Free Lecture Notes by Justine Elyot

smoke?”  he finishes with heartstopping menace.
    I fr eeze in mid-damage-limitation. “I…you didn’t say I couldn’t….I thought it would be….all right,” I almost whisper.
    He shakes his head. “No,” is all he says. Then, “Wake her up and get the pair of them out of here.” Charming. A chastened Emily stirs Dearbhla from her groggy repose and they leave, heads hanging low and feet all over the place.
    I wait for nuclear meltdown, but he just says, “Go to bed, Beth. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
    “I’m sorry,” I squeak.
    “Bed. Now.”

Chapter Five
     
    Ooooh God, what time is it? I open one eye against the fierce kettledrumming in my head and check the digital alarm clock. 10:46, though whether that’s a.m. or p.m….
    Light drifts in through the curtain, giving me my first hint. I need to get a glass of water, but I’m not sure I can  move without disturbing the limpid puddle of nausea in my brain and stomach. I need to hold it…very….still…. I need to shut my eyes again. But with the relief of darkness comes a burst of memory so vividly unwelcome I almost throw up regardless.
    SINCLAIR IS GOING TO KILL ME!
    Lying silently, hidden beneath the duvet, I listen for sounds to convey his presence. The flat appears to be empty. No running water, footsteps, hum of computer, music. Just eerie mid-morning stillness. I am motionlessly supine for ten minutes or more before I can summon the courage to stick one foot out from beneath the covers. With calculated slowness and stealth, I bring out another, place them on the floor and bring my sick head up until I am vertical. Oh my Lord. I sway gently, unwelcome reminders of last night’s cocktails surging up through the centre of my torso.
    This is it. I clamp a hand to my mouth and bolt for the bathroom. Several redecorations of the toilet bowl later, I crawl into the kitchen, needing water, water, water, like the stereotypical guy in the desert. I slide gratefully into one of the wooden chairs, tipping the water down my throat with abandon, but my gut lurches once more when I notice a card propped against the salt cellar with my name inscribed in elegant Sinclairian script.
    “ Beth
    I have to be out most of today, and suspect you will be indisposed at any rate.
    I will expect you to report to me tomorrow afternoon at 5 p.m. sharp to address the outstanding matters of last night.
    Prof. E.L. Sinclair .”
    Despite the creepy, knotty sensation in my stomach, I snicker slight ly at his pompous signing-off. ‘Prof. E. L. Sinclair’. What a knob.
    I can’t believe the psychological t orture he is subjecting me to. More than twenty four hours to get wound up into a state of holy terror; I’m sure it is totally intentional. On the other hand, even the mildest tap would probably finish me off today, so it’s probably just as well.
    I drain another pint of cold, clear stuff and write him a little note on the back.
    “ Dear Professor
    I am staying overnight with Emily.
    A bientôt,
    Beth xx .”  I giggle at the kisses, wondering what he will make of them, if anything. Then I get dressed, pack my tote and haul my sorry arse over to Cliveden Hall, to spend the weekend moaning and languishing with my fellow-sufferers.
     
    *
     
    I am distracted throughout the Sunday afternoon Pinafore rehearsal, forgetting my lines about eight times, until Seb tells me to sort my life out, dearie, or get the hell out of Dodge.
    I trot swiftly back to the flat, wondering if I will get any credit for being early, my jaw set, fingers crossed, every cell on high alert, though my bottom appears to be throbbing presciently in anticipation of the festivities to come.
    I quell the urge to cry ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ as I slip through the front door, and instead listen out for any readable sign of Sinclair’s intentions for me.
    It is quiet .
    I enter the living room timidly; he looks up from the table, where he is poring over some pap ers, and checks his watch.