“Just as well,” he sniffs. “If she’s going to be my mother-in-law, we ought to at least have a relationship with some basis of civility.”
“Is she?” I sit up, staring at him. “Going to be your mother-in-law?”
He kisses me, his fingers pushing into my neck, long and slow. A nurse pulls the curtain aside, says ‘Oh, excuse me!’ and scurries off.
“One day,” he says into my ear. “Whenever you’re ready, Beth.”
“I’m ready when you are,” I breathe.
Chapter Sixteen
There’s a little thing that happens all the time now – quite a small thing in its way, but also quite significant. I’m not sure I will ever really get used to it; I certainly notice it every time it occurs. I know, absolutely and beyond doubt, that it is going to happen again now as Sinclair and I cut a swathe through the clicks and pops of the flashbulbs up towards the high table covered in hardback copies of The Book. He is holding my hand reassuringly - he knows I am nervous about my first scheduled ‘public appearance’ – and I am grateful for its largeness and warmth as we negotiate the steps and move towards our seats….yes…now…it is going to happen.
Yes. It happened.
Every time I sit down, the covert, under-brow glances of fascination, usually accompanied by lips pursed in anticipation of some illusory pain. If I sit swiftly and without fuss, the momentary tension dissolves as rapidly as it appeared. If, on the other hand, there is the ghost of a wince or intake of breath or any reflexive response at all, there is a kind of collective sympathetic sigh.
Every lecture, every seminar, every time I take a seat in a theatre or a restaurant, I become the subject of intense attention and it is, I don’t mind telling you, bloody embarrassing. Sinclair, of course, utterly revels in my discomfiture, finding it satisfying that there is this prurient interest in the state of my arse. He also likes to bring the point up during disciplinary scenes, adding the element of an invisible audience to the already painful proceedings.
At least on this occasion there is nothing for them to pick up on. After all, we only got married yesterday; even Sinclair isn’t evil enough to punish a bride on her wedding night. He was very keen to get the knot tied before the book launch – he judged that having the volume co-credited ‘Eliot Sinclair and Beth Newland’ cluttered the jacket in a way that offended his aesthetic sensibilities. ‘Eliot and Elizabeth Sinclair’ was infinitely preferable. So that is why we got married. Well, OK, there were the side issues of being madly, passionately in love and wanting to spend the rest of our lives together and have each other’s babies too. But it was the book consideration that dictated the date of the ceremony.
Sinclair picks up a copy of our first joint production, running a caressing thumb down its spine and smiling slightly at the cover design. Crossed riding crops above a satin blindfold. Tasteful, no? ‘Deviation from the Norm: An Anthology of Historical Voices from the Dark Side of Erotica’. It has a spuriously pretentious title, although it is little more than a collection of kinky stories, sourced by Sinclair and I during the three month summer vacation and cobbled together with his scholarly introduction and my unscholarly foreword. The editor insisted I contribute this little overview of the Sinclair scandal from my point of view, assuring us it would jump-start sales straight away. Judging from the press interest here – still keen six months later – he might have had a point.
The story is still fresh enough in people’s minds that the book is likely to be a bestseller, and that is the positive angle I have to focus on every time I am in the department or the student bar and there is yet more whispering and giggling. Sinclair has a number of nicknames amongst the undergraduates now: Professor Sin, the Marquis and Wackford are just a handful. Though it would be a brave soul who would use them to his face.
The flashbulb frenzy abates to one or two pops per minute, then Sinclair commences the monologue he has prepared as an introduction. As ever, when he knows he has an audience, he is absolutely in command of the situation, blending charm, wit and menace in perfectly balanced proportions. He slightly plays up to his notorious reputation, using deliberately provocative language, making no attempt to tone himself down.
The floor is opened to questions and suddenly everyone has turned to me.
“Congratulations on your wedding, Mrs Sinclair,” says one hack, smiling ingratiatingly.
“Thanks.”
“What’s it like to be married to the Professor?”
“It’s very nice, thanks.” Christ, what am I supposed to say?
“Have the stories in your book given you any…ideas?”
“I don’t think Sincl
air needs any help with his imagination,” I blurt. Oops. Should I have said that? Sinclair seems to be amused, so I release my breath and smile dazzlingly into the white lights.
“But you share his interests?”
“Oh yes. We’re both very interested in history,” I say sweetly, and there is general laughter.
“Do you think academic staff should have relationships with students half their age?” A woman has asked this and I frown.
“Oh…well, it’s not as if he was my tutor,” I say. “And…do you disapprove of age gap relationships in general, then?”
“Only when they are exploitative and abusive,” she says.
“Then you should approve of ours,” I say, knocking out another winning smile, “Because it is neither of those things.”
Sinclair has moved one hand up to my shoulders, ostensibly a gesture of support, but with two fingers he begins to twiddle the leather thong necklace I am wearing. Well, I say necklace. More like a choker. Well, I say choker. More like a collar, with a metal ring at my throat, decorative enough to pass as jewellery, though I doubt this crowd would be fooled.
The press conference ends and Sinclair and I spend a while signing copies of the book for interested parties. Lots and lots of fluttering women, plus quite a few younger guys who seem to want to talk to me for longer than I’m comfortable with, until Sinclair fixes them with his glittering eye and they shuffle away.