(I'm sorry if I'm not able to provide quite the flow of chapters that I have previously but, if it's any consolation, our new dam looks lovely, the new grass I sowed has come up beautifully, and I finally got to plant the hundreds of Japanese Iris I've been dividing and potting up for the past five years. Autumn is a fantastic season here. Hot sunny days, no rain and cool nights for sleeping. I really must make the most of it. (-: )
It's my turn to watch him sleep; lying on my side, I'm lost in a sort of dreamy contemplation, my mind blissfully vacant, my limbs ethereal. Most of the bedding is nowhere to be seen but we have both managed to slip partly beneath a tangled sheet, and I smile to myself at Martin's innate ability to retain his modesty. It's still vaguely light outside, though dusk is almost upon us; the gloaming, the hour at which Saturday night London comes alive. So often the high point of the week for me, I couldn't even begin to count how many times I've stood in front of the mirror getting ready for a big night out, applying my eyeliner, perfecting my look. Funny though, none of that matters now, as I think about the last twenty four hours; the recollection of an experience so sublime that I momentarily forget to breathe. Compared to the swinging pendulum of drama and dreariness that has often been my life, I can only describe this as a time of ambient perfection, a brilliant day culminating in a bit of slow, delicious, late afternoon gratification.
And, now, there's something surprisingly tranquil about watching him sleep; defenceless and vulnerable, his expression almost angelic. Everything I feel about him seems to fill me up; a warmth that seeks out the hollows and low points inside me, inflating me with an intense sort of giddiness, a buoyancy strong enough that my limbs seem to want to float. I recall the lyrics of a song, a description of laying in the afterglow that I'd never really understood til I'd found myself here in this flat but now I understand that I've been chasing this feeling most of my life. It's more than just feeling loved, more than feeling secure, even more than knowing the yin and yang of desire and satisfaction. Tenuous and ephemeral, whatever it is envelops me with the weight of a heavy velvet cloak yet it is so gossamer light that a word or a sound can volatilise it instantly.
Is this how love really feels for other people too? Is chasing this feeling the reason Libby is following Matt to the other side of the world? Or do I experience this intensity, this fierce, breathtaking connection because, inside me and ignored, I had such a void to be filled? I reach out my hand, needing to touch him, running my fingers lightly through his hair, a sensation that I love. I don't know why, but I adore the juxtaposition; the plush, blonde softness at such odds with severity of the cut; tactile and inviting yet so completely practical and no-nonsense. He makes a soft, low sort of sound and shifts slightly but his eyes remain tightly closed and I stifle an impatient giggle as I fight the temptation to wake him; idly contemplating the methods I might choose. The world is a serious place for Martin, and that includes the bedroom. I accept that, it would be ridiculous not to, especially as I am certainly the significant beneficiary, but sometimes I really wish we could just have a laugh together, as much for his sake as mine, really. But spontaneity and light heartedness just don't seem to come as naturally to him, unlike me, he just doesn't seem to need moments of joviality to balance his otherwise intense and dedicated focus.
Without thinking, I slide across to him, nibbling on his earlobe, before slipping the wet tip of my tongue into his ear until I feel him squirm. Wordlessly, his arms wrap around me and he holds me for a few seconds, my face squashed against his neck, before he finally growls my name; a long, exasperated sigh, the sound of which suddenly transports me, and I'm back in Portwenn. A recalcitrant schoolgirl, pulling his leg, telling myself that it was because he was so easy to tease, and testing him; taking the mickey at every opportunity. In hindsight, in my childish way, of course I'd wanted his attention, I needed something like the novelty of him to distract me at that awful time and, god, I'd well and truly had my head turned, that's for sure. Who can say how things might have been different if he'd chosen the weekend before to visit his aunt, or if even if he'd refused to help, climbed back into his car and simply left us all to it?
"Martin..." I say, as I'm overwhelmed by a thought that arrives out of nowhere.
I reach for a pillow and tuck it under my head, rolling on to my side and gazing at him as he stretches, his eyes still firmly shut. He yawns and, as he does, he flings an arm up and covers his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Hmm." He grunts impassively, as if he is fighting to wake himself, swallowing repeatedly as if his mouth is dry.
"That weekend in Portwenn." I say, thoughtfully, running my fingers down the side of his ribs and his back up again. "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"
I notice his eyes flicker open and he sighs, not overtly but I notice it.
"Umm." He says cautiously, after what seems like ages, his voice flattened by sleep. "I suppose I didn't...I didn't realise it was important."
I hear myself snort with disbelief and, in that instant, I find myself wrestling with the sudden return of old hurts and indignations, all over again. I'm aware that pleasantries aren't a priority for Martin but how can you be a functioning adult in society and not understand the importance of basic politeness.
"Why wouldn't it be important to me? That you said goodbye?" I reply slightly impatiently, frowning at him in disbelief.
He inclines his head to look at me and I realise that he is completely lost, his expression one of complete bafflement, as if I'd just addressed him in Latin. Actually, when I think about it, knowing Martin, he's probably fluent in Latin so perhaps a better analogy would be that he's as bewildered as if I'd just started speaking to him in tongues.
"Would it be? Or wouldn't it be?" He says, confusedly.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, what did you just ask me?"
"I asked you why you thought it wasn't important." I say, and my tone is suddenly a bit tart.
"I..I really don't know you want me to say." He replies, frowning at me helplessly. "It was a long time ago."
"Martin, I just wanted to know why you thought that leaving without saying goodbye to me was acceptable." I say, taking a deep breath and trying to get myself under control, as his obtuseness begins to frustrate me. "I suppose I don't understand...did it never occur to you that, you know, you and I...well, we'd formed a sort of bond."
"A bond?"
"Yes." I snap at him, feeling ridiculously crushed. "Though, judging by the look on your face, the bond was pretty one-sided..."
He stares at me, aghast, his mouth open and his eyes wrinkled in disbelief; the face you pull when someone pushes into your queue, or helps themselves to your chips without asking, or even puts four sugars in their tea.
"Umm..It never occurred to me..." He says hesitantly. "I just thought, I suppose, that I was simply a bystander. I did what my aunt asked, umm, and delivered you to your new home. Louisa, really, I had no idea that anything went any deeper for you...than...than that really."
"Well, actually, it did!" I reply indignantly. "A lot deeper. But since you were only doing what Mrs. Norton asked you, it makes sense that you'd just dump me and run, like you were delivering a sodding pizza..."
"What? That's hardly fair!" He says a little shrilly, and now he glowers at me, equally as indignant. "My memory is vague but I do seem to recall that there were people everywhere. Standing room only and you the centre of attention. And, you seemed to be relishing it, smiling at everyone is how I remember..."
"I was just being polite!" I squawk at him testily. "I didn't want anyone else's attention, I only wanted yours!"
He shakes his head at me, slowly and incredulously, and, even if it's not what he means, it feels dismissive, as if I am still that inconsequential child; a mere irritant, an unpleasant task to be undertaken under duress and then quickly forgotten.
"But of course." I add bitterly. " You didn't notice..."
"Louisa! I think you're being a bit unreasonable. Please don't tell me you're upset with me now over some alleged trespass of so long ago. You were a child, and a virtual stranger. What was I supposed to do?"
"I don't know Martin, how about something along the lines of 'Goodbye Louisa.'"
"Would that really have made such a difference to you? Really? Two words?" He barks at me in exasperation.
"Yes actually, those two words would have made an enormous difference to me, as it happens." I tell him, heatedly. "For a start, they might have stopped me searching the house trying to find you, might have stopped me, you know, waiting up til all hours in the hope you might come back that night. Who knows, might have even stopped me stupidly pining for weeks and weeks and weeks until I finally got it into my thick skull that I didn't actually mean anything to you at all..."
"Louisa.." he interrupts breathlessly, his expression aghast as he stares at me. "Honestly, I had no idea...that I had any...umm...significance to you whatsoever. No idea at all."
"Well you did. And don't get a fat head about it either. As you pointed out, I was just a stupid kid." I say, lifting my chin and gazing back at him haughtily.
"I have never said you were stupid, Louisa, that's grossly unfair. And, umm, needlessly inflammatory, if I may say so." He replies, and his tone is reprimanding. "And, in my own defence, umm, I should point out that there was...I mean...I did have rather a lot to deal with myself at that time...I considered that I was leaving you in safe hands."
In a flood of unpleasantness, it all comes rushing back; an avalanche of insecurity, that feeling of being gauche and unsophisticated and unable to compete. The horror of the moment when the red haired woman arrived; the girlfriend that ruined the weekend for everyone and the one I always assumed he rushed back to London to be with. Up until she'd turned up, and almost bashed the back door down, I'd had Martin to myself and his calm, unemotional solicitude had been exactly what I needed. I can barely remember her name but I recall her presence very clearly, and especially how I took such an intense dislike to her. I'd been too young and naive, with no point of reference, to imagine them together in any detail back then but now I felt a sickening stab of jealously. Just the thought of she and Martin being lovers induces an actual wave of nausea in me and I stare at him feeling suddenly overwhelmed with misery, unable to get the idea out of my mind, him doing the same things to her as he does to me.
"Edith." I say, my tone so clearly wounded and accusatory. "You had to get back to her in a hurry...to patch things up, I suppose."
"What?" He replies, horrified. "Where does this rubbish come from Louisa, hmm? Why would you even say that?"
"Are you saying it's not true?" I demand, and I'm appalled that my eyes seem to be pricking with tears.
"That's exactly what I'm saying. Because, for the record, I never spoke to her again after that weekend. I don't think I even ever saw her again, if you want to know..." He replies coldly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and staring at the wall opposite as if he tries to regain his composure.
Turning his back on me just seems to make everything worse though, and now the tears really do begin to well. And, it's a bit frightening too, the way something I'd convinced myself was buried and forgotten has just come so rapidly to the surface, daring me to lance it like an enormous, throbbing boil. Why is it, when, I'm in the greatest need of reassurance, I always seem to drive everyone away?
"When I realised I was never going to see you again, I cried for hours." I say quietly. "I was really really upset. Karen gave me sunglasses to wear the next day, my eyes were so red. I didn't know what to do..."
I hear him sigh, as he rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his face.
"Umm, cold tea bags applied as a compress." He says flatly, "For future reference, the caffeine, ahh, helps reduce puffiness in the..."
"Not about the swollen eyes! About you!" I growl at him in disbelief. "Have you not been listening?"
"I just don't know what you want me to say." He replies dejectedly, reaching up to run his hand across his hair, and we sit in silence for a minute, avoiding even looking at each other. I start to wish I hadn't mentioned it; if anything, I just feel worse and now I have yet more misery; the extreme discomfort, the unpleasantness that is the forced acknowledgement of all the lovers Martin had before me.
He sighs heavily.
"Louisa, umm, yes, okay, perhaps you may have a point...and, umm, I could have interrupted you to say goodbye." He says, eventually, turning around to face me, and sounding just so miserable and defeated. "But I should have thought, by now, you'd understand that I'm...well I'm just not not good at that sort of thing. I can't make speeches and I never know what to say."
"Yes." I reply, in a flat tone, feeling like a child who ignored advice not to stick their finger in the parrots cage and now has a crushed fingertip for their trouble.
The vehemence I have just experienced, the intensity of the feelings; of being wronged and ignored and never mattering, it was almost overwhelming and I have to focus for a moment on just listening to myself breathe, as I attempt to compose myself. My thoughts are reeling, but yet one thing seems really obvious and clear. I can see a heading in a textbook, a chapter that we haven't got to yet but a phrase that has somehow stayed with me: Unprocessed Trauma. I bite my lip hard because I really don't know what to say. I've ruined everything again and I want to apologise and tell him it won't happen again but everything about the way I feel just makes me fearful that it inevitably will. As much as I thought I'd bested it, and left it far behind, I've just been deluding myself. The scars from my shitty parents are still there, fermenting, and determined to drag me down.
I find myself folding the edge of the sheet over and under, distracting myself rather feebly. I suddenly wish that I had some clothes within reach because arguing with him while virtually naked has me feeling a bit exposed. Abandoning my attempts at Egyptian cotton origami, I pull what I can of the sheet up under my arms as Martin's unhappiness seems to fill the room. I'm quite used to him looking at me now, especially when he thinks I don't notice, but this seems different. As our eyes meet there's more pain than anything in his stare, and his expression is almost helpless. He clears his throat and swallows, moistening his lips as if he is anxiously trying to find a way to say something and I find myself unable to look away.
"Louisa...please...as it happens...you did...you did mean something to me. It's just that, umm, well, gestures have always been so much easier for me than words...and...so I gave you the only thing I had on hand...that I thought might be of, umm, benefit to you..."
I glance up at him.
"Broke Music." I say quietly, flashing him a rueful, hesitant smile.
"Mmm." He says, his expression wary as if he is attempting to coax a knife from the hand of a madman.
"You know, I did listen to them...a lot." I reassure him. "And..I was...I was really grateful."
"Yes, you wrote to me and told me, I believe. It, umm, it took me months to get the glitter out of the carpet." He says, with enough levity that, suddenly, my heart soars, snorting with a mixture of shame and amusement as I recall my craft glue phase. Nothing I owned was safe from my inexpert ministrations; exercise books, ring binders, even my tatty old trainers, scarcely any of my possessions were excluded from my efforts to bedazzle and bejewel.
"I really made an effort, then..." I say, smiling at him gently, as I feel myself blush. "I must have still been trying to impress you."
"Mmm." He replies gently, glancing at me from his deeply furrowed brow. "Unfortunately, that substance is like a virus. Appalling stuff. You think you have it eradicated and then there's another outbreak. I can only imagine what the housekeeper suspected I was up to."
I grimace at him, sliding my hand tentatively across the bed and placing it over his. To complete my attempt at a sort of reconciliation, I mutter an apology; unspecific and rueful, because it's the best I can do at the moment. I love Martin, and I trust him, so I don't understand why I let such ridiculous fears overwhelm me, why I feel I need to compete against Edith and all the other nameless women that exist in my imagination as Martin's ex-girlfriends, apparently having taught him what he knows so well. It's not as bad for him. If he knew how dismal my previous boyfriends were, and how few and far between they've been, he'd probably just feel sorry for me. I can imagine his condescending glances, the raised eyebrow, the supercilious sneer, if he ever asked me about Danny, especially considering Martin appeared to detest him at first sight. But, for whatever reason, Martin doesn't seem to want to ask me about anything like that, he seems plainly disinterested, and I almost envy him his self-possession.
I curl my legs up beside me and face him, resting my weight on one arm, my other hand now resting on his chest. I'm still fascinated by how smooth his skin is, so perfect and unmarked, you could count his freckles and still only need one hand to keep tally. Absently, I run the tips of my fingers slowly up and down his torso, only because it feels so nice to do so. Unexpectedly, goosebumps ripple across his breast and down his arm and I smile at him, as his nipple reacts. As usual, completely impulsively, I lower my head and run my tongue around it until he stifles a gasp.
"You feel nice." I murmur, unsure of whether he can hear me.
It's as if he's frozen to the spot, completely passive, and I lean against him, searching for his mouth and attempting to crush it beneath mine, one hand in his hair, the other sliding beneath the sheet. I need him to respond to me for so many reasons, most of which I can't even explain but, though it's obvious his body is with me, his mind is clearly elsewhere. Its almost a shock when he breaks away from my kiss and I feel his fingers firmly around my wrist, pulling my hand upward and placing it back firmly in my lap. I frown at him but he meets my gaze with cool, steady detachment.
"What did I do?" I ask him and his expression doesn't change.
"It's not what you're doing Louisa, it's, umm, it's why you're doing it." He says quietly.
"What are you saying?"
I watch him inhale, and lick his lips, as if he feels really uncomfortable, and I honestly haven't a clue what the problem is. He clears his throat and gazes at me unhappily.
"I'm saying that five minutes ago, you seemed furious at me, and now, apparently, you're not and I have no idea what changed or even why."
"I thought you liked it.." I say pointedly but it's clear that whatever caused the hurt is still there because he glances down and begins to twist at the ring on his finger.
"Actually whether I like it or not has very little to do with it..." He says grimly. " Because, to be honest, I'm still concerned...you seemed so angry with me Louisa...and I feel...umm...confused and...upset, I suppose, because to me it feels like...well, like nothing was resolved..."
I look at him, but I don't know what to say or how to explain it without appearing like even more of an emotional yo-yo than I know I already am. I thought making love was a currency we both understood, a need we shared, our appetites apparently so well matched.
"I don't know, Martin, perhaps I just fancied you." I tell him, a little more insolently than I intended and he looks back at me, almost crushed.
"Perhaps...umm, perhaps you might have taken the trouble to ascertain my feelings first?" He says quietly after a moment, and I'm taken aback by the hurt and the apparent bitterness in his voice. "And, umm, perhaps you also should consider, at best, how disrespectful it would be if I did the same to you. I mean...objectified you? Helped myself to you despite knowing that your heart wasn't in it? Trust me, Louisa, shame and...umm...disgust really, disgust in oneself...they can be felt equally by both sexes..."
I'll admit that I'm stunned. How can this have arisen so completely out of the blue? Where has this apparent hurt sprung from? I'm flabbergasted and uncomfortable and even a bit humiliated and I honestly don't know how to explain or resolve any of those feelings, theyre all equally as horrible, so I merely stare back at him, utterly incredulous. It doesn't even seem fair. He steadfastly refuses to ever talk about any of his previous girlfriends and then he throws this grenade at me? I'm about to rather vehemently mount my own defence when, suddenly, a vague, disjointed thought slips into my head and I stop myself, as I try and process everything, trying to understand what could possibly have prompted his reaction. I take a deep breath and hold it it for a few seconds before exhaling.
"Martin, I can't really explain the goodbye reaction and I'm sorry for that. I apologise, I really do. I'm sorry that I upset you and I know I need to rectify the fact that my fists come up so easily, and, you know, I just start swinging wildly; haymakers left, right and centre..."
A clock chimes in the distance; a warm, resonant sound that seems out of place. Martin doesn't move, he doesn't reply, and now, he won't even look at me so it feels like I have no choice but to carry on, to try and make him understand.
"But, you know what?" I tell him firmly, feeling suddenly resolute. "I'm not going to apologise for wanting you, because, you know, to me, it's part and parcel of feeling the way I do about you, so I don't actually feel like I did anything wrong. In fact, I know I didn't. I will concede that my mood did change pretty quickly, but that was just sheer emotion and I cant help that, the good or the bad."
"Yes." He says quickly
"You know, I'm actually going to suggest to you that, if you are speaking from experience, and someone did make you feel objectified, well they can't possibly have loved you, not really, even if you hoped they did."
I glance at him again, and our eyes meet. There's a flicker of something passing across his face and I hope it's recognition, I think he knows what I mean. I hope he understands that my desire for him, my enthusiasm to draw him into making love to me is a very recent and exciting development in my life, one that's never existed before. It simply couldn't have because at it's very foundations are the intense love I feel for him, and the sort of trust I've never had in anyone else really. Yes, his reaction has surprised me because, I suppose, as women, we just get used to being judged on our appearance, indoctrinated that our attractiveness to men is usually based on rather narrow and limited criteria. But, the fact that a man might also be made to feel like that is really rather surprising and also a little bit shocking. Society tells us that blokes are always up for it, whenever, wherever, but one glance at Martin's pensive expression makes me realise that I should be more thoughtful in my assumptions, especially if I plan on a career trying to provide guidance and direction to children of both sexes.
"Are you hungry?" He says briskly, out of nowhere, standing up and marching across the room to retrieve his dressing gown.
"Yes, very." I reply, surprised, flashing him an encouraging smile. "Are you?"
"Mm." He says, and I notice that familiar hesitation, as his mouth forms silent words. "And, Louisa...I..umm..I know that it's not the same thing. With you, with us, I mean. I do know that."
He slips into his robe, rolling his shoulders to adjust it into place, and expertly tying his belt with the hint of a flourish. I stare at him, searching his face for any sign that might indicate that we are alright, that I haven't gone and spoiled everything again, completely. If he is saying that what he and I share, the way we feel about each other, can't be compared to whatever came before then that must mean that things are okay, mustn't it?
"Are you sure?" I ask him, and my voice sounds husky and a just bit earnest.
"Yes..." He says, hesitating as he glances at me from beneath his brow. "Or, umm, or I wouldn't have taken you to see the fountain."
I smile at him, as the most incredible sense of relief descends upon me; the expression on his face, the tone of his voice, the faint reappearance of the dimples in his cheeks, it's all like being enveloped in a chenille blanket on a bitterly cold day and fed warm scones with fresh cream.
"The fountain we don't know the name of?" I remind him, and I'm smiling now, biting my lip to try and suppress the surge of happiness that's coursing violently and irrepressibly through my veins.
He lifts his chin and gazes at me down his nose.
"Mm, well perhaps I know a bit more about it than I let on." He says, after a moment, his expression almost shy.
"Oh really?"
"Mm." He says, self consciously scratching his ear. "Sculpted by a Thomas Waldo Story in the 1890s. An American it seems, umm, who named it 'The Fountain of Love'...hence, I presume, umm, the Cupids and the...ahh..the outward appearance of ecstasy displayed by the, umm, the women, as they...frolic...having apparently discovered the elixir."
"I see. Is that why you took me there then? Were you hoping to splash me?" I say, coyly, smiling at him as I reach up to cajole my hair back into a manageable ponytail.
"No." He says, glancing back me as he turns and walks away. "Actually, I was hoping that you'd fall right in."