Stretched out on the Chesterfield, overcome with despair, the tears begin to roll helplessly down my cheeks. That this should be the end for two people who clearly loved each other almost suffocates me with sadness. Choking on each painfully drawn in breath, I simply can't bear it to be true. I feel the emptiness of those years of self-denial, and I feel it keenly. The agony of all the missed opportunities, the tangible longing for one another, and the utter tragedy of feelings that are so unable to be expressed; it's almost too much to bear. Crushed, I let out a long shuddering gasp, loud enough that Martin's head flies up and he stares at me, his eyes wide with alarm. As I gather my thoughts, with trembling hands I unwrap the last of the After Eights, stuffing it into my mouth between sobs, aware of his reproachful gaze but momentarily immune to it, such is the depth of my anguish.
"What on earth's the matter?" He says, his brow furrowing as he lowers his journal into his lap, gazing at me in complete bemusement.
I try and regather, attempting to organise my feelings into neat little groups, and label them so that Martin might understand, but the enormity of it all just seems overwhelming, the grief and disappointment almost inexpressible. How do I explain the pain of unrequited love to a man whose preferred post-supper reading material is a paper on the treatment of diabetic leg ulcers, complete with graphic illustrations?
"Mr. Stevens..." I croak, in between shallow, raspy breaths. "He didn't...SAY anything...he...he...he just let her get on the b-b-bus."
"What? Who got on the bus?" Martin replies, and just for a moment his expression reveals his complete bafflement. It's not even as if I speak a different language, it's actually more like I'm a completely different species altogether.
I pull the sleeves of my cardy down over my hands and, using the inside of the wrists as makeshift hankies, I press them firmly against my eyes, sniffling and swallowing spasmodically as I attempt to regain my poise.
"M-M-Miss K-K-Kenton..." I tell him, as my lip quivers uncontrollably. "She went b-back to her husband...even...though...she...l-l-loved Mr. Stevens. They...couldn't ...TELL...each other... and now...it's too LATE!"
"Ahh." Martin replies, his relief palpable as he twists in his seat, and I realise that he is performing his ritual gesture in response to my distress; attempting to locate his handkerchief and proffering it to me from a careful distance. "You're talking about your book."
I look up at him, nodding bleakly, as I blink away some rather determined tears.
"Here." He says firmly, as his expression suddenly becomes fastidious. "Dry your eyes. And don't use your sleeves, Louisa. That really is appalling."
I sigh heavily, still gasping for breath, watching his frown relax as he now regards me with what seems like gentle amusement.
"Perhaps we should wait for another time to telephone Auntie Joan." He suggests, hopefully. "One a little less emotionally fraught, hmm?"
"No, Martin, we still need to do it. Please." I reply with determination, despite my voice being rather muffled by a extra large, man-size square of white linen.
"Louisa, I'm not sure having you sobbing in the background is quite the impression I want to give her." He says, clearing his throat. "Umm...perhaps...shall I make you a cup of tea first? Would that help?"
I smile at him gently, and just a little bit sadly too, because I'm coming to realise that his first thought is never to offer any sort of physical comfort; a hug or a reassuring arm around my shoulders. What I would really like, at this moment, is for him to give me a cuddle; to pull me into an all-enveloping embrace that fills me with the reassurance that only he can provide, a sort of emotional safety net that Martin seems alone in being able to offer me. But, instead, he sits upright and perfectly still, gazing at me with a sort of endearing hesitancy, his eyes wrinkled and his lips slightly parted.
"No thanks." I say quietly, holding his gaze, hoping to make him realise what I want telepathically, since I can't think of a way to verbalise how upset I am in a way that doesn't make me sound feeble or, worse still, totally pathetic.
I will admit that I find his reaction, or lack of it, a bit confounding. I mean, to me, when someone you care about is upset, you give them a cuddle, don't you? But as he opens his mouth, yet says nothing, it seems like Martin has neither the instinct nor the inclination to simply hug me and, that's actually something that would usually have really devastated me. But, even though I didn't enjoy it at the time, now that I've met his parents, I realise something good did come of it. I had a glimpse into his dismal and loveless upbringing, and so I sort of understand his reactions just that bit better.
"You've...ummm, you've eaten all the chocolate?" He asks carefully, and I nod, flashing him a rueful grin.
"Yes..." I tell him, sitting up and swinging my feet to the floor, sending a flurry of After Eight wrappers fluttering onto the carpet. Sighing, I bend down to retrieve them before he reprimands me or, worse still, counts them.
"Perhaps then...umm, there's an unopened bottle of wine in the fridge. I could open that. If you wanted. If you like?" I hear him say and I turn to face him, pulling myself upright by taking hold of his rather sturdy knee.
Shaking my head, I watch him. His eyes, his gaze, usually so fiercely intelligent, now so helpless and indecisive, as if he is aware that he should do something to offer comfort but he's quickly run out of ideas. I see his hands flex, I notice his leg twitch and, impulsively, I slide towards him, willing him desperately to gather me into his arms and simply hold me, as if it's all his own idea. Tentatively, he reaches out his hand and places it over mine, and I hear him exhale as if he's been holding his breath.
"That's a good start." I say, encouragingly, nodding my head slowly and smiling gently at him. "But you can do better..."
The expression on his face makes me laugh out loud; his relief is palpable as he curls a long arm around my back and I shuffle into what has become my favourite position; beside him, my legs across his lap, resting my head against his chest, his heart slow and steady beneath my ear.
"Always the right answer." I tell him as he presses his lips to my hair, and I feel his breath, warm and comforting. "Got that?"
"Yes." He answers quickly, and I feel him start to relax.
His hand slides around my calf and he absently begins to stroke the back of my leg. I suppress a giggle, wondering if he is covertly examining me, checking for oedema or whatever it was he diagnosed me with after I'd spent the night in stabbing high heels. Even if he is, I don't actually mind, because it feels quite lovely really; relaxing but sort of reinvigorating all at the same time, and I hear myself sigh rather peacefully as I dab at my eyes with a fistful of hanky. The fabric of his shirt feels surprisingly soft beneath my cheek as his chest rises and falls rhythmically, and the effect is almost mesmerising.
"Louisa, umm, you do understand that your novel is a work of fiction, that the pain of the protagonists that upset you so, it doesn't actually exist?" He says, after a moment, his voice low and hypnotic as he works his fingers into my calf muscle.
"Of course I do. Why?" I reply, somewhat dreamily, as a satisfyingly full stomach, a glass of wine and, now, Martin's quiet massage combine to rather soporific effect.
"It's just that you seemed to take it all rather badly that's all." He intones, as his hand encircles my ankle and I feel the pressure of his thumb around my heel. "That a totally imaginary scenario affected you so strongly...I mean that it upset you so deeply, well, it seems...ahh..."
"Seems what?" I ask him distractedly, releasing a button and slipping my hand inside his shirt. I feel his muscles tighten as my fingers glide idly over his stomach and I glance up at him, smiling encouragingly.
"Nothing...it doesn't matter."
"No, Martin, go on. Seems what?"
He clears his throat, cautiously, and glances down at me as I gaze back serenely. If I've ever felt more comfortable or more at home, I can't remember the occasion. It's a feeling of happiness I can't quite describe; everything about this room is relaxing and calm, Martin feels so solid and secure, and I love listening to him, even if I don't actually agree with his opinion. It's a bit of a thrill, I suppose, that he chooses to share his thoughts with me; his expression so contemplative, the fierceness of his intelligence shining so brightly from behind his eyes; sometimes blue, sometimes grey but always so astute and clever and disarming.
"Well, umm, I suppose it just seems... a tad...ridiculous...if you want to know..." He mutters, shifting his weight and staring fixedly at the other side of the room.
"Ridiculous?" I reply, my voice sharp with surprise.
"Well, yes, ridiculous is an adequate word for it. I mean it is an utter fabrication, isn't it, your novel? Clearly the scenario and the characters never existed, yet you became rather emotional...some might even say overtly so...at their make-believe tragedy. So, I'm sorry but, to me, that's.. well it is...ummm...faintly ridiculous."
"What are you saying, Martin?" I ask him, sitting up and staring at him incredulously. "Are you trying to tell me there's no point to fiction? That mankind's, you know, history of storytelling, like the hundreds and hundreds of years of the written word, the millions of novels that must exist, they've all been a waste of time?"
He dips his chin and regards me warily, shaking his head slightly as he speaks.
"Of course I'm not saying that. I merely..."
"Daphne du Maurier, Dickens, Graham Greene, all pointless? Shakespeare? Evelyn Waugh? The Brontes? Silly make believe? Is that what you really think, Martin?"
"Louisa. You wilfully misunderstand me. Throw names at me all night, if you must, but don't deliberately miss my point just for the sake of starting an argument..."
"Oh, I see." I interrupt, rather hotly, removing my hand from where it sat wedged, rather happily, beneath the waistband of his trousers. "Now I'm just being argumentative. Perhaps we should burn all the novels in the street. Big, roaring bonfires everywhere to get rid of them, and then we can all just focus on reading textbooks then, looking at photos of festering sores for our entertainment.. That would be nice wouldn't it? Much better for everyone that we don't let ourselves get moved, or affected, or inspired by something that's not actually real."
I hear him sigh and, suddenly, his hand is still too, as if whatever thoughts he has in his head have momentarily paralysed him. He rests his palm just above my knee, his fingers assuming the curve of my thigh, their touch light and soft against my skin.
"I don't read medical journals for entertainment, Louisa." He says, his voice velvety with an intense sort of calmness. "I read them to stay current, so when one of these appalling ulcers next presents itself I will have the expertise, the latest, most relevant techniques to provide the best chance of saving the limb."
I realise I'm biting my lip; and now I'm swallowing hard as the excitement of our debate instantly evaporates. As much fun as it's always been to tease him, to test his boundaries and wind him up, when it comes to the moral high ground, Martin must know he owns it. While we sit here, peacefully, on a warm Monday night; he learns a bit more about sparing limbs and saving lives, and I read fictional romances, failed or otherwise, that make me weep. To say that our time is spent on matters of equal importance would be to draw a long bow, even if I am studying for an Arts degree and my current book of choice did win the Booker prize.
As much as I do not, I cannot, concede that he has a point, I will resort to tracing my finger gently along his lower lip, in a failed effort to distract him, to bring the debate to a close because I'm suddenly extremely tired of it. Apparently though, Martin isn't quite ready to agree to disagree and he reaches up to enfold my errant and exploratory fingers in his, pulling my hand down to his chest and giving it a meaningful squeeze.
"Louisa, I need you to understand why it's so important that I do so much reading." He says quietly, his frown intense and the set of his jaw rather determined. "I need you to be clear that, because I attempt to keep up to date with every advance, there's an excellent chance that, when the patient gets wheeled out of theatre, the next time I see them is when they walk back in to the clinic for their post op follow up. Which, trust me, is a far more preferable outcome than seeing them wheeled down to prosthetics and physiotherapy and anywhere else they'll need to go to learn to walk again, as an amputee."
I swallow self-consciously. I don't think his intention was to make me feel trivial but that's exactly how I do react, but any momentary discomfort is overshadowed by the growing sense of awe I experience, another fleeting glimpse into his world, and another warm flush of incredulity as, once again, I realise just how extraordinary Martin really is. I extricate my hand from his grip, reaching up to lay my palm lightly against his cheek. So smooth and soft, and I smile at him as I realise he must have shaved again before I arrived. That's so very Martin, so typical of him, thoughtful enough that he wants to avoid inflicting pash rash on me but not averse to telling me that, emotionally, my reactions are ridiculous. I squeeze my eyes tightly closed for a second, gathering my thoughts before I speak.
"Martin, I understand, honestly I do." I tell him quietly. "And, you know, I don't think I'd want it any other way, actually. I don't think I'd want you any other way either..."
I hear him swallow now, as if his throat is dry and raspy. His Adam's apple lurches up and down repeatedly but he doesn't reply. Instead he moisten his lips cautiously and glances down at me, and for a fleeting second I recognise the look in his eyes; wide and hopeful, like a kid that's just been told he's getting a new bike for his birthday or, in Martin's case, a microscope or a set of encyclopaedias.
"Really?" He asks, his tone so sweetly trusting and eager that I can't help myself and I reach up to kiss him, sliding my arms around his neck and pressing my lips against his, because, to me, my answer is unequivocal.
I'm used to his gentleness, his usual hesitancy when, as usual, I can't help it and I throw myself at him. I always like to think of it as waiting for his fuse to burn down; those tentative moments, sitting in the front seat of the car, turning the ignition, before the engine roars into life. Now though, there's a passiveness about his response to me that I haven't felt before but, before I even have time to be concerned, I hear him say my name, whispered with intensity, his mouth brushing my cheek, his touch so soft and uncertain. In this moment, heads together, his hands in my hair, it dawns on me that, right now, Martin's need for my acceptance is far far greater than any desire he might be harbouring for physical release. Taking his face in my hands, I lean back and gaze at him, wondering what hope there is for ordinary people if a man as exceptional as he is also finds himself in need of comfort and reassurance. It seems to me that, right now, we are equals again, because we both need the same thing really and it seems we're equally as uncomfortable as each other in asking for it.
"Really. I think what you do is amazing, sometimes it's more than I can honestly get a grip on." I tell him, smiling at him awkwardly, his expression now just a little doubtful as he stares back at me.
His mouth starts to form words but no sounds are forthcoming, a trait that always strikes me as rather sweetly innocent; a glimpse of the shy, tentative little boy that lurks just below Martin's highly polished exterior. God help me I'm not very good at silences, I so desperately want to prompt him, to fill in the gaps, to populate his disjointed sentences for him, with words full of fervour and meaning. But I bite my lip and I wait, hoping to draw him out, summoning every ounce of patience I possess.
"I'm conscious that...I..umm...that I must seem rather dreary and...ahh...unexciting compared to your other...umm...your other..." He says after a minute, gesturing in the air with his hand, with a sad sort of resignation, a hopelessness that makes me desperate to refute him.
"But that's rubbish, Martin!" I interject quickly. "You've got such an important job and it's very nearly all-consuming. There's nothing dreary in that, I mean, you've hardly got time for anything else, have you, because what you do each day saves people's lives."
"Hmm...I wonder, though, if perhaps I have always been this dull and...ahh... my choice of career has merely exacerbated the situation." He says ruefully, glancing away, as if he can't meet my gaze.
"Yeah, well, my mum married my dad, didn't she, 'cos she thought life with him would be exciting." I reply, with more than a little chagrin. "I 'spose she hoped that life with a Cockney wide boy like Terry would help her escape the drudgery of being a Fisherman's wife but, frankly, we all know how that turned out..."
"Mm." He replies cautiously, sneaking a quick glance at me from the corner of his eye.
"From the start, I don't think things worked out the way she'd wanted and then I came along to really spoil all her fun..." I add and, once again, I'm revisited by the slow burn of an anger that lies partially buried in a shallow grave, the deep resentment I have of her fickle nature, and the ease with which she abandoned me.
His hand comes up to my face, and I feel an intense sensation as he draws his fingers across my cheek, like slow strokes of static electricity, and I shiver involuntarily.
"I could see that." He says gently. "Even as a boy, I knew that she wasn't taking care of you properly."
"I'm amazed that you can remember." I tell him sadly, biting my lip ferociously and wishing desperately that I could recall our first meeting with as much clarity as I can picture our subsequent encounters.
His expression suddenly becomes appraising as he lifts his chin and stares at me down his nose, the slightest hint of a smile flickering around his mouth.
"I bribed you with the promise of an ice-cream." He says and his eyes are suddenly bright, almost as if he is suppressing laughter. "You haven't changed."
I smile back at him, and it's as if his gentle amusement is contagious, as if, for the first time, instead of feeling disparaging and disappointed about my parents and my past, I'm suddenly curious, with Martin the portal back to the large swathes of my childhood I've forgotten, purposely or otherwise.
"What do you think about a visit?" I ask him.
I'm aware that my voice is surprisingly breathless, even a bit excited actually as I imagine us walking along the clifftops, breathing in the invigorating coastal air; cool and fresh and bracing. Wrapped up in warm coats and thick scarves, arm in arm, only retreating inside to the warmth of the hearth when an Atlantic gale drives in sideways rain that rattles against the window panes. Making love, and then lying in each other's arms as the wind howls around the eaves, seems suddenly like the most brilliant idea I've ever had.
"To Portwenn?" He asks and I can tell instantly that he's dubious, as the deep furrows in his brow reappear, and he looks at me, askance.
"Yes, Martin, Portwenn. Didn't you tell me you haven't been back since, you know, that weekend...what do you think? Could we?"
"Well, I'd have to see when I could get away." He says, his tone heavy with reluctance. "It's not that easy."
"Yes, I know but it would be a lovely surprise for Mrs. Norton, wouldn't it? I think she'd be thrilled."
"Umm...would you want to stay with her though? I mean, both of us, stay with her. Wouldn't that be...odd?"
I glance up at him, coyly, from beneath my eyelashes and I can't help it as a slow suggestive smile spreads across my face. Surprisingly, the idea of sleeping together in one of Mrs. Norton's sweet little guest rooms actually sounds quite appealing; as if it might exorcise some ghosts and, as I've suggested to Martin before, replace some fairly ordinary memories with a few, new, significantly more rewarding ones.
"I don't think she'd mind, would she? She's never struck me as, you know, a prude or anything." I say thoughtfully.
He pulls a face, vaguely disapproving, and more than slightly unconvinced.
"Auntie Joan might not mind but I'm not sure how I feel about...ummm...being under her roof...together." He says, his discomfort suddenly obvious as he reaches up and tugs at his ear.
"Oh right." I counter airily, more than a little disappointed by his reaction. "So, it was okay to share a bed with Edith at the farm, but not with me. I'm not sure I understand this particular set of principles, Martin, perhaps you would like to explain them to me?"
His head flies up and he stares at me, plainly aghast, and I swear that his complexion turns suddenly pale, as if he is unwell.
"For the record, Louisa, I did not invite Edith to Cornwall." He says, precisely and determinedly, his voice now a low, resentful growl. "Nor did I share a room, a bed, or anything else with her under Auntie Joan's roof, in fact, nothing other than a series of highly unpleasant arguments that, if I remember rightly, you seemed to take an inordinate amount of amusement from."
I glance up at him, biting my lip cautiously. His forehead is creased and his brows are knotted and, though my mentioning her name has clearly upset him, I'm not quite ready to back down.
"She wasn't very nice though, was she? To any of us. I mean, I couldn't understand what you saw in her."
He says nothing, and for a moment we sit in awkward silence. Me, desperate to hear him agree with my observation, to concur that she was unpleasant and unworthy of his attention, in fact anything reassuring to banish my creeping insecurity. He must allow that I am right yet he sits as still and silent as the grave. I can barely breathe; his lack of assent feels as if I am sitting outdoors on an icy morning, as freezing cold droplets slide from the eaves above, each one stinging me as it impacts my flesh, before running as frigid rivulets down my spine.
Eventually, he sighs and, as if he is suddenly resolute, I feel his arms go around me, pulling me tightly to his chest. The clock strikes the hour and I count the chimes, all eight of them and, when the last pleasantly musical note evaporates, he relaxes his grip.
"I've forgotten her." He says, quietly, after a moment, as he smooths the hair back from my face with his usual delicate touch. "And I think you should too."
I feel an explosion of delight, a giddiness that seems a bit excessive considering how long ago she was a part of his life. Twenty-two year old Louisa celebrating a victory on behalf of her fourteen year old self; but I'd been so jealous of that cold, red headed woman, I'd wanted Martin so badly for myself even if I didn't have much of a clue what exactly I wanted him for. And I'd known it was hopeless, I'd known the age difference was too great; me an immature fourteen and Martin twenty one, going on forty.
"She was awful though..." I say, because I can't help it, exhibiting the same lack of self control he's no doubt become accustomed to.
"Can we please just change the subject now, Louisa?" He replies firmly, with more than a hint of annoyance, and I grunt in agreement as, once again, I nestle into his shoulder.
It's probably another area where Martin has the high ground. My past doesn't seem to concern him in the slightest and he's never shown the slightest curiosity about any romantic attachments I may have had before he and I got together. Maybe it's a maturity thing, or perhaps it's due to his self-confidence, or it might just be discretion on his part: perhaps he has his own reasons for not wanting to open up that particular can of worms, knowing that if he expresses any interest in my prior relationships, I might quiz him about his. I know I shouldn't even think about it, Libby warned me that not only was it destructive but it was also pointless; no one can change their past and, at nearly thirty, he was bound to have an interesting one. But the thought just won't be driven from my mind, I mean, of all the people in the world that Martin could have had, why on earth did he choose her?
"I did wonder if her hair colour was natural...but I can't imagine anyone actually choosing that colour so I 'spose it must have been...I mean, was it?" I ask him thoughtfully, slipping my hand inside his shirt again but, instead if the usual breathless sigh or the sudden contraction of his abdominal wall, he simply pulls away and glares at me impatiently.
"If you want to phone Joan, then we should do so shortly. I'm tired and I have an early start in the morning..." He says, apparently now unable to hide his irritation with me.
"Alright, alright, you said you wanted to be the one to tell her and I'm not stopping you..." I reply, more insolent than ever, and I collapse backwards onto the sofa, theatrically, as he relinquishes his hold on me, grinning up at him mischievously, and totally failing in my attempt to regain my modesty as the loose skirt of my dress flares up over my hips.
Instantly, I notice his distracted glance as he strides past on his way to retrieve the phone. It amuses me that, for all his gentlemanly good manners, Martin is not immune to a spot of ogling, as his appreciative gaze now lingers on my inadvertent flash, a glimpse of upper thigh and my new, black, silky knickers. It's probably ridiculous but it feels like another tiny triumph over Edith who is hopefully now banished from his mind, leaving me feeling oddly powerful somehow. Most importantly though, it feels deliciously normal, like the way two people who not only love each other but really fancy each other should behave. To know that he wants me that way just makes me happy, and confident, and perhaps even more resilient. In the end, I leave my skirt askew and I smile suggestively at him when he walks towards me, carrying the phone to the length limit of the cord and staring down at me with equanimity, having apparently reassumed his mantle of calm assurance.
"Auntie Joan..." He says, raising an eyebrow at me.
I nod at him encouragingly, wishing I could hear what she was saying more clearly, but all that registers from where I am lying is a faint, indecipherable squeak. I pull myself upright and lean forward, in a vain attempt to ascertain what her response is to our news; even though anything other than her approval does seem unimaginable.
"What do you mean? No, I'm fine." He says, and I can tell that, already, he's struggling to stay calm.
"Yes, I'm aware of that." He says resignedly, glancing across at me with such a long-suffering expression that I give an involuntary snort of laughter.
" I...yes...I know...yes..."
I find myself biting on my knuckles, to stop myself giggling. Poor Martin, it really does seem as if his aunt is more than just a bit annoyed with him but, really, what does he expect when she must think he's been purposely avoiding her. She dotes on him, in her own fashion, and he seems simply utterly oblivious, the level of communication she desires seemingly beyond him.
"Well, yes...but Auntie Joan...listen...well, I suppose I hoped you'd realise that I might just be busy...ummm, no, I'm not saying that...no, of course not..." He says, looking to the heavens briefly before closing his eyes.
He sighs, a heavy frustrated sound that he makes no effort to conceal and I can tell that he's now as irritated with Mrs. Norton as she seems to be with him.
"Because I was on call all night and I've been at the hospital all day. This is the first chance I've had..." He says, indignantly, and I briefly consider taking the phone from him and trying to smooth everything over myself.
"Well, we were having supper..." He protests, his voice rising, and I notice that he now has one arm folded defensively across his chest. "I presume it's acceptable to you that we eat..."
"Yes, I did say we..." He replies cautiously, glancing at me.
"Umm, yes...yes...you do...yes..." He says, his tone one of extreme discomfort. To be pathologically private about your life with acquaintances and colleagues, I suppose is understandable, but it's his aunt he's talking to, a woman who has only ever had his best interests at heart, no matter how forthright and uncompromising she can often seem.
"Ahh...it's umm, it's Louisa actually...Yes, that Louisa."
He frowns and shakes his head, and I'm slightly concerned that he now seems to be pacing the floor, walking in circles and gesturing with his left hand as he clutches the phone in his huge paw of a hand.
"Auntie Joan, why on earth would I be joking?"
"I believe I'm telling you now, aren't I?" He says, as a noticeable edge creeps into his tone.
"Well, sit down then, and elevate your feet."
I can't suppress my laughter any longer, and it feels like I'm in church and under the reprimanding glare of the Vicar as Martin glances at me, his expression one of frustration and irritation. I'm determined not to be offended by her response. I refuse to believe that Mrs. Norton will be anything less than delighted because shes been like a kindly aunt to me, growing up. Besides, Martin and I only met again because she invited us both to lunch so why would she be averse to a relationship between us now?
"Believe what you want, Auntie Joan." He says caustically and, instantly, I decide that it's time I stepped in. I stand up and, smiling at him sympathetically, hold out my hand to indicate that he should pass the receiver to me.
"You can ask her that directly, she's standing right next to me..." He growls and, as our eyes meet, I hold his gaze, calmly and patiently.
He holds his hand up, indicating that I should wait, as rolls his eyes dramatically, an expression that I find more amusing than he possibly intended, judging by the way he turns his back to me.
"We did, it was last Saturday...yes, a week ago." I hear him say, and I realise she's now quizzing him about his father's farewell function. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it because he is her brother, she would be interested, she'd want to know what happened.
"Yes, she did..." He says, turning back to face me and grimacing to indicate his annoyance, so much so that I place my hand instinctively on his chest, and flash him a reassuring smile.
"Auntie Joan, how on earth would I know?. Yes, umm, of course, it was appalling, the less said, the better..." He growls.
"Thank you, but I plan to stay in London...nothing special...umm, perhaps we could...I will ask her...Yes, that's a possibility too I suppose...Auntie Joan, I am not being evasive, you should know how difficult it is for me to get away."
He's glowering now, aggrieved and indignant. Instinctively, I reach my hand out again and mouth a suggestion to him, that I will talk to her and fend off the interest that he seems to so bitterly resent. Without a word of explanation to his aunt, he simply hands the phone over to me, and I give his arm a reassuring squeeze as I take the receiver from him. Poor Martin, he looks so harried and put out, even if there is both gratitude and a touch of nervousness in the way he's looking at me now.
"Hello? Mrs Norton? It's Louisa." I say cheerfully. "How are you?"
"Oh my lord, he really wasn't pulling my leg after all!" Joan replies, with breathless disbelief. "I suppose this explains why I haven't heard from either of you. I should ask how you are, of course, though I suspect you must have gone completely doolally if what my nephew tells me is true."
I laugh out loud and Martin suddenly looks alarmed. He walks back to the sofa and lowers himself into it, cautiously and somewhat stiffly, without taking his eyes off me.
"I'm fine, thank you but, honestly, we both have been really busy, actually." I reply cheerfully, keen to defend him. "Martin's telling the truth when he says he's been working all the hours god sends. It's been so hard to find any free time at all, between our jobs and study and things. He leaves for work before I'm even awake so..."
"I see." She interrupts, in her usual blunt manner and there's an uncomfortable pause that I wasn't expecting. I glance across at Martin, only to see his face crumple in horror.
"I'd only be marginally less surprised if you'd told me the Queen had abdicated." Mrs. Norton says, somewhat sniffily.
"Really?" I say, frowning, and wondering why Martin, as he sits bolt upright, arms folded and watching me intently, looks so anxious about what I might say. "That's interesting. Umm, can I ask why?"
"Well, if I'm honest, I did notice something at my birthday lunch but I simply didn't think he had it in him." She says briskly. "Don't get me wrong, my dear, I'm delighted for you, if that's what you really want."
"It is." I assure her, trying to maintain a lightness in my tone that I don't feel any more. "It's been great..I mean it is...going great, I mean."
I hear her inhale thoughtfully, a sound which, unfortunately, arrives like a derogatory hiss through the mouthpiece of the telephone. I can't lie, I'm taken aback; for some reason I'd expected Mrs. Norton to seem more pleased, enthusiastic even, and full of hand wringing excitement.
"It's serious then? This, ah, this relationship, whatever you have with him?" She says briskly.
"Well, yes, I suppose it is. I mean, I'm not sure if either of us are thinking like that yet, we've both got a lot going on...we're just, you know..."
"Yes, dear, no need to explain." Mrs. Norton replies archly. "If that's the case, I wish you all the luck in the world, Louisa, I really do."
I hesitate before replying, as an air of uneasiness comes over me. I glance down at Martin but he is bent forward now, his forearms resting on his thighs, seemingly intent on staring fixedly at the floor.
"Luck? Can I just ask, why do you think we need luck?" I ask her, and I notice as his hands come up and cover his face.
"I don't want to be a damp squib but even you must realise the difficulties inherent in trying to turn an affair with my nephew into anything serious." She says, laughing mirthlessly.
"Umm, what do you mean exactly?" I say and I'm aware of the coldness that's crept into my tone.
"Oh come on, Louisa! You must see it. You're both so different! I mean, I love Martin dearly but he'd be the first to admit that he's a Londoner through and through. And you're...well.. I've known you all your life and you've never made any secret of the fact that Portwenn will always be home to you." She says matter-of-factly. "You're a country girl, my dear, always will be."
"Well, I'm a city girl for at least another three years, until I finish my degree, so, you know, a lot can happen in that time." I tell her firmly, determined not to falter in my resolve, despite how uncomfortable her opinion is starting to make me feel.
"Fair enough then. And while I'm struggling to imagine my nephew as any sort of Prince Charming, sweeping you off your feet, I must assume you know what you've got yourself in to." She replies, with a faint sigh, as if she is making a huge concession, as if we even need her approval or her blessing.
"I do. I think we both do actually and, as I said, it's great." I reply, suddenly airy and determined that I protect what Martin and I have from any sort of disparagement.
It's just like Holly and Toni trying to warn me off him, it feels just as unpleasant and upsetting and I find myself responding in the same way, brushing his aunt off, shutting her out, throwing up a smokescreen that renders the truth of the way we feel about one another vague and indistinct.
"I don't think either of us have any huge expectations, actually Joan." I add, using her first name rather purposefully, addressing her as one adult would another. "I think we're just happy to go along for the ride and, you know, see what happens. We're just two young people enjoying themselves, that's how I see it, and I'm sure that's how Martin sees it too...no need for any drama."
I glance across at Martin, hoping to catch his eye, wanting to pull a stupid face, or grin, or throw my hands in the air, anything really in my desperation to show him that I share in his frustration with his aunt, that I suddenly understand his aggravation at the opinionated disapproval that any revelations about his private life seem to attract. But I see that he's already looking at me and, as our eyes meet, I realise his expression, his demeanour, everything about him really, has manifestly changed and, as I reel from the grim disappointment on his face, I wonder what on earth it is that I've said to provoke it.