“I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me.”
He looks at me sharply and then relaxes his expression. “I suppose I’ll have to,” he says. “Though coming from somebody who tried to blackmail me last night….”
“I know, I know, I’m really sorry about that. You know I am. I’m really grateful for everything you’re doing for me.”
My supplication seems to loosen him a little. “Dr Blakey and I were a mismatch,” he confides. “It was a brief and ill-considered liaison that was never likely to work.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“I have certain….tastes, Beth, as I’m sure you’re aware. Dr Blakey does not share those tastes.”
“She says you’re an unapologetic sadist.”
“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.