She hates the barmaid with every fibre of her being. So mortifying, Kit preferring that to her!
And it has been a terrible day already. When she got in after that awful confrontation with Kit at the pub, there was no sign of Beatrice – probably gone for a walk – which meant no one was around to stop her opening the artisan handmade chocolates made right here on the islands. She wouldn’t have to steal them away and hide them in her room. She promised herself she’d just have a couple. Sea salt and caramel, her favourite. Thyme and rosemary? She might give that a miss. Ginger and cayenne? A definite no – it would burn on the way back up.
And she did only have a couple – although she had also poured herself a large measure of gin.
She’d pulled out Kit’s phone. She shouldn’t have taken it. She’s a bad person. But she just wanted to get back at him, although she hadn’t really thought of what she might do with it. 232
He’d not changed his code – his birthday. Not very secure. She scrolled through the images: a close-up of Hannah laughing; Hannah and Kit on the beach, his arm around her, her eyes scrunched up and her mouth wide open with joy; Hannah wrapped in a duvet, her shoulders bare, looking adoringly at the camera, or the man behind it…
She couldn’t bear it.
Then the bitch turned up and Charlotte so wanted to hurt her; she wanted to hurt her in such a way that Kit would never look at her smug face in the same way ever again.
Now Charlotte thinks fuck it and opens the chocolates, eating on automatic pilot, stuffing them into her mouth, two at a time, beyond the point of registering any sweetness or unique flavours, beyond feeling queasy, revolted by the mush filling her mouth, disgusted with herself—
In the bathroom she heaves until her eyes water and her stomach convulses with pain. The taste of bile and acid and shame. When she stands she feels faint.
There is a packet of Cornish shortbread in the cupboard and two tubs of clotted-cream ice cream in the freezer. She has to get away from their siren call.
She grabs her coat and rushes out.
The force of the wind catches her, flinging her back against the door, and she falters. Her head feels separate to her aching body, as if it might blow away. Good. That’s what she needs right now, to blow away all the bad thoughts.
She weaves her way along the path towards the wild side of the island, lurching upwards, stumbling against the force of the wind, blinded by tears. She doesn’t care. Let it all blow away.