Really? You look like a dog’s dinner.
‘Can’t we work things out, Lizzy?’ he wheedles and looks at me with sad eyes.
But I’m too busy worrying about Dain to deal with Klint’s emotional blackmail. I check my phone, but there’s been no further messages from him—only that awful one: ‘I can die happy now that I’ve known you’ ... Shit! I need to get back to Haworth.
‘No, we can’t work things out,’ I say, pushing past him and running to the bathroom. ‘You can give my clothes to charity,’ I toss over my shoulder. I haven’t got time to sift through them. But my large toiletry bag is easily collected as I keep it in the cupboard under the sink. Then I’m out of here.
I bend down to collect the bag and see a distinctive gold tube standing on the shelf above next to a stack of toilet rolls. I pick it up and look at the end of it: Pink Pucker.
Reader, this isn’t mine. I can’t afford to buy £25 Elizabeth Arden lipsticks. Klint’s claim that he hasn’t been with anyone out of respect for me is looking a little dubious. My spine starts quivering in fury. He comes in as I’ve finished writing ‘L I A R’ on the mirror with Pink Pucker.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I brandish the lipstick in his face. ‘Whose is this?’ I demand. ‘A one-night stand?’
Klint looks at the floor, guilt written over his face.
‘No one’s.’
‘Don’t play dumb. You’re such a fucking holier-than-thou hypocrite.’
‘Fine, it’s Susan’s.’
I gape. ‘Your supervisor? The old married one?’
‘She’s not that old.’
‘She’s 60!’
‘Fifty-eight actually,’ he retorts, his face an unattractive beetroot colour. ‘I got lonely, OK? It was stupid. She was coming on to me, and it was over before it started. I’m not seeing her anymore. God, imagine.’
I shake my head slowly. ‘Klint, when you do have another relationship, hopefully with someone who isn’t married, please be a good person to them. Treat them well. This conversation is over.’
I walk past him. But he grabs me, pushes me up against the sink, and tries to kiss me. His breath smells foul, like wet, mouldy gym socks. I turn my head, nearly gagging, but he grips my jaw and twists it to meet his fleshy spittle-flecked lips.
No!Grabbing his wrist, I manage to lever one of his hands away from my jaw and chomp down hard, tasting blood. He yells in shock and springs away, clutching his hand to his chest, as I gnash my teeth at him like a feral dog.
‘If you ever fucking touch me again, I swear to God I’ll kill you!’ I howl. ‘I don’t want you! I want Dain! I don’t care if he’s bisexual. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same!’
Goodbye, Lizzy Doyle. Hello, Catherine Earnshaw ...
Chapter 26
I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable
I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect.
(Anne Brontë, letter to Ellen Nussey)
The sharp iron tang of Klint’s blood invades my mouth, making me feel queasy. I cease from running down the street, take a pull from my water bottle, and promptly vomit a stream of pink water onto the grass. He shouldn’t have backed me into a corner. I’m a wounded dog, likely to attack without warning.
I try calling Dain—my third attempt since leaving the flat—while juggling my bulging tote along with two unwieldy suitcases. But there’s no reply. It goes straight to voice message again. By this time, my anxiety is through the roof. Reader, as you know, I’m not a religious person, yet I’m praying fervently:Dear God, please keep him safe.But there’s a dark void in my soul, and his silence is damning me; it feels like he’s left the planet.
Nevertheless, I’m relieved I have a fully charged phone. If Dain’s taught me anything about being prepared when there’s a storm on the horizon, it’s that.
Maybe he’s at the parsonage; that’s why he’s not answering. At the train station, I call the Brontës’ home and have a weird hopeful feeling that the fabric of time might stretch beyond all bounds of understanding and Charlotte will answer. Because I need her to tell me, ‘He’s not over here with us, Lizzy. He’s fine.’
Charlotte doesn’t answer. Instead, a man says in a clipped tone, ‘Brontë Parsonage Museum. How may I help?’
