“It’s OK, I believe you’re not Driller Killer now,” I say, making a desperate gambit to change the subject as we near the driveway to ‘our place’.
“Answer the question, Beth.” It’s a bitter night, so why am I so flaming hot?
“No!” I lie.
“Liar.”
We are at the front door now.
“Gosh, I’m tired,” I gabble as he turns the key in the lock. “I think I’d better get straight to bed or I’ll never finish that essay before the deadline.”
“Repress yourself if you must,” says Sinclair with bored amusement. “Spend years in denial then regret not acting on your true desires when you were still young and attractive. It’s the usual way. Goodnight.”
Hang on. Did he just say ‘attractive’? I look back at him, stunned, then turn and run into my bedroom at a fast gallop. Sinclair…thinks I’m….shaggable. I am going to die! And not because he has murdered me.
There is a prickliness in the air around us at breakfast the next morning. Sinclair appears to have withdrawn slightly, possibly regretting saying too much. After all, it could be construed as indiscreet to discuss your sexual preferences with your students. He glares at me over the top of the newspaper and reminds me my essay deadline is five.
“Fine. It’s in hand,” I say frostily, taking my coffee mug back into my bedroom to avoid his baleful eye.
At the Opsoc Principals’ Rehearsal, James takes full advantage of Emily’s absence to generally pay court to me and hang on my every word. He is so lovely. I’ve never had a proper boyfriend before, just a series of disappointing fumbles at parties. I wonder if I might fall in love with him. It would be convenient; we do have a lot of interests in common. Pity he doesn’t make my pulse race à la Sinclair, but perhaps I should forget about him. What is a sophisticated, sexy academic who’s been on Newsnight loads of times going to see in me? It’s just a stupid crush.
“Do you fancy grabbing a pizza in town after this?” asks James nervously after I finish going over my big Act 2 number with a fine tooth comb.
“Er, well, the financial crisis is ongoing,” I demur.
“On me,” he says, with such puppy dog eagerness I just can’t refuse.
“Are you sure? OK, I’ve just got to hand in an essay and I’ll meet you in the Biko Bar, yeah?”
“Perfect.” He beams touchingly, and I pack up my tote and hightail it off to Sinclair’s office.
Just as I am slipping the envelope – the right one this time! – into Sinclair’s in-tray at five to five, the man himself emerges from isolation to say something or other to his secretary.
“Ah,” he says, spotting me. “So you can meet deadlines. Bravo.” He picks up the envelope and weighs it consideringly in his fair hands. “Perhaps we can discuss this later.”
“Oh. I’m going out for dinner tonight,” I tell him guilelessly.
There is a silence. “Really, Beth? And presumably you are singing for your supper, since you don’t have the wherewithal to pay?”
I don’t like the tenor of this conversation. “A friend is treating me,” I tell him, blushing. Why would he care if I was seeing someone?
“A friend?” Menacing eye contact.
“Yeah. Look, I should go; he’s waiting…”
“A male friend? No such thing as a free lunch, Beth.”
“You aren’t charging me rent,” I point out.
“I’m not a hormone-driven teenager,” he snaps, clearly incredibly put-out by the whole thing.
“It’s just a pizza,” I wring my hands, desperate to escape this uncomfortable exchange.
“Back by ten, Beth.”
“Ten? You can’t put me under curfew.”
“I can. Ten o’clock; no later.”