Lecture Notes (6 page)

“I
s that what you’re after then? Somebody who likes….pain?” I grimace a little as I say it. I wouldn’t classify myself as a person who actually likes pain – I’m as babyish as the next person when I get an earache, for instance – but I do like his little spanking kink. 

“I wouldn’t say I was ‘afte
r’ anything,” he says severely. “I’m not interested in a woman who yarns tediously on about how a bit of harmless role play disempowers her and spits on the grave of Emmeline Pankhurst. That’s all.”

“Oh right.
I don’t agree with her position, as it goes.”

“Don’t you?”

“No. I don’t think a spanking fetish is inconsistent with feminist principles, necessarily. Bedroom preferences shouldn’t really enter the manifesto, should they? Do you think?”

“I do.
First sensible thing I’ve heard from you, Beth.” He smiles, rather menacingly. “Bedroom preferences,” he repeats thoughtfully, making me think my preference is definitely for his bedroom. Please, Professor, please make a pass at me, pleeeaaase.

But he finishes his wine and says, “I thi
nk I’m going to go to bed now. Goodnight, Beth.”

Goodnight, sweet disciplinarian, goodnight.

Chapter Four

I am up and dressed on the dot of 7.59 the next morning, my reward for which is the magnificent sight of Sinclair emerging from the bathroom wearing only a towel. I have to bite my tongue to stop it hanging out. His hair is masculinely tousled and I have never seen a more pleasing set of shoulder blades in my entire puff. Not to mention arms, chest, abdomen and legs from the calf down. Dearbhla and Emily are going to kill me when they hear about this. He must do some form of exercise to be in such fine shape, though he doesn’t have that overly built look I find so off-putting. No, he ripples like a panther, sensuous and sinuous, lean and long-limbed.

“You’ve seen a male body
before, I take it?” he taunts. “Go and put the kettle on.” He disappears into his room to dress. Awww, I
hate
that he knows I fancy him. It’s so one-sided and unfair. I stomp into the kitchen and attend mopily to the coffee.

Sinclair comes in with
the post a little while later. There is one for me, forwarded on in Dearbhla’s handwriting, from the bank. Ugh. I hate letters from the bank; she really needn’t have bothered. I eye it cursorily and put it aside.

“I think you should open it, Beth,”
says Sinclair, making it clear that this is not simply a suggestion.

“I’ll look at it later,” I say, avoiding his eye.

“No, now. Or I’ll open it myself.”

“You can’t!
It’s illegal to tamper with Her Majesty’s Royal Mail!” I protest, but it seems to cut little ice. His fingers make a grab for the long white envelope and I only just manage to snatch it away, tearing it open with bad grace. Oh God. Blah blah blah, overdraft charges, charges for this letter, no question of extending overdraft, the usual bobbins.

“Wha
t does it say?” asks Sinclair. I’m tempted by a smart remark about oversized noses, but realise the folly of such a course and withdraw it.

“Oh…just the usual,” I say airily.

“What does it say?” he repeats, more insistently this time.

“ ‘You owe us money. We want it back.
We are capitalist bastards holding you to ransom.’”

With a fluttering finger gesture, Sinclair suckers me into ha
nding over the blasted letter. He scans its import, raising a disapproving eyebrow over at me as he reads.

“Dear me, Beth.
Three thousand pounds in debt after…what?...
five months
at university. If you aren’t going to be up to your eyeballs by the time you graduate, we need to sort this out now.”

“I can’t,” I object.
“I can’t conjure cash out of thin air. I have to live.”

“Yes, Beth, but I suspect your idea of what constitutes the necessities of life
might not coincide with mine. Or the Bank Manager’s.”

“I’m nineteen
!” I exclaim, flinging my arms wide. “I want to experience things, go out, have friends, grab life while I can!”

Sinclair is amused by my impassioned manner, but
he is not diverted from his mission. “You can do all of those things without spending enormous sums of money,” he reckons. “How much do you have going into your account every month?”

“Four hundred,” I moan.
“It’s pennies.”

“It’s quite a lot for doing nothing,” Sinclair points out waspishly.
“When do you get the money?”

“First of every month.”

“Well, it’s only the beginning of March. Where has it all gone?”

“Swallowed up into the eternal vortex of usury.”

He laughs out loud. I
love
that! But then reverts to stern you-are-seconds-away-from-a-spanking mode. “This is what will happen, Beth.  For the rest of the month, you will have to subsist on nothing. I won’t charge you rent and I’ll cover all food and other essentials for you. Your social life will have to be curtailed, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you can last till the end of the  month.”

My mouth does that fi
sh thing, opening and closing. He can’t do this to me.

“On the first of April you will withdraw one hundred pounds, then you will give me your bank
card for safe keeping. That one hundred pounds must last you to the end of the month. The rest of the three hundred will be used to start repaying your debt. At that rate, you can be back in the black by January.”

I want to shout “nooooooooo, fuck off!” but he has a
face that cannot be sworn at. Trust me, you would not want to try it. A hundred quid a month, though. For ten months minimum. Woe is me.

“Don’t pout,” he warns me.
I kick my kitchen chair back, preparing to storm off to my room. “And don’t flounce.”

I raise my head high and stalk out of the kitchen with what
I consider to be icy dignity. “Don’t forget I want that essay tomorrow,” he shoots after my departing figure.

Bastard. 

*

Library, lecture, library, lectu
re, library, seminar, library. What a day.

All the time I’m scribbling away in my little cubicle, I have another strand of thought running in counterpoint to t
he officially approved version. ‘Unapologetic sadist’. Exactly how far does this paraphilia extend? Being tied up and spanked – yes.  Sharp objects and knotted whips – no. Or perhaps Blakey just meant that he’s a bit of a git and has made her suffer emotionally? But somehow I think not. I think his secret cubbyhole is some kind of torture chamber. Pretty much my complete understanding of sado-masochism comes from the song
Venus in Furs
by the Velvet Underground, so I’m vague on the detail, but I imagine a dim lair full of medieval implements like Scold’s Bridles and Iron Maidens. Creepy. I shudder and consider throwing myself on Dearbhla’s mercies and taking up her offer of a bed on her floor. Perhaps he murders ditzy young things like me for sexual kicks. Perhaps that is his plan! Oh my God!

In a panic I leave a message on his answerphone to s
ay I won’t be home for dinner. I have an Opsoc rehearsal anyway, so I scurry over to the Union, keen to share my fears with Emily, who is in the chorus.

“You think he’s a sadist?” Emily gasps, eyes p
opping in wonder as we share a Diet Coke before going through the Act One finale. “Why? Has he…done anything…to you?”

“No, n
o.” (Yes) “It’s just…what somebody said. At the flat last night.” I’m dying to namecheck Blakey, but am too afraid to be the progenitor of a rumour that might get back to him. “He didn’t deny it. He seemed to…confirm it, actually.” What did he mean by ‘role play’? Just a bit of fun or something more sinister?

“Do you think he wants to…hurt you?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid. He might be a killer or something.”

“Oh, come on.
I think we’d know about it if he was.”

“I suppose.
There haven’t been any mysterious disappearances of female students, have there?”

“Of course not.
I think Dearbhla and I would notice if you suddenly weren’t there.”

“Yeah.” I calm down. “Yeah. OK.
But if he says anything like I’ve gone home, or quit the course, or gone to travel the world, call the cops, all right?”

“I will.”

Emily trips off to join Sir Joseph’s sisters, cousins and aunts while I take the stage to spurn James Winthrop’s amorous advances.

Indeed, it is not only on stage th
at this seems to be happening. At the end of the rehearsal he asks me if I want to come for a drink in the Biko Bar.

“Sorry,” I grimace.
“Brassic lint.”

“Oh, I’ll get you one in,” he offers eagerly and a little spark in those big brown eyes melts me.

“Oh, right…thanks. You coming, Emily?” James wilts visibly when she utters a cheery affirmative.

“I think you’re fantastic as Josephine, you know,” he enthuse
s once the pints are lined up. “I really enjoy playing opposite you.”

“Oh yeah?” I grin.
“Refrain, audacious tar, your suit from pressing.  Remember what you are and whom addressing.” This is the opening line of one of our duets.

He grins back and caps me.
“Proud lady, have your way, unfeeling beauty.  You speak and I obey, it is my duty.” Emily senses the flirtatious vibe and shrinks back a little, watching with interest as we talk the usual shy nonsense to each other. I do like the guy. Would he understand about the Sinclair setup though? Somehow I doubt it, so I’ll have to give him the old heave-ho.

“I ought to
go,” I say, checking my watch. Nearly eleven. “I’ll see you at the principals’ rehearsal tomorrow afternoon,” I promise.

“Oh, yes, of course.”
He raises his almost-finished glass to me as I hurry off, hotly pursued by Emily.

“Are you going
to be all right?” she clucks. “I don’t want to think of you being murdered in your bed.”

“Neither do I,” I say with feeling.

“And just by whom do you expect to be murdered?” A third voice joins us, its originator falling into step behind us as we pass through the glass double doors of the Union. Sinclair.

“Oh! You!
Are you…looking for me?”

“Your message on the answer phone had a som
ewhat hysterical quality to it. I thought I’d come and see that you weren’t ill, or in trouble. And it is getting rather late, Beth. I didn’t want you walking back alone at this time of night.”

“Oh.”
Quite thoughtful! For a murderer. He just doesn’t want anyone else stealing his psycho thunder, perhaps. We drop Emily off at Cliveden House and walk on.

“I think I should make it clear that, although I have a number of plans for you, none of them include killing you,” says Sinclair
, deadpan. “Well, not literally, at any rate.”

Fortunately the dark conceals my immense flush.

“I just…what Dr Blakey said…you know. It made me think.”

“She called me an axe-wielding maniac?”

“No! But..she said…you know. Sadists. Into pain and torture and stuff. You have to admit, from my angle it’s quite scary.”

He sighs.
“My naïve young friend, you make the classic error of conflating sadism and cruelty. It would be cruel to inflict pain on somebody that didn’t enjoy it…but I have no desire to do anything of the kind.”

“Well, but wh
at about you spanking me then? Don’t you think that’s cruel?”

“You’re saying you don’t enjoy it?”

O.M.G. He has sussed me right out. How embarrassing.

“Oh….it’s a bit…you know…humiliating.”

“But you enjoy it? Just a little?”

“It’s OK, I believe you’re not Driller Killer now,” I say, making a desperate gambit to change the subject as we near the driveway to ‘our place’. 

“Answer the question, Beth.” It’s a bitter night, so why am I so flaming hot?

“No!” I lie.

“Liar.”

We are at the front door now.

“Gosh, I’m tired,” I gabble as he turns the key in the lock. “I think I’d better get straight to bed or I’ll never finish that essay before the deadline.”

“Repress yourself if you must,” says Si
nclair with bored amusement. “Spend years in denial then regret not acting on your true desires when you were still young and attractive. It’s the usual way. Goodnight.”

Hang on.
Did he just say ‘attractive’? I look back at him, stunned, then turn and run into my bedroom at a fast gallop. Sinclair…thinks I’m….shaggable. I am going to die! And not because he has murdered me.

There is a prickliness in the air around us at breakfast the next morning.  Sinclair appears to have withdrawn slightly, possibly regretting saying too much. After all, it could be construed as indiscreet to discuss your sexual preferences with your students. He glares at me over the top of the newspaper and reminds me my essay deadline is five.

“Fin
e. It’s in hand,” I say frostily, taking my coffee mug back into my bedroom to avoid his baleful eye.

At the Opsoc Principals’ Rehearsal, James takes full advantage of Emily’s absence to generally pay court to
me and hang on my every word. He is so lovely. I’ve never had a proper boyfriend before, just a series of disappointing fumbles at parties. I wonder if I might fall in love with him. It would be convenient; we do have a lot of interests in common. Pity he doesn’t make my pulse race à la Sinclair, but perhaps I should forget about him. What is a sophisticated, sexy academic who’s been on
Newsnight
loads of times going to see in me? It’s just a stupid crush.

“Do you fancy grabbing a pizza in town after this?” asks James nervously after I finish going over my big Act 2 number with a fine tooth comb.

“Er, well, the financial crisis is ongoing,” I demur.

“On me,” he says, with such puppy dog eagerness I just can’t refuse.

“Are you sure? OK, I’ve just got to hand in an essay and I’ll meet you in the Biko Bar, yeah?”