Lipstick Tattoo

By Julia Dovey

Bianca used to write romances before Pete made her realise how silly they were.

His poetry focuses on reality. It means something. Romances – “saccharine calls for pity from bored housewives” – have no footing in real life.

But when Louise – a sophisticated journalism student with date-purple eyes and a kiss tattoo – makes a chance reappearance, Bianca’s simple story takes an abrupt turn. Bianca is faced with two paths. One: safe, paved, and colourless. The other: a twisting, vibrant trail into the dangerous unknown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Apr 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228620211

Book preview

Lipstick Tattoo

Julia Dovey

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228620211

Kindle 9780228620228

PDF 9780228620235

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228620242

LSI Print 9780228620266

Amazon Print 9780228620259

Copyright 2021 by Julia Dovey

Cover art by Pandora Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

For the substitute teacher whose name I do not remember.

Chapter One

Purl, purl.

Knit.

Purl.

Knit.

Purl.

Wait, was it purl purl first, or knit knit?

With a sigh, Bianca laid down the needles and picked up her phone to rewind the YouTube video she’d been consulting. A pair of hands with star-spangled nails manipulated some bright yellow yarn, and a cheery voice confirmed that Bianca had, indeed, done it wrong from stitch one.

The store door jangled, and Bianca looked up to see Lucas enter, holding two coffees. His mother owned the shop but rarely had the desire to run it. Lucas, still working on his anthropology degree, was employed to take care of the day-to-day. This meant serving the older-lady-saturated customer base, putting yarn back in their proper cubbies and bins, and winding up the ancient cuckoo clock that was his mother’s pride and joy and, admittedly, lent the store an air of charming insanity.

To this day Bianca wasn’t entirely sure why they needed her as well – the store could easily be run by one person – but suspected that his mother didn’t want the face of her yarn store to be a burly, mustachioed man who wore jorts more often than either jeans or shorts. Either that, or she hoped that being around homemaking materials and employing a woman his age would push him into marrying and giving her those sweet, sweet grandbabies.

It was a good plan – or it would’ve been, if Lucas weren’t loudly asexual and possibly aromantic, with zero plans on having any babies other than his cats.

You started, huh? His eyes were on the needles and their single, feeble line of moss green stitches.

I did. With a frown, Bianca pulled the stitches free.

Lucas let out a horrified squeak. Jesus, Bee, what did I say?

It wasn’t you. I messed up. Coffee?

Lucas handed her the cup. I need to keep my mouth shut. At this rate, Pete’s gonna get his Christmas gift when Halley’s Comet comes back.

Bianca took a sip of her pumpkin spice. Halley’s what?

Lucas looked pained. Bianca loved annoying him with her ignorance, especially if it completely undercut his attempt at a highfalutin insult. He chose silence, this time, stalking off to ferociously rearrange the yarn.

It was a slow day, hence Bianca’s most recent attempt to start the toque. Not that the store ever got what one would call crowded. Occasionally, there’d be groups of teens or young adults coming in just to browse after wandering the strip. They could be loud. And they loved touching the yarn, lingering at the ultra soft alpaca wool, and stuffing their arms in the cubbies while Bianca watched and prayed their hands weren’t horribly sticky.

She didn’t mind too much, though. Nor did she blame them for coming in. Something about a store that sells only soft, brightly coloured things…it pulled people in, even if they had zero interest in knitting. Sometimes a person would stay for quite some time, just silently touching the colours. It tugged at Bianca’s heart in an odd way.

She glanced down at the unravelled yarn in her lap and sighed.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She picked it up and read Pete’s text. How long will you take to get ready? We need to leave by no later than seven.

She let out a small laugh.

What’s up? Lucas asked, having wandered over to get his coffee. He leaned on the counter. Is Poet Pete nervous about tonight?

Sometimes, Bianca wondered if Lucas knew Pete better than she did. He’d been Pete’s roommate years ago, way before Bianca was even in the picture.

Bianca nodded. He’s worried that two hours isn’t enough for me to get ready.

Lucas’s eyes widened. Well, it certainly isn’t. He put on a nineties’ comedian voice. A woman’s primping time is like going to the airport – you got to allot at least four hours.

Bianca whacked him with a needle. He’s just a little jumpy. You’d be too, if you had to read your poetry to a huge group of people.

I wouldn’t even know where to begin trying to convert that experience into one equivalent of which I’d understand

"I can’t convert that sentence into one I’d understand."

Well, now you know how I feel when I read poetry. Lucas took a long gulp of his coffee. Does he have to, you know, dramatize it? Wail and gnash his teeth and all that noise?

Bianca tried to imagine Pete wailing his poetry. I hope not. I don’t think so. He’s just going to read a poem, maybe take questions. I think he’s excited – he just gets nervous about reading his stuff aloud. I know I’d be.

Lucas barked a laugh. "Are you going to mention your writing there?"

No! Of course not.

Why of course not? I’m sure they’d be interested.

It’s Pete’s night. Bianca picked up her needles and the end of the yarn, determined to get at least one row properly stitched before the end of the day. I don’t think it’d be a good idea. And it’s barely writing, anyway.

Whatever you say. Lucas glanced at the clock. Do you need to take off early? Don’t want to get home late and give Pete a myocardial infarction.

Is that a soup? Bianca concentrated on counting stitches. Lucas put his coffee down hard, then stalked off to his yarn once more.

* * *

Lucas had asked Bianca once, when they’d gotten piss drunk together on New Years Eve, if she was happy where she was in life.

Pete had been out celebrating with his co-workers, and Lucas had responded to Bianca’s melancholy text by showing up at her door with a massive bottle of absinthe.

The liquor had briefly switched off his irony tap, and he’d asked the question with a booze-fuelled earnestness that threw her for a loop. She couldn’t remember her exact answer – probably some variation of yes, duh – but the slurred question replayed in her mind once in a blue moon.

She couldn’t lie. Sometimes, on a particularly bad day, she wondered if she was happy where she was. On days where she mused too long over her unimpressive bank statement, or got into a fight with Pete, or stepped out of the shower and taken a wrong-angle look in the mirror, she’d feel like she wasn’t on her proper path. Then she’d careen out of control into the what-if ditch.

What if she’d used her bachelor’s for something? What if she had a skinch more ambition? What if she were a little braver? What then?

But on days like this, when the low autumn light caught the darkening leaves of the maples in that way, when she could smell October in the breeze that cooled her bare ankles, when she knew that in a few short hours, she’d be drinking red wine and eating finger foods way off her diet plan and enjoying every moment of it…in moments like these, she couldn’t imagine a better life.

And she had Pete.

Of course, she had Pete.

She’d met Pete through a university friend. They’d first traded words at the local microbrewery, where they were all celebrating the year anniversary of graduating. Though Bianca knew everyone but him before that night, it was Pete who she ended up chatting with the most.

He convinced her to order a flight of different beers, then explained how each was made, why one was sour and another was bitter. Bianca tried all four and made a face each time, but persevered through all four to the last drop. He asked her why she ordered it if she didn’t like beer, and she lied and said it was because she wanted to try something new. In reality, she’d liked his face and his butt, and she’d wanted to impress him.

He’d laughed. You’re cute as hell.

She’d already been flushed from the beer – those words lit her face on fire.

They’ve now been together four years. In those four years, they’d moved into a two-bedroom, contemporary rancher together, spent four Christmases together, discussed getting a dog together. They’d survived several plugged pipes and power outages and job losses. All things that Bianca considered building blocks to a solid foundation. Four years of petty arguments and hurt feelings, but of lovely moments too. Like the three weeks they’d spent in Paris for Pete’s job. Bianca had never been outside Canada before, and Paris was another world. A world of effortless dressers, of feeling lost in the babble of words she didn’t understand, of glorious food and the barest sprinkle of rain before the sun re-emerged.

Her favourite place was not the Louvre, or Notre Dame, or the Eiffel Tower (which they’d never had time to visit, but she’d spotted from a taxi by accident on their way to the hotel.) No, her favourite place was the small café in the seventeenth arrondissement, where every morning they had each a café crème and a light breakfast. Bianca used her vacation and the ample amount of walking as an opportunity to stuff herself with carbs, and typically ordered either a croissant or a pain au chocolate. People watching, drinking coffee, and chewing on bread – life couldn’t get better, in Bianca’s opinion.

They were there so often that they even had a favourite waitress. Or, at least, Bianca did.

Bianca found Parisians pleasant, attractive, and very, very intimidating. Some might say she only found them pleasant because she didn’t speak a word of French, but she would disagree to an extent. She’d heard the attitude of wonderful country, France…pity about the French, but being within the constant press of loud, laughing, poking tourists was enough to make her somewhat understand the Parisian lack of patience.

This waitress wasn’t much different from others. To-the-point and efficient. But Bianca loved watching her work. She never wrote down their order, and it was always without flaw. She always gave a small half-smile at Bianca’s cheery, clumsy merci. She was tall and full figured, with large, dark eyes and chestnut hair pulled up in a classy twist. And she had a small tattoo just above her left breast – a kiss mark in red lipstick.

Bianca’s shyness made her avoid eye contact most of the time, so her eyes often fell to that tattoo. She’d never been more entranced by one before. Somehow it walked a thin line between classy and scandalous, and it was burned in her mind, even years later, as though by a brand.

She’d brought it up with Pete later, who had given her an odd look. You want a tattoo?

She thought for a moment. No. She’d not thought of it that way – it wouldn’t suit her. But she still liked it.

Pete didn’t like tattoos. To be fair, she never felt one way or another about them, either. Not until the trip. Still, she didn’t bring it up again.

In these four years, Bianca never stopped trying to impress Pete. He was like a monument of some past president – grand and tall and smartly dressed. He’d gone from university grad, to accountant, to marketing consultant, and recently he’d sent a document of poetry he’d done in his spare time to a local publisher. It got picked up, and tonight was a reading at the local writers festival.

And Bianca was proud. So, so proud. Tonight was a big night.

But she still didn’t need two hours to get ready.

* * *

Pete called her on the drive home.

Bianca pressed answer. Hey, I’m driving.

Good.

"Good? The proper answer should’ve been why are you answering your phone while driving."

Should it?

"And then I’d say, I’m using the phone holder, and you’d say—"

I don’t want to be late.

Pete. Bianca let out a patient sigh. We have two hours until we need to be somewhere fifteen minutes away.

Yes, well, I need to go over stuff with you. I’m going back to reading ‘A Late Night Cap,’ not ‘Sunlit Path.’

Oh Pete. I like that one. What’s wrong with it?

"I know you like it. It’s one of my fluffiest pieces. But for a reading, they’re probably expecting something more raw."

Something you could gnash your teeth to?

What?

Nothing.

Bianca was stopped at a light, and it was a long one. She leaned her head back and stared through her sunroof. Some bird had pooped right in the middle of the glass, spoiling an otherwise perfect blue sky. If she blurred her eyes, she could almost pretend it was a cloud.

What are you wearing? Pete asked.

Tonight, or right now?

Pete let out a long sigh. Bianca let out one of her own, though a little less audible. She knew she should tone it down. She was used to screwing with Lucas with her unfailing witlessness, but Pete had a lot less patience for it. She sometimes wondered if he actually thought she was that stupid.

The cars started moving, and she checked both ways twice before moving. The crazier drivers always seemed to emerge on Fridays.

She waited until she was through the light. I don’t know. I have a few dresses, but I haven’t worn them in a long time. Who knows if they fit?

Yeah, Pete said, with conviction that Bianca found offensive. Then again, he sounded so distracted that she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her.

Babe, you’ll be fine. They’ll all love your stuff. The worst thing that could happen is that you flub a word, and it’s poetry. They’ll probably think you did it on purpose.

Please don’t make fun of what I’m doing. This is important to me.

I’m not making fun of it, Bianca assured him, trying to curb her own exasperation. Think of it this way – at least you’re not reading what I write.

What?

You know—

Oh, God. No, at least I’m not doing that.

See? Bianca tried to smile. Bright side.

* * *

The writers festival was being held at Bianca’s old university, and it felt supremely odd and exhilarating to be walking towards those familiar front doors of the Student Union Building.

Isn’t this cool? Bianca asked Pete, who walked beside her, frowning at the squelchy grass underfoot.

My shoes are going to be all splattered, he complained. He’d worn his best pair of brogues, and though the mud had not yet hit the main leather, she could see it building up on the outsole and heel. Thank God his pants weren’t overly long. He wore black jeans and a crisp grey shirt, and over them the expensive tartan sport coat he broke out on special occasions. He was positively dapper, and Bianca had made sure to tell him so several times on the ride over.

Sorry. Bianca looked down at her own shoes. She’d elected to wear her heels, which sunk down an inch or two with every step. She didn’t have to worry about pants, at least. Thankfully, her go-to black dress had still fit, though a little snugger around the hips than she remembered. Still, she’d felt pretty damn good after putting on her own special occasion thing – a layer of dark red lipstick that made her do double takes at every reflective surface. It did make her lips feel very heavy, however. I forgot how squishy this grass gets, even if it’s been sunny. It holds water for like a week.

Great. Do you have my book?

In here. She patted her bag.

Thanks. And, hey— He