With the curtains drawn, mercifully, the room is still shadowy when I awake. Cautiously, I shift my head on the pillow, waiting for that sensation where your brain feels like it's crashing against the inside of your skull but, by some miracle, I seem to have avoided a thumping headache. My mouth, though, is another matter because, as my dad used to say, it is the exact likeness of the bottom of a budgie's cage. Tentatively, I reach out an arm, only to discover that I am alone and not even a trace of Martin's body heat remains among the sheets. I have no idea of the time, all I am aware of is that I need the loo, and then the blessed relief of a toothbrush.
I manage to sit up without discomfort and somehow it all seems too good to be true. Hangovers are a relatively recent occurrence and I'm beginning to understand why they're not popular but, of course, you never think about that when the waitress brings a round of Flaming Lamborghinis to the table, or you find yourself casually knocking back yet another B52 and using your finger to clumsily clean up the inside of the glass. Just thinking about the degree of drink mixing that went on last night makes me wince. It's also slowly dawning on me that I'm probably going to face a fairly judgemental Martin this morning and I suck in a big, deep, fortifying breath, in anticipation. The house is silent and pleasantly cool, and I tiptoe, a bit conscious of being starkers, across to the ensuite, clutching my empty glass and attempting to push my wild mane of hair back from my face.
Of course, he hears the sound of the running water, and I've only just climbed back under the sheets when he appears in the doorway, filling the space and exuding tacit disapproval, arms folded like a reproachful, yet still madly attractive, behemoth. Even clad in a tee shirt and boxer shorts he seems to, wordlessly, claim a sort of moral superiority, but when he raises an eyebrow at me and enquires, slightly facetiously, after my health, I can't help myself and I smile back at him, brazenly, attempting to project myself as a lot more spritely than I actually feel.
"I'm fine actually Martin." I tell him, tossing my head confidently. "So, you know, no need to give me a lecture on the evils of drink, if that's what you're winding up to..."
"No..." He replies, clearing his throat as a flicker of something almost resembling amusement passes across his face. "No, that would seem somewhat churlish...and, umm...hypocritical...possibly, under the circumstances."
He takes a few steps forward, and hovers at the end of the bed, his expression becoming rather endearingly unsure. I imagine that he wishes he could reach for a chart or a clipboard, and pretend to immerse himself in the contents; anything to disguise his shyness, I suppose. We're lovers, sharing an intense sort of intimacy yet even so he still approaches me now with a perplexing hesitancy, like an actor with stage-fright or a child tying himself in knots, in two minds about taking his place on Santa Claus' knee.
"Do you feel up to eating breakfast?" He says gently. "I think you should..."
"Yes." I lie, with misleading brightness. "I'm quite hungry actually."
"Right. Good. Umm, is there anything in particular you would like?"
I bite my lip but it's not enough to suppress a smile. His expression is so serious, as if we are discussing a matter of the utmost importance; as usual, so earnest, and thoughtful, and grave.
"Oh, god, yes, Martin! French toast!" I tell him, enthusiastically, clasping my hands together excitedly. "And fried banana! I love fried banana! I don't suppose you have any maple syrup?"
"What?" He replies and his voice is almost a whimper. "No, I..."
"And bacon, all crispy, fried in dripping!" I exclaim, and I wait for the horror to become apparent on his face; to see him stare at me with such disappointment, in total and utter despair, as he ponders my appalling diet and my terrible life choices.
But it seems when his expression does change, it is to one of a man who suddenly believes he might, this morning at least, have my measure.
"Right." He says, narrowing his eyes and gazing at me appraisingly. "And how about a nice, lukewarm gin and tonic to wash it all down with?"
I feel my chin twitch as my stomach turns over, and I swallow hard as my eyes begin to water but I manage to maintain my composure and, after a moment, I smile at him sweetly.
"Just a cup of tea...thank you, Martin."
He lifts his chin at me and I'm sure I see it again; the ghost of a smile, a slight gleam in his eye, as he holds my gaze.
"And some toast, I think." He says eventually, and he turns away, retrieving my dressing gown from the back of the en suite door and laying it across my lap, leaving me under no illusion that his embargo on breakfast in bed is absolutely non-negotiable.
I watch him walk away and I call out after him, inevitably, since I simply can't bear for him to have the last word, as much as he always wants to.
"Anyone ever told you that you have great legs?" I tell him, and I mean it. I honestly don't understand why he seems so intent on covering himself up all the time.
"No." I hear him reply, in a matter-of-fact tone, as he disappears through the door, but I notice him pause, almost imperceptibly as he replies.
I smile to myself, yet a really dismal thought suddenly occurs to me; I bet no one's ever paid Martin enough compliments thats he's ever grown comfortable in receiving them. I'm sure he must have deserved his fair share; at school he must have been a high achiever, I can't believe he wasn't an A-stream pupil so someone, somewhere must have been encouraging him, mustn't they, even if I find it hard to believe it was his parents. Was it Joan Norton, perhaps? Was she praising him, and recognising his achievements, even though she was at such a distance? Did he have anyone to take him under their wing, fostering his talent, and championing his abilities, were there teachers and role models that inspired him in some way to become the person he is today? Or is he, as I'm starting to believe quite strongly, a self-made man, a product of his own strength of character and determination to succeed, despite his vindictive mother and disinterested father.
I wonder how it was for him at school, to be so gifted intellectually; was he frustrated, was he bored? I'm especially interested because we've covered a little bit in our coursework about the unique demands of teaching, and nurturing really, the abilities of highly intelligent kids. Rather depressingly, I can only picture Martin as the negative case study; a shy, introverted little boy, isolated, unsupported, and misunderstood, battling with bullies and cane-wielding house-masters, and attempting to cope with it all without any scrap of parental love and encouragement.
Last night had been the first time I think I'd understood, I mean properly understood, just what an extraordinary man he is. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've been swept up a bit by his professional demeanour, how much I loved seeing him in his element, important and so completely in charge. And confidence is attractive, isn't it, as long as it's based on something like skill and ability, rather than just an over-inflated ego, like rather too many blokes I've had the misfortune of encountering in my time. Of course, he didn't elaborate on the reason for our cancelled dinner but, eventually when the subject of Bucky came up, and noticing Martin's reticence, I'd put two and two together. Just to be sure, I'd pressed Libby for more details, as we'd waited in the queue for the ladies, knowing full well that Martin wasn't about to be any more forthcoming and, funnily enough, she'd misunderstood me and, for some reason, she assumed that I was actually really concerned about Bucky.
"Don't worry about him, the guy's bloody indestructible." She'd said, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I heard his manager on the radio and apparently the best surgeons in London operated on him, so he's going to be fine, the tosspot."
I'd smiled at her, as if she'd reassured me, but of course I couldn't really care less about the patient, I was still adjusting to what she'd said; filling in the blanks around Martin and trying to assimilate this new detail into what I already knew and understood about him. Whatever way I thought about it, it still seemed to make me almost shiver, and it was just the oddest feeling really; that he would so effectively downplay his achievements, and his ability, to the point where the only time he ever mentioned his work was the negative impact it would have on the time we could spend together. And of course, the disapproval of my eating habits but, to be honest, you didn't need a medical degree to notice how rubbish my diet was. Yet, it did all seem to fit; the way he took control with Piers, the way everyone deferred to him, the comments from the few colleagues I'd met, even Chris Parson's endless mirth at his expense.
"May I introduce you to Mr. Martin Ellingham, the greatest surgeon of his generation, as disdainful as ever of the mere mortals that surround him..." Chris had said, and I'd even laughed, amused by the severity of Martin' expression as we'd claimed a table at that infamous farewell do for his dad.
God, now I think about it, another experience that must have been so traumatic for Martin yet he'd refused to discuss it, changing the subject every time I'd brought it up. To have been so disparaged by his mother after everything he's achieved must just be so awful and so hurtful especially when it was just so completely unfair. It was clear, too, that his dad had an ego the size of Truro Cathedral so perhaps seeing his son's career threaten to eclipse his own was just too much for him too. Neither of them seemed the sort to rejoice in their son's success really and so his parents, and their indescribably horrible behaviour, become just another piece of what was becoming a rather bewildering puzzle, with Martin in the middle of it all.
From the kitchen, I hear him call my name and, rather reluctantly actually, I drag myself out of bed, throwing on my dressing gown and wandering toward the kitchen, steeling myself against the aroma of whatever he is preparing, utterly determined not to reveal that I am now sort of awash with nausea. The table is set rather formally for breakfast, even down to the neatly folded napkins; perfectly cooked pieces of toast lined up evenly in a silver toast rack, and all of the cutlery new and matching. He glances over his shoulder as I approach, and I choke back a giggle at the sight of him; so solemn, so focused, yet rather hilariously attired in a stripey apron, neatly secured atop his boxer shorts. The view is actually quite irresistible and I can't stop myself from sauntering up behind him, and sliding my arms around his waist.
"Umm, Louisa, do you really think that's wise? I'm...I'm dealing with, ahh, scalding hot materials here..." He says, rather reproachfully, raising his arms in apparent alarm, lifting the frying pan from top of the cooker quite dramatically.
I shake my head as I realise I'm encountering yet another Martin Ellingham rule. No empty calories, no untidiness, no sneaking up on him in the bathroom, no touching him below the waist in public, no matter how discrete I think I'm being and, now apparently, no approaching him when he's frying. I sigh theatrically but, in a way, I'm happy to abandon him for a seat at the table, as the smell of the mushroom omelette he appears to be preparing is just a little too aromatic for me to retain my phlegmatic air. As I butter my toast I watch as he neatly turns his breakfast on to a pristine white plate; his omelette, almost a whole cup of lightly sautéed spinach, and something that looks like salsa. He enquires politely if I would care to try some but I demur, reiterating how totally brilliant I'm feeling but unwavering in my desire for plain toast. He nods and lowers himself into the chair opposite, frowning in deep concentration as he twists the pepper shaker across his meal. Every action Martin undertakes appears so deliberate; his tiny espresso cup placed just so, the little flourish of his wrist as he seasons his omelette, even his square-shouldered, perfect posture as he tucks into his breakfast. As quirky and endearing as I find him, it does strike me that what seems like his strict adherence to routine, the dignity and decorum with which he approaches every meal, does somehow seem like the ritual of someone a hell of a lot older than just twenty nine years old.
I pour my tea and, as I do so, I realise I am being observed. As seedy as I feel, I will never give him the satisfaction of being right, or self-righteous, which is infinitely worse. I tear into my toast with enthusiasm, holding his gaze as I chew and, eventually with some difficulty, swallow. He dabs at his mouth with his napkin and picks up his cup, narrowing his eyes at me as he pauses with it in mid air.
"You look a bit pale. Are you feeling unwell?" He says, with what seems like a hint of suspicion.
"I'm fine." I lie, flashing him a brilliant smile, cursing his observational skills, irritated by the disconcerting penetration of his gaze.
"Really?" He replies, his tone clearly one of disbelief and, much to my annoyance, he reaches across the table and slides his fingers around my wrist.
"Your pulse is regular." He says, after a minute, frowning at me in concentration. "Are you nauseous?"
His tone gives him away, that slightly superior air, the judgemental stance I've been expecting.
"A little." I reply, smiling at him coyly. "Probably just a touch of morning sickness though, nothing to worry about..."
His cutlery clatters onto his plate and, as I watch, for the merest split second, his eyes become as wide as saucers. In that moment, the room seems so silent that I can hear him swallow; a breathless, raspy gulp that I actually find so satisfying and so amusing that I let out rather a triumphant snort. I watch as the terror slowly ebbs from his face, and he frowns at me as I reach out and pat his arm reassuringly.
"Just joking Martin, it was just a joke..." I tell him, struggling not to smirk at his attempts to regather his composure, as he mutters and glances at me, rather darkly.
"Yes, I see. Very funny." He growls, fumbling for his fork, as he wipes his mouth again, this time with quite a lot of vigour.
"If you look up terrified in the dictionary, there's totally just a picture of your face just then!"
"Is there?" He replies, curtly, glaring at me.
Now who looks a bit pale, I think to myself, brimming with the joy of momentarily gaining the ascendancy, buoyed by having distracted him from his shameless scrutinising of me, to the point where he now stares fixedly at his plate. We eat in silence for a few minutes, until I've had enough, weighed down by a pang of guilt, a niggling remorse at having clearly horrified him, and I reach out my foot and seek out his leg, in a vaguely conciliatory way.
"So, what are you going to to today?" I ask him, sweetly, running my toes lightly up and down his calf, as he glances at me, his expression like a worried calf, all wall-eyed and anxious.
"I...ahh, just the usual. Nothing exciting, I'm afraid. Dry cleaners, supermarket...umm, did you...did you have something you wanted to do?"
"No, not particularly. " I say, breezily. "I just thought that it might be nice if, you know we could spend some time together...it doesn't have to be anything special."
"Yes." He agrees and, while he's not ever overtly enthusiastic, by Martin's standards there is some degree of warmth, a hint of eagerness that's definitely encouraging.
I reach for the newspaper that sits, neatly folded, at the end of the table. Martin has clearly already read it, which explains what he's been doing while I've been sleeping off the night before. Eating breakfast together at a table, reading The Guardian, and discussing the day's potential; it all seems so civilised, so grown-up, so middle-class, like something off the telly.
"Do you mind if I do the crossword?" I ask him, and he replies as a series of affirmative grunts, anticipating my next question by leaping to his feet and returning within moments with a pen it seems he's gone and fetched from his office. No ordinary old biro for Martin, of course, and I smile up at him as he hands me a lovely, shiny, lightweight object which, on closer inspection, proves to be a Dunhill ballpoint; an elegant, gold plated work of art.
I stare at it, feeling almost like it's too nice to use and, rather ridiculously, even frightened that I might break it.
"A graduation gift from Aunt Ruth." He says, uncomfortably. "The, umm, the ink won't run on the newsprint."
"Oh, right." I say, flashing him a grateful smile. "Thank you."
As I search for then entertainment section, we briefly discuss the weather, mainly the forecast of a wet day which sort of puts paid to my idea of a walk. I don't like to mention that, in all probability, I will need a nap, just in case it prompts more disapproval, another reproachful sigh and her more obvious despair at my lackadaisical student lifestyle. Pensive as I ponder the clues on the page, I only just stop myself in time, as the end of his magnificent writing implement hovers less than an eight of an inch from my teeth. Pens, pencils, folders, books; I'm a chronic unconscious nibbler, only this time it could have ended rather disastrously.
"Ten Letters. The largest lake in England..." I say, thoughtfully.
"Windermere."
"I knew that!" I exclaim. "God, give me a chance, will you?"
"I thought you were asking?"
"Well, yes. But I knew the answer."
"Good. Then we both knew..." He says, slightly crossly. "So, go on then, write it in."
"I will!" I reply, half laughing, half annoyed, as I see him watching my pen hover over the empty squares.
"W-I-N..."
"Yes, alright, clever clogs. Thank you. I can spell it."
"Mmm." He says, glancing at me, clearly unconvinced.
I pour myself another cuppa, and chip away at the rest of the clues, happy that Martin seems content with whatever magazine he is reading. I peak across at it with interest but, even upside down, the illustrations are revolting, really too much for the slightly delicate state I find myself in, and I look away quickly.
"Was Tiberius a first century Roman Emperor?" I ask him.
"Yes."
"Okay, then what's a three letter word, ending in U. The currency of Romania."
"Leu. L-E-U"
"How do you even know that? Have you been to Romania?"
"Why on earth would I want to go to Romania?"
"I don't know, Martin. A conference maybe?"
"In Romania?" He asks incredulously. "Until six months ago, they were a Communist state."
"Okay, forget I mentioned it...what about this one..a Persian rug...G, something, something B, and two blanks..."
He flicks his magazine, slightly impatiently, and frowns at me and, for a moment, I wonder if I've annoyed him. I look down at my tea and I realise I'm holding my breath.
"Gabbeh." He says finally. "G-A-B-B-E-H"
"Excellent. Well done, Martin." I reply with relief, smiling at him as I scribble down in his answer, overjoyed to fill in a few more squares, and find my own answers to clues that have suddenly become obvious.
"Mm." He says, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, and assuming what rather irritably appears to be a slightly smug demeanour; lips slightly pursed and eyebrows raised, gazing at his article down his nose.
In the end, I am faced with two unanswerable clues and, to my frustration, one of them just has to be a bloody medical question, doesn't it? I stare at the clues, hoping for some divine inspiration but all I have are vowels and a growing inferiority complex.
"You're sighing a lot." He says, reproachfully, as if I am irritating him.
"Am I?" I reply. "I can't imagine why."
"Umm, perhaps I can help?" He says, glancing down at my page and I find myself, rather childishly, covering my work with my arm.
"I see." He says and he give me such a look of resignation, it is as if I have disappointed him beyond measure, and I suddenly feel rather infantile and ridiculous.
"Well, you do sort of take over..." I say, a bit pitifully, in a vague attempt to justify myself.
"Let me try and understand." He says curtly, and I can hear the frustration in his tone. "So you are saying that I should pretend not to know the answer when you ask me a question?"
I bite my lip and I realise that I'm as bad as everyone else when it comes to resenting how clever Martin is. Half an hour ago I was condemning his parents for not encouraging him, lamenting the fact that everyone was probably threatened by his intelligence, and here am I, being even worse; asking for his help and then being irked when he provides it.
"No, Martin, I'm not saying that." I reply, sighing heavily. "I know you probably don't mean to but the way you always know all the answers...well, it just makes me feel a bit, I don't know, stupid somehow."
"Louisa, if I thought you were stupid, we certainly wouldn't be sitting here having breakfast together..."
After a moment's consideration, I decide to take his reply as a positive, an affirmation that my intelligence is at a level he finds acceptable, I suppose. However, I'm realising that yet another downside to Martin's unfamiliarity with receiving compliments is his apparent unwillingness to dish them out either, at least in a way that makes me feel vaguely encouraged.
"Let's just finish the blimmin' thing, shall we?" I say, a little churlishly, tempted to ask him the hardest question first, before thinking how poorly that reflects on me, and resigning myself to his quietly triumphant response.
"Smallest bone in the human body...S..."
"Stapes." He interrupts firmly. "It's, umm, it's in your inner ear."
"Yes. That seems to fit." I say briskly, as if there were any question that he might not be correct. "Last one, starts with S...the part of a knight's body armour that covers the foot..."
"Sabaton. S-A-B-A-T-O-N."
I start to write the letters in and, suddenly, I realise he's wrong and I'm horrified to hear myself let out a jeering sort of laugh.
"Ha! No! It's eight letters Martin so it can't be Sab...What did you say it was? Sabaton?" I cry, waving the pen at him as if I am accusing him of some terrible crime, stabbing it into the air in his general direction.
"Right." He replies, lifting his chin at me haughtily, and snatching his ballpoint lightly from my grasp as I glare at him indignantly.
While I'm distracted, he slides the folded newspaper from in front of me, before fixing me with a bit of a belligerent and rather determined expression.
"Solleret, which I think you will agree has eight letters...S-O-L-L-E-R-E-T." He growls, scrawling the letters across the spaces with a defiant flourish, before raising an eyebrow at me and tossing the crossword back down in front of me. "And that was the last clue. How very disappointing."
He glares at me but I can tell his heart isn't in it and, though the temptation to sulk is enormous, I find myself laughing.
"Of course, two names for some stupid ancient shoe and you know both of them. I don't even know why I'm surprised really. How on earth do you know that?"
I see his face change, and he busies himself with unfolding his magazine, absently running his fingers down the spine to flatten it before placing it to one side.
"Umm, one summer, when I was quite young, Auntie Joan, and Uncle Phil of course, took me to Tintagel and... I suppose I developed a brief fascination with the legend of King Arthur..."
He looks so self-conscious about his confession, sheepish even which is actually so sad and really unnecessary when you consider what a normal part of growing up that sort of interest is.
"Yes Martin, though most kids might just run around with a plastic sword for a bit." I say gently, reaching out and placing my hand over his. "Only a very select few might memorise the details of what they wore, even down to the multiple names for bits of armour..."
"Mm." He says quietly, glancing up at me.
"What was it that you found so appealing? Can you remember?"
"I don't think it was any one thing in particular, perhaps there was something about the chivalric code that, even to a ten year old seemed important. It was a difficult time I suppose, I was...umm..I was already becoming conscious of my father's behaviour...I was embarrassed by him and though, in retrospect, I had no idea what he was actually up to, I'd already decided that I didn't want to be like him."
"I think that shows quite impressive cognitive skills for a ten year old actually Martin. You obviously were precocious in developing your complex thinking ability." I tell him, and my heart feels suddenly full of love for the child that he must have been then.
"You must have been an amazing little boy. I'm sort of sorry I didn't know you then." I add, smiling at him, wishing I'd somehow been able to protect him.
"Well, I'm afraid you did, umm, even if you were too young to remember it." He says. "It was only a few days after we'd been up to Tintagel, that I was back in the village and I happened to discover the filthiest, feistiest toddler imaginable, playing in a drain..."
"And so you got to try out your chivalry by rescuing me?" I ask him, grinning as I intertwine my fingers with his.
He stares thoughtfully at me for a moment, his face rather endearingly sweet.
"I suppose I should be grateful that my ten year old self had the presence of mind to take you back to the village or my, ahh...evenings might be considerably less interesting these days."
"Then I should be grateful, too, Martin, that you didn't leave me to drown...or worse..."
He looks at me, cautious and slightly defiant.
"You know, I even shouted at your mother when we took you home. I stood at your gate and told her what a terrible parent she was. I expected to be in terrible hot water with Auntie Joan afterwards but she never said a word."
"I wish a few more people had shouted at her actually. Because, clearly, being a good mum was never her priority. The older I get, the more I understand how lucky I was to survive so relatively unscathed. Some of the stuff we study in child psychology is a bit close to the bone sometimes.."
"I hated leaving you there." He says quietly. "It bothered me for a long time because I never knew what happened to you."
"Why didn't you just ask Mrs. Norton? She'd have told you that I was still around, making a nuisance of myself."
"Umm, my father stopped me having any contact with Joan and Phil not long afterwards. And, to be honest, Cornwall just became a distant memory..."
"Oh Martin, I didn't know that! How awful for all of you!"
He pulls his hand away, rather abruptly and, in an instant, his expression changes.
"Like King Arthur, best condemned to the realm of ancient history." He says briskly and, just like that, our conversation is clearly at an end.
I'm honestly a bit disappointed because I love it when it feels like he's opening up to me, especially about his childhood which is an area I find especially fascinating and compelling about him. But I'm learning not to push him too hard, despite my own curiosity, and so I content myself with thanking him for breakfast and, standing up, I start to clear my dishes away. Having something in my stomach seems to have done the trick; tea and toast, as always, a life saver for me and I feel a hundred times better already.
"Mind if I have the first shower?" I ask, watching as he drains his espresso, placing the cup neatly back on its saucer, so ridiculously tiny in his enormous hands.
"Of course not." He replies, and I smile at him as I pass; funny how, for a minute, it feels as if we are just like an old married couple, used to negotiating every eventuality calmly and predictably.
I can imagine that someone like Libby would find this an incredibly dismal and depressing scenario but I'm surprised how calming and reassuring just being ordinary together feels. The legs of his chair screech against the floor as he pushes himself away from the table and, as I put the dishes in the sink, he tells me gently to leave them and to go and get ready. As I pass him again, I put my hand on his shoulder and bend down to kiss him, pressing my lips affectionately to that little spot on his neck that I always find irresistible.
"Thanks for coming to the pub last night." I breathe into his ear as I stand up, and he turns his head to look at me, his tousled hair and wide eyes giving him such a boyishness, a naive sort of innocence that I find utterly adorable. "I know it's not your thing, Martin, but it actually meant a lot to me, you know?"
"Mm." He says, clearing his throat. "I will admit that I wasn't looking forward to it..."
My face breaks into a broad smile and I gaze back at him, only slightly self conscious as I recall my more high-spirited moments of the evening.
"I know." I say, a little breathlessly, unable to look away, because somehow he looks different in this light, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, his hair uncombed, a hint of that elusive smile once again returning to his face. "I could tell."
In a plain tee shirt, casual and slightly dishevelled, he could be anyone; a bloke in the park on a Saturday afternoon, cheering on his team, or a member of the liberal arts faculty, striding up and down as he delivers a lecture on social justice, or, with that golden skin and blond hair, he could even be a sun-bleached surfer, sinking a pint and warming himself in the sun at the tables outside the Crab, like a grey seal on the rocks at Godrevy Point. As much as I adore his usual sophistication, and I do really love the way he dresses, seeing him like this just makes him seem all the more desirable, like he's sharing a side of himself that not many get to see; a Martin that is informal and unconstrained, and even unshaven.
"Let's just say...as it happens, there was some consolation." He says, in a low quiet voice, reaching out his arm and closing his hand around my wrist.
I'm relieved that, this time, he's not actually checking my pulse and I give in instantly to the gentlest of pressure as he draws me toward him. Leaning against the back of the chair, he seems momentarily content to just gaze at me, as if he wants desperately to say something but the words won't come to him. I smile at him a little self-consciously, because I am aware that I do tend to push his boundaries as a form of entertainment, something that I realise isn't alway the kindest thing to do.
"I think I can guess the parts that really bothered you but it might be useful to know the bits that, you know, you found made up for all the other discomfort..." I say, teasingly, grinning at him.
"It wasn't obvious?" He asks, squinting at me and I'm ridiculously delighted to see a glint in his eye.
"Umm, yes, some parts were very obvious, Martin, but you know, there's still a lot of grey area..."
"Ah." He says thoughtfully reaching for my free arm and pulling me, without resistance, onto his lap. "Well, umm, I liked it when you did this..in the pub...although, if I were to come up before a judge, in a court of law, I would, of course, deny it..."
He slides his hands down to my hips, pulling me forward and I recognise the expression on his face, the merest gleam of appraisal that would seem imperceptible to anyone else but I now know it to be Martin's smirk, suggestive and even the tiniest bit wicked. Holding my gaze, he runs his hands slowly across my thighs, the only barrier between us the thin silk gown that is only barely managing to maintain my modesty. When he is like this, I find him completely irresistible, and not only do I wish so fervently for more moments like this, when he is so relaxed and even vaguely amused, but I so badly want to understand what I did to contribute to his apparent lightness of spirit. It's like, together, we escape from everything that's ever held us back, ever made either of us feel unloved and unworthy, and I know, right now, as Martin slips his hands beneath my robe, caressing my bare skin in a way that makes me feel like the most desirable woman ever, I simply couldn't care less about my negligent parents, wherever they are.
Cupping his jaw with my hands, and, smiling at him, I lean in and kiss him, leisurely and unhurried, hoping that I'm wordlessly able to tell him how I feel. I have such an intense sensation of happiness, an idea of both of us just being normal, like couples you see in the movies; madly in love, and just fascinated by each other. Without even the semblance of an awkward fumbling, one-handedly, he unties my belt; the fact that it was secured in a double bow, and he is unsighted, clearly presenting no challenge to him. With my hips released, I twist myself sideways and swing my leg over his lap; within moments I am shaking my arms free of the sleeves and my robe is discarded, unceremoniously, onto the floor. There's a moment, the barest instant when he gazes at me and, where I'm used to seeing him hesitant, and cautious and unsure, all I see now is an intensity in his eyes that creates a delicious warmth inside me, and reassures me that he wants this as much as I do. I pull his shirt over his head, tousling his hair even more and I can't help grinning at him, as completely gorgeous to me as he now appears.
The feel of his skin against mine is divine, his touch makes me gasp, his mouth on my throat, my breast in his hand, his thumb stroking my nipple until I barely remember to breathe, my mouth dry as I gasp his name, telling him how badly I need him.
"Here?" He says, incredulously, his voice low and hoarse.
"God, yes." I implore him, looking down and concentrating on attempting to shift the elasticated waist band of his boxers, somewhat hopelessly.
I need him with an intensity that's almost terrifying. Every nerve in my body seems charged with an electric current, compounding into an exquisite sort of ache that has gone beyond any rational thinking and can only be satiated by him. I shift my weight, and as I do, I press down against him, smiling at him as I slide almost imperceptibly backwards and forwards. It only serves to exacerbate me, to push me even closer to goading him into action, begging him to do something but he remains oddly motionless so I shift again. He groans but his shorts remain firmly in place and I'm gobsmacked when his hands slip from my chest and rest lightly, and rather depressingly, on my waist.
"What's the matter?" I ask him, with a sort of choking desperation and he gazes back at me, blinking with confusion.
"My dry cleaning." He says, plaintively.
"What?" I ask him, leaning back and staring at him in utter disbelief. I want to laugh, but nothing, not a sound comes out of my strangled throat, instead I gape at him, open mouthed, breathing as heavily as if I'd just run a sub-four minute mile.
"They close at twelve!" He croaks, and I don't think I've ever felt more confused or incredulous in all my life.
"Martin Ellingham! Don't you dare! Don't even think about getting out of that chair!" I squawk at him, horrified and disappointed in equal measure, as my hands go up to my head and I pull my hair back in a flailing gesture of frustration.
And then I see it, his lips part, and there's a glimpse of white teeth, a rounding of his cheeks and the reappearance of his deep angular dimples, and I realise he's taken me in hook, line and sinker.
"If you look up frustrated in the dictionary..." He says, raising an eyebrow at me and, as much as I hate being bested by him, there's something quite captivating about the expression on his face and I start, completely and utterly helplessly, to laugh.