I swing out of the room and off along the corridor to the brave new life that awaits me.
*
Squinting against the glare of the chrome fittings in Sinclair’s kitchen and bathroom, I resolve to buy some dark glasses. When I’ve got some money.
“How does everything stay so spotless?” I ask wonderingly, my acquaintance with cans of Pledge and dusters being of the passing variety.
“I’ll introduce you to Nerys tomorrow,” says Sinclair obliquely. “My housekeeper.”
Now there’s posh. Not even a cleaner – a housekeeper, la-di-dah. Moving back out into the corridor, he indicates a closed w
alnut door.
“This is my study, into which you are absolutely forbidden to venture. I keep it locked most of the time; should you be tempted to wander in, I must warn you that the consequences will be severe. Is that understood?”
“Uh huh,” I say, intrigued. Surely the Professor understands enough about psychology to know he has just invited me to find a way into his secret sanctum? I am already speculating on what might lie within…murder weapons? Thai ladyboy?...collection of Cliff Richard DVDs? He puts a firm hand on my shoulder and steers me onward.
“Here,” he says, opening the last door on the passageway. “Your room.”
It is spacious, light, airy, with a plain white-covered bed and some tasteful wood furniture, though little to distinguish it from an anonymous hotel room.
“Not bad,” I say, putting my bag on the bed.
“Keep it tidy,” he warns me. “If I hear Nerys has had to clear up after you, I will be most displeased.”
“Right,” I say.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten, but if you’re hungry there’s food in the fridge. I’ll be working in my study for the rest of the evening, so I’ll say goodnight now.”
He nods at my answering goodnight and glides from the room.
Wow. I need a moment to take stock. I sit on the bed and look around, fixing the scene in my mind to convince myself it is real. I am moving into Professor Sinclair’s guest bedroom. Where is his bedroom? I’m guessing it’s across the corridor. I wonder if he snores? Will he keep me awake talking in his sleep? Christ, what if he brings a woman back with him? Or two? Could I just lie here listening to Sinclair having sex…without me? Ugh, perish the thought.
I kick off my shoes and lie down. Too much weirdness. I need to sleep it out of my system.
The squawk of a distant alarm clock chases me out of sleep at…what?...6:30 a.m. Sod that. I bury my face in the pillow…lovely freshly-laundered smell…this isn’t my pillow… My head retreats from its squashy hideaway and I remember where I am.
The muffled noises I can hear next door are Sinclair’s morning noises. I lie back and listen in, wondering what I can glean about his character and habits from his pre-work routine. Barely fifteen minutes after waking he leaves the house, so I return to the land of nod until, around eight o’clock, there is a sharp rapping at my door.
“Time you were up,” says The Voice peremptorily. I beg to differ. My first lecture isn’t till eleven. That makes rise & shine time approximately…ten forty five. OK, ten thirty.
I ignore him and burrow down beneath the duvet, fantasising that perhaps he will come in and drag me out of bed…and yet, as soon as he claps eyes on my lithe and maidenly form in its outsize White Stripes tour T-shirt, he will be stricken with instant infatuation and we will end up back in said bed for the rest of the day. I wonder what his beard feels like against your face…
More banging at the door. “Up. Now.”
I mouth a silent ‘fuck off’, but what he gets to hear is a querulous “Why?”
“Because this is my house and you abide by my rules.”
“Oh my God, you sound like my mother.”
“Less of your cheek. Get up before I have to drag you out of there.”
Ooh. My stomach flips with excitement. It’s as if he is programmed to act out my darkest fantasies. The idea amuses me – Robot Sinclair, primed for her pleasure – but even so, I don’t stay in bed to test the theory. I jump out and begin the long drawn out process of beautifying myself to face the divine Professor.
At eight twenty four, showered, freshened and bright-eyed, I stroll into the kitchen, wondering hopefully if Sinclair might have breakfast on the go. He is sitting at the table sipping moodily at a cup of coffee. Proper coffee made from beans, not dust in a jar. He looks up from The Guardian and his face elicits a gulp. He is not happy.
“I told you to get up at eight o’clock. It is now eight twenty four.”