3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

Present: 3rd June 2023

F eeling battered, bruised, and extraordinarily fortunate, I stroll down the main street in town, a cigarette hanging loosely between my lips. The sharp scent of tobacco mingles with the cool morning air, a familiar comfort in the chaos. As I pull the cigarette away and exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the sky, a small, almost defiant smile tugs at my lips.

It’s been a month since the accident—a collision that could have ended so much worse. We walked away with just a few cuts and bruises, but we had to say goodbye to our beloved blood-orange Vauxhall Corsa. That car wasn’t just a vehicle; it was a piece of our history. It had carried us through countless road trips, and adventures that wove our lives together in ways only we understood. It was more than just a car; it was our companion, our refuge on wheels, and would have been the perfect family car when our little one arrives in a few months. But now, it’s gone, reduced to twisted metal and shattered glass, just another casualty of life’s unpredictability.

For the past month, I’ve followed my doctor’s orders and rested, letting my body heal while trying to shake off the lingering trauma. But the restlessness has been gnawing at me. Today, I decided to return to work, even though it’s a bit earlier than recommended. I’ve never been one to sit still for too long. I’m not built for inactivity, and while the time at home with Laelia has been precious, there’s a part of me that craves the rhythm of work and the sense of purpose it brings. Being self-employed means no sick pay and no safety net. If I don’t work, we don’t earn. It’s as simple as that.

Feeling the warmth of the morning sun on my face as I stroll down the bustling street, I decide to pause outside my all-time favourite bakery, flicking away the last remnants of my cigarette. The small gesture feels like shedding the last bit of morning haze, a prelude to what I know will be a comforting ritual. As I push open the door, the familiar jingle of the bell above welcomes me, followed by the irresistible aroma of freshly baked goods. Lola's Bakery has become an essential part of my daily routine, a ritual that anchors my mornings. Without my usual latte and either a chocolate-drizzled doughnut or one of Lola's buttery croissants, the day feels incomplete—almost like I'm tempting fate to deal me a bad hand.

The moment I step inside, I'm greeted by a riot of colour behind the glass counter, where an array of beautifully decorated doughnuts is on full display. The variety is almost overwhelming—glazed, sugared, generously drizzled in rich chocolate, and some filled with delicious, homemade jam that oozes out with the first bite. My personal favourite is the doughnut drenched in chocolate, the perfect blend of sweetness and decadence, while Laelia, ever the traditionalist, swears by the original glazed. She teases me for my choice, calling me "basic," but I know she secretly loves it when I bring home an extra chocolate-drizzled one for her to "sample."

Standing behind the counter, as always, is Lola herself, a vibrant presence in the bakery. At five-foot-three, with a plump, cheerful demeanour and a welcoming smile, she's the heart and soul of this place. Her grey hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and her bright eyes sparkle with the satisfaction of someone who knows they're doing exactly what they were meant to do. Behind her, the pastel pink wall is lined with neatly written boards, each listing the day's offerings in a carefully curated script. There isn't a baked good in existence that Lola can't master—doughnuts, muffins, cakes, pastries, pies, and an assortment of freshly baked bread that makes it impossible to leave with just one item.

Today, like most days, I'm tempted to indulge in everything. The sight of the perfectly golden croissants, with their flaky layers that practically beg to be torn apart, and the rich, chocolate-glazed doughnuts, makes my mouth water. I know I should probably practice some restraint, but in Lola’s Bakery, resisting temptation feels like an impossible feat. The cosy atmosphere, filled with the hum of quiet conversations and the gentle clatter of cups and plates, makes this little corner of the world feel like a sanctuary—a place where, for a few moments, everything is right.

As I step up to the counter and catch Lola's eye, she greets me with a bright smile. Just as I'm about to place my order, she raises her hand, silencing me with a playful look.

"Let me guess—a large latte and either a croissant or a chocolate-drizzled doughnut?" she asks, her eyes twinkling.

I chuckle, shaking my head in amusement. "Am I really that predictable?"

She shrugs, the corners of her mouth lifting into a knowing grin. "Maybe just a little."

Without missing a beat, she begins to make my latte. Although other staff members could easily prepare my order, Lola always insists on doing it herself. I like to think it’s her way of saying thanks for helping her decorate the place. She might have thought it was a big task with the only brief being "pink and sparkly," but for me, it was a breeze. Now, this bakery is a vision in pink, a whimsical dream of glitter and warmth. The pastel pink walls are soft and inviting, the dark pink counters add a rich contrast, and the glittery pink and white tables practically beg you to sit down and indulge.

As she works on my order, I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere around me. The bakery is bustling with life, as usual. Customers fill nearly every seat, sipping on steaming mugs of coffee or tea, while others hover near the glass displays, eyeing the array of baked goods with hungry anticipation. A couple of kids press their noses against the glass, their eyes wide with wonder as they try to decide between the sugar-dusted pastries or the chocolate-filled eclairs.

In the back, I catch a glimpse of the bakers hard at work, their hands moving in a blur as they flip dough, knead bread, and pipe frosting onto freshly baked cakes. The air is thick with the comforting scents of melting butter, warm ginger, and sweet vanilla. It's the kind of smell that wraps around you like a cosy blanket, making you feel at home no matter where you are.

As I scan the room, my stomach growls in agreement. There's no denying the magic of Lola's bakery. The treats here don't just smell like heaven; they taste like it too. Each bite is a little piece of bliss—flaky, buttery croissants that melt in your mouth, rich, decadent doughnuts that leave a trace of chocolate on your lips, and bread so fresh you can still feel the warmth of the oven in each slice.

I glance back at Lola just as she finishes up my latte, her smile as radiant as ever. It’s moments like this, in places like this, that remind me of the simple joys in life. The kind that’s worth savouring, one delicious bite at a time.

Turning back to Lola, I see her standing there, holding my coffee on the counter with a drizzled chocolate doughnut in a bag, waiting for me to devour it the moment I walk out the door. Her usual warm smile is gone, replaced by an expression that seems far away, as if she’s lost in thoughts she doesn’t want to share. I force a smile, my mouth already watering for the chocolate goodness, and I reach for my wallet from my back pocket. But before I can pull it out, she shakes her head, her smile fading completely.

“It’s on me,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse, strained, like she’s barely holding something back.

I freeze, my hand halfway to my wallet. “Are you sure?” I ask, searching her eyes, but she only nods, her gaze dropping to the counter between us.

“It’s the least I can do,” she says, her words thick with an emotion I can’t quite place.

Her face, once always alight with joy, now wears a frown so deep it unsettles me. I’ve known Lola for years—always bright, always cheerful like she had a secret joy she carried everywhere. But today, she’s different, like the weight of something heavy is pressing down on her, and she’s too tired to hold it up anymore.

“Is everything okay?” I ask softly, the concern evident in my voice. Her reaction is instant—a slight widening of her eyes, like I’ve caught her off guard.

“Everything’s fine,” she lies, but the way her voice cracks betrays her. “How are you doing lately, Killian?” she asks, quickly turning the conversation away from herself, tilting her head to the side like she’s trying to read me.

“Same old, same old,” I reply automatically, though my thoughts are still on her. “Nothing new.”

She studies me for a long moment, her eyes flicking over my face as if searching for something hidden. Finally, she hums softly, a sound that feels more like a sigh. “I see,” she says, but her tone is hollow like she doesn’t believe me any more than I believe her.

I want to ask her more, to press until she tells me what’s really going on, but I catch sight of the clock on the wall—8:45 am. Fifteen minutes until I’m supposed to be at work, and I still need to set up. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late.

“I better run,” I say, a note of regret in my voice as I grab the coffee and doughnut. “I’ve got a client coming shortly.”

“Going to work so soon?” she asks, and the surprise in her voice catches me off guard. That’s when it hits me.

The car accident.

“It’s only a few cuts and bruises,” I say with a light chuckle, trying to brush off the gravity of the situation. “Plus, there’s no rest for the wicked.”

Lola opens her mouth to respond, but I cut her off before she can say anything. “Anyways, thank you for the goods! I’ll see you soon!” I give her a quick wave and turn to leave the bakery.

As the door chimes softly behind me, I bring the coffee to my lips and take a careful sip. The warmth of the latte slides down my throat, comforting in a way that feels almost sacred. There’s truly nothing like a latte from Lola’s. Despite Laelia’s skill and dedication, her coffee, though good, never quite matches the essence of Lola’s creations. I’ve told her this countless times, and she always laughs it off, saying I’m cheating on her cup with Lola’s. Even she admits that Lola’s coffee has a certain magic to it.

Walking down the path lined with towering trees and beautifully coloured flowers, I observe a lively scene around me. Dogs trot along, barking enthusiastically at every passer-by, while their owners keep a tight grip on their leashes. People are bustling about, some heading to work, their faces a mix of focus and fatigue. Others are leisurely browsing the colourful window displays that dot the streets, each shop offering a tantalising glimpse of what’s inside.

There’s a vibrant array of options here: clothes that sway gently in the breeze, enticing food that wafts aromas of comfort and delight, drinks that sparkle with promise, and books that seem to whisper stories waiting to be discovered. For a small town, it’s astonishing how it manages to offer so much. The charm of this place lies in its ability to provide everything one might need or desire, all within a few blocks.

As I walk, the energy of the town is noticeable—a mixture of everyday hustle and small moments of joy. The contrast between the simplicity of the surroundings and the complexity of the emotions I’ve just left behind is striking. It’s like a parallel universe, where the usual rhythms of life continue unperturbed, even as my own sense of normalcy feels disrupted.

Despite the vibrant surroundings, a part of me remains caught in the sadness that lingered back at the bakery. The juxtaposition of this lively, almost idyllic scene with the heaviness I feel makes the town seem both comforting and starkly indifferent. The normalcy of daily life here is a reminder that while individual lives may be touched by moments of sorrow or change, the world outside often keeps moving, unchanged.

The town where I live is quaint and not overly bustling, but it offers just enough activity to ensure a steady income. As a self-employed tattoo artist, my role involves transforming clients’ visions into stunning, permanent artwork on their skin. For thirteen years, I’ve been immersed in this craft, and for the past eight years, I’ve had the pleasure of co-owning a tattoo studio with my partner, Ethan.

Our studio’s entrance is marked by a striking black door adorned with vibrant, intricate artwork painted across the windows. We spent countless days meticulously decorating both the exterior and interior to achieve the look we envisioned—something bold and artistic that would captivate passers-by and invite them to explore further. Our goal was to create an environment that was both colourful and edgy, a true reflection of the creative spirit within.

Initially, we relied on our loyal clientele from previous endeavours, but it didn’t take long for word of mouth to spread about our unique space and exceptional work. Within a few months, our business experienced an incredible surge, and we found ourselves thriving beyond our expectations. The blend of artistic design and personal touch made our studio not just a place to get tattooed, but an experience to be remembered and shared.

As I push open the door, I’m immediately enveloped by the sounds of "Blink of an Eye" by Those Damn Crows, setting an upbeat tone for the day. Ethan is already here, busy preparing the studio for what promises to be another full day of artistry and creativity.

The moment you step inside, you're greeted by the vibrant emerald green walls, adorned with brown wooden boards. These boards showcase our flash designs, each pinned with care and labelled with our names at the top, so clients know exactly who created each piece. To one side of the room, a rich brown leather couch invites clients to relax, while a table in front of it holds four large portfolios, each brimming with examples of our previous work. This setup not only highlights our diverse skills but also serves as a testament to the dedication we pour into every tattoo.

On the opposite side of the room, a sturdy brown counter stands as a focal point. One side is lined with an array of prints available for purchase, offering a glimpse into our artistic range. The other side is stocked with booking forms, where clients can jot down their details and preferred appointment times. Behind the counter is Sydney, our ever-efficient receptionist. She’s engrossed in sorting through our inbox, which is overflowing with enquiries. Sydney skilfully manages our communication, replying to messages, informing potential clients of our availability, and directing design inquiries to the tattooist best suited for the job. Her role is crucial in ensuring that our workflow remains smooth and our clients receive the attention they deserve.

Sydney, at just twenty-five, has been a vital part of our studio, even though she initially applied for an apprenticeship position to become a tattoo artist. When she first approached us, Ethan had another candidate in mind for the apprentice role. However, Sydney’s undeniable talent and enthusiasm made us reluctant to let her go, so we offered her a position as our receptionist until a suitable apprenticeship slot became available.

Over the past year, Sydney has become more than just a team member; she’s a bright, cheerful presence in the studio. Her personal style is a reflection of her vibrant personality—she consistently wears black and red, accented by her striking purple hair. Sydney is also a devoted pet owner, often bringing her eleven-month-old pug, Chunk, to work. Though Chunk tends to leave a trail of drool wherever he goes, his playful antics bring a smile to everyone’s face.

A recent development has opened up a promising opportunity for Sydney: Alexa, our former apprentice, completed her training last week but had to leave due to family circumstances. With Alexa’s departure, a space has become available for a new apprentice. We’re all hopeful that Sydney will be the one to fill this role. The next step is for one of us to formally approach her about this exciting opportunity, and we’re eager to see her take this well-deserved leap into the world of tattooing.

As I approach Sydney, her bright blue eyes shift from the computer screen to me, and her mouth drops open in surprise. "Killian!" she exclaims, her voice pitched higher than usual.

I smile warmly. "Sydney."

Her eyes widen further. "You’re back already?"

I chuckle, "Can’t lounge around forever."

Sydney swallows nervously as I gently push aside the small curtain that hangs over the doorless gap leading into our deep blue corridor. The corridor is lined with artwork, each piece adding to the vibrant atmosphere of the studio. Before Sydney can respond, I slip into the corridor, leaving her momentarily speechless behind me.

Entering the first room on the right, I pass by Maeve’s Barbie Dream-house room, a space that exudes her deep affection for Barbie and vintage dolls. Maeve’s room is a whimsical pink paradise, lined with shelves brimming with Barbie dolls still in their original packaging. Her love for these dolls is evident not just in her studio but extends to her home, where she boasts an impressive collection valued from a few thousand to several hundred thousand pounds.

In stark contrast, my room reflects a different vibe. The walls are painted a rich, dark purple, providing a dramatic backdrop for the space. One wall is adorned with a collage of photos capturing moments with Laelia over the years, a nostalgic reminder of our journey together. The other three walls showcase a rotating gallery of my artwork, each piece a testament to the creativity and skill that define my craft.

The room itself is relatively minimalist. On one side, there’s a simple tattoo bed paired with my chair, ensuring a functional yet unpretentious workspace. Opposite this setup, a cabinet holds my essential tools—my iPad and tattoo machines neatly arranged on top. Despite the sparse furniture, the room feels intimate and personal, a reflection of the dedication I pour into my work every day.

Ethan had clearly anticipated my return today, as he’d already set up much of my equipment. When I informed him of my plan to come back, our conversation took a contentious turn. He insisted that I hadn't given myself enough time to process everything that had happened.

To be honest, I was taken aback by his concern. After all, it was just a minor car accident. Sure, I had some cuts and bruises, but they were nothing serious. In my mind, there wasn’t much to process—just a brief interruption to my routine. Despite Ethan's insistence that I needed more time, I felt ready to get back into the swing of things and resume my work.

As I set my coffee and doughnut on top of the cabinet, I hear a gentle knock on the door frame and turn to see Ethan observing me with a thoughtful expression. He tilts his head and purses his lips, a gesture that always signifies he’s deep in concern.

“How you doing, man?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of genuine worry.

“I’m good,” I reply, trying to sound reassuring. “Glad to be getting back to normal. I hate having time off.”

I crouch down and open the cabinet, pulling out all the equipment I’ll need for the day—tissues, a variety of packaged needles, and cling film for wrapping the armrest. I meticulously prepare everything, wanting to ensure everything is in place for my first client.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be back this soon?” Ethan presses, his concern evident as he rubs his chin and furrows his brows.

I glance back at him, noting his uneasy demeanour. “Honestly, I’m fine, Ethan.”

He lets out a long sigh, clearly not entirely convinced. “Killian…”

“Ethan,” I say firmly, standing up to face him directly. “I’m fine. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I need to get back to work. If I stay at home any longer, I’ll go stir-crazy.”

Ethan fiddles with his lip ring, still scrutinising me. After a moment of silence, he finally nods. “Okay,” he concedes, the discussion coming to an end. “Just… don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

Before either of us can say anything further, Delilah bursts into the room, her dark makeup streaking down her face from tears. She runs straight towards me, crashing into me and gripping me tightly, as if I’m her only anchor. Fortunately, I manage to keep my balance and steady myself.

“Woah,” I say, trying to assess the situation. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobs, her voice trembling.

I start to reach out to comfort her, but before I can, Ethan rushes forward, gently but firmly prying her away from me. His concern is clear as he takes Delilah by the arm. “Come on, Delilah,” he says, guiding her towards the door. “Let’s leave Killian to set up, and we’ll talk.”

Delilah, still sniffling, nods and follows Ethan out of the room, heading towards his tattoo space down the hall.

Left alone, I stand there, scratching my head in confusion. This outburst from Delilah is completely out of character. I can’t help but wonder what could have happened to upset her so profoundly. And why was she apologising to me? Is she feeling guilty about something related to the accident, or has there been an issue with a client that I’m not aware of yet?

My mind races with questions as I try to focus on setting up my station, but the mystery of Delilah’s distress lingers, leaving me unsettled.

Hearing the chime of the studio doorbell, I know it’s likely my client, Oscar. I step out of my room and into the reception area, ready to greet him. Oscar is here for a tattoo to commemorate his beloved French Bulldog, Boris, who passed away a few weeks ago. He wants a tribute tattoo to honour his loyal companion. I understand the bond people have with their pets; it’s similar to the relationship I have with Meatball, Laelia’s ginger tabby. Though Meatball can be a bit of a troublemaker—shredding everything in sight, attacking my ankles, and peeing on my things—I still love him, despite his antics.

Oscar, who looks to be around twenty-four, extends his hand as I approach. His tattoos, two faded small designs, suggest he might be relatively new to the tattoo experience. I’m not sure how he’ll handle a full session, given how he’s squirming already. But, as always, I remind myself that appearances can be deceiving.

“Can’t wait to see what you’ve designed for me, dude,” he says with an enthusiastic smile.

I shake his hand and lead him into my room. “Let me show you,” I say, guiding him to the chair. “Take a seat.”

Once he’s settled, I grab my iPad and open Procreate. I show him the design—a simple yet meaningful piece featuring a French Bulldog with a bone beneath him, Boris’s name etched into the bone. It’s a straightforward design, but that’s exactly what he wanted.

Oscar’s eyes light up as he sees the design. I notice him starting to well up, and I give him a reassuring smile. “I’m guessing you like it?” I ask.

“Dude! It’s perfect!” he exclaims, his voice choked with emotion.

I prepare for the session by donning a fresh set of gloves and grabbing a razor. I shave the area on his arm where the stencil will go, then carefully apply the stencil, ensuring every line is in place. I peel it off slowly and check for any smudges or errors before smiling at him. “Check it out in the mirror,” I say, pointing to the large mirror on one of my walls.

Oscar stands in front of the mirror, his face lighting up with joy. “I love it!” he beams. “It looks just like him.”

He returns to the chair, placing his arm on the armrest as I prepare the colours. The tattoo will be mainly black and grey with a touch of blue in the collar. It doesn’t take long for me to gather everything I need.

As the tattoo gun buzzes to life, I glance at Oscar, who is watching me intently. “Are you ready?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice shaking slightly.

I start outlining the design with black ink, noticing him clenching his teeth. I can tell this is going to be a long day.

After two hours of tattooing—having completed the outline and started on the shading—we finally take a break to rest and refresh. I step out for a quick smoke and, when I return, I find Oscar sitting in the chair, absorbed in the photos on my wall.

He turns and smirks as he hears me enter. “Who’s the fit brunette in the pictures?” he asks.

“That’s my fiancée, Laelia,” I reply, and he whistles appreciatively.

“You have a worldie,” he grins, continuing to look at the pictures. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-nine,” I answer.

“I can see she’s heavily tattooed as well. She looks like she has a lot of floral black and grey work. Did you do that?”

I sit down and glance at the photo he’s referring to—a shot of Laelia and me on the beach during a holiday with Ethan and two of Laelia’s friends. Laelia is in a pink bikini, and I’m standing behind her, arms wrapped around her.

“No, she had most of her tattoos before we reunited. I’ve only done a few for her: the large butterfly on her stomach, the roses on her chest, the raven wings on the back of her neck, some dot work in her inner right ear, and my name on the back of her left ankle,” I explain.

Oscar’s smile widens. “Dang! I’m envious, man. How long have you been together?”

“Six years. We dated in high school for a year before going our separate ways when she moved down south. We reconnected a few years ago, and the rest is history.”

“So, you’re childhood sweethearts?”

“Yeah, we are.”

Oscar’s eyes sparkle with interest. “Fancy telling me about it while you finish my tattoo? Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a sucker for a good romance story.”

“Sure,” I say with a smile, as I restart the tattoo gun. “I’d be happy to.”