I sigh inwardly. I loathe it when he rants about money. It’s not like his parents don’t have a healthy joint bank account. ‘Can’t you ask your mum for a loan until you get paid?’
He screws up his nose as if he’s stepped on dog shit. ‘That’s not an option. I’d rather sell my body on the street.’
‘Well, I’m sure that it won’t come to that,’ I say soothingly. ‘We can use some of my savings. I don’t mind.’
‘Is that OK?’
‘It’s fine.’ I’m tired and not in the mood for Klint’s haranguing. ‘Let’s go to bed and sort it out in the morning.’
He stops pacing and places a kiss on my forehead.
‘Thanks, Lizzy. You’re a brick. I’ll use the bathroom.’
I nod, glad I’ve assuaged his stress. He pauses by the bathroom door. ‘Did you end up watching a movie?’
‘No, I couldn’t find one I liked, so I read.’
‘Did that guy send through the link?’
‘His name’s Dain, and yes, he did.’
‘Great! Let’s hope you find something that sparks your interest.’ He disappears inside the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
Little does he know, something has sparked my interest, but it’s not in the museum.
Chapter 8
I felt such a craving for support and companionship
as I cannot express.
(Charlotte Brontë, letter to a Brussels schoolfellow)
I lie awake for ages after Klint has dropped off to sleep. All my good intentions about resisting Dain’s charms have evaporated like the Haworth fog. Now all I want is to see him again—and as soon as humanly possible.
I, Elizabeth Doyle, am not a sweet angel, though I’ve tried to be. Klint even dragged me along to his church, insisting I confess my indiscretion to an unempathetic priest. But it hasn’t cured me of my ‘fall from grace’. If he thought repenting and forty Hail Marys would do the trick, he was wrong.
It feels like I’m deliberately trying to sabotage my relationship. Am I that bored that I’m seeking Dain out for mental stimulation? Or is there something else going on?
I must drop off to sleep as I’m jolted awake in the middle of the night by a sharp pain in my right shin. Then another in my ankle. Groggily, I open my eyes to find Klint sitting up and kicking out at me. Hastily, I draw my feet out of range, but not before he delivers another swift strike to my shin with the accuracy of a FIFA footballer.
‘Ow, stop it!’ I cry, now fully coherent. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘You stop it. You know I hate my feet being tickled,’ he mumbles sleepily, lying back down and yanking the covers up.
Huh? I lean over his shoulder to assess if he’s sleep talking or not. Klint has a number of odd night-time habits, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. It’s amazing I’ve actually managed to get any sleep in the last four years of being with him.
I prod his shoulder tentatively. ‘Are you awake or asleep?’
‘Awake, thanks to you.’
‘I didn’tdoanything. I was asleep!’
‘Whatever.’
He sounds in a right sulk, so I don’t push it. Great. Now not only do I have a sore arm, but I’m also going to have plum-coloured bruises all over my leg. I curl into a tight ball and hug myself.
Black clouds are gathering. Maybe I should go back to Oxford and leave him to it before they engulf me.
