(Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights)
Cake and medical supplies in hand, I walk back to the hotel, ruminating on this latest development: Joelle and Dain. A likely couple. But why did they break up? By my reckoning, they should be deep in domestic bliss, expecting the pitter-patter of little feet or at least have a puppy or two. Except ... they’re not. Was Dain too into the Brontës for her liking? But she said she loved them too, so that can’t be the reason, though she did say he was ‘obsessed’—it’s quite a strong word. Maybe he was into having séances to commune with the sisters, or she caught him dressing up as Emily? Hmm, more likely little Miss Paleface who works at the parsonage has caught his eye, and he’s dumped Joelle for her. Stranger things have happened.
Either way, it’s conjecture on my part. Dain’s love life is his business. I shouldn’t even be wondering. I have to remind myself he’s simply a source of information and one that I need to access since we’re leaving in a couple of days. If I can sweeten Klint up with this Victoria sponge, I should be able to tread freely and meet up with Dain without setting off his paranoia.
The bar area of the hotel is empty when I walk in, and the whole place is deathly quiet. Now that I know about all the spooks living under the roof, the cosy vibe has changed into more of a creepy one. I try not to think about the woman with her clanging bell and ghostly feline friends or, as I’m climbing the stairs, the man with the bag over his shoulder who vanishes at the top. Why oh why did we have to get put in room 6?
The door handle to our room turns halfway but won’t budge. Has Klint locked it from the inside? Or gone out for a walk? That would be unfortunate since I’m feeling peckish, and the Victoria sponge looks delectable—he might miss out. I jiggle the handle, then knock. ‘Klint?’ I call softly. ‘Are you in there?’
There’s no reply, so I pull out my phone and send him a message, but he doesn’t respond. I call, and it goes to voicemail. I knock louder, feeling uneasy all of a sudden, like there’s someone in the hallway with me. It’s a weird sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. A cool breeze touches my cheek even though there are no windows. I rattle the door handle in a panic. ‘Klint! It’s me, Lizzy. Let me in!’
The door flies open, and Klint stands there, looking flustered. I plunge into the room. ‘Thank God.’ I slam the door and lock it, hoping that whatever’s in the hallway respects solid wood.
‘What’s with you?’ Klint eyes me as I take a deep shuddering breath.
‘Why the hell didn’t you answer the door? Didn’t you hear me knocking?’
‘Sorry, I was on the loo! It was a critical moment. I couldn’t just jump up—’
‘I messaged you—’
‘I wasn’t on my phone.’
With the lack of sleep, my sore arm, and my highly emotional state from the ghost eyes, I feel like I might burst into tears at the slightest provocation. However, Klint doesn’t push it. ‘It’s OK, you’re tired. I’ll put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea.’
He gently steers me towards the bed. Settling back against the headboard with my knees pulled up, I watch him flick the switch of the in-room kettle and tear open a couple of PG Tips teabags. The familiar motion of tea making calms me down, and I start feeling silly for my outburst. It’s not his fault he was on the toilet—it was bad timing all round. Maybe I was conjuring up a presence in the hallway. I do have an overactive imagination.
I proffer the cake container to him. ‘Here you go. You can have this with your tea.’
Klint smiles upon seeing the cake, and for a moment, I’m reminded of why I fell in love with him. He’s not classically good-looking like Dain by any stretch of the imagination; his nose is long and narrow, his lips thin, and his chin pointed. With his owlish glasses resting on angular cheekbones, unshaven jaw, and dishevelled light-brown hair in need of a decent cut, he’s the epitome of an intellectual Oxford student. His resting expression is typically stern, but when he smiles, his face lights up with a childlike air that I find endearing and quite sexy.
Suffice to say, he swoops on the cake, takes a large bite, and groans like he’s in ecstasy. Icing sugar falls on the bedspread, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to see him happy for once. After a couple more blissful bites, he asks, ‘Did you get this from the café?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Finishing the cake, he wipes icing sugar from his lips. ‘Mmm, I could eat another three of those.’
‘Good?’ I notice there wasn’t any offer of a bite for me. Klint doesn’t share cake unless he’s forced to.
‘Really good. Thanks.’ Klint hands me a cup of tea and sits cross-legged facing me on the bed, taking a sip of his own.
‘So I got talking to Joelle, the server at the café.’ I blow on my tea to cool it down.
‘Oh, been making friends with the locals?’
I nod, shifting my arm, and he spies the paper bag on which it’s been resting.
‘Did you get some stuff at the chemist?’ he asks.
‘Yes, some plasters and cream.’ I brush over that to keep him on track. ‘Anyway, I found out Joelle is the ex-girlfriend of the guide at the Brontë Parsonage. You know, the guy who recommended the books to me.’
‘Is it a he? I assumed it was a woman.’
‘I didn’t say it was.’
‘No, you said “one of the guides”.’
Klint can be pernickety about details, and he has an excellent memory. It’s all the footnotes he writes.
