Sweet Agony by Charlotte Stein Read Free Book Online

intentions.
    But mostly because his is not the only writing in the book. There are other words, written in the margins. Harcroft’s words, written in the margins . I know they are his – I recognize the cramped, narrow writing from his notes. It always makes me think the strain of talking to me makes him press too hard on the paper, but now I can see it’s just how he is.
    I can see everything about how he is.
    His character is in every line, so that I can almost hear his voice in my head when I read. ‘I would possibly give your heartfelt opinions on the poor a little more credence if you had not divorced your wife for a teenager via a letter in the newspaper,’ one of the notes says, because apparently even Dickens does not escape his contempt.
    Or his withering analysis. 
    His seven-paragraph screed on the final scene between Little Dorrit and Arthur is so excruciating that I think I have secondhand embarrassment for a fictional couple. My face gets hot, not just because he is more or less right but because this is what he thinks of two people having intimate contact. He thinks it seems like two birds squabbling over a wet crust. He thinks it an inexplicable turn in an otherwise just about passable story.

    God, he probably thinks my hand on his shoulder was an inexplicable turn in an otherwise just about passable story. I bet he thought I was ruled by sloppy, inconvenient emotions that he has no use for. Hell, I think I might have to agree. Here I am practically licking the words he wrote in a book, when I should be dusting or cleaning or bringing him a cup of tea. At the very least I need to be doing something other than snooping in this desperate manner.
    If only to spare me the expression on his face when he catches me.
    He looks even worse than last time. His lip curl is so exquisite it hardly seems like one. You could probably call it a pout and paint a fancy picture of it, though it would need a rather ominous title. And Now the Hour Cometh , I think. But then I want to explain my heinous actions – really quickly. Before he decides to murder me.
    Is he going to murder me?
    It certainly appears that way when he just stands there staring, without speaking, for what feels like half an hour. By the time he does say something my insides are practically in a knot. I have to wrench them apart before I can do what he asks me to, though most of me would rather not. ‘I think you had better follow me,’ he says, and all I can think is: oh, my God, now I’m going to meet my doom for repeatedly daring to transgress against him in a bird-squabbling-over-a-crust manner.
    It even seems that way, as I mimic his long, slow pace. Like I’m taking part in my own funeral march, I think, then want to stop and run in the other direction.
    Doubly so when we get to the door.
    For some reason the wood is painted red, which never bodes well in this situation. Not when every other door in the house is a normal, natural colour. Behind this one he probably has a room full of whips and chains – or maybe the bodies of his former wives. Why else would it be locked? He has to take out a big bunch of keys to open it, and they are not the kind to reassure someone like me. They are heavy and rusty-looking, on a big ring that he has to turn and turn to get to the right one.

    And the right one is a curling knot of wrought iron. It makes me think of spooky stories about haunted mansions, and even more so when he fits it into the lock. It screeches when he turns it, as though no one has been in this room for a thousand years. He only ever has sex with the ghost of his long-lost love once a millennium, because the rest of the time she is as mad as hell. I bet she’s going to bite my head off for daring to have lustful thoughts about her husband.
    A thought that seems silly, I know.
    But it still makes my heart thunder in my chest when he tells me to go in, and at first all I can do is put my head around the door, with my eyes closed. I