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 uncomfortable 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 pervert 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?”
Caitlin looks genuinely worried. Stop. Think. Would he?