grass with a birthday cake in front of us. I couldn’t say whose birthday it had been, but I remember him right there, next to me, and how we’d both blown out the candles at the same time.
At the same time. That was how it had been for us. We’d done everything together. We’d learned to swim together in theCornish sea during the long, hot summers where the population of our small town seemed to quadruple with the number of tourists. We’d learned to ride our bikes together, and how to fall off together, too. And then we’d grown older, and things had changed between us.
