Was Kacey McMillan really going to cut the mustard as Maria? She had quite a good voice, but it had a strident quality that didn’t really suit the gentle Hispanic heroine of West Side Story. Never knowingly seen without gum in her mouth or twenty pounds of gold hanging off her ears, Kacey had a bray that could be heard on the Isle of Wight. She had been delighted to win the role of Maria “’cos it’s like, next stop X Factor, innit?’ but had shown little knowledge or understanding of what winning that role might now entail. In a word, work. Hard work. Something Kacey wasn’t renowned for.
At least Tony was going to be played by Tunde. As a teacher, I wasn’t supposed to have favourites, but I could hardly help being won over by Tunde’s natural musicality and sensitivity. Some days, he was the only person who spoke to me in more than a monosyllable. He worked hard and with genuine enthusiasm in composition lessons because, as he said, ‘I need to work out how to get all these sounds in my head down on paper.’ He played the French horn and the electric guitar like a pro, and he had the most beautiful mellow voice. Listening to it was like lying back in a bath of warm chocolate.
But Tunde and Kacey … Hardly the pair you’d put together.
Still, Superhead thought it would work. If it failed, he would take the rap.
A rap across the knuckles.
Chastisement.
Discipline.
My thighs squeezed tight again. No matter what I thought about, it came back to the imminence of my punishment. I was supposed to be thinking about my wrongdoings. What were they? Over the course of our week-long thing, I had been guilty of flippancy, cheek and teasing SecretSadist about his job (accountancy). When I’d found out he kept a spreadsheet balance of my bad behaviour and its consequences, I started taking his qualifications seriously. Accountants made good doms, of course they did. Who better to hold one to account?
I pictured the spreadsheet, a long list of black marks in one column and then, in the other … What? What would my punishment be?
The egg timer buzzed and my pulse raced. I wasn’t ready to come out of the corner and face my fate. I needed to stand there for longer, letting the dread seep into my pores and permeate my being. But he would be waiting for me, so I padded over to the computer and typed in the words, ‘I’m ready, sir,’ even though I wasn’t.
‘Good. Did you behave yourself in the corner?’
‘Yes, sir! I thought about … doing things … but I didn’t.’
‘Good. I won’t enquire… So? Your thoughts? What might your just desserts be?’
I almost typed “trifle” but I held back, knowing that this would hardly be in the spirit of contrition SecretSadist had hoped to instil.
‘I’m not sure. Maybe I should get sent to bed without supper.’
‘Maybe.’
Ugh, no. Not sexy. Don’t do that!
‘Or …’
‘???’
‘Something embarrassing … I can’t say it …’
‘Say it. Go on.’
‘If you were here …’
‘If I were there …’
‘You could put me over your knee …’
‘And?’
‘Give me what I deserve.’
‘Which is?’
‘Argh! Don’t make me say it!’
‘I’m not. This is typeface. I’ll make you say it when we meet, though, make no mistake. So? I’m waiting. It’ll be worse for you if you make me hang on much longer.’
‘Damn it! You could spank me.’