Lecture Notes

“You…you bastard!” I whisper, standing up shakily. “You really believe that of me? You really think…”

As I step away, he grabs me by the wrist, pulling me close with the strength I had forgotten he possesses.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” he hisses, every consonant sharp as a blade. “I wanted to give you everything.”

> “But only as you would a pet. Or a child. I don’t want to be either of those.”

He pushes me back on to the stones, releasing me so that I fall heavily, bruising my bottom.

“Just like the others, you wanted what you could get from me. You’ve taken it, and now you don’t need it any more. Well, I wish you every success, but I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.”

He gets up and stalks off.

“Don’t go!” I scream after him, scrambling to my feet, but his long legs carry him swiftly away, and by the time I have reached the beer garden – where Adam and Caitlin are snogging frantically up against the wall – he is gone.

*

I’ve learned a lot from Sinclair, I really have. One of the things I’ve learned is that there are so many types of pain in the world, such gradations and variations. There is pain you embrace, pain you accept and pain you can’t bear. There is pain you agree to, pain you control and pain that controls you. It can be internal or external, physical or mental, playful or harmful. And perhaps life is about finding your threshold.

It is Saturday morning, eight days later, and Emily is meeting me at the station. We are both back a week early for opera rehearsals ahead of next week’s performances and I will be sleeping on her floor until more permanent arrangements can be made.

Not that Sinclair has evicted me. The one communication I have had from him was an email, short and to the point: “Dear Beth, You may store your belongings in my spare room on the understanding that you are actively seeking alternative accommodation. You may find it suits both of us better if you arrange to sleep at a friend’s house in the meantime. E.L.S.”

It probably sounds harsh and heartless that he has sent me only this, but on the other hand, I have not sent him anything either.

Obviously I have tried. I have done little else over the past week but sit on the beach listening to Fauré’s Requiem on my iPod, trying to pour my feelings out on to paper, yet none of my incontinent blurting has reached him.

I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know how to start.

“Dear Sinclair” – too formal. “Sinclair” – too angry. “My dearest” – too sappy. Ugh, none of it came across in the way I meant it. I gave up.

Surely this is not the end? Surely he is testing me? But if he is testing me…then that will make me really angry! Is that what he wants? I’m sure it isn’t.

Is that it?

IS THAT IT?

No wonder he’s single.

*

Emily and I talk in her room until dark, then we settle down in front of her tiny portable TV to watch the first edition of History Matters, which is a live debate about the possibility of inaugurating a St George’s Day Bank Holiday, intercut with films about St George, traditions past, national self-perception etc.

As soon as the credits cut away to Sinclair, standing in the studio looking utterly, blow-you-away gorgeous, I catch my breath and feel tears prick my eyelids. Emily squeezes my hand and we sit in silence as he directs the debate and introduces the short films. He is, as I knew, a natural in front of the camera; his voice compels attention towards him and he controls the contributions of his guests with effortless charm. You can’t fault the producers for choosing him above his purple-haired rival.

In the last part of the show he vox pops the audience, strolling among them with a portable microphone, soliciting their opinions. I’m sure I’m not imagining the way so many of the women suddenly succumb to bad cases of tongue tie as soon as he thrusts the mike in their direction, all blushing and stammering like goons. Like me, whenever I was with him.

Is he lonesome tonight? Does he miss me tonight? I huddle down inside my sleeping back on Emily’s rag rug and dampen it with my tears. He’s probably shagging some production assistant right now.

*

At first I was afraid – I was petrified. Actually, I still am.

Although I am able to push him out of my head for the duration of the long dress rehearsals, I spend the rest of my time sitting on Emily’s floor smoking and sharing a bottle of cheap cider, talking about Sinclair. Always talking about Sinclair.

“Do you think he loved you?” she asks.

“No,” I sigh, flicking ash. “He loved what he thought he could make me, maybe.”