(Despite having an utterly shite sort of a week, your brilliant and insightful reviews really buoyed me along, so thank you so much.)
I watch her carry the telephone back to my study and she returns, standing before me with her shoulders slumped, her skin pale and her cheeks hollow. I raise my chin and gaze back at her, waiting for her to say something, expecting her usual fiery-eyed insolence, her ubiquitous defensive attack but, instead, I'm greeted with a silence that is both umbrageous and contused. She even appears to tremble, to wobble slightly, her lips parted in disbelief, her demeanour that of someone who has stumbled from a back carriage after a high speed train crash. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, as if it returns me to her field of vision, she focuses on me again, with deep green eyes that are huge and round and brimming with tears.
"I wasn't expecting that." She says, and I notice immediately that her voice is surprisingly different; deeper and so much older, as if she has somehow been irrevocably altered.
"No." I reply, after a moment, because I don't know what else to say. Why are optimists always so surprised when things go so badly?
"You were though, weren't you?" She asks me, pulling her cardigan around her, as if she is suddenly cold. "That's why you kept putting it off."
I shrug my shoulders, still smarting as I am from her declaration, her inference to my aunt that there is nothing between us but a casual sort of frivolity. Have I really allowed myself to fall hopelessly in love with a woman who, in turn, sees our relationship as something superficial and, god forbid, essentially meaningless? Confusion hits me like a blast of liquid nitrogen, an ice cold desperation that burns me from the inside out. I simply can't bear the thought of it, that she might be capable of such perfidy, but having lived my life amongst so many duplicitous types, I can't help but be throttled by a creeping sense of betrayal. Jeering and self-congratulatory, it hijacks my reasoning, reminding me that this was the only conclusion I should ever have expected.
I force myself to look at her, because it is far less painful not to. In this light, she has freckles, a tiny smattering across her nose, and they somehow make her appear surprisingly innocent and vulnerable, an impression that disconcerts me. I am so accustomed to her insouciance, her liveliness, that the contrast seems impossibly stark, so much so that, as she in turn looks back at me, my breath catches in my throat. But, even stripped of her usual joie de vivre, with her usual radiance veiled by shock and bewilderment, I still find Louisa utterly compelling.
"I honestly thought she'd be happy for us. But she's not, is she?" She says, her voice low, and resonant with disappointment
"I was only privy to one side of the conversation." I inform her, coldly, folding my arms across my chest.
She lifts her head slightly, startled, her eyes searching my face, her expression flustered and helpless. If I am honest, Louisa is correct, and I did anticipate this particular response from my aunt because she is an Ellingham and we are all cut from the same cloth. Blunt and opinionated, we say what we think. But, despite the fact that Louisa is so clearly crushed, I find myself increasingly wary, and fighting a desperate urge to retreat, to find a quiet space where I can think, and attempt to make sense of the grenade she has just lobbed at me. The pain and the shock of her abject denial, the ease with which she seemed to dismiss what I thought I meant to her, takes my breath away, and the air in the room, the space between us, feels thin and cold. As we stare at each other in silence, I'm desperate to comprehend why she seems so distressed at my Aunt's opinion, hard on the heels of inferring I matter so little to her. Even taking into account her often confounding logic, it seems to make no sense at all.
"Martin, I don't understand, I thought I...we...were doing the right thing." She says, after a moment and, to my dismay, she starts to cry; large, heavy teardrops that slip silently from her eyes and roll, unimpeded, down her disconsolate face.
Whatever Joan's particular objections were to our relationship, at this moment I could not care less. I have so many failings that would be seen as potential stumbling blocks to Louisa's happiness that I'm not even curious as to which ones my aunt chose to highlight, or even why. All I'm conscious of is an ache in my abdomen, a twisting, burning sensation that seems to increase in intensity the longer her tearful gaze rests upon me. I frown at her, my mouth tasting of soap, my lips as dry and raw, and, as I do, I begin to coldly and systematically bury my feelings, resigned that this is our denouement, and as intent on maintaining my dignity as any man who fears he may have nothing but his pride remaining.
"Tell me, then, if it's so inconsequential, so apparently unimportant..." I hear myself growl, the bitterness in my voice seeping into every syllable. "Why exactly are you so upset?"
She stares back at me, having clearly misplaced the handkerchief I gave her, glassy eyed and utterly confused.
"What? What's unimportant?" She asks, taking a step towards me. "Martin, what are you talking about?"
"You insist that we tell my aunt that about...seeing each other...and then I hear you cheerfully inform her that...you and I...that it's all just meaningless...that what we have is trivial..." I tell her crisply, intent on covering up my failing composure. "Why would you do that Louisa? Why would you say those things to her?"
I see her mouth fall open, slowly, and her expression becomes bereft, as if someone has whispered in her ear and given her devastating news. With a gasp of what can only be described as anguish, she clasps her hands to the top of her head.
"Oh god, please, no, don't think that. Please don't." She cries, desperately, burying her fingers into her hair, distraught, appearing for all the world like someone watching their house burn to the ground. "I just wanted...I just wanted her to shut up, to stop being so disparaging. I thought...I thought she'd be encouraging and, when she wasn't, I just wanted to shut her out. I never said we were meaningless!"
I stare back at her, as her face crumples, and the tears begin to flow in earnest. I want so badly to believe her but she now seems incapable of any further meaningful speech, staring at me as she does, apparently horrified. But whatever she expects from me, whether she wants reassurance or understanding, at this point I can give her nothing; rendered by dread as I am, finding myself so utterly and completely immobile.
"I said...we...had...n-n-no...expectations." She gasps, between sobs. "That..d-d-doesn't...mean...I...d-d-don't...love...you. It...j-j-just...meant..."
I lift my chin and glare at her. Whatever my feelings are for her, despite how beautiful she is, however much better everything feels when she is with me, all that matters now is the truth, and I must have it.
"It meant what, Louisa?" I say quietly, not a hint of warmth in my tone.
I watch as she struggles to speak, swallowing repeatedly and dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief she's retrieved from the sleeve of her cardigan. She lowers herself down onto the couch, dazed and apparently abject with misery, and stares down at the floor, struggling with her respiration as her torso is wracked by violent, rasping sobs.
"It meant...that I'm...s-s-sick of everyone's b-b-bloody opinions! I just w-w-want...everyone to mind their own b-b-business and leave us alone..." She replies, vehemently, burying her face in her hands and groaning with an angry sort of frustration. "I w-w-wanted Joan to shut up, Martin, I just wanted her to b-b-bloody well shut up before she ruined everything."
She glances up at me, imploringly, causing the sensation in my chest that I believe is described colloquially as one's heart leaping. As our eyes meet, I've never wanted to believe anything more in my life. My need to be near her is almost debilitating, and the thought crosses my mind again: is a small part of Louisa better than nothing at all? I had been prepared to settle for whatever she might offer me, previously, so why on earth did I feel so aggrieved now? Hesitantly, I take half a step toward her, swallowing hard in a vain attempt to soothe my raspy throat. All the time, she watches me, blinking and helpless and bent with despair.
"I think I understand now, you know." She says, eventually, in a low, sombre voice. "I thought you were a bit paranoid, actually, a bit over-protective of your privacy, but this is the sort of crap that you've been putting up with all your life, isn't it?"
I grunt in acknowledgement, and shrug, watching as her expression softens.
"You know, she couldn't even decide if you were the problem, or if it was me.." She adds, ruefully, sitting up straight and flashing me a small, sad smile. "But, it didn't matter really because I just couldn't listen any more...I don't want to hear from anyone else that I'm not good enough for you, Martin, it's bad enough I get it from half of my friends, I don't need to hear it from your entire bloody family."
I'm incredulous, trying to make sense if what she's just said, and I frown at her, aghast. If her friends are suggesting such a preposterous idea to Louisa then they are clearly the contemptible cretins I suspected them to be. I will deal with my aunt and, as for my parents, their opinion be damned.
"What?" I ask her croakily.
She sighs, as she presses the palms of her hands to her cheeks and looks up at me, dejectedly.
"Well, everyone's got a bloody opinion, haven't they, and most of them are negative so, you know, good on them." She says, unhappily. "And p'raps, unlike you, I'm not really adept at fending off personal questions..."
"Am I adept?" I grumble, dismissively. "I don't seem to have much success in fending off yours..."
She smiles at me, a hopeful, hesitant expression that gently transforms her, and I feel a familiar lurch in my abdomen. I don't imagine that I'm the first man in history to wish that he were alone in the world with the woman he loves, without interruptions or unwanted opinions, even just for a short while. I know in my heart that I believe her. Of course I do. She is no more equipped to rudely deflect unwanted incursions into her privacy than I am to engage meaningfully, and with good humour, with a complete stranger.
"Yes, Martin, you are adept." She says, and there's a hint of amusement in her voice, a glimmer of her usual liveliness that instantly seems to warm the room by several degrees. "Whereas, clearly, I'm rubbish at it."
"Mm." I reply and I feel my pulse quicken; like a drowning man given hope, striking out for some passing flotsam. "Is that what you were attempting to do? Fending off her objections by intimating that this is merely a casual sort of...fling?"
She narrows her eyes at me, the damp darkness of her lashes making her gaze seem even more intense.
"Well, yes. I suppose so." She says, impatiently. "I'm sorry, as I said, I was shocked and I just wanted to say something to shut her up. You can't seriously think I meant it?"
Glancing cautiously across at her, I see she shakes her head in disbelief, as her hands slide up to cover her eyes. I feel a flash of guilt; that her optimism and joy should so be tainted by her association with me and the oddly polarising effect I seem to have on everyone who claims more than just a passing acquaintance.
"I...hoped...you didn't." I tell her quietly, glancing down at my hands, purposely avoiding her gaze, exhaling heavily as if I find myself finally able to breathe with any sort of ease.
While the weight of her dejection seems to fill the room, I feel a tentative hope that our disappointment is not now with each other and that my typical guardedness and my instinct for self-defence have not wreaked even more havoc on her feelings for me. She rests her chin on her hands and looks up at me, and smiles weakly.
"Martin, I'm exhausted. I just want to go to bed."
I nod, more relieved than I can put into words. We're still implementing a routine and, for someone like me, it's both rather novel and rather confounding. New rituals are formed, and old ones abandoned, as we check and double check; does she want hot milk, will I switch the lamps off, should she lock the door? I have a need for process, to understand and adapt to my new reality by implementing procedures but, instead, we dance around each other in the bathroom, each apologising for impeding the path of the other, until I retreat to the bedroom, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bed until she has finished her ablutions. When she eventually emerges, I'm transfixed, desperately attempting not to stare as she wanders about the room, oblivious, clad only in her underwear, hanging up her clothing, a habit I've been encouraging her so vigorously to adopt. Clearing my throat, I stalk off to claim the en-suite, rather gratefully, for myself.
I've stood in front of this mirror so many times before, deep in thought, lulled by the hypnotic buzz of the electric toothbrush as I ruminate and reconsider. Despite how strenuously I avoid forming connections, how intent I've been on keeping everyone at arms length, I've always found myself subject to endless uninformed judgment; not only do all and sundry seem to have an opinion about me, apparently they have no compunction in expressing it. I'm so used to criticism now that I've become desensitised, unsusceptible if you will, perhaps even anaesthetised. Louisa's claim however, her inference of being seen by some as somehow inferior, and unsuitable for me, is offensive beyond measure and I want desperately to remonstrate with her, to insist on the ridiculousness of the suggestion. But, even as insensitive as I know I can be, one glance at her enervated and exhausted expression suggests to me that now is not the time.
I hesitate in the wardrobe, before donning a clean pair of boxers and slipping into the bed beside her, as unobtrusively as someone my size is capable of. She does not move as I remove my watch and wind the travel clock, checking that the alarm is set. This part of my night time regimen is unaltered, a fact I find surprisingly comforting as I settle on my back and pull the sheet up under my neck. Shirtless, I feel in an odd sort of limbo, dressed neither for love making nor sleeping, and I wonder what Louisa's expectations are for this situation, since she seems to have stringent rules for all levels of intimacy. Wordlessly, she slides into her preferred position, nestled into my shoulder, her cheek on my chest, and I incline my head to kiss her lightly on her forehead, gently bidding her goodnight before squeezing my eyes closed gratefully. That I should find myself here with her, still, seems somehow miraculous.
She shifts against me, and I feel her hand slide across my ribs before coming to rest, delicately, on my stomach. I hold my breath, momentarily, but she appears to settle again, so I exhale slowly, reaching up to smooth her hair down gently, as a ticklish errant wisp comes into contact with my lip. In the semi darkness, with the reassurance of her bare warm skin pressed against mine, everything seems quiet and tranquil again and I experience a wave of relief, as if I have had a reprieve on an epic scale; like catching a bullet in ones teeth, or surviving, unscathed, after stumbling across eight lanes of the motorway, blindfolded. As tiredness claims me, I feel myself drifting, heavy-lidded and emotionally spent, rapidly towards sleep. I feel her breath against my neck, her fingers trailing lightly across my abdomen and I'm suddenly aware that an early night and a rejuvenating slumber were not exactly what Louisa had in mind.
"I thought you were tired." I mumble, my voice occluded by fatigue.
"I was." She replies, biting at my bottom lip with an odd urgency.
In my half awake state I don't feel the need to question her; there's a poignancy in her intensity that I actually understand. Slender and weightless as I enfold her, so uncharacteristically raw and vulnerable and bereft; I can still taste the salt on her neck, on the soft skin behind her ears and even, faintly, on her shoulder as I push her hair aside, relishing the softness and luxuriance, the delicate fragrance that is so typically Louisa. She tilts her head back and my mouth finds her throat, where her skin feels like warm silk, and the feeling of her makes me sigh as I whisper her name. Beneath my hands, her body is as divine as it ever was, and my own response to it is as customarily intense, but everything else is as wholly dissimilar as it seems possible to be. Her usual exuberance, her energy, even her unbridled passion seem to have forsaken her and I pause breathlessly, my fingers reluctantly abandoning their attempt to trace a delicate course along her fifth rib.
I gaze down at her, conscious of the usual disbelief I feel, the persistent idea that I am an imposter who must soon be discovered, and revealed for what he actually is; a flawed, unworthy man briefly invigorated and illuminated by a beam of serendipitous light. Is this the moment when I am exposed, I wonder, has she come to her senses, does everyone else's opinion, agonisingly, count for more than my own? Her passivity unnerves me; she seems disconnected, docile and submissive, and it seems inappropriate that I should go on, so I wait, my heart pounding, because I do not know what else to do.
"Martin, what's wrong?" She says softly, opening her eyes and looking up at me, so beautiful in the pale light that it almost cleaves me in two.
"I wondered..." I say hoarsely, swallowing hard. "I mean...if we should be doing this...you seem...sad."
She frees her arm, her hand comes up to my face and, as her fingers caress my cheek, I wonder if I will ever recover from the love of her.
"I can't explain. I just know I need this." She says, gazing at me, helplessly, for a moment, and then her hands are in my hair, coaxing my head down towards her, so that our mouths come together in a tentative kiss; bruised, and sorrowful, and aching with grief.
From the first moment I ever allowed her to come close it has been like this; from that breathtaking encounter in Richmond Park where, in mere seconds, she managed to obliterate so much of the unpleasantness and shame that that place had always represented to me. Where she was able hypnotise me to the point where I willingly, and almost gleefully, absconded from my own self-imposed shackles, with barely a backward glance; where, unbelievably, I discovered how spectacular it could be, to discover ones capability to inspire an earth-shattering, thrilling sort of passion in someone as beautiful and joyful as Louisa. And, like then, I find myself now mesmerised, and drawn irrevocably toward her, buoyed by a glimpse of her customary enthusiasm, the building intensity in her kiss, that familiar, reassuring insistence that I've come to so depend on.
"Are you sure?" I ask her, breathlessly, as her mouth slides over my neck, her lips so soft and delicate against my taut, fomented skin.
"I need it to be just us, Martin..." She says, her voice unsteady with emotion. "I don't want to think about anyone else. I don't care about anyone's opinion. It's just you and me. No one else matters."
As she speaks, I know exactly what she means, because it's always been like that for me, forcing myself to shut out the noise and ignore the criticism, determined to disregard the constant denunciation and the endless vitriol. I understand how she feels because, when I am with her, like this, nothing else matters. I am seldom solicitous to the viewpoints of others, but it's obvious that negative opinions have the capacity to crush Louisa and so it seems imperative that I tell her that the only judgement I care about is hers. At this moment, she really is all that matters; her entreaty, her beseeching need merely inflames me further and I'm driven by a desperate desire to bury myself in her softness, to be enveloped by her warmth.
More than ever before, I need to hear her cry out my name, and to feel her shudder beneath me as she whispers her breathless declarations of love. I want to revel in the way her eyes sparkle, and the delicious wickedness of her smile as she gazes up at me. I want the electrifying sensation of her firm body moving so rhythmically with mine, her breast in my hand, her thighs wrapped around me, our connection as deep, and intense, and profound as I could ever have imagined it might be. But, most of all, I want the luxury of hope, as misguided and implausible as that might be, because I need to believe that, whatever it is Louisa feels for me, and however undeserving others may tell her I am, she might continue to love me for just a while longer.