“Eliot Sinclair’s home is as elegant as the man himself, sharing his understated charm and wit….”
Sinclair’s understated charm is little in evidence as he stalks into the room, glaring at me, with an armful of books and papers. Open-necked white shirt, unusually dark trousers. Barefoot again. I like that. Casual but sexy. I am too busy eyeing him up to take in what he is saying at first, then he clicks his fingers almost in my face and I start.
“I said, I hope you are ready for some serious work, Miss Newland. I am not in the habit of wasting my time.”
“Oh…no. Of course not. Yes. I’m ready when you are,” I mutter.
He stops to look me up and down, obviously getting why I have worn the jeans and suppressing a half-grin. Then he places the pile of books between us and sits down on the sofa. So close to me. I can smell him. He must have showered recently; he is all piney and fresh. This is going to be way too distracting.
I offer a silent prayer to whoever is the patron saint of hapless women addled by inappropriate lust and turn to my tutor.
He brandishes one of my essays in my face. The one on how Laclos’ Les Liaisons Dangereuses presaged the downfall of the decadent French aristocracy.
“I notice a long list of references at the end of this piece, Miss Newland, but I can’t help wondering how many of them you actually read.”
Ah. I move my eyes shiftily to the left, avoiding his questioning stare.
“Well? Did you read any at all?”
“Was it no good?” I ask desperately.
He flicks his eyes over the comments he has appended to the essay – and there are many – before boring them back into me.
“A passing acquaintance with the plot and a nod to the political climate of the time do not a degree level textual analysis make, Miss Newland. Did you even read the book?”
Possibly my face might be redder if stuck it into a vat of Napoletana sauce, but only just.
“I was in a rush,” I whisper. “I had to write five essays in two weeks…”
“And whose fault was that? Did you read the book? Be honest with me. I’ll know if you are lying.”
My throat is drier than Oscar Wilde in the Sahara as I rasp, “I, er, watched it on DVD.”
A long silence. “You watched the film?”
I nod.
“That was it, was it? The sum total of your research?”
Another nod.
“You thought you’d get away with that, did you?”
Nod times three. My nails are digging into my sweaty palms quite hard. I think he’s going to kill me.
He takes a deep breath and puts the essay down.
“Tonight we are going to look at the book, which you should have read back in November, and you are going to take notes which will act as the structure for a second version of this essay. I will expect that essay on my desk by Wednesday; this is, of course, in addition to any other work you may have to complete to keep up with the syllabus. Clear?”
I give him a miserable affirmative, though I’m secretly quite relieved my jugular vein is still intact.
“Very well then; let’s make a start.”
For over two hours we study and pore over and discuss the book while I scribble lists of points and spider diagrams. Sinclair is a major slavedriver and even begrudges me a toilet break towards the end of the session, tutting prissily as if I’ve asked for a loan. That’s a thought…No! Don’t even consider it.
But I can’t help considering it as I wash my hands in his suavely bacheloresque black-tiled bathroom. Would Sinclair be good for three hundred and fifty quid? Could I…somehow….persuade him….No. No way.
I wander back into the living room; Sinclair is tidying up papers and has rolled up his sleeves. Eek. Does that mean what I think it does?