‘What? Are you serious?’
‘It fucking is! Lucky cow!’
‘How did she get her hands on him? Oh my God, I’m so jealous I might have to kill myself!’)
I practically skip along the pavement next to him, glowing gently. The lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn etc.
Back at the flat, the mood changes, snap!, just like that.
“I have some work to do this afternoon,” he informs me, ducking into his study and coming out with a paper bag. “So I’ll leave you a little task while I’m busy. I want my CD collection re-organised into the alphabetical order it was in before you and your friends decided to disarrange it. Then I want you to find pen and paper and write me two hundred lines, the line being: ‘I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.’ At precisely five o’clock, I want you to knock on my office door to present me with your completed script, and I will expect you to be wearing this.” He thrusts the paper bag into my hands. “Is that clear?”
I nod dumbly, not daring to unwrap the brown paper parcel.
“Are you sure? Repeat my instructions.”
“Erm. Put your CDs in alphabetical order. Write lines…”
“How many?”
“Two hundred. Ah…I will not…no, I will obey Professor Sinclair’s orders…”
“Instructions.”
“Instructions. At all times. Then…get changed and knock on your door at five.”
I look up. He nods. “Correct. Until five then.”
He darts off into his office and shuts the door with an ostentatious (and ominous) bang.
I stare vaguely after him for a minute or two, then set to unwrapping the mystery attire.
A horrified giggle escapes my lips and I clap a hand over my mouth when the jumble of material falls out on to the sofa beside me. A white shirt. A shortish pleated grey skirt. A striped tie. Some bottle green ribbon for my hair and a pair of white knee socks. School uniform. I shake my head bemusedly for a while, and then it occurs to me. School uniform. So I’m the naughty schoolgirl…and he’s the stern headmaster…calling me to his study… This can only mean one thing. The cane.
Chapter Seven
I begin to chew the fingernails of the hand that is stopping my mouth. I can’t quite judge the balance here between turned-on and terrified. Isn’t the cane supposed to be, like, really, really painful? I recall an incident during my adolescence when, in the spirit of experimentation, I whacked myself across the backside with a wooden strut from a kite. That hurt more than enough, yet the single red line that ensued disappeared within minutes. From the information I’ve gathered from old-fashioned boarding school stories, cane marks linger. For a long time. That’s a scary comparator straight away. But then, those old-fashioned boarding school stories always riveted me; I would go back and revisit the caning scenes endlessly, imagining myself caught in that heartstopping moment between the swipe and the stripe. And always wondering how it would feel….longing to know how it would feel…
And now is my chance.
I glance up at the clock; it is half-past two. I’ll be hard pressed to complete both tasks by five o’clock – I estimate the lines will take two and a half hours by themselves. Best get to work.
*
Although Sinclair’s clock does not have chimes, I can almost hear doom-laden Big Ben style tolling as the big hand reaches the twelve and the little hand shivers on to the five.
I had had to abandon the lines at 161 ten minutes earlier so that I would be appropriately dressed for the occasion, and now I have my hair in two silly little bunches, the white shirt not-quite-buttoned all the way, due to it being a flipping size eight, so the tie is hanging in a slovenly manner around my undone collar. The horrible knife pleats of the grey flannel skirt brush against my thighs in a way that brings back memories of dull school assemblies, though I suspect the upcoming experience will maintain my attention rather more effectively than those drear-fests.
My fingers are flapping as I pick up the uncompleted lines and there is a tightness in my throat that makes me wonder if I will be able to speak once I’m facing the music. I knock three times.
“Enter.”
I edge the door open slowly. Sinclair, fully suited and booted, turns from his desk, stands and beckons me forward to stand a foot or so away from him. God, he looks fine. For a split second I almost forget to be apprehensive, I so love that disapproving look he has. He folds his arms and glowers. Wow. I like that.
“Ah, the miscreant,” he says, a sardonic edge to his words. Well, who was he expecting? Not sure what to say to that, so I just hang my head. He holds his hand out, for the lines I am clutching to my chest, presumably. I hand them over. He peruses them, eyebrow raised. “Incomplete,” he notes, though he must have known I had no hope of finishing them in the time available. I’m sure it’s all part of the plan. “And is that really your idea of an acceptable standard of dress?” He puts forth a hand and tugs at the offending tie.
“The shirt doesn’t fit, sir,” I object. “And I didn’t have time to do the lines.”
He puts up a hand, indicating that I should zip my lip. “You’ll have to remind me, Miss Newland, exactly how many of your lame excuses I’ve heard now; I rather fear I have lost count.”