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down below in a way that is tempting me back to bed for some, er, self-catering.
    But that is out of the question with that pinch-faced harridan clattering around the place. I can just imagine her reporting back to Sinclair. Your lodger spent the  morning masturbating. It was very inconvenient, I couldn’t get in to change the bedding. Shudder.  Anyway, I have a candlelight supper to arrange. Oysters, champagne, lots of whipped cream. Maybe some new underwear. Is he a stockings and suspenders man, I wonder? I think he is.
    I compromise on Sinclair’s suggestion of a morning of study; I do indeed go to the library, but my perusal is of recipes rath er than literary commentaries. Then I nip over to Emily’s and borrow fifty quid which I spend with delirious ease in Agent Provocateur on an eau-de-nil and black tulle bra and knicker set. The knickers are dead cool, with a burlesque-esque fountain of frills and suspender straps. I leave the shop relieved that I resisted the temptation of nipple tassles and open crotches. Maybe next week…
    I sit in my eleven o’clock lecture wondering if I have actually mislaid my mind. Sinclair doesn’t even like me. If he’s considering a trip into my knickers, he needs to plan his itinerary a bit better. Less slap and more tickle. Although on the other hand…I lean back against the bench, squirming delicately on my tender backside and finding myself revelling in the feeling. It’s as if it makes me his, somehow, and so conversely him mine. Oooh, he has marked me as his property…I try to snap out of this, not wanting to leak all over the ancient wood of the lecture theatre, nor yet distract any sensitive male noses in the vicinity with my aromatic effusions. God, it is hard to avoid thinking about though. Especially as Dr Blakey is giving the lecture. Was he giving her…lectures? Is it really over between them? Did he ever..do the same things to her?
    The endless stream of carnal thoughts takes my head hostage and I have to give up any hope of essay-wr iting for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I will spend all day writing yonder essay. Unless Sinclair has ravished me so thoroughly over the passion fruit mousse that I can’t move from the house…mmmm. You see? Useless. Can’t think.
    At four o’clock I race out of my lecture before Dearbhla can collar me and demand a blow-by-blow account of my first night chez Sinclair and head straight to Sainsburys. They don’t have oysters! Or chanterelles. Or whole sea bass. Or…anything. What am I going to do? Would Sinclair see the funny side if I rolled up with two portions of chips with curry sauce? Gah, rethink, rethink.
    I leave Sainsburys at half past five with a jar of pasta sauce, a bunch of bananas and four bottles of wine. Overdoing it with the wine? I’ll have to compensate for the lousy meal somehow. And besides…a drunken Sinclair. What could be funner?
     
    *
     
    Back at the flat half an hour later, Sinclair is not yet on the scene, so I make the most of the uninterrupted boudoir time to slink into my new foxy lingerie and make with the scented body lotions. I hear his key turn in the lock just as I light the gas to heat the water for the pasta. I picture him walking into the kitchen and falling into a dead swoon at the sight of me in my one posh frock, wearing make-up. What actually happens is that he calls, “I can’t smell cooking,” from the living room, and then appears to shut himself in his sinister study of doom. I shrug and pour the pasta into the bubbling water, hoping my minimal activity in the kitchen will preserve my maquillage intact. I skitter about laying the table…and picturing another kind of laying on the table…and lighting candles in giddily high spirits. When Sinclair walks into the room, to my extreme excitement, he does do a mild double-take.
    “Dressed for the occasion?” he says, and I’m not appreciating the hint of derisi on in his tone. “It’s just supper,