ing to seduce him, Beth?” asks Dearbhla conversationally. “Do you think he’d be up for a ménage à quatre?”
“Depends if you could cater to his…tastes,” I say mysteriously, cocking my eyebrows at them.
“What do you mean?” they demand in stereo. Fuck! Why did I say that? Apart from because I’m drunk, obviously.
“Nothing. ‘M joking. Have you seen his CD collection. Ish quite good.”
We shake more cocktails, forgetting to add the mixers and olives and whatnot this time, and rifle through his music, singing along, dancing, swaying. At some point Emily and I start using some weird ornamental bowl thing as an ashtray. We have another cocktail. Is it really half past two? Dearbhla has passed out on the sofa and Emily and I are crooning in two-part harmony to a Jacques Brel CD when….OOOOH SHIT! A key turns in the lock.
But he said he was staying overnight! He wasn’t going to be back until morning! Fuck x 1,000,000.
“Beth!” His voice, laden with suspicion. “Why can I smell….” He opens the door and catches me in the act of scooping up glasses, ashtrays and other detritus while Dearbhla sweetly snores on in the corner. “…Cigarette smoke?” he finishes with heartstopping menace.
I freeze in mid-damage-limitation. “I…you didn’t say I couldn’t….I thought it would be….all right,” I almost whisper.
He shakes his head. “No,” is all he says. Then, “Wake her up and get the pair of them out of here.” Charming. A chastened Emily stirs Dearbhla from her groggy repose and they leave, heads hanging low and feet all over the place.
I wait for nuclear meltdown, but he just says, “Go to bed, Beth. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak.
“Bed. Now.”
Chapter Five
Ooooh God, what time is it? I open one eye against the fierce kettledrumming in my head and check the digital alarm clock. 10:46, though whether that’s a.m. or p.m….
Light drifts in through the curtain, giving me my first hint. I need to get a glass of water, but I’m not sure I can move without disturbing the limpid puddle of nausea in my brain and stomach. I need to hold it…very….still…. I need to shut my eyes again. But with the relief of darkness comes a burst of memory so vividly unwelcome I almost throw up regardless.
SINCLAIR IS GOING TO KILL ME!
Lying silently, hidden beneath the duvet, I listen for sounds to convey his presence. The flat appears to be empty. No running water, footsteps, hum of computer, music. Just eerie mid-morning stillness. I am motionlessly supine for ten minutes or more before I can summon the courage to stick one foot out from beneath the covers. With calculated slowness and stealth, I bring out another, place them on the floor and bring my sick head up until I am vertical. Oh my Lord. I sway gently, unwelcome reminders of last night’s cocktails surging up through the centre of my torso.
This is it. I clamp a hand to my mouth and bolt for the bathroom. Several redecorations of the toilet bowl later, I crawl into the kitchen, needing water, water, water, like the stereotypical guy in the desert. I slide gratefully into one of the wooden chairs, tipping the water down my throat with abandon, but my gut lurches once more when I notice a card propped against the salt cellar with my name inscribed in elegant Sinclairian script.
“Beth
I have to be out most of today, and suspect you will be indisposed at any rate.
I will expect you to report to me tomorrow afternoon at 5 p.m. sharp to address the outstanding matters of last night.
Prof. E.L. Sinclair.”
Despite the creepy, knotty sensation in my stomach, I snicker slightly at his pompous signing-off. ‘Prof. E. L. Sinclair’. What a knob.
I can’t believe the psychological torture he is subjecting me to. More than twenty four hours to get wound up into a state of holy terror; I’m sure it is totally intentional. On the other hand, even the mildest tap would probably finish me off today, so it’s probably just as well.
I drain another pint of cold, clear stuff and write him a little note on the back.
“Dear Professor
I am staying overnight with Emily.
A bientôt,
Beth xx.” I giggle at the kisses, wondering what he will make of them, if anything. Then I get dressed, pack my tote and haul my sorry arse over to Cliveden Hall, to spend the weekend moaning and languishing with my fellow-sufferers.
*