Neither of them knew quite why they in particular, of all the barristers in the UK, had to go to Nottingham that week, but sometimes even they could appreciate the time away from London. She drove, despite his trepidation with regard to her driving style ("I know you're very good, but even you may struggle to get out of a speeding ticket for going at 200 miles an hour on the M1") and a heated dispute about which way it was to the hotel ("Just follow the sat nav! You've never been to Nottingham in your life, you cannot possibly know a better way!").
It was on their last night that it happened. They were drinking champagne bought with his credit card in a bar in the city, laughing and joking and generally taking the piss out of each other, sat in one of those ludicrous booths that were far too high to get out of when sober, let alone after the amount they'd had to drink. Clive had caught her when she fell spectacularly from the seat in her attempt to get up with dignity. She'd held on just a little too long, looking him deep in the eyes as though she could read his mind, and he'd swallowed nervously like a teenager on his first date.
That was the thing - he'd never been nervous around women, not even as the teenager on his first date. But Martha Costello could have made him have a nervous breakdown just by looking at him, let alone when she went out of her way to place his hand on her waist and walk with him. He could feel every breath she took - her suit jacket was slung over her handbag rather than worn, and his hand rested where pencil skirt met crisp white shirt. Even if this was as close as he'd ever get to her, he thought, this may well occupy his thoughts for the rest of his life.
To the outside world, they probably looked like a couple coming home from an evening out; arms around each other, not so much as a hint of awkwardness as they made their way through the city centre in what they thought was probably the direction of the hotel. They stopped by the fountains as the sun began to set, the light dancing in her eyes like it did when she laughed or smiled… and he kissed her. He'd never intended to kiss her, not really, or at least he told himself that, but when she kissed him back, he could think of nothing else in the world that he wanted to do. Her lips were soft - not that he'd expected anything else - and she smelt beautiful; like Chanel and smoke and that hand cream she used.
He pulled away, and despite it giving her the ability to breathe again, she felt as though there was no means for her to obtain air without his kiss. His dark blue eyes searched hers for some suggestion of what he ought to do next; soul searching, if ever there were a time to use such a phrase. He made her knees go weak when he looked at her; made her heart flutter when he touched her; rendered her unable to think when he kissed her. She brought her hands up to his face, shaking slightly, looking nowhere but his eyes and barely registering his hands on her waist pulling her back to him as he kissed her again.
She came to her senses eventually - it could have been ten seconds or ten minutes later; she didn't really know - and took his hand, leading him to the hotel. He followed willingly, not saying a word as he caught up and put his arm back around her as they walked quickly through the streets, breathless with anticipation; each holding the other tightly. She hardly dared look at him, but if she had, she'd have seen him grinning like a cheshire cat at the very prospect of taking Martha Costello to bed. He'd dreamt about it for nineteen years, since the day she'd walked into Shoe Lane Chambers with a Walkman blasting Joy Division and introduced herself as the other pupil.
He kissed her again in the lift, pressing her against the wall and revelling in the feeling of having her totally at his mercy as she clung onto him - his Marth; his girl, finally, at least for tonight. He'd imagined this more times than he cared to consider; every way imaginable, though he normally kissed her during a furious argument in his dreams, resulting in passionate, near aggressive sex, and he'd considered actually doing it once or twice before, though came to his senses upon the realisation that he'd quite like not to be decapitated by her for trying his luck once too often.
They were at the entrance to his room, breathless and shaking, when he stopped suddenly, his hands tangled in her hair and both their shirts partially untucked, one of her hands holding his tie, the other on his face.
"Are you sure, Marth?" he asked quietly, looking down at her in the artificial light of the empty hotel corridor and considering in more depth than ever before just how beautiful she was, "I mean really, really sure?"
She nodded, and he grinned, unlocking the door and picking her up, spinning around as she squealed unintentionally and wrapped her legs loosely around him so that she didn't fall. She'd thought he'd have had his hand up her skirt by this stage, but somehow he was taking more time and care than she'd ever imagined he would; kicking the door closed behind them and carrying her to the king-sized bed in the centre of the room. He paused to switch the lamp on at the side of the bed, shrugging off his shirt which she'd unbuttoned and kneeling on the bed, looking down at her.
"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" he asked, his voice almost cracking as he pushed her hair back from her face and she smiled, her eyes dancing in the dim light.
—
She had a tiny heart shaped birthmark on the left side of her ribs, and his fingers caressed the soft skin around it as they lay in his bed. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair disheveled and her skin flushed; one hand on his chest, nails slightly grazing his skin as she absentmindedly stroked the hair on his chest, the duvet pulled halfway up the bed.
"Will you stay?" he murmured, his free hand moving a strand of hair from her face before moving it to her shoulder, her skin beginning to cool. She nodded, her eyes closed as she turned further towards him and wrapped one slim leg over his as she nestled against his body. His heart swelled as he looked down at her, and though he tried not to dwell on the thought, he did briefly consider that perhaps, just perhaps, he was falling in love with her.