“Do excuse me,” says Rob smoothly. “I forget how protective Sinclair is of his…companions. I was only wondering what she might have done to merit her…”
“None of your business.”
I spend the rest of the evening feeling like some medieval damsel with Sinclair as my knight errant. He effortlessly deflects all negative vibes from my radius and spends most of the pudding course sliding his foot up and down my calf, lifting the delicate fabric of my dress over my knees. He is watching me from under his brows all along, giving me the slightest twitch of a lip or crease of an eye, yet it is amazing how much warmth floods into my body from such infinitesimal flickers of expression. I feel…safe with him. My mood lifts and when we leave the restaurant I flutter when he links my arm with his and draws me into his side, the warm wool coat that smells of him.
“Fancy taking the party to ours, Sinclair?” offers Rob, out on the quayside cobbles.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he replies. “Beth’s had a tiring day. Perhaps another time.”
We reach the bridge and he hails a taxi, which takes us away from the creepy couple.
“Thanks,” I yawn, leaning into his shoulder inside the cab and shifting around on my bottom to minimise the sting. “I don’t think I could stay awake much longer anyway. Who are those people?”
“Rob and Mel? Mel used to be the Admissions Secretary at Senate House. As she said, we saw each other briefly. For about four months, ten years ago. Then she met Rob at a party. We’ve stayed friends.”
“So…she just shacked up with Rob and that was that? Didn’t you mind?”
“Obviously not, Beth. Mel and I had some fundamental differences.”
“In…the bedroom?” I risk the question, prepared to be slapped down for my curiosity. But Sinclair does not take offence.
“Yes. She’s a switch. That is, she likes to play both dominant and submissive roles. I, as you have no doubt gathered by now, am not a switch. So Mel was missing the opportunity to express that side of her sexuality. Rob is far better suited to her.”
“Because he’s a…switch…too?” Honestly, what a conversation. “I can imagine Mel with the thigh-high boots and the riding crop. She definitely seems the type.”
Sinclair says nothing.
“When Rob wanted to take the party to his place,” I venture timidly. “Did he mean…just a drink and playing a few records?”
Sinclair looks at me forbiddingly. The cab parks up outside the house and we pay our fare and head indoors.
“Well?” I persist as we move through the living room and towards the bedroom. “What?”
He catches me just inside the bedroom door and wraps strong arms around me from behind, clasping hands just beneath my ribcage.
“Don’t question me, Beth,” he rasps into my ear. “Just get undressed and into bed…now.”
He sends me on my way with a light slap to my rear that still manages to wake up the slumbering cane stripes, making them fizz and throb anew. Swine.
*
The steady needling of rain on the window wakes me early on Sunday morning…what’s the time?...seven. Mmm, I return my face to the pillow, ready to crash back into my dreams, but am startled when Sinclair swings out of bed and begins dressing.
“What are you doing?” I ask blearily. “Why are you getting up?”
“I’m going to the gym,” he says shortly, easing a sweater over his tousled head. Wow. He looks fine in the mornings, unlike everybody else in the world. I think Nietzsche may have had him in mind when he theorised on the existence of a master race.
“The gym?” The heavy disbelief in my tone does not go unnoticed. “It’s Sunday morning.”
“I’m aware of that, Beth. Perhaps in your slothful universe people spend their lives idling in bed until the pubs open, but there are those who choose to look after themselves a little better. In fact, you should come with me. You could do with the exercise.”
“Erm…after yesterday…I think I’m all exercised out!” I protest, and I’m not joking. My thighs ache in hitherto undreamed-of places. Who knew I had so many muscles worth straining? And besides, forget caning, being dragged to the gym at seven a.m. is my idea of cruel and unusual punishment.
He chuckles. “All right, I’ll let you off this time,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Only if you’re prepared to face the wrath of the European Court of Human Rights,” I mutter. He laughs again.
“Oh, I’m sure I could talk them round,” he says silkily. He probably could too. “Very well, then. I’ll be back in an hour. Be ready.”