LOVE ME, love me not

Waiting for Robert Nelson, I check my watch. He’s grey-haired, has a stiff upper lip and is at least 25 years my senior. He came to his first consultation with me straight from work a few days ago, wearing a grey, pinstriped suit, white shirt and blue tie. I see all sorts, so I don’t judge. Only, as the consultation wore on, I swear I started wearing a wig and carrying a gavel.

He stood looking at the walls festooned with pictures. I often photograph my work, so there was Jamella with her thorn-and-rose sleeve that one day she planned to get extended all down her back; there was ‘Roach’ (his nickname) with the angel I’d inked across his chest, her wings just kissing his collarbones; there was Jackson with two huge motorbikes zooming across each bicep.

‘My name’s Jazz,’ I told Robert. ‘My parents didn’t christen me that – they called me Rachel – but I prefer Jazz these days.’

That declaration’s always my