“Dearbhla! Dearbhla! Please be in!” I knock anxiously at her door; the notepad tacked to it is empty of messages, which is a good sign.
She opens it blearily, her long blonde hair wisping around her face. She is wearing that idiotic all-in-one fleecy sleepsuit which makes me think of a rabbit.
“What the hell are you doing in bed at this hour?” I scold.
“Sorry, went for a drink after Mass with the guys from the Catholic Chaplaincy. Turned into a bit of a bender.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me? Nobody parties harder than those Catholic Chaplaincy boys.
“Look, I’m really sorry to interrupt your coma, but I need to talk to you.”
She ushers me in yawning and plonks herself down on the bed. “It’s no big deal, Beth, you can sleep on my floor, like I said. Beresford’ll give you the room back as soon as you can make the money.”
“Yeah, thanks and all that, but that’s what I have to tell you. I’ve had an alternative offer. Kind of an offer I can’t refuse.”
A little of the post-ale fog disappears from Dearbhla’s eyes.
“Oh yes?” she says, intrigued.
“Sinclair,” I say, bubbling up with internal laughter at the thought of how she will take this. “Sinclair wants me to move in with him.”
Wow, how do you treat a dislocated jaw? Her reaction does not disappoint.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispers. “Have you completely lost the plot now?”
“No, it’s true, I swear.”
“Beth, it’s a really bad idea to shag a lecturer…why didn’t you tell us this was going on?”
“Believe me, Dearbh, if I was shagging him you’d know all about it. It’s not like that. I just let slip that I was going to get kicked out and he mentioned his spare room, all casual-like, and I thought…”
“You thought….” Dearbhla prompts.
“I don’t know,” I confess. “I think I might be making a huge mistake. He’s a total control freak. I know he’s going to try to run my life.”
“Somebody should,” says Dearbhla pointedly. “God knows I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
There is a rap at the door and Emily joins the party.
“Did I just hear right?” she gasps. “You’re going to live with Sinclair?”
“Looks like it.”
“You lucky, lucky bitch.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Frabjous fucking day.”
Emily stares at me uncomprehendingly. “I thought you had the hots for him.”
“I do. But he’s going to be sheer hell on wheels to live with. You should see his flat. Not a speck of dust on anything; not a tasteful objet out of place. He’ll come straight home from lecturing me in the department to lecture me in the living room. And…and…” I trail off, realising I was about to say that I didn’t even want to think about how sore my bum is going to be, but not quite wanting to let that tantalising little cat out of the bag right now. Or ever. I am reminded of my still-smarting buttocks, which reminds me in turn of an impatient Sinclair waiting in his car. I should go.
“I have to get going anyway,” I tell them. “Sinclair is outside. He’ll come in and drag me out if I take too long.”
Emily is agog. “I want him to come and drag ME out,” she wails. “It’s not fair. I’m going to stop handing my essays in.”
“If only we’d known the true path to Sinclair’s heart,” I commiserate with her. “We could have got even drunker and done even less work less term. Oh well. Too late for regrets now.”