“I’ve poached some eggs,” I say hopefully, since he is always moaning on at me about frying them in too much fat.
“Hmm. Sorry?” He glances briefly up at me, punching buttons with one elegant thumb.
“Eggs. Poached,” I pout.
“Right. Good.” He completes his text, looks about the kitchen distractedly, kisses me (still distractedly) and begins randomly picking up pepper mills and suchlike.
“What’s up with you? You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof.”
“I prefer A Streetcar Named Desire,” he says mystifyingly.
“What? Earth to Sinclair.”
“Don’t be cheeky.” He pierces me with The Look. Heh heh, that got his attention. An opportunity to disapprove of me will always bring his focus back.
“Sorry, sir,” I say coquettishly. He folds his arms and gives me the expression of mental calculation that I interpret as ‘Should I spank you now or leave it till later?’ A perennial dilemma in Sinclair-land. Then his mobile bleeps deafeningly and he grabs it
out of his pocket and gazes at its screen with such a passionate intensity that I feel a wave of envy. I want to be that phone. Not fair.
He scans it anxiously, then his brow unravels and a broad smile lights his face. He throws the slim silver saviour deftly into the air and catches it, then inclines his body towards me with devilish insouciance.
“You are looking at the next presenter of History Matters, my dear.”
“Am I?” History Matters is a magazine-style programme on BBC4 devoted to discussing current affairs in the light of historical precedents, strung together with commissioned films. I know Sinclair has made a couple of the film contributions in the past, but I had no idea that Reginald Quint was leaving the show. Mind you, he is about eighty-odd, so perhaps it’s not that surprising.
“Yes, it was between me and that dreadful purple-haired woman from the Bodleian Library.”
“Wow. So you’re going to be…a TV personality?”
Instant images of myself and Sinclair on the front cover of OK Magazine in…crowns, or some such…shoot across my consciousness. Steady on, Beth, he’s not a footballer. He’s an historian. Slightly less avidly-read-about during dull lunchbreaks than the Beckhams. All right then, not OK. Maybe the Times Educational Supplement though.
“Of a modest kind,” he says, with an anything-but-modest gleam in his eye.
“Congratulations. That’s….great.” Please don’t ditch me for a sophisticated media babe. Please. Please don’t. “Will you have to spend much time in London?”
“No, it’s made here. It really won’t demand too much of my time at all. Maybe three hours a week in the studio…a few meetings here and there.” He is thinking so much more than he is saying. He is thinking…newspaper and magazine interviews…TV talking head shows…Parkinson…charity broadcasts…household name. Profiles in the quality press: ‘The Man Who Put Sex Back Into History’. Fans. Groupies. STOP! NOW! I might be letting my paranoid imagination run away with me here. I should just be happy for him. Happy for him. He deserves it. “You seem somewhat underwhelmed, Beth.”
“No, no. I’m not. I think it’s…amazing. You’re going to be famous.” I smile weakly.
“Oh, not many people watch BBC4,” he says, preening. “Maybe…slightly less obscure.” Dazzling smile. “But I have a lot to organise, Beth. How about a trip to the library? Get those notes written up and I’ll see you back here for lunch?”
Hmph. Don’t let me stand in the way of your brilliant career, will you?
“Fine,” I say and trudge off groves-of-academewards. He does not even say goodbye, already on the phone to negotiate his fee.
*
Sinclair’s busy morning of organisational meetings seems to have consisted of a haircut and…oh my God, has he had his eyebrows waxed?
I drop my book bag and squint at him. He has the good grace to blush at being caught out in his vanity. At least he hasn’t got himself fake-tanned, I supposed.
“Nice do,” I comment. “Got to look gorgeous for the cameras, haven’t we?”
“I’m not sure I care for your tone, Beth. And yes, shallow as it is, appearances are regrettably very important when it comes to making an impression on television.”
“You could go for a Rip Van Winkle style beard and baggy corduroy suit. Didn’t seem to do Reginald Quint any harm.”
“I am not Son of Quint. And you can stop teasing me now if you want to be able to sit this afternoon. I’ve made you a sandwich.”