Lecture Notes (4 page)

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 p
repared tonight, Miss Newland. Two layers of underwear. Perhaps I should be twice as hard on you.”

“One pai
r 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 blist
ering 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 remote
ly 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 detache
d 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 s
ilk 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 sp
oken 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 h
ope 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 of
f 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.

“Dearbh
la!  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 y
ou 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 t
hat’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 thou
ght 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 sho
uld,” 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 s
tares 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 g
et 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 co
mmiserate 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 res
olve 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 walnut door.

“This is my study, into which you are a
bsolutely 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 k
ick 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.

“Time you were up,” says The Voice peremptorily
. I beg to differ.  My first lecture isn’t till eleven. That makes rise & shine time approximately…ten forty five. OK, ten thirty.

I ignore him and burrow down beneath the duvet, fantasising that perhaps he will come in and drag me out of bed…and yet, as soon as he claps eyes on my lithe and maidenly form in its outsize White Stripes tour T-shirt, he will be stricken with instant infatuation and we will end up back in sai
d bed for the rest of the day. I wonder what his beard feels like against your face…

More ba
nging at the door. “Up. Now.”

I mouth a silent ‘fuck off’, but what he gets to hear is a querulous “Why?”

“Because this is my house and you abide by my rules.”

“Oh my God, you sound like my mother.”

“Less of your cheek. Get up before I have to drag you out of there.”

Ooh.
My stomach flips with excitement. It’s as if he is programmed to act out my darkest fantasies. The idea amuses me – Robot Sinclair, primed for her pleasure – but even so, I don’t stay in bed to test the theory. I jump out and begin the long drawn out process of beautifying myself to face the divine Professor.

At
eight twenty four, showered, freshened and bright-eyed, I stroll into the kitchen, wondering hopefully if Sinclair might have breakfast on the go. He is sitting at the table sipping moodily at a cup of coffee. Proper coffee made from beans, not dust in a jar. He looks up from
The Guardian
and his face elicits a gulp. He is not happy.

“I told you to get up at
eight o’clock. It is now eight twenty four.”

“I don’t have a lecture until eleven,” I defend myself.

“That is beside the point. While you are in my house, Beth, you will do as I tell you. Are you able to do this or not?”

“I…yes. I will. I can. I’m sorry. Sir.”
I shake my fringe winningly into my eyes, praying that he will now lighten up and fry me a rasher. He called me Beth! That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?

“We shall
see,” he says contemplatively. “I’m going to make my point completely clear, Beth.” He stands and I quiver. Something bad is going to happen. “Bend over the kitchen chair, Beth, with your palms flat on the seat.”

Wild mute appeal pours fro
m my eyes but he isn’t buying. He takes a wooden spatula from a hook over the granite work surface. Oooooh no. He makes an impatient gesture to me, noting that I am still upright, and I plunge forward into the rather compromising position he has outlined.

I don’t like being bent like this with my arse in the air; I feel the humiliation of my plight keenly, and never more so than when Sinclair swishes up behind me and pulls my leggings
down around my knees. Thank Christ I didn’t wear a thong today.

“I think we’ll have a stroke for every minute I was made to wait
, Beth,” says Sinclair calmly. “That makes twenty four. A good round dozen for each cheek.”

I hold my breath, waiting for the
onslaught to commence. The first stroke brings it shuddering out in a long squeal as the flat wooden end makes a loud whapping noise on my backside.

“That really hurts!” I object.

“Yes,” he says equably, slamming on the second. Incipient heat radiates symmetrically through both hemispheres of my behind and I’m not quite sure I can handle another twenty two strokes. Sinclair accompanies the hard paddling with an encomium against the perils of late rising and sloth, telling me that I will be getting up no later than seven thirty from now on unless I want to greet every day in this painful manner.

When eventually the twenty fourth stinger is landed, I am gripping the chair so tightly my knuckles are white, chewing my lip
to avoid the mortification of crying out too much and amazed at how hot it is possible for a bottom to get without actually catching fire.

Sinclair replaces the horrid thing on its hook – can’t push fried eggs around a pan with it now without having an inevitable mental association – and drawls, “Lesson learned?”

“Yes, Sir,” I quiver. No more lie-ins for me. Boo hoo.

I have only just pulled the leggings over my throbbing bum, wincing as the elastic brushes the tender flesh, when a hard-faced woman of fifty or so materialises in the room.

“Ah, Nerys,” says Sinclair genially. “Good morning. I need to introduce my new lodger to you. Beth, this is Nerys, my housekeeper. Nerys, this is Beth, who is staying in my guest bedroom for the time being.”

“Hi,” I say, plastering an ingratiating smile on my flushed face, wondering how much of what just happened she might have heard.

“Hello,” she says coldly in a strong Welsh accent. 

“Please let me know, Nerys, if any of Beth’s habits inconven
ience you, or cause a problem. I will deal with it.”

“I will,” says Ner
ys. “I’ll start with the bathroom if I may.”

Sinclair inclines his head gracious
ly, like a bloody feudal lord. “Thank you,” he intones. “I really ought to get on now.”

Nerys leaves the room and Sinclair honours me with a quick p
ep talk before leaving for the university. “If I were you, Beth, I’d spend these unaccustomed morning hours making a start on my Laclos essay. My spare key is here; take care of it. I expect any room you use to be left exactly as you found it; Nerys will let me know if anything is out of place.”

He moves out to the hallway, sorting through some papers on a table and
putting them in his briefcase. I follow him, willing him to bugger off so I can go back to bed. Or perhaps I could nip over to Cliveden; give Emily a knock and get eggs on toast in the White Rose Café.