Chapter 28
Blocked text from August Dansworth:
Hello, Elizabeth. Please pick up. Again, I’ve been such a nasty bugger, and I’m sorry. You have every right to never want
to speak to me again. But I really want to at least talk to you. Once. Pretty please?
Soon I’m nestled in a private booth at the back of a Stanbury pub with Everett, Bella, and Harry.
No paparazzi. The three gave the hostess a generous tip to keep quiet about us being here.
Still, Bella wears a glam baseball cap, the brim pulled low over her face.
Her dressed-down style does little to mask her beauty, with long, black hair cascading in a ponytail down her back and her professionally applied winged liner highlighting her eyes.
Both Harry and Everett sport sexy bed head and wrinkled sweatshirts.
Even in the pub’s low light, I see the makeup sheen on their cheeks.
I’d completely forgotten about the publicity shoot.
The actors had just wrapped it up and were taking a little stroll themselves when they heard my screams.
Bella and I compare our lower back tattoos. Both are healing nicely.
“We really are like sisters now,” she says, smiling.
“Except you’re the one with the better eyebrows.”
She laughs. Then over pints, we joke about the awkward but serendipitous meeting. My relief outweighs my embarrassment. Thanks
to these three, who scared off the ram, I walked away with an intact rear. And now it’s time to celebrate our wonderful news.
Maybe it’s the British accents and long working hours, but despite our almost twenty-year age gap, they all seem more mature
and far friendlier than my Willoughby colleagues.
After our meals arrive, Everett asks about Mr. Wells, and Bella suddenly looks mortified.
“I’m so sorry, Lizzie. I haven’t told them yet.”
Everett and Harry stare at her and then me.
“Philip . . . he passed away a little over two months ago—car accident.”
“Oh fuck. That’s awful,” Harry says softly. “I had no idea.”
I press my sore palm against the sticky table surface. “You couldn’t have known. I never put anything about it on social media.”
“He was so cool,” Everett says, staring down into his bitter ale.
“When Bella had that all-day indoor scene to shoot in LA, you know, the bad one where the sheepdog shat all over the set kitchen,
we did shots with Mr. Wells at The Varnish. He stopped after two to call home to check on Heathcliff. He was such a bloody
good dad. And he couldn’t stop talking about you.” Everett shakes his head glumly.
“I’ve never seen another couple as happy as you two,” Bella says.
“We were so young when we met. We didn’t know anything.”
“You know everything about love.”
“I’m not sure about that . . .” I mutter, moving my fork around the congealing sauce of my black sheep kidney pie.
“No, you did know everything about love. Even the shitty parts,” Bella says.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
Everett takes a bite of fried haddock, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s the book.”
“Definitely,” Harry agrees.
Everett continues, “Our agents made us read Wuthering Heights as soon as we signed. I thought it would be boring, but it really gets to all the craziness love brings on. Then your book
cranked it up a notch.”
Bella smirks at the guys. “We three have had some drama—some highs and some really fucking low times. Remember when I sobbed
on your shoulder after our news appearance?”
I nod.
“That was one of my lowest points. That was when I learned you can really love someone even though you’re so wrong for each
other.”
She meets eyes with Harry, and he smiles.
“And we’ve learned loads about ourselves through it all—it took poor Harry here most of a year to come out.”
“And they supported the hell out of me,” Harry says.
“Even when I threw the mimosa at you in that Rome café that morning you suddenly broke up with me.”
Harry grins. “You were blindsided.”
“And Everett and I were together pre-Harry and post-Harry.”
“But post-Harry was just a rebound,” Everett says, raising one eyebrow. Bella smiles as they playfully click their pints.
“And it’s been so fucking awkward since, but we’ve been hashing through it all, and we’ve decided we can be friends. At least we’re going to try. We’re teasing our love for one another in a different direction. Right now, I’m very happy with my new guy.”
“And cheers to him,” Everett says, lifting his pint.
This should feel awkward, but I’m giggling.
“Can you tell us about the next book?” Bella asks.
“I haven’t started. Any suggestions?”
“Ummm . . .” Bella looks thoughtful. “You could make the story even more about Cathy.”
“You know I wanted to title the last one The Catherine Saga.”
“Do it for this one! Push back if they give you problems,” she says excitedly. “What do you think, guys?”
“Oh absolutely!” Harry says as Everett nods.
“No one wants to see my duff face on-screen all the time,” Everett says through his Greek-god grin.
“Oh, shut up, you.” Bella playfully slaps his arm.
“I’ll do it,” I say. I’ve signed the contract already. Given the first book’s success, I certainly have more leverage this
time around.
“And she gets another happy ending this time. That’s nonnegotiable,” I say smiling as I finish off my pint.
We talk a bit more before karaoke music and dancing starts. The pub is significantly more crowded now than when we first arrived.
I’m sure the festival drew people from Yorkshire and beyond. I hear local and Scottish accents in the midst. Pretty soon,
as the music starts, we have to practically shout across the table to hear one another.
After the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe,” Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” and Britney Spears’s “Toxic,” I’m tapping my boot under the table.
Bella wrinkles her nose and orders another pint. “Who chose this list?”
Harry groans. “If they’re going to go ’90s/early 2000s vintage, they can at least throw out some cerebral radical British hits via The Cranberries or Chumbawamba.”
Everett mock sings a few lines from “Tubthumping.”
Except for our table, everyone seems to be having a great time. Of course, almost everyone on the dance floor is over thirty.
Ancient by my youthful movie star friends’ standards.
“What’s next? Destiny’s Child?” Everett asks sarcastically as our shots arrive.
I’m suddenly tickled. At least at this moment, I’m cooler than these three.
I down my shot and stand up with a wicked grin. “Sure. Why the fuck not?”
And then, a few minutes later for the first time since 2001, I’m belting out “Survivor” from the small, sticky pub stage,
while Bella, Everett, and Harry have joined the older millennial crowd, not caring if anyone recognizes them. They dance,
lip-synching and cheering me on from the floor.
We take a selfie as we leave the pub, and Bella hugs me tight before I get in my taxi. On the short ride back to Haworth,
I watch stars poking through the night sky’s fabric. It’s so dark here. My tight cord loosened today. I’ve put myself through
so much—guilt over my feelings for Henry, guilt for blinding myself to August’s waywardness. But Bella, Everett, and Harry
helped me see that the craggy rock path is fine, and we can come out on the other end wise and even happy.
Philip, a good soul, is safe wherever he is. It’s me who’s been adrift. I needed this journey to feel secure. I’ll always
grieve him, but I can lose this rippling fear that our love ended with his death.
That evening, I take a long, hot bath, soaking my sore feet and chaffed hands in Epson salt. I call Ms. Fernsby briefly to check in on Heathcliff and then shut my phone off. I settle back in the soapy water, dwelling on my gratitude for what I had with Philip and my good odds for a bright future.
Blocked text from August Dansworth:
Hello, Elizabeth. Please pick up. I’m dying here. ??
After cleaning and then locking up the Airbnb, I visit the Bronte Parsonage gift shop to buy some souvenirs. I buy a T-shirt
for Heathcliff, “I am Heathcliff” (How meta, right?); a Victorian cookbook for Ms. Fernsby; and a pretty copy of Jane Eyre for Dad. (He needs to branch out in his reading.) And then I hurry off to catch the bus.