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“Yes.”

  I feel excitement pooling in my belly. Sex confessions of Sinclair! Is he going to reveal all?

  “So she isn’t…a masochist then?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Is 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 ‘after’ 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 think 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.

  “What 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 handing 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 fish 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, lecture, 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 the 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 say 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 popping in wonder as we share a Diet Coke before going through the Act One finale. “Why? Has he…done anything…to you?”

  “No, no.” (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 that 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 enthuses 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 somewhat 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 what 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 Sinclair 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.

  “Fine. 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?”

  “Perfect.” He beams touchingly, and I pack up my tote and hightail it off to Sinclair’s office.

  Just as I am slipping the envelope – the right one this time! – into Sinclair’s in-tray at five to five, the man himself emerges from isolation to say something or other to his secretary.

  “Ah,” he says, spotting me. “So you can meet deadlines. Bravo.” He picks up the envelope and weighs it consideringly in his fair hands. “Perhaps we can discuss this later.”

  “Oh. I’m going out for dinner tonight,” I tell him guilelessly.

  There is a silence. “Really, Beth? And presumably you are singing for your supper, since you don’t have the wherewithal to pay?”

  I don’t like the tenor of this conversation. “A friend is treating me,” I tell him, blushing. Why would he care if I was seeing someone?

  “A friend?” Menacing eye contact.

  “Yeah. Look, I should go; he’s waiting…”

  “A male friend? No such thing as a free lunch, Beth.”

  “You aren’t charging me rent,” I point out.

  “I’m not a hormone-driven teenager,” he snaps, clearly incredibly put-out by the whole thing.

  “It’s just a pizza,” I wring my hands, desperate to escape this uncomfortable exchange.

  “Back by ten, Beth.”

  “Ten? You can’t put me under curfew.”

  “I can. Ten o’clock; no later.”

  I make a furious face, but can’t be bothered to argue with him. It would ruin my evening.

  James and I have a pleasant evening, first at Pizza Express then in the Caledonian Vaults, talking the usual kind of shite talk you do on first dates. We discuss Dr Who, our schooldays, favourite bands, whether it’s true that Princess Diana was murdered and other philosophical questions of that nature. James keeps gazing into my eyes and forgetting what he was saying, which is…a bit alarming really. He's so nice. I should go for it. But he isn’t Sinclair…Oh god of love and god of reason say/ Which of you twain shall my poor hea
rt obey? As the song says.

  At quarter to ten, I take a deep breath and say, “I’m really sorry, James, I have to be back by ten.”

  “Why?” he frowns, disappointed.

  “Stupid house rules,” I shrug. “No rhyme or reason. But would you argue with the Prof?”

  “I suppose not,” he concedes. “I’ll walk you home then.”

  “Cheers,” I say. He takes my arm and we stroll back through the cold, hard starlit night.

  At the entrance to the drive, I say, “Well, thanks for a really nice night; I enjoyed it.”

  He does not let go of my arm, but instead dithers for a second or two before ducking sharply forward and depositing an awkward kiss on my lips. I don’t know why, but I am taken aback, so do not respond until he tries again immediately afterwards. I play along gamely but the lip contact is too floppy, a bit drippy, not really hitting the spot.

  I draw back again. “Goodnight, James,” I whisper fondly.

  “I’ll see you…soon,” he calls hopefully after me as I crunch up the gravel.

  “Oh, no doubt,” I throw back, feeling hot and annoyed with myself. Mistake. Bad mistake.

  Really bad mistake.

  When I enter the living room, Sinclair is standing at the picture window, eyeing the mad March night hostilely.

  “You’re late,” he says without turning around.

  “Only five minutes,” I say breathlessly. Did he see that…with James? Oh God. I bet he did.

  “Still late. Get carried away, did we? Lose all track of time?” He turns and he is wearing The Face of Utmost Severity. I get to see this face all too often these days.

  “Well…you know…it’s only five minutes,” I whimper nervously.

  “You have broken the rules of the house,” he says unyieldingly. “You must be punished.”

  “What? This is about…you were watching me…” I accuse in a very unaccusatory tone, not wanting to call any more trouble on my head.

  He narrows his eyes. “Beth, you did not obey my command that you arrive home by ten o’clock. Therefore you must be punished. There is nothing more to it than that.”

  My eye! But I don’t say it. He moves swiftly over to me, takes my wrist and leads me over to the sofa. My behind has just about recovered from his spatula attack and now I’m going to be presenting it for yet more chastisement. No fair. But my heart is pounding and I cannot deny I am excited, especially by the premise. He is going to spank me because he is JEALOUS! My blood is singing a victory chant even as it freezes with dread at the prospect of the pain.