The time is approaching seven in the evening. Even if he is in, I estimate that it’s extremely unlikely he has bothered to look at my essay yet. It’s the weekend…he will be relaxing with a glass of wine, perhaps. Reading the paper. Making something to eat. He’d better not be on the phone to some woman setting up a date…grrr. He might be in the shower…mmmm. The idea that he could answer the door wrapped in a towel with beads of moisture clinging to his skin chivvies me along the gravel driveway towards the big, imposing porch. I have instructed Dearbhla and Emily to wait for me in the nearest pub. With any luck, I’ll be there with them, sinking a pint by half seven, mission accomplished.
What a mission though. I am dying. I have already rung his number to ascertain whether he is in, but got his answerphone. That means nothing though – almost everyone I know screens their calls, and I didn’t leave a message.
I examine the brass plate in the wall with its highly polished buzzer buttons. Next to each is the number of the flat together with the name of its occupant. ‘Flat 2 – Sinclair.’ Does he live alone? Everyone says he was seeing Dr Blakey until last term; the split is rumoured to be acrimonious. She certainly looks as if a lemon has exploded in her gullet every time they encounter each other in the common room, so it could be true.
I imagine my courage to be a physical object, a big ball of coloured elastic bands or something, and cup my hands as if holding it. Here it is; tangible and real. I have courage. I can use it. I press the buzzer. My heart jumps into my throat and starts to strangle my tonsils. Will I be able to speak or will a hoarse croak be my only way of conveying my identity?
I wait a geological age and then nearly jump out of my skin at a terse, “Hello?” Unmistakably The Voice, but not sounding too hospitable. This is a very, very bad idea. I should just bolt now. But my essay! If he sounds pissed off now, what is he going to sound like on Monday morning?
“Professor Sinclair? I’m very sorry to bother you at home…but it’s urgent. About my essay…oh, this is Beth Newland, by the way…you see, the thing is…”
“Come in,” he says, wearily. The door buzzes and I push it open, finding myself in an extremely well-kept vestibule, its black and white floor tiles gleaming. I crane my neck around this spacious reception area, wondering where Flat 2 might be located.
“Upstairs,” floats a disembodied echo from above. Shivers. I head for the stairs, almost wetting my knickers with the surreal excitement of it. I have been admitted! I am approaching Sinclair in his lair. The lair of Sinclair. I giggle hysterically.
On the landing, the door of Flat 2 is slightly ajar. I push against its solid oak and it opens into a luxurious high-ceilinged apartment. Moving from the hallway through to the main room, I am confronted by the breathtaking sight of Professor Eliot Sinclair standing by one of his picture windows with a large glass of red wine in his hand, barefoot in trousers and shirtsleeves. He is so hot I wish I hadn’t worn a jacket. His expression is a risky mix of quizzical, reproachful and irate.
“Well?” he says challengingly. “What could possibly be so important that you had to disturb me at home on a Friday evening, Miss Newland? I’m expecting nothing short of national emergency.”
Shit. This is going to sound really lame. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse his briefcase, still unopened on a coffee table.
“I wondered if I could have my essay back. I just wanted to change something in the conclusion…”
“Out of the question,” he snaps. “Is that really all you came here for?”
“Well,” I say, all kinds of desperate gambits crowding into my head as a cold sweat manifests on my brow. “You said if I ever wanted to borrow your book about the Jacobins…I’d really like to read it…” I expect him to backhand me across the room for my audacity, but he actually narrows his eyes for a second then visibly preens himself. Vanity has outperformed suspicion, hooray for vanity.
“I’d be happy to lend you a copy,” he says, running a hand through his luxuriant hair. “I’m sure you’d find it invaluable in your studies. It should be on the required reading list.”
Of course, he would say that…he wrote the damned thing. I’ve heard it’s outrageously boring.
“I’ll just fetch one from my study,” he says, and he puts down his wine and leaves the room. Yes!
Losing no time at all, I dive on the briefcase and click it open, my shaking fingers fumbling madly through the documents and leaflets within, thinking I’ve found it, then seeing it’s just a conference proposal…where the fuck is it?
“Could this be what you’re looking for?” enquires a sardonic voice behind me. I drop down to knees that seem to no longer contain bones and slowly turn to face my interlocuter. He brandishes a fistful of A4. Even from this distance, the legend ‘SINCLAIR IS THE SEX’ sears itself upon my agonised consciousness. May I shrivel up and dissolve on the spot, please,
God?
“It was a mistake,” I whisper. “I mixed them up.”
“A mistake too far this time, Miss Newland,” he says, drawing near. “Get up.”
I stand up somehow, dropping my tote bag with the real essay at my feet. He is planted inches away from me, his considerable height necessitating the craning of my neck if I want a view other than the open neck of his shirt. Though that is a very fine view in itself.
“Is this,” he waves my textual gibberings in my face, “some kind of a joke?”
“No, Sir,” I squeak. “It’s..I just…an accident.” I cannot look him in the face.
“A car crash, Miss Newland. Like the rest of your life, seemingly. If this is your version of pulling yourself together and taking responsibility for yourself…” Oh God, not this again. I can’t bear it. I hide my face in my hands.
“You will look at me when I’m talking to you, Miss Newland,” he insists brutally. What a bastard. I can’t believe I fancy the guy. But, looking into his face against my will, a shot of pure desire disturbs the general angst once more. “So, having messed up yet again, under patently false pretences you gain access to my private rooms and abuse my goodwill by rooting through my personal belongings.” Yeah, but it sounds worse than it is, Professor, I want to protest. I know better to interrupt him mid-scold though, so I let him get on with it. Until his next statement sends a massive shockwave pulsing from head to toe. “I should put you over my knee.”
What? Did he just say?
I look at him for clarification, my eyes wide with a sudden quivering vulnerability that is as delicious as it is scary. He can’t possibly know this…can he?...but he has just put his tapering finger on my favourite fantasy.
“Over your knee?” I echo stupidly, my voice sounding thick and slow. “You mean..?”