Dain extracts a small pad and pencil out of his waistcoat pocket and scribbles on it.
‘Here’s my number anyway if you want to get in touch while you’re here.’ He hands me a slip of paper, and I know I’m smiling a little too brightly as I take it.
‘Uh, thanks. Well, I guess I’ll check out the bookshop.’
Dain nods. ‘Nice chatting, Lizzy! And message me anytime. Like Emily, I’m a bit of a night owl.’ OK, that definitely sounded flirty. This could be a bad idea. He saunters off down the stairs to talk to the couple, and I head through to the adjoining display room, which is full of Brontë paraphernalia.
I can’t help feeling discombobulated by Dain as I wander around. Not only is he completely my type lookswise; he’s also intelligent, interesting, and amenable to meeting up. It’s not a wise combination for me, and I know Klint would hate him on sight.
I go down another level to the brightly lit bookshop, which is chock-full of books, mugs, key rings, even stick-on tattoos of Brontë book quotes.
Idly, I pick up a mug and look at the price before heading over to the bookshelf. But I can’t discount the fact that Dain appears to be a walking Wikipedia when it comes to the Brontës. If anyone can inspire me to come up with a research topic, I’m putting my bets on him.
Maybe Klint can be persuaded to let go of the reins a little. I just need to manage the situation carefully.
Chapter 3
Keeper flew at his throat forthwith, and held him there.
(Elizabeth Gaskell,The Life of Charlotte Brontë)
Upon my return to the hotel, I dive into the last quarter ofWuthering Heightsfor the rest of the afternoon and early evening. I don’t feel like reading in the restaurant. Yesterday, Klint spoke to his mother for an excruciating hour and a half, and my butt went numb. So I lie on my side of the bed, trying to tune out the annoying tapping and clicking noises he’s making on his laptop. I’m on edge and overly excited after talking to Dain to the point where I keep shifting position restlessly, making the bed bounce, and Klint comments that someone’s got ‘ants in their pants’.
Around six, Klint and I descend to the dining room for dinner, where we peruse the menus and give the waitress our orders: a burger and fries for Klint, sausage and mash for me. He also orders a pint of local cider to go with his meal, which surprises me. Klint hardly ever drinks alcohol unless it’s a special occasion. Either his thesis is coming along swimmingly, or he’s feeling tense and needs to relax.
‘G and T, Liz?’
‘Yes please. A double.’ Might as well take advantage of this. I’m not a huge drinker, but I haven’t touched alcohol in months.
‘So how was the parsonage?’ Klint enquires after the waitress has left. ‘Sorry I didn’t ask before. I was dealing with a tricky section.’OK, hence the cider. He needs to relax.
‘Oh, good,’ I say with a shrug.
He cocks his head and surveys me. ‘Nothing you saw that might be worth pursuing?’
Only a tall dark handsome stranger, I think, instantly feeling guilty.
‘Ah, not yet. But I did buy some books from the shop. One of the guides recommended reading a few more Brontë novels and a couple of biographies. There’s also an artefact study that sounds interesting. So I’ve got enough to keep me busy.’
This is the point where I should probably mention to Klint that the said guide kindly invited me to the pub so I can pick his brains about the Brontës. But the timing and my demeanour aren’t right. Dain is far too sexy to feign nonchalance, and I know if I say anything now, I’m going to sound overly eager. There has to be a delay so I don’t care as much.
Our food arrives, and between mouthfuls, Klint tells me about some aspect of his research. But the sound of a raised voice penetrates our conversation. One of the pub’s patrons, a middle-aged gentleman, is propping up the bar and wanting another drink. Gareth is refusing to serve him one.
‘Aww, come on,’ the man slurs. He slaps a note down on the bar, but Gareth doesn’t pick it up.
‘You’ve had enough. It’s time to go,’ he says and comes round the other side of the bar and attempts to grab the man’s arm, but his grip is abruptly shaken off. The man staggers backwards, telling Gareth to keep his ‘fucking hands’ off him. I watch the scene, fascinated, whilst forking peas and mashed potato into my mouth.
‘Lizzy.’ Klint shakes his head, indicating that I shouldn’t stare.
‘This is brilliant,’ I whisper to him. ‘It’s like something out ofWuthering Heights. The locals definitely have a wild spirit even in this day and age.’
Klint looks amused and glances at the bar, where the man is again demanding a drink. ‘Yes, they are a bit rough and ready.’
The scene escalates to the point where the cook comes out of the kitchen, and he and Gareth manhandle the guy into the foyer, where a lively discussion ensues. The man wants to drive home. Gareth wants his keys. There are scuffling noises.
‘Jesus,’ mutters Klint. ‘Drive? In his state?’
Gareth comes back in and is on the phone, asking to be put through to the police. He speaks in a low rumble, saying something I can’t hear. He disappears again, I assume, to await their appearance.
