The phone call with Libby had actually unsettled me. I was already feeling pretty rubbish about making Martin late and I'd moped around his flat for a bit before I'd decided to ring her. Initially, she'd cheered me up, as usual, telling me about what she'd been up to, just being her usual exuberant self really. We'd arranged to meet at The Cormorant just after five o'clock and I'd felt that rush of excitement you get when your plan for a night out starts to come together. It would be our last opportunity for god knows how long so we were planning on a big one, and my thoughts had already turned to what I might wear when, out of the blue, she'd mentioned his name. It wasn't even so much as what she'd asked me, it was more in the way she'd said it; mildly condescending, with a sort of resigned inevitability; slightly sympathetic, as if she were already commiserating with me.
"Martin won't be joining us then?" She'd said, and immediately I'd felt on the defensive.
The thing was, I hadn't actually known what to say because, truthfully, I wasn't even sure myself; tainted as the situation was by the distinct possibility that he would not turn up and I would, once again, leave myself open to the pity of friends, when there is absolutely nothing I detest more. So I'd just laughed ambiguously, and made a strange sort of noise in my throat, attempting to sound mysterious, and it had seemed to satisfy her well enough because she'd hung up pretty quickly, calling me sweetie, the gleeful anticipation of a good time obvious in her tone.
On the other hand, I'd traipsed back out to the living room and thrown myself onto the sofa, resting my bare feet on the arm roll and hugging a cushion to my chest as a sort of fog of insecurity descended over me. I'm not sure how long I lay there; time seemed a bit irrelevant, the heavy silence punctuated only by the soft ticking, and the occasional chiming, of one of Martin's many clocks. I'd become so accustomed to living with noise, that the absence of it was almost hypnotic. When I'd first arrived in London the bustle, the crowds, the constant hum of traffic, even the variety of shopping on offer, had almost blown my mind. Initially, I'd spent quite a lot of time exploring alone, and one afternoon I'd found myself, footsore and weary, wandering around Covent Garden. It wasn't really a case of shopping, it was more like an exercise in orienteering, visiting places I'd heard so much about and searching out cool and interesting stalls where I might find the unusual, the distinctive and, most importantly, the bargain. It must have seemed even busier and noisier, and even more overwhelming, I suppose, having just recently arrived from a tiny Cornish fishing village, and after a while, on that humid, overcast afternoon, I'd really had enough.
Wandering back toward the station I'd discovered a gateway to a church and, inexplicably, I'd gone in, probably more intrigued that it was something called an actor's church than any vague interest in religion. Passing through a lovely, secret sort of courtyard, filled with the scent of roses, I'd made my way into the building and I'd been immediately struck by the silence, and the overwhelming sense of calm within, like I'd been transported to a different place and time. After a cursory glance at the huge organ that dominated one end of the building, I'd walked around, reading the remembrance plaques on the wall; most of the actor's names I'd never heard of but a few that I had. To be honest, I'd always just thought that looking at churches was for old people but there was something especially serene about this other St. Paul's, tucked away as it was, so much so that I'd slipped into a back pew and just sat there for a while, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
And now I'd discovered that there was a similar element of calmness to Martin's flat; there was a tranquility to it, a chapel-like quality that was somehow restorative, so still and peaceful, with its white walls and high ceilings, and the rooms so sparely furnished. It was by far and away the nicest house I'd ever been into, spotlessly clean and tidy, and luxurious in that way I'd come to recognise as typical of Martin; everything of understated quality, interesting and aesthetically pleasing, yet still completely practical and functional. The upshot was, I liked being here a lot. I liked that it felt safe and solid and well organised. I relished the fact that everything worked and that there was seemingly endless hot water. I adored the stereo system, the well stocked refrigerator and the espresso machine but, most of all, I loved how everything felt so reassuringly of Martin; from his wardrobe of expensive suits, and perfectly pressed shirts, arranged perfectly by colour, to the the faint fragrance of his personal grooming products that lingered lightly in the ensuite and, even more faintly, on the linen of his enormous and blissfully comfortable bed.
I've never minded my own company really, I'm definitely not one of those people who can't bear to be by themselves but, this morning, when he left I'd been struck by a sort of sad sensation; like the melancholy feeling of watching the last light fade from a glorious sunset or, as a child, when the long anticipated parade finally disappears from your view. Still clutching the cushion, I'd opened my eyes, and stared into space for a while, thinking through the course of events that had led me to this point, stretched out on the brown leather Chesterfield of a man I'd been besotted with since I was a skinny gormless teenager. There are moments, you know, when I still can't quite believe it's true; even a bit bonkers in a way, all the hours I spent imagining what his life was like and now I find myself spliced right into the middle of it.
I still have moments where I experience a flash of utter incredulity actually, shaking my head at the fact that someone as obviously brilliant as Martin could be interested in someone like me. While I've spent my life just content to know that things work, he actually has to understand how. Clocks, combustion engines, stereo systems, for instance, it's enough for me that they function but he needs to know why. I can only suppose that science is a way of life for him whereas for me it was just a subject at school where we got to mess around in the lab, and memorise some theorems that mostly went straight out of my head the moment I skipped out those school gates for the last time. As hard as it is, I have to accept that someone as clever and capable as he is will never be ordinary, will never settle for a nine to five sort of career, and never be content to just tread the water. In fact, sitting right here on this very spot, he'd explained it all to me, he'd made clear the difficulties that we'd face because of his job and I'd accepted it all, I'd told him so earnestly how I completely understood.
As usual, he was honest. He knew how it would be for us, even if I didn't; perhaps it had been an issue for him before, maybe he'd had other girlfriends who weren't prepared to be quite so accomodating, maybe bitter experience had taught him that it was just easier to be clear and upfront about just how much commitment he could offer in a relationship. It makes you think though because, even though I know that I can be unreasonable sometimes, it seems seriously selfish really, to be critical of someone missing out on social events because they are taking care of very sick people. Perhaps I'm still at that infatuated stage, still madly impressed by the sight of Martin striding around the corridors of St. Mary's, looking gorgeous in a perfectly tailored, pin-striped suit and so I'm still prepared to be tolerant and understanding. I know that getting to see the deference he was treated with, the respect he commanded, how confidently in-charge he was, affected me really intensely. In an admittedly shallow way, it made him seem even more attractive, more desirable than ever actually, but it also reinforced to me the massive importance of his job, and how he's so obviously very very good at it. To ask him to be less committed, less focused, would be effectively asking him to be a lesser person, not to be Martin any more really, and why would I possibly want that?
So, I'm resigned to the fact that there's a high probability I'm going solo tonight, and you know what, that's absolutely fine. Libby and I have had so many great nights out together and I'm sure tonight will be no different. Except, as undoubtedly brilliant while they lasted as those days were, it suddenly dawns on me that this is our denouement, the semi colon to our shallow, carefree, bohemian youth, the end of an era I suppose; we've both moved on with our lives and things are never going to be the same again for either of us. If this really is the final curtain then I strongly suspect that we will find ourselves, later, wandering around some fairly dodgy laneways, seeking out some mythical, hip, underground club, before I crawl home to my miserable flat, at dawn, minus an earring and having inexplicably burnt through a wad of cash.
Since her relationship got serious with Matt, Libby exists in a whole new stratosphere, a whirlwind of red carpets and premieres, jet setting and exotic locations: Cannes and Chamonix, Whistler and Sydney. She loves all that glamour; the variety and the excitement, and never seems to tire of it; I suppose that means she and Matt are probably a perfect match in that way. I have always admired her self-possession and I'm not sure how I would have dealt with things had we not ended up, serendipitously, as housemates, and friends. She's been amazing but it's got to the point now where I need to show her that I've grown up too, that my life is heading off in an exciting direction as well, that I've finally found someone who loves me, who trusts me and wants the best for me, even if we don't always exactly agree on what that is.
After work, I return to Martin's flat to get ready, to draw from the stash of clothing and accessories I've quietly been retrieving, from the floor mostly, of my Graham Terrace bedroom, and ferrying them to the spacious storage of Martin's spare room. I put a bit of effort into how I look, especially since I don't want to look like the poor country cousin, especially if some of Libby's posh friends turn up. It's like being at the spa, having the well-lit ensuite to myself and it takes hardly any time at all to get ready, even if I do only remember at the last minute to fish the incriminating long dark hairs out of the sink and the shower drain. Exactly on time, I bounce into the pub to be greeted by a squeal and a vigorous hug, as Libby and I hang on to each other tightly, and jump up and down a bit on the spot.
"Oh my god, you look amazing!" She says, casting her usual critical eye over my outfit, and smiling at me with a genuine delight that I find really touching. "Where do you keep finding these gorgeous dresses?"
I smile, knowing it wouldn't make sense to her; she who shops in top end boutiques, armed with her dad's credit card, all five foot ten of her, willowy and long-legged, with the assistants fawning over her, and me, sitting on the chair outside the changing room, left minding the bags, while she tries on everything, regardless of the eye-watering price tags.
"Givenchy rip-off, I think." I reply, gazing down at the well preserved, black, lacy fabric with deep affection. "Don't care though, I love it!"
Enthusiastically, and grinning excitedly, she slips her arm through mine and we totter along to our usual table, pushing the reserved sign to one side and tossing our handbags amongst the coasters and the menus. Libby always has this way of making everything fall into place so effortlessly; a big private table, reserved, on a busy Friday night, and a heap of empty chairs she'll have no problem filling, popular as she is. I had no idea that you could even do that before I started hanging out with her; reserve tables and make friends with bar managers, I mean, so that you always receive preferential treatment. Fish and chips in The Crab on my birthday had been the extent of my experience in licensed premises really, until I'd come up to London and seen how it was all done.
"What time's Martin planning on getting here then?" She asks suddenly, out of nowhere and I glance up at her.
There's something in her gaze, in her inflection too when I think about it, an undertone that bothers me and I find myself squinting back at her.
"It sort of sounds to me like you, ummm, I don't know..." I reply, suddenly annoyed, narrowing my eyes defiantly and lifting my chin at her. "...Perhaps you don't think he's coming or something..."
She glances at me and there's a definite hint of discomfort on her face.
"No...it's just...didn't you say he stood you up last night though?" She says, carefully, watching me so closely I feel a bit over scrutinised and a bit put out.
"He didn't stand me up, he had to work." I counter defensively. "Something came up."
"Oh right." She says after a moment, and I can tell straight away by her expression that she doesn't believe me.
I find myself twirling a lock of hair around my finger, uncomfortably. I wonder where this is leading to really because, despite the fact I know she has my best interests at heart, Libby seems, inexplicably, more dubious about Martin than ever; there's definitely an apprehension there, an uncomfortable air of deprecation that can't just be a result of my light hearted banter on the phone with her this morning.
"What was it exactly, you know, that came up so suddenly then?" She asks, rather briskly.
"I'm not actually sure." I tell her, now feeling pretty unhappy about having to defend him. "He doesn't really, umm, talk about work... he never discusses his patients."
"Hmm." She says, gazing at me thoughtfully, before pulling out a compact and touching up her lipstick. It's a darker shade than she usually wears, almost a brown and it makes her look somehow more severe, slightly disagreeable even, a bit like the irritating noise that she's making in her throat actually; disapproving, even reprimanding somehow.
I watch as she purses her lips, frowning at herself rather critically before tossing everything back into her bag, in a casual way that belies the fact that it's probably a twenty quid lipstick.
"But you're alright though?" She says, turning her attention back to me, fixing me with her steely, green-eyed gaze. "I mean, it's going okay otherwise? God, it seems like ages since we talked. I feel a bit out of the loop..."
"It's fine." I reply quickly, and I can't help but wonder what's prompted this little inquisition. God knows I've poured my heart out to her enough times that she should know that I'm not reluctant to do so, if I feel the need.
She flashes me a quick smile, and I realise that she's clearly unconvinced.
"Fine?" She says, raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at me, and I let out a snort of mirthless laughter. "That doesn't sound very promising..."
I hear myself sigh, a long, slightly irritated exhalation, mostly because I seem to be stuck between Martin, to whom privacy is everything, and Libby, who wants to know everything.
"Alright, it's great. Is that better?"
"I see." She says, still staring at me intently. "I think we need a drink. Shall I start a tab? That'll be the easiest, won't it?"
She reaches for her purse and retrieves one of the several credit cards that now seem to reside there. She'd always had the one her dad had given her for college but the others are recent additions and I can't help but wonder if Matt is responsible. Having other people take care of everything just seems such a natural state of affairs to her; I can't imagine her even blinking an eyelid if her wealthy boyfriend casually presented her with a Visa, with instructions to use it for her day-to-day expenses. I don't think she'd be lying awake at night worrying that someone was going to take it all away from her in one fell swoop; her independence and her financial security, gone, just like that. It was just the way it was when you were Libby, things fell in your lap.
"Yes. Please." I reply, pretending to search for something in my bag just so I have a moment's respite from her attention, glad of a minute to compose myself, as she strides confidently off in the direction of the bar.
We've barely arrived and, already, the crowd is starting to increase, as local businesses close for the week and people flock to the pub, in search of refreshment and a wind down. We've always liked this place for the interesting cross section of people it attracts; the cool vibe and the great music that's, consequently, created a really cheerful atmosphere, not a meat market like some of our other old weekend haunts, no football hooligans, either, no one looking for bovver, thank goodness. When Libby returns, she's thinking ahead, and there are four glasses of chardonnay on her tray, each of them enveloped in an inviting little cloak of condensation. Having been frequently subjected to the wine snobbery of her friends, and even her dad, it won't be just the house chardy she has selected, it will be from Stellenbosch, Hawkes Bay or the Napa Valley, especially if she's not paying.
"Na Zdrowie!" She says, raising her glass and swirling it around the sides admiringly, before taking an enthusiastic mouthful. I watch as she rolls it around her mouth before swallowing, as she has no doubt been instructed by the fashionable Matt, who definitely mixes in the sort of circles where that sort of thing matters.
"Na Zdrowie!" I reply, taking a generous swig myself, not bothering to consult my palate, or analyse the nose or the complex notes, in my haste to imbibe its sweet, fortifying coolness.
I am not so uneducated that I'm oblivious to the fact that, wherever it originates from, the wine is delicious. Yet another benefit of our friendship, I think, acknowledging to myself that, rather too often, I have felt like Eliza Doolittle; unsophisticated, ignorant and breathtakingly gauche. Whatever I've learned is wasted on teetotal Martin of course but you can't have everything. I just hope that, if he does turn up, he won't be too judgemental.
"Are you spending much time at Martin's flat?" Libby asks, raising her voice as the volume of the music suddenly seems to have increased dramatically.
"A bit." I say carefully, trying not to shout, and I realise that my overreaction to Martin's attempts to make the flat more comfortable for me still smarts. My residual discomfort over my behaviour still lingers and it's definitely not something I want to share with anyone, even Libby.
"Do you stay the night?" She asks, leaning in towards me, gazing at me contemplatively, her chin resting on her hand.
"Can I just ask, umm, why the twenty questions?" I say, probably a little curtly, taking another generous swallow as I feel my cool demeanour begin to erode. "Because, if you're still worried that Martin's a sleaze and he's, you know, got me on some sort of roster..."
"No, nothing like that." She reassures me hastily, glancing at me over the rim of her glass as she takes a long swig. "It's just that, you know, you hear things..."
"Like what?" I demand, struggling to hide my irritation. "You've heard what? What have you heard?"
She gazes back at me, and her expression doesn't change. I have the horrible sensation of actually not wanting to hear what she has to say, and for a moment I feel sick with apprehension. Libby knows so many people that I suppose I could have predicted this might happen but, whatever she has to tell me, I'm not sure I'm ready for it. I watch as she takes a deep breath and I realise my heart is racing.
"So, umm, well, I had to drop my keys back to Holly and, to cut a long story short, it seems she and Martin have a mutual friend..."
In an instant, my breathless anticipation turns to anger, easier to bear but no easier to control, as I feel my jaw clench, provoked by a fierce sort of aggravation that makes me want to scream. Holly, of all people, someone who has proven themselves time and again to be self-serving and avaricious; why on earth would Libby take any notice of her?
"I doubt it. But carry on." I reply archly, desperately attempting to keep my voice calm, fighting my instinct to fire back at her with both barrels.
"Someone she called Johnny, I've never met him obviously but she says he's some sort of surgeon too apparently...and he knows Martin quite well."
Of course, I should have known, nothing but bloody hearsay, that old chestnut, a friend of a friend. My hands are shaking as I put my glass down on the table in front of me and I fold my arms across my chest as if to try and control the way it heaves with indignation. I suppose it could be argued that I don't know an awful lot about Martin myself really but I'd put money on the fact that whoever this Johnny is, he knows even less. More importantly, I trust Martin, not something I can actually say about Holly.
"Uh huh." I say coldly. "Don't think Martin's ever mentioned him actually..."
"The good news is, it seems your instinct was right when you said you knew he wasn't a player." She says, flashing me a smile, as if she now wants to reassure me.
I know I'm glaring at her but I can't help it. It seems like everyone, even his own parents, want to tell me what's wrong with the man I love.
"Right, so what's your point then? What is it this Johnny's said about Martin that's so bloody earth shattering then, hmm?"
"Don't be upset with me, I'm just trying to look out for you!" She replies, frowning at me. "It's just that...well I wasn't sure if you knew...it seems he's got quite a reputation for being, well...difficult; demanding and impatient, apparently."
"He's got high standards. That's one of the reasons he's so good at his job." I counter defiantly. "Anyway, you told me surgeons were always like that..."
"Alright, alright, but that's not the the only thing...it was more that this Johnny fellow did say that Martin was famous, or infamous more like, for being married to his career, with no time for anyone or anything else. I just wondered, you know, how you felt about that, about being stood up all the time, possibly always playing second fiddle..."
"He told me that too, when we first started seeing each other actually." I reply, struggling to keep a civil tongue in my head. "And, you know what, I've accepted it."
"He's not just using it as an excuse then?" She asks solemnly.
Though I feel such an intense and overwhelming need to defend him, I can't help but think I shouldn't have to, especially not to someone who has barely met him. I wonder if it's always been like this for him, everyone always having an opinion on him, talking about him behind his back, criticising him like he's an unfeeling thing, some sort of automaton and not an actual sentient being. The idea that he's spent his life being subject to this sort of meanness, this level of horrible speculation and disparagement, actually brings a lump to my throat and, as I fight to compose myself, Libby seems to take my silence as an affirmation of Martin's guilt.
"Sweetie, don't take this the wrong way but there's something else..." She says, frowning at me sadly. "And, you know, as shit as I feel saying this to you, I just have to..."
She reaches for the remaining full glasses and places one of them down heavily in front of me. I stare at it but I don't pick it up; my head is full of suddenly full of remonstrations, and I chafe at the unfairness of it all. If ever he needed a justification for his intense need for privacy, his reluctance to share anything of himself with anyone, then isn't this just it really? I hate to think what he's endured at the hands of people like this bloody know-it-all Johnny and it makes me feel ferociously protective of him, prepared to defend him at any cost, like a tigress with her cub. I recall some of his behaviours, ones I'd previously thought of as odd and now all I can do is wonder what acts of bullying, what merciless disparagement actually triggered them; my surprise at the his total commitment to the sanctity of the bathroom and that fleeting expression of terror I witnessed when I accidentally blundered in on him, clad as he was, only in a towel, shaving.
"I just wonder if, perhaps, there's another reason for things only just being fine Louisa, and maybe it's got nothing to to do with you..." I hear her say, and I struggle to refocus on her, such is the ache that I feel inside me.
"Sorry, what?" I reply vaguely, glancing across at her
"I said, I just wondered, I mean, would it explain anything, maybe throw some more light on what's happening between the two of you, ummm, if I told you he has quite a weird reputation. Like, he's well known for being a complete cold fish...I mean, seriously, the word Holly said Johnny used was, ummm, asexual."
I honestly can't believe what I'm hearing and I experience a sudden debilitating anger, a searing flash of rage at the horrible unfairness of it all, an intense blowtorch of fury ignited by that mean, selfish Holly who can't find a boyfriend of her own, and this spiteful bloke Johnny who no doubt finds his pitiful career eclipsed by Martin's genius, and even at Libby who I'm sure is just presuming I've attached myself to another Andrew; poor hopeless Louisa and her knack for finding dysfunction and ineptitude in all her lovers.
"For god's sake, Libby!" I hear myself shriek, and I stare back at her with my mouth open, for the first time in my life, dumbfounded and truly lost for words.
"Aww, sweetie, I just don't want to see you get hurt again..."
"No, Libby, just stop alright? The only reason I'm not correcting you is that you were accurate in one thing, Martin is a very private person and god knows I can understand why that might be when it appears that he's surrounded by pricks like this Johnny bloke." I tell her, vociferously and in a voice raised above the background noise. "And, yes, actually, he isn't like everybody else and, you know what? I really like that about him. I like the fact he'll never be ordinary. I like the fact that he's brilliant and quirky and unusual..."
I pause for a moment, inhaling deeply as the vehemence of my defence makes me suddenly breathless. Libby is no longer looking at me; her head is bowed and her gaze is elsewhere, as she busies herself with wiping the condensation from her glass with the tip of her index finger. We sit in relative silence for a moment, Beats International blaring through the speakers, loud voices all around us, competing to be heard. I know that Martin can be difficult, I'm aware that he's often abrupt with people, occasionally thoughtless and sometimes rude. But for people to call him cold when they have no idea about him is totally unjust. How can I defend him though, and still maintain his clearly expressed desire for total privacy? I so desperately want to elaborate to Libby, to explain to her that people only think he's cold because they've never felt the reassurance of one of his fantastic enveloping hugs. They couldn't know the security he provides by the warmth of his bare flesh against mine, they couldn't comprehend in a million years how gentle he is with me, despite his obvious size and strength, and no one would ever understand how safe I feel, how special I know what we have together is.
Martin himself would just shrug it off, probably, as oblivious as he purports to be to the opinions of others, but I just cannot let the asexual remark stand. It burns in my throat like acid reflux; a conflagration of indignation, anger and disappointment. Perhaps I could learn something from him, maybe I can consciously choose to let the resentment and rage extinguish themselves by starving them of the oxygen they require. He is probably more than content with knowing the truth himself and perhaps I should learn to be like that too, consoling myself with the facts: the authentic Martin, how much he can reveal in just a fleeting expression, the softness in his eyes, the tiny moments when I see glimpses of his vulnerability, the way my breath catches in my throat when he looks at me sometimes, so intense and full of something that seems like desire. And, most importantly of all, if he is really the aloof loner that everyone seems to describe him as, doesn't that actually make the fact that he did want me in his life even more amazing really? Doesn't that just make what we have even more important?
I glance across at Libby as I let the realisation sink in. All the unfavourable comparisons, all the self doubt, all the agonising and the miserable moments of incomprehension, all possibly just insecure Louisa, as usual, barking up the wrong tree. God, I'm an idiot; a hot-headed jumper to ridiculous conclusions; mistrustful, insecure and a pathological misconstruer of intentions. At least I'm consistent, failing to distinguish between either my best friend and the man I love when it comes to questioning their sincerity, and always allowing myself to assume the worst. I take a deep breath.
"Libby, thank you." I say, managing a tiny smile. "I appreciate your concern, I really do, but can you please just trust me when I tell you that there is absolutely nothing wrong?"
She looks up at me slowly, her expression cautious. Unconsciously, we are both leaning in toward each other, so we can make ourselves heard, and now we are only inches apart. It feels like all those times, when we would squeeze up on my pathetic little bed, and she would listen to whatever disaster had befallen me, and try to help me make sense of it. Of course she doesn't mean me any harm, I'm not even sure why I would think that she wanted anything else for me other than happiness, especially when I think of everything she has done for me.
"I just really want that to be true." She says, and I smile again, this time more broadly. "Totally selfishly of course, sweetie, I want to be sipping cocktails, sitting poolside in Sydney, without a care in the world, and that includes you..."
"Let's have a toast to that, then." I say, my exuberance beginning to return as quickly as it had evaporated, and I reach for my glass, knocking it clumsily against hers, and we drink until we find ourself eventually relieved; mollified and assuaged by the sound of our own laughter.