“Why would I dye it this colour? Dull light brown.”
“Plenty of women would like to have this natural colour,” he insists. “Caramel…or honey…honey-caramel.” Wow, he’s so lyrical. He shoves in a couple of grips and stands back to admire his artistry. “Perfect,” he says, for the second time in an hour. “You’ll do, young lady. Come on; we can’t be late.”
In the taxi on the way, I treat him to a volley of questions.
“Will the
re be many people there? Who are they? Will they think it’s weird that I’m with you? Will they disapprove?” The answers, respectively: Eight, friends and colleagues, perhaps, who cares? Then a very pertinent, “What should I call you?”
I’ve been wondering this all day. I can’t call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Professor’ at a social gathering, surely, without raising eyebrows. But then…what can I call him? Not ‘Eliot’ – I just couldn’t!
“What do you want to call me? Within the bounds of propriety?” He smirks.
“Oh…I don’t know.”
“What was it you said earlier on? While I was making you come so hard you couldn’t move for half an hour afterwards?” I flush furiously and the cabbie tactfully turns up the radio dial.
“Jesus Christ!” I fluster.
“No, that wasn’t it,” he says smoothly. “Though you’d be forgiven…”
“Sinclair!”
“Yes. Call me that. Lots of people do. Most people, in fact. It won’t be remarked upon.”
*
We are exactly punctual – another of Sinclair’s little control-freak quirks – and take our places at an extravagantly dressed table, almost collapsing beneath the weight of all the floral arrangements and fine silverware. Sinclair sits opposite me at the end of the table, and I find myself beside a tall, rangy man with alert brown eyes and a roguish grin. The roguish grin makes its debut appearance as I move to sit and then remember too late how ferociously sore my arse is.
“Good aaaaaaahvening,” I say in response to his greeting. He chuckles and introduces himself as Rob. His wife, Mel, is sitting next to Sinclair across the table, a thin-lipped efficient-looking brunette.
“Very good friends of mine,” nods Sinclair without elaborating. Good friends in what sense, I’m wondering. Colleagues? Schoolfriends? Ex-lovers?
“How did you meet?” I ask lightly. There is a beat of silence.
“It was through me,” offers Mel, unsmiling. “I was working with Sinclair…we were having a not-very-serious relationship. Then we both met Rob at…a party.”
“Oh.” I can read between the lines. Was it a ménage? Is it still? My eyes must be giving these speculations away, for Rob laughs again and changes the subject, mentioning a meal he and Mel had not enjoyed at a new bistro in town, before we all turn our attention to the menu. Well, partially, at least, because I am very conscious of being the gastronomic centrepiece at this table, rather like one of those spit-roast porkers with an apple stuffed in its mouth. I lose count of the number of sidelong glances swiftly diverted that shoot across to me from all directions. The men seem amused, the women equally split between envy and disapproval.
I ignore them, concentrate on my food and Sinclair, who, despite his marginal position at the corner of the table, certainly appears to be the focus of the room. It is interesting to watch him among peers. The student’s eye view of him is as this distant god who cannot be known…but he does have friends after all. Although he appears to command a certain level of respect, he gets teased occasionally, even challenged. The conversation is fast-paced, sophisticated, clever – and I realise with a pang that I cannot possibly contribute to it. I have no idea what they are all on about. My mood begins to drop and I become tense and anxious at my inability to shoulder through the barrier of intellectual inadequacy and throw myself into the debate. Sinclair will see me for what I am - a witless dullard with nothing to say for herself. I so want to dazzle, both him and his circle, yet I’m in a stranglehold of uncharacteristic shyness. He will leave me, for one of these worldly-wise glamourpusses gathered here. What, after all, can we possibly have in common.
My appetite wanes and I drop my fork to my plate, watching Sinclair demolish somebody’s viewpoint on compulsory identity cards.
“What do you think, Beth?” asks Mel snidely, a malicious look on her face.
“Oh…I dunno,” I stammer, furiously hot. “It’s all a bit Big Brother for me.”
“Ah, yes, of course, your generation gets all its insight from reality TV,” she drawls. Bitch!
“Mel!” chorus both Sinclair and Rob. “I think you owe Beth an apology,” adds Sinclair. Oh God!!! I love him!
She pouts, but says, “OK, I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. I’m sorry.” She subsides and Sinclair starts talking to her about some work-related issue.
I pick at my food for a minute, but then Rob surprises me by picking up my hand and inspecting it minutely. I cringe, realising too late that there are two angry red weals across my palm.
“What did you do to get those?” he asks with a devilish smile, trailing a fingertip lightly along one. I stare at him with dumb consternation. He knows all about Sinclair’s tastes, clearly. I am mortified and I look away. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he croons. “Have you been bad, Beth?”
“Leave her alone,” Sinclair breaks into the conversation, raising an eyebrow at his overfamiliar friend. His voice is low but very threatening.