“I was in a rush,” I whisper. “I had to write five essays in two weeks…”
“And whose fault was that? Did you read the book? Be honest with me. I’ll know if you are lying.”
My throat is drier than Oscar Wilde in the Sahara as I rasp, “I, er, watched it on DVD.”
A long silence. “You watched the film?”
I nod.
“That was it, was it? The sum total of your research?”
Another nod.
“You thought you’d get away with that, did you?”
Nod times three. My nails are digging into my sweaty palms quite hard. I think he’s going to kill me.
He takes a deep breath and puts the essay down.
“Tonight we are going to look at the book, which you should have read back in November, and you are going to take notes which will act as the structure for a second version of this essay. I will expect that essay on my desk by Wednesday; this is, of course, in addition to any other work you may have to complete to keep up with the syllabus. Clear?”
I give him a miserable affirmative, though I’m secretly quite relieved my jugular vein is still intact.
“Very well then; let’s make a start.”
For over two hours we study and pore over and discuss the book while I scribble lists of points and spider diagrams. Sinclair is a major slavedriver and even begrudges me a toilet break towards the end of the session, tutting prissily as if I’ve asked for a loan. That’s a thought…No! Don’t even consider it.
But I can’t help considering it as I wash my hands in his suavely bacheloresque black-tiled bathroom. Would Sinclair be good for three hundred and fifty quid? Could I…somehow….persuade him….No. No way.
I wander back into the living room; Sinclair is tidying up papers and has rolled up his sleeves. Eek. Does that mean what I think it does?
I hover by the door frame, unsure of how to proceed. He looks up at me, takes off his sexy reading glasses and beckons me over. The gesture raises the hairs on the back of my neck; it is intimate – the kind of thing a lover might do – and yet sinister at the same time.
“Now let’s address the matter of your woefully ill-researched essay, shall we?” he purrs, as if he relishes his disciplinary task, which I’m sure he does. Once again, a newsflash of Mags ‘Nosy’ Parker’s radiant expression if she could see this interrupts the usual nonsense broadcast of my head. Simultaneously I become aware of the uncomfortable bulge of my camera-phone in my jeans pocket. And suddenly the two concepts intermarry and I know how I could make £350. Just…like…that.
I stand in front of him in a slightly defiant pose, hand on hip, shoulders slouched, thinking ‘Could I really do that? No, I’m not that type of person! I’m not a blackmailer! But what type of person am I? The type who sleeps on the street? He’s not blameless in this; he’s a grown man of 40-odd in a position of responsibility and I’m a vulnerable girly…he deserves it…no, he doesn’t; he’s trying to help me…in a weird, weird way…Argh!’.
The babbling is inconclusive. I am almost sure I couldn’t possibly go through with anything so nasty. But will I feel the same when my belongings are piled up outside Cliveden Hall in three black binliners tomorrow? My fingers fidget compulsively with the slim silver phone while Sinclair delivers a lengthy diatribe about letting myself down and taking opportunities from people that would truly appreciate them etc. etc. When he tells me I’m the worst kind of social parasite, I crack and decide I’m going to do it. I’m going to get a photo of him in action and I’m going to demand the three fifty. I push my shoulders back and smile at him.
“Everything is going to change from now on,” I promise him, my eyes glinting villainously. Wow. I feel like a Bond baddie; it is strangely empowering.
I feel less empowered, though, when he tells me to lower my jeans.
“Do you mean…?” I squeak.
“I’m not spanking you over those; I don’t want to cripple my hand,” he says tersely. Damn. My phone is in the pocket; how can I get it? I slip it out and into the waistband of my thong at the front, fumbling in my attempt to do it without being noticed. “Today, Miss Newland, if you don’t mind.” I shimmy the jeans down to my ankles, staring furiously at the floor as I do so. I can’t believe he is doing this to me. Still, all the better for my purposes, I think, looking on the bright side.
I hear the inviting slap of his hand on his thigh and shuffle over, flame-faced, draping myself over him and trying to organise my position so that I can whip the phone out with ease when the going gets too tough.
He smooths his palm over my comedy knickers, exclaiming when he realises I am wearing two pairs.
“You certainly came prepared tonight, Miss Newland. Two layers of underwear. Perhaps I should be twice as hard on you.”
“One pair is only a thong!” I object. “It doesn’t count!”
“I’m not sure I’m in agreement,” he says, laying on the first stroke, which is sharper and louder than my fuzzy eroticised memories have been telling me and makes me yelp straightaway.
No quarter is given this time, and my bottom is sufferingly hot within a minute or two. I jerk around on his lap, looking for escape routes, but they are blocked by his hand in the small of my back. He is oblivious to my moans and plaints, slapping on and on like a machine created for the purpose of my pain, asking me periodically why I am being punished and expecting me to reply.
“Lazy…undisciplined…disrespectful…” I gasp, repeating the mantra he has given me on so many occasions. I wriggle a little more desperately than I need to, to cover the sneaky manoeuvre I am making towards my mobile. My fingers close around the hard metal and I try to press the necessary buttons with one shaky hand, the other being occupied grabbing Sinclair’s trousers and bunching them in my fist to try to cope with the vicious sting of my bum.
I think I’ve got the phone on the right setting, and I try to raise it to a good vantage point to snap Sinclair in flagrante delicto, but before I can even get close, he has snatched it from me and his blistering assault ceases. Which is good on the one hand…but on the other…
“What do you think you’re doing?” He scrutinises the screen and I flop, defeated and throbbing, unable to answer or try to look at him. An almighty smack lands on my undefended cheeks. “I want an answer.”
I can’t give him one.
“Now, Miss Newland.” Ouchie ouch, on my naked thigh. That was below the belt, so to speak.
I can’t tell him, but I can’t not tell him. I take a middle path. I start to cry.
“Crocodile tears won’t impress me,” he snaps, but once the tears have started I find that I am unable to stem them. They just keep on coming until I am bawling my head off, all self-control evaporating with my dignity. Sorry, did I say dignity? Hanging off Sinclair’s knee with my jeans around my ankles and a very red derriere, perhaps that’s not the right word.
He hauls me up and deposits my wailing, shaking form on to the sofa, prowling over to a drawer and producing a box of tissues, which he puts down beside me. He then sits down and watches me, silently and clinically, until I am merely sobbing rather than howling, my fists pressed up against my mouth and my hair flopping protectively over my swollen face.
“Tell me,” he says again, but his tone is rather gentler, though still meaning business.
“I’m going to get thrown out of Hall,” I confess. “I owe them too much money. I can’t afford to pay them. The deadline is tomorrow. I just..don’t know..” I cover my face with my hands, not wanting to watch Sinclair’s face as he draws the inevitable conclusion.
“I see,” he says. “You’re an even worse blackmailer than you are a student.”
He doesn’t sound remotely angry, so I risk a look up. He looks aloofly amused.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I…probably wouldn’t have gone through with it anyway.” Wow, Beth Newland, Defence Lawyer. “Are you going to…have me…kicked out?”
He regards my pathetic figure with
detached interest for a minute or so. “I should,” he says ruminatively. “But I won’t.”
“Oh,” I gasp, “Thank you.” He holds up a hand before much more incontinent gratitude can gush forth. “You are my project now, Beth Newland. I have made a commitment of time and attention. I need to see if I can follow this experiment through to its conclusion.”
Experiment? He twitches his lips at my round-eyed goggling.
“For my own purposes, I would like to see if I can turn an academic sow’s ear like you into a silk purse. I need to know if the effort is worthwhile, or if I should just abandon workshy little layabouts like you to their fate in future. I think of myself as a Henry Higgins of the university establishment.”
“Oh, so I’m Eliza Doolittle. The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain,” I say absently.
“Quite.”
“I don’t think he spanked her into elocutionary excellence though, did he?” Sinclair frowns. Oops.
“It is not your place to question my methods,” he says superciliously.
“Right. Sorry,” I say, needing to keep my credit with him above zero.
“You know, you could have spoken to me about it,” he says. “Asked for my advice. I might have been able to speak to your warden – Beresford, is it?”
I nod, sudden hope alighting my dismal gloom. “Well, I couldn’t really, sir,” I say. “I couldn’t have asked you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re completely unapproachable.”
“I see.” His eyes flash and I wonder if he is changing his mind about sticking with the plan. I shiver involuntarily. “I do have a solution to your predicament, you know.”
“Really?” I lean forward expectantly, wondering if he is going to lend me the money. Top bloke!
“I have a spare room here.”
My jaw drops. He can’t mean…
“You could stay with me.”
“But…isn’t that…frowned upon?”
“No,” he says. “It’s a reasonably common situation, in fact. It’s not as if you’re sharing a bed with me. Though even if you were, there is little untoward in that. There is no rule prohibiting staff/student relationships. You aren’t children. However immaturely you might disport yourselves.” No need for the pointed look.
“I…er…” I have no idea what to say to this proposition. I can’t live with Sinclair!
Reasons against: Constant breathing down my neck; will probably make me have a curfew; won’t let me smoke in the house; will hassle me about spending habits; might want me to be his skivvy and do all the cooking/cleaning.
Reasons for: I might get to see him naked.
“OK,” I say.
“Good,” he smiles slyly. “Now I can keep a proper eye on you. We can have a determined campaign to eliminate some of those bad habits of yours.”
My heart sinks. I like my bad habits. They’re like friends, keeping me warm on long and lonely nights. Clearly I have just made the worst decision of my life.
He rises from the sofa and heads off to the corridor. “I’ll just get some shoes on and we can go and collect your things,” he says.
“Now?” I prevaricate, urgently needing emergency crisis talks with Dearbhla and Emily in the pub.
“No time like the present,” he admonishes. “Is there?”
Chapter Three
Underwear, iPod, hair straighteners, selection of clothes, incense burner, teddy bear, poster of Che Guevara…suppose I won’t need the traffic cone…oh, and I’d better pack a few books just to show willing.
Sinclair took quite a lot of convincing to stay in the car while I do a rapid minesweep of essentials prior to diving next door into Dearbhla’s room and seeking sane advice. I check my watch; I’ve got fifteen minutes. Sinclair is coming in after me if I’m not back by ten.
“Dearbhla! Dearbhla! Please be in!” I knock anxiously at her door; the notepad tacked to it is empty of messages, which is a good sign.
She opens it blearily, her long blonde hair wisping around her face. She is wearing that idiotic all-in-one fleecy sleepsuit which makes me think of a rabbit.
“What the hell are you doing in bed at this hour?” I scold.
“Sorry, went for a drink after Mass with the guys from the Catholic Chaplaincy. Turned into a bit of a bender.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? Nobody parties harder than those Catholic Chaplaincy boys.
“Look, I’m really sorry to interrupt your coma, but I need to talk to you.”
She ushers me in yawning and plonks herself down on the bed. “It’s no big deal, Beth, you can sleep on my floor, like I said. Beresford’ll give you the room back as soon as you can make the money.”
“Yeah, thanks and all that, but that’s what I have to tell you. I’ve had an alternative offer. Kind of an offer I can’t refuse.”
A little of the post-ale fog disappears from Dearbhla’s eyes.
“Oh yes?” she says, intrigued.
“Sinclair,” I say, bubbling up with internal laughter at the thought of how she will take this. “Sinclair wants me to move in with him.”
Wow, how do you treat a dislocated jaw? Her reaction does not disappoint.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispers. “Have you completely lost the plot now?”
“No, it’s true, I swear.”
“Beth, it’s a really bad idea to shag a lecturer…why didn’t you tell us this was going on?”
“Believe me, Dearbh, if I was shagging him you’d know all about it. It’s not like that. I just let slip that I was going to get kicked out and he mentioned his spare room, all casual-like, and I thought…”
“You thought….” Dearbhla prompts.
“I don’t know,” I confess. “I think I might be making a huge mistake. He’s a total control freak. I know he’s going to try to run my life.”
“Somebody should,” says Dearbhla pointedly. “God knows I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
There is a rap at the door and Emily joins the party.
“Did I just hear right?” she gasps. “You’re going to live with Sinclair?”
“Looks like it.”
“You lucky, lucky bitch.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Frabjous fucking day.”
Emily stares at me uncomprehendingly. “I thought you had the hots for him.”
“I do. But he’s going to be sheer hell on wheels to live with. You should see his flat. Not a speck of dust on anything; not a tasteful objet out of place. He’ll come straight home from lecturing me in the department to lecture me in the living room. And…and…” I trail off, realising I was about to say that I didn’t even want to think about how sore my bum is going to be, but not quite wanting to let that tantalising little cat out of the bag right now. Or ever. I am reminded of my still-smarting buttocks, which reminds me in turn of an impatient Sinclair waiting in his car. I should go.
“I have to get going anyway,” I tell them. “Sinclair is outside. He’ll come in and drag me out if I take too long.”
Emily is agog. “I want him to come and drag ME out,” she wails. “It’s not fair. I’m going to stop handing my essays in.”
“If only we’d known the true path to Sinclair’s heart,” I commiserate with her. “We could have got even drunker and done even less work less term. Oh well. Too late for regrets now.”
I swing out of the room and off along the corridor to the brave new life that awaits me.
*
Squinting against the glare of the chrome fittings in Sinclair’s kitchen and bathroom, I resolve to buy some dark glasses. When I’ve got some money.
“How does everything stay so spotless?” I ask wonderingly, my acquaintance with cans of Pledge and dusters being of the passing variety.
“I’ll introduce you to Nerys tomorrow,” says Sinclair obliquely. “My housekeeper.”
Now there’s posh. Not even a cleaner – a housekeeper, la-di-dah. Moving back out into the corridor, he indicates a closed w
alnut door.
“This is my study, into which you are absolutely forbidden to venture. I keep it locked most of the time; should you be tempted to wander in, I must warn you that the consequences will be severe. Is that understood?”
“Uh huh,” I say, intrigued. Surely the Professor understands enough about psychology to know he has just invited me to find a way into his secret sanctum? I am already speculating on what might lie within…murder weapons? Thai ladyboy?...collection of Cliff Richard DVDs? He puts a firm hand on my shoulder and steers me onward.
“Here,” he says, opening the last door on the passageway. “Your room.”
It is spacious, light, airy, with a plain white-covered bed and some tasteful wood furniture, though little to distinguish it from an anonymous hotel room.
“Not bad,” I say, putting my bag on the bed.
“Keep it tidy,” he warns me. “If I hear Nerys has had to clear up after you, I will be most displeased.”
“Right,” I say.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten, but if you’re hungry there’s food in the fridge. I’ll be working in my study for the rest of the evening, so I’ll say goodnight now.”
He nods at my answering goodnight and glides from the room.
Wow. I need a moment to take stock. I sit on the bed and look around, fixing the scene in my mind to convince myself it is real. I am moving into Professor Sinclair’s guest bedroom. Where is his bedroom? I’m guessing it’s across the corridor. I wonder if he snores? Will he keep me awake talking in his sleep? Christ, what if he brings a woman back with him? Or two? Could I just lie here listening to Sinclair having sex…without me? Ugh, perish the thought.
I kick off my shoes and lie down. Too much weirdness. I need to sleep it out of my system.
The squawk of a distant alarm clock chases me out of sleep at…what?...6:30 a.m. Sod that. I bury my face in the pillow…lovely freshly-laundered smell…this isn’t my pillow… My head retreats from its squashy hideaway and I remember where I am.
The muffled noises I can hear next door are Sinclair’s morning noises. I lie back and listen in, wondering what I can glean about his character and habits from his pre-work routine. Barely fifteen minutes after waking he leaves the house, so I return to the land of nod until, around eight o’clock, there is a sharp rapping at my door.
Lecture Notes Page 3
