Lecture Notes (23 page)

“
Sex is always involved, Caitlin, as you well know,” I say darkly.

“Meet you there in an hour then,” she says.

*

We are almost blinded by the dazzling force of the April sun as we take our seats
in the beachfront beer garden. It is not exactly warm, but we succumb to the British eccentricity of behaving as if it is high summer as soon as there is a glimmer of brightness between the clouds. I bet you any money Dad is cleaning the barbecue back at home.

Lack of sleep and Sinclair-related anxiety render me jittery and parched, and
I welcome the sight of the two Bacardi Breezers on the table, letting its deceptively unalcoholic-tasting juices glide down my throat. Wonder what he’s doing now. His conference ended yesterday. I suppose he’s going to France; I imagine him at the airport, looking fiercely sexy in an Italian suit, trying me on his mobile for the eighty millionth time. I slip my hand in my pocket and stroke my phone. Do I dare? What would happen if I switched it on? No. I’m not going to. Not until tomorrow.

“So then.
Confession time, young lady,” says Caitlin mock-portentously.

“Bless me, sister, for I have sinned,” I say, drifting absently into visions of Sinclair in
a dog collar for some reason. Hot? Or not? Hmmm, can’t decide. Perhaps he’d like me to wear a collar. Oh yes, that’s definitely hot…

“How have you sinned, my child?” asks Caitlin impatiently.

“Sorry. My head’s all over the place today. I’ve had a row with Sinclair.”

“Oh shit.
A bad one?”

“I don’t know really.”
I giggle slightly, thinking I can’t really come straight out with, “Is throwing a butt plug at your lover’s virtual face bad?” I drum my fingertips on the table. “There’s some things I haven’t told you about Sinclair.”

“Well, yeah.
You’ve hardly told me anything. I figured perhaps he’s married?”

“Oh God, no, he isn’t
married. But he is…quite a lot older than me.”

“How much older?”

I screw my face up as if cushioning the impact of my next words. “About twenty years.” Give or take. What’s a couple of years between power-exchangers?

“What? Really! Wow!
But you said he was on your course?”

“Uh, well, he’s kind of like the Head of Faculty.”

“No! No way!”

“No word of a lie, guv’nor,” I say in a mockney accent, terribly uncomfortabl
e about revealing these facts. “But that’s not the problem. The problem is…there’s kind of a weird dynamic to our relationship. It’s not your…usual type of thing.” Fuck, how am I going to say this? Will she overreact or will she be cool with it? I mean, she’s the one that fancies biker boys and got a tattoo when she was underage. She should be open-minded, no?

“Well, he’s a
teacher and you’re a student. That’s going to skew the vibe right from the start.”

“Yes,” I agree eagerly, thinking surely she will cotton on if
she’s going down this avenue. “It’s a big influence on the way we, ah, interact.”

“Is it?” She smiles slowly.
“Does he grade you in the bedroom?” No, but he de-grades me, boom boom.

“He does expect certain standards of behaviour,” I say slyly, feeling a flush of lust for him creep uninvited into my groin.

Caitlin’s eyes widen. “And are there…penalties…if you don’t live up to his standards?” Now you’re getting warmer.

“Uh huh,” I confirm.

“Over the desk?” she exclaims, fascinated and a little aghast.

“Sometimes.”
I hide my face, giggling manically. I neck down half the Breezer in my embarrassment.

“Beth!”
Her mouth is…maybe not an O, more a nought. “You mean the old pervert likes to bend you over and give you six of the best?”

“He’s no more an old per
vert than I am!” I defend him. “Except I’m not old.”

“Seriously?
You like that kind of thing?”

“From him I do.
I’m not saying I’d take it from just anybody.”

“Wow.
Just….wow. Oh my God. And you’ve had a row? Are you afraid he’s going to hurt you? Beth, would he really hurt you?”

Ca
itlin looks genuinely worried. Stop. Think. Would he?

“No, no, I…don’t think so.” 

“What did you row about?”

“It’s…a bit personal.
I don’t think I can say it.”

“Oh, right.
Was it really serious?”

“I’m not sure. I was quite disrespectful. And he’s very big on respect.”
I grimace, quailing inwardly at the thought of his reaction to last night’s little performance.

“So…what’s the worst that could happen?” asks Caitlin, agog.

I know what the worst is. He could leave me. But I don’t want to think about that now.

*

Of course, once two more Bacardi Breezers have breezed down my gullet, detail more colourful than I would ever have divulged in a sober state passes my lips.   The lecture notes that started it all…the running machine…cutting my own switches on the Downs…and the butt plug incident all spill out in a fruity punch that puts the Breezer to shame. Why is daytime drinking so much headier than the evening version?

Caitlin clinks her bottle against mine, “Here’s to sexy sadists,” she sa
ys. “Preferably without anger issues though, eh? Another?”

“We ought to eat
something,” I say cautiously. “Let’s go to the chippy. Give us a sec; I’m just going to the loo.”

Inside the cubicle, I yield to curious temptation and switch
on my phone for a few seconds. Thirty eight missed calls. That’s it; I don’t want to see any more. I switch it off again, suddenly tearful. I love him so much. I don’t want to lose him. 

Then the need for fish and chips overrides all other considerations and I join Caitlin on the cobbles outside.

*

We need another drink to wash down the vinegar-tinctured greas
e, so we head back to the pub. It isn’t until we are right at the bar that I notice who is standing next to me. Adam Ellwood.

Caitlin jostles me painfully in the ri
bs, but I am too busy staring. He is no less gorgeous than I remember, though now he seems a bit young for my tastes. All the same….a lump rises to my throat. He looks around casually, then double takes and frowns.

“Can’t be Beth Newland, can it?”

“Can,” I say with a beaming grin. “You remember me?”

“I remember you doing al
l the choir solos in assembly. You have a terrific voice.”

I can’t believe this.
Adam Ellwood, who was so far above me that he blocked out the sun, is…possibly….flirting with me.

“Thanks. Er.
So how are you these days?”

“Good, pretty good.
Listen, what are you girls drinking? Do you mind if I join you for a minute?”

“No, but…aren’t you here with anyone?”

“Just some mates. Let’s grab a table and catch up. School seems a lifetime ago now, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, at least a lifetime,” I s
ay, twirling a strand of hair. I am a femme fatale! They cannot resist me!

Back outside in the beer gard
en, Adam offers us cigarettes. What the hell? I take one and suck it in greedily, bathing in the toxic lusciousness of the smoke. I have sorely missed smoking.

My erstwhile crushee regales us with stories of his brilliant university successes and whatnot while Caitlin and I loll against each other laughi
ng at inappropriate junctures. Ellwood does not seem particularly put off by our fairly obvious inebriety though, and rattles on regardless.

“It’s nearly
three o’clock,” Caitlin says to me, as he fishes his fag packet back out for another offering. “We should be in church.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “We should be.  Ah well.”
I take another cigarette and spark up.

“Don’t
go to church,” wheedles Adam. “Come for a walk on the beach with me, Beth.”

Aha!
The old ‘walk on the beach’ line; age old courtship ritual of our town.

“Oh, I
don’t know about that,” I say. “I should probably go home.”

“Don’t go home. C’mon. You come too, Caitlin.
Just a little walk, then you can go home.”

His cajolery wins the day and we trip down the wooden steps that lead to the
shingle beach. It has clouded over somewhat and a wind is whipping up, blowing my scarf up around my face and my hair out behind me. We crunch down a few yards, then Caitlin moans that her shoe is full of stones and hops back up to the pub. My cigarette has gone out, so Adam offers me another, but it is hard to light in this wind.  He crouches right down over me, cupping the cigarette between his hands as I hold it in my lips and trying his best to apply the lighter. On the third attempt, his forehead touches mine and I think…though I’m not sure…he might have kissed the side of my eye. The cigarette lights and he crows with triumph but does not move away. I have to step back to elude his hopeful clutches.

I look back to the promontory on which the pub garden is situated, deciding to rejoin Caitlin up there before Ellwood gets serious.

But it’s already serious. It’s as serious as it gets. Standing up there like the figurehead on the prow of a ship, staring down at us while the wind ruffles his hair magnificently, is Sinclair.

Chapter Thirteen

“Whassup?” asks Adam, bemused by my suddenly frozen demeanour.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I drop the cigarette on to the stones and try to force my body to respond to me, but it is far too caught up in its fight-or-flight dilemma to pay any heed. My hammering, shaking, cross-eyed self notes that Sinclair is negotiating the wooden steps on his way down to the beach, quite unhurriedly, his face impassive. My feet, never of a particularly athletic disposition, have suddenly discovered the urge to
run like hell
. I hop up and down on the shingle, looking this way and that, processing escape routes at compulsive speed.

“Beth…WHAT’S UP?” repeats Adam, grabbing my elbow and shaking it.

“Go away! Get away from here! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I scream at his stunned face, and uncertainly he backs off, passing Sinclair with a curious look on his way to the pub.

Despite my body’s best efforts, I stand my ground in the face of Approaching Menace, refusin
g to look cowed or frightened. Even though I am.

“Hello,” I fal
ter once he is within earshot. “I thought you were in France.”

He says nothing, holding out his arm in what seems like a ghastly p
arody of a chivalrous gesture. I dither for a second then take it, feeling as if I have just sealed my fate; a character in a folk tale who meets the devil at a crossroads or whatever. “We need to talk,” he says, escorting me up the beach until we find ourselves in the shadow of some large rocks and we sit down, leaning against them and staring out at the roughening sea.

“Do you have anything to say to me, Beth?”

“Listen, about last night,” I open, trying my hardest not to blurt and quaver. “I’m sorry. Well, I’m sorry-ish. I’m sorry I lost my temper. But I’m not sorry I disobeyed you. I’m not sorry about that. I’m not going to be either.”

His eyes level with mine and I try to work out where on t
he scale of wrath he might be. He doesn’t look to be in a towering fury, but then, this is the man who invented self-control.

“If you defy me, Beth, I can’t just let that
go. There have to be consequences.”

“Why?
You’re pushing me too far too fast, Sinclair. When we first got together you said that this relationship would require maturity and sensitivity on your part, but it isn’t very sensitive of you to force me to do something I’m uncomfortable with. You said we wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want, but you lied! It’s you at fault here, not me. I won’t be punished for this. I just won’t!”

Sinclair
looks utterly thrown by this. I have veered way off the script and he has forgotten his line.

I fill the space, continuing: “I’m not saying I never want to do…what you were asking of me…but…I
need you to care for me more. I need you to…consider my feelings.”

“I consider your feelings every minute of the day,” snarls Sinclair suddenly, and I am shocked
by the hostility of his tone. “All I ever do is consider your feelings. I give you what you want, I show you what you need, I drag you out of the pit of failure you inhabited before I took you on, I give you myself. I wonder how much consideration you would give to my needs if I didn’t make you?”

“Of course I would! I love you.
I’ve told you I love you.”

“You don’t understand love, you stupid little girl.
I want to give you everything.”

“Except yourself!
You never give me anything of yourself; just this…performance version. Sinclair the sadistic intellectual, that’s all I get. I want more. I want to know who the hell you are. Whoever it is, I’d love you.”

“You’re the one talking about taking things too far too fast, Beth, but perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that I need to trust a person before I’ll give myself, and trust takes longer than five minutes to earn.”

“You can trust me!”

“Oh, clearly.”
A hateful sneering tone has entered his voice. “Of course I can trust the girl I just found canoodling on the beach with some ne’er-do-well. I hope he’s using a condom, Beth; don’t want any accidents do we?”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but find I have to inhale sharply when he takes my missing pills from his breast pocket and flings them down on the pebbles between us.

“You…you bastard!” I whisper, standing up shakily. “You really believe that of me? You really think…”

As I step away, he grabs me by the wrist, pulling me close with the strength I had forgotten he possesses.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” he hisses, every consonant sharp as a blade. “I wanted to give you everything.”

“But only as you would a pet.
Or a child. I don’t want to be either of those.”

He pushes me back on to the stones, releasing me so that I fall heavily, bruising my bottom.

“Just like the others, you wanted what you could get from me. You’ve taken it, and now you don’t need it any more. Well, I wish you every success, but I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.”

He gets up and stalks off.

“Don’t go!” I scream after him, scrambling to my feet, but his long legs carry him swiftly away, and by the time I have reached the beer garden – where Adam and Caitlin are snogging frantically up against the wall – he is gone.

*

I’ve learned a lot from Sinclair, I really have. One of the things I’ve learned is that there are so many types of pain in the world, such gradations and variations. There is pain you embrace, pain you accept and pain you can’t bear. There is pain you agree to, pain you control and pain that controls you. It can be internal or external, physical or mental, playful or harmful. And perhaps life is about finding your threshold.

It is Saturday morning, eight days later, and Emily
is meeting me at the station. We are both back a week early for opera rehearsals ahead of next week’s performances and I will be sleeping on her floor until more permanent arrangements can be made.

Not
that Sinclair has evicted me. The one communication I have had from him was an email, short and to the point: “Dear Beth, You may store your belongings in my spare room on the understanding that you are actively seeking alternative accommodation. You may find it suits both of us better if you arrange to sleep at a friend’s house in the meantime. E.L.S.”

It probably sounds harsh and heartless that he has sent me only this, but on the other hand, I have not sent him anything either.

Obviously I have tried. I have done little else over the past week but sit on the beach listening to Fauré’s Requiem on my iPod, trying to pour my feelings out on to paper, yet none of my incontinent blurting has reached him.

I
just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know how to start.

“Dear Sinclair” – too formal. “Sinclair” – too angry. “My dearest” – too sappy.
Ugh, none of it came across in the way I meant it. I gave up.

Surely this is not the end? Surely he is testing me?
But if he is testing me…then that will make me really angry! Is that what he wants? I’m sure it isn’t. 

Is that it?

IS THAT IT?

No wonder he’s single.

*

Emily and I talk in her room until dark, then we settle down in front of her tiny portable TV to watch the fi
rst edition of
History Matters
, which is a live debate about the possibility of inaugurating a St George’s Day Bank Holiday, intercut with films about St George, traditions past, national self-perception etc.

As soon as the credits cut away to Sinclair, standing in the studio lookin
g utterly, blow-you-away gorgeous, I catch my breath and feel tears prick my eyelids. Emily squeezes my hand and we sit in silence as he directs the debate and introduces the short films. He is, as I knew, a natural in front of the camera; his voice compels attention towards him and he controls the contributions of his guests with effortless charm. You can’t fault the producers for choosing him above his purple-haired rival.

In the last part of the show he vox pops the audience, strolling among them with a portable micropho
ne, soliciting their opinions. I’m sure I’m not imagining the way so many of the women suddenly succumb to bad cases of tongue tie as soon as he thrusts the mike in their direction, all blushing and stammering like goons. Like me, whenever I was with him.

Is he lonesome tonight? Does he miss me tonight?
I huddle down inside my sleeping back on Emily’s rag rug and dampen it with my tears. He’s probably shagging some production assistant right now.

*

At first I was afraid – I was petrified. Actually, I still am. 

Although I am able to push him out of my head for the duration of the long dress rehearsals, I spend the rest of my time sitting on Emily’s floor smoking and sharing a bottle of cheap
cider, talking about Sinclair. Always talking about Sinclair.

“Do you think he loved you?” she asks.

“No,” I sigh, flicking ash. “He loved what he thought he could make me, maybe.”

“But that’s not love.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it perhaps a sort of love to want to make your beloved the best they can be?”

“But that was
n’t what he was doing, was it? Sure, perhaps he brought out some hidden qualities in you…but he also wanted to make you something you aren’t.”

“I don’t k
now….I don’t know, Emily.” This is how these discussions always end up. Not knowing.

*

On the Wednesday the Daily Mail carries a short piece about Sinclair.

“WOMEN TURNING ON TO HISTORY
MAN” is the headline.  Women across Britain are dusting off their school history textbooks and discovering a dormant love of the past, thanks to Professor Eliot Sinclair, the BBC’s new presenter of
History Matters
. After his first broadcast on Saturday night, the BBC4 programme’s website was swamped with comments from fans. “Why couldn’t my history teachers have been like that?” lamented one. “I wouldn’t have failed my GCSE then.” Another writes, “Even a dry list of dates and battles would be worth listening to in that glorious voice.” Professor Sinclair (39), the Head of European Studies at the University of Wessex, is unmarried.” A lovely picture of him, virtually snogging the lens, accompanies the piece. He was mine. I could have had him…all I had to do was ram a butt plug up my backside. But then, where would it all have ended?

*

On Thursday I have no alternative but to go to the flat to collect some clean clothes and other bits. The fingers of one hand are crossed that he is not there – the fingers of the other crossed that he is. I want to see him, but I don’t want to see him.  All the way along the street I had a horrifying vision of letting myself in to find him twined up in some modelesque tart on the sofa.

But when I tread, as softly as possible, on to the deep pile of the hall carpet, I can’t hear
a sound. I move through to the living area and stop for a minute, stupidly transfixed by the sight of his sofa. A fortnight ago I had been bent over the arm of that piece of furniture, hanging on to the cushion frantically while Sinclair whacked himself into me from behind, his hands on my hips, giving me a running commentary from between gritted teeth. Something impels me over to it and I sink on my knees and bury my face in its lavish fabric, pouring out my woe and hoping I won’t have any dry-cleaning bills to pay as a result.

Dimly I hear a door click and bury my face further in mortification,
thinking it’s probably Nerys. But as the muffled footsteps approach, a waft of unmistakable aftershave squeezes its way to my olfactory nerves and I know…

“Beth
?” His voice is gentle, caressing even. Not irritable or stern, as I imagined it would be. The softness of it makes my misery even more profound, a four-ply crying jag.

I press my palms to my face and
slowly lift it from the sofa. I don’t look at him as I sob out, “I’m sorry, I needed to collect some…” and then start to cry again.

“You’re here to collect
some belongings?” he confirms. I so badly want him to touch me, put a hand on my shoulder or something. But he remains where he is, standing a couple of feet behind me.

I nod and spring away to the spare room, which I weep my way around, stuffing my tote b
ag with knickers and leggings. Please come in and talk to me. Please talk to me. Please hold me. Please just say a word, any word. The gym equipment is all stacked up against one wall; the bed is festooned with my possessions, though they are all neatly ironed and folded.

I nearly drop the handful of tights I am rolling up when Sinclair appears in
the doorway, his face sombre. Yes. He is come to me, come to the negotiating table.

“I’m sorry, Beth, I have to go out,” he says.