Joelle giggles. ‘Oo-er, looking for something to spice things up in the bedroom?’
‘No.’ I shove it hastily back into the rack.
‘Hang on a sec.’ She plucks it out again and peers at it, fingering the boning. ‘This is mine. I dropped it off ages ago.’
‘No takers?’ she calls out to the woman at the counter and holds up the corset for her to see. The woman shakes her head and plumps up her bosoms like she’s a saucy wench. Joelle laughs. ‘I guess it is a little too racy for the locals. Anyway, I’d best get back. See you later.’
I say goodbye; and she exits the shop, leaving me to stare suspiciously at the corset. Sophronia has long red hair, green eyes, and wears a corset like this—albeit it gets ripped off her during the threesome scene and is unsalvageable. But ... was Dain drawing from something other than his imagination for the story, namely his ex wearing it? They say that jealousy is a green-eyed monster, but the colour of the feeling that rips through me at that moment is nothing but white-hot. I place the corset carefully back in the rack. But if I had a flamethrower, so help me God, I’d light the thing and gleefully watch it burn.
***
‘But don’t you think all the characters inWuthering Heightsare so one-dimensional?’ The guy opposite sips from his glass of complimentary white wine and studies me intently through his horn-rimmed glasses. Disturbingly, he reminds me of a blond-haired version of Klint, except he’s studying English, not history. He’s got that same superior vibe going on.
‘No, not really,’ I reply, refusing to get drawn into his line of argument.
‘I mean, take the male ones for a start. They’re basically clones: Heathcliff, Hindley, Hareton.’ He snickers. ‘And don’t get me started on the Cathy/Catherine issue.’
I inhale a slow, deep breath. If he can’t grasp Emily’s brilliance, I’m not going waste my time explaining it to him.
‘What’s your thesis topic again?’ I ask.
‘Environmental literature and ecocriticism. I’m looking at the relationship between literature and the natural world and how literature can help us understand environmental issues ...’
‘Ah, fascinating.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
He starts telling me about his research in great depth, but I tune out, wondering how I can escape. I take a large gulp of chilled white wine to dull my senses and cool down. It’s super heated in this crowded ballroom, and I’m wearing a tight-fitting black wool dress. It reaches to mid-thigh and has long split sleeves and a scoop neck. I’ve paired it with rose-gold twist earrings and white Converse trainers. The dress felt right when I tried it on at the vintage shop, but now I’m thinking I should’ve chosen something with more airflow. Living at Dain’s, I’ve acclimatised to cooler room temperatures. I’m not used to central heating or so much body heat and noise.
At least I didn’t have time to be too nervous or feel like Nancy No-Mates because my supervisor, Dr Flintoff, handed me a glass of wine and shepherded me over to a group with the brief intro ‘Lizzy Doyle, PhD, Brontës’ before scurrying off to greet the next newcomer. So I’ve been fielding interested enquiries about the nature of my research, apart from Mr Environmental Literature and Ecocriticism, who seems determined to irk me.
‘Excuse me for a minute,’ I say to him, tapping my empty glass. ‘I need a refill.’ He nods and turns to the guy next to him without batting an eyelid, dismissing me. Why are intellectual men sexy, but also soooo annoying?
Dain’s not like that,I think.We’d find a secluded corner and privately discussWuthering Heights’til the cows came home.
Acute need for him invades my gut. We’re going to have to have a talk when I get back, clear the air a little. I hate this awkward tension between us when we were getting on so well before.
So you’ll tell him how you feel, Lizzy?enquires a ghostly Charlotte. I gulp. OK, maybe notthatconversation.
I make my way over to the bar on the far side of the room and ask the bartender for a cappuccino instead of a wine. Thanks to the plumbing work starting at 6 a.m., I’ve had a couple of early starts. Maybe the caffeine will perk me up. I wonder how long I have to stay? And if my supervisor will mind if I take off? With all these people, I can’t imagine me not being here will make much of a difference. At Oxford, I was never a big one for social events, only the odd drink with friends. But after Klint disapproved of that, I just spent time alone reading or watching TV with him.
I perch sideways on a bar stool to wait for my coffee, easing my black dress down to knee level and surveying the room. Everyone is talking animatedly—everyone except me.
Someone comes up behind me and takes the other bar stool, and I pray it’s not the anti-Brontë guy. Nicholas, I think his name was. I don’t turn around, but he leans towards me anyway, so close that I can feel warmth emanating from him. He’s got a nerve! Probably thinks he can hit on me since I’m not wearing a wedding ring or didn’t mention a boyfriend.
I’m about to hop down, but a familiar voice says, ‘Hello.’
My head whips around so fast I nearly break my neck.
Dain grins at me lazily, larger than life. My mouth hangs ajar. Slowly, I take in his steampunk coat and starched white shirt, no waistcoat. He’s also had a haircut, and the shorter style emphasises his classic bone structure. My heart starts thumping; he looks super hot.
‘W-what are you doing here?’
Dain sips his white wine, unruffled. ‘I was invited. I wasn’t going to come as I didn’t want to crowd you, but the house is unliveable at the moment with all the banging going on. Bridget said she’d look after Tabby for a few days, so I decided to take a leaf out of your book and stay in Leeds for the night ... Surprise!’ he says with a wry smile.
‘But why were you invited in the first place?’
‘I’m a stakeholder. When my aunt died, she left me some money, so I set up a nineteenth-century fiction scholarship. They have these functions each year, but this is the first time I’ve met the recipient. The wine isn’t too bad.’ He takes another sip and avoids my eyes.
