While I have long been aware of Louisa's capacity to tilt the earth on its axis, I can honestly say the conversation that unfolded upon my arrival home completely and utterly blindsided me. Despite my surprise at her reappearance, I was of course pleased to see her but also aware almost immediately that something was rather amiss. Despite her attempts at casual conversation, and her customary yet slightly baffling interest in the machinations of my day, I could sense that she was, underneath everything, apprehensive. Even as she regaled me with the frustrations of her return to college, she was expectant and watchful, like an anxious gazelle venturing tentatively toward a dangerous waterhole.
Even as she bemoaned the hours she had wasted queuing, and the lamentable inaccuracy of record keeping she'd encountered, there was an uneasiness about her that surprised me and I'd found myself glancing around the room, wondering if perhaps she'd broken something significant. As I listened, I also adjusted my plans, adapting to the idea that my structured evening had now gone completely awry. An early supper was still a possibility but I realised that any hope of several hours of silent, thoughtful contemplation should probably be abandoned. Though my mind returned briefly to the stack of paperwork within my briefcase, I can't say that I minded the disruption particularly. I have every confidence that, if I explain the situation, Louisa will understand the importance of the evening's encumbrances and react accordingly; her ability to sit quietly and to concentrate has definitely improved since we first met. And, as well as her other many attributes, she does seem to be respectful and, dare I say it, accepting of the many and serious demands on my time.
But, as she follows me into the study and hovers behind me, biting on her lip until it assumes the colour of old port, I realise that whatever is bothering her is more serious than I first thought. As I place my briefcase on my desk, I experience a sudden flash of panic of my own, and I turn to stare back at her, searching her expression for any sign of detachment. Of course it is completely plausible that a return not only to her studies but to the society of her relaxed, like-minded contemporaries has brought her back, brutally, to her senses. No one is more aware than I that whomever we encounter when she is in my company inevitably wonders what on earth it is she sees in me; from open-mouthed stares to hastily concealed incredulity, I've noted it all. Each time the skepticism I encounter merely serves to prod at the embers already smouldering deep within me, despite how stoically I bear the inevitable flash of heat.
Louisa has pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and she tugs at it uneasily, as our eyes meet and we stand facing each other in a fraught, trepidatious state of disquiet. My heart starts to hammer in my chest, and a voice in my head berates me, urging me impatiently to recall the way she greeted my arrival home; the sweetness of her kiss, the way her hands lingered on my chest as she leaned away and gazed up at me. I'd only had one arm free but I had embraced her as well as I could, my hand on her sacrum, holding her against me long enough for that familiar energy to once again course provocatively through my weary limbs. Dull though I am, predictable and severe though I might be, even as aware as I have become that my personality is a black hole into which all merriment and lightheartedness disappears; loving her as fiercely as I do must surely count for something.
"Martin, I have to ask you a big favour." She blurts out breathlessly, her eyes suddenly enormous and her expression beseeching and hopeful.
For a split second, I'm back in Portwenn; an immature young man out of his depth, tasked with the responsibility of chaperoning a frightened and tearful teenager to a meeting that would decide her fate. She'd begged me to go inside with her and, underneath the cheek and the insolence, I'd realised just how terrified and vulnerable and alone she felt.
"You're on my side, aren't you? Please Martin, please!" She'd implored, in the thick Cornish accent that I'd initially found so baffling, and I'd found myself acquiescing, for a million complicated reasons that even I didn't completely understand.
Now, just as I did then, I nod at her gravely. My reasons for wanting to make everything in her life as tolerable as I can are slightly less convoluted than before but infinitely more intense. She grimaces at me awkwardly, glancing down as she twists anxiously at the hem of her cardigan, her eyelashes appearing strikingly long and dark against the soft cream of her skin. Whatever voice I possessed has now been choked by apprehension, its grip so tight around my throat that all I can do is swallow hard, and wait.
"I was wondering if I could stay here for a bit..." She says hesitantly, and then she glances up at me, her expression artless, her concern only apparent in the way she clenches her teeth and grimaces hopefully.
I feel myself frown and I'm momentarily nonplussed by her words. The favour she asks for, the request that leaves her in such evident discomfort, could this be the very same eventuality I was berated so ferociously for when I suggested it to her? Or am I completely misreading the situation, a possibility so distinct that I am highly likely to put my foot in it, once again. She stares at me, and I wait for a nod or a smile or some sort of encouragement that might help me understand, but she simply stands perfectly still, exuding a worrying air of discomfort. I know that I must say something but, as I open my mouth tentatively, the words that form in my mind simply die agonisingly on my lips.
"I know it's short notice..." She adds and I can hear her unease in the tone she uses; resigned, yet revealing a hint of defiance as she flexes her jaw.
Of course I want her here with me; when measured against the comfort and assuagement she brings to my life, any inconveniences and frustrations pale utterly into insignificance. And I hate the thought of her in that disgusting flat. I couldn't be happier at the idea that she seems to be intent on vacating the squalid place but I do need to understand what has changed and, more importantly, why.
"When you say a bit...umm, what exactly do you mean?" I ask her, suddenly conscious that I should not allow my hopes the freedom to rise too soon.
"Just til I find somewhere else, that's all." She replies, slightly defensively.
I wince internally at the stab of disappointment I experience. Of course she doesn't want to move in permanently with you, Ellingham, you irrational, misguided fantasist, I tell myself with wounding scorn. Though living here suits me very well, imagining Louisa isolated and alone amidst the silent monotony of my flat, at such an obvious risk of having her spirit extinguished, makes me physically shudder. I couldn't bear to be responsible for crushing her vivacity when it is that very energy that attracts and sustains me. The truth is, it's a worrisome thought, and one which has been nagging away at me ever since the idea of transferring to Imperial was first mooted. I am only too aware that, if I embrace the senior consultant's role, the demands on my time will become even more rigorous as I commit to more time in theatre, more research projects and, therefore, the increased likelihood of more presentations at more conferences. The lure of the opportunity to work on groundbreaking developments, through tripartite liaison with both the engineering and computer science departments of the college, is a major factor in my decision making process. But this alone, while rather a thrilling and attractive facet of the role, does seem to reconcile more easily with the life of an intensely-focused, single-minded ascetic rather than a man who has developed a few, new preoccupying passions outside of medicine.
"Umm...yes." I tell her calmly, desperate not to reveal the ache of disappointment that seems to persist in my chest.
She smiles at me briefly, but the mirthlessness of the gesture isn't lost on me and I turn my attention to the cuffs of my shirt, tugging them down firmly and clearing my throat. The last thing I want is for Louisa to think that I am impossibly needy, or to see me as self-centred and self-absorbed. Better to show no emotion than to humiliate myself. So, I will take whatever time she offers me with unspoken gratitude, for however much of herself she is prepared to share with me is far more than I know I deserve. Glancing down, I pop the catches on my briefcase, briskly, and lift the lid, aware that, in my peripheral vision, she continues to stare at me, her arms now folded across her chest.
"That should be...fine." I add casually, as I retrieve both the envelopes and a number of Manila folders from within the tan leather interior. "This came for you today via a courier, too, by the way."
"Oh, right..." She says, staring at my outstretched arm, her brow knotted and her lip once more clenched firmly beneath her teeth. "I wonder what it is?"
"How on earth should I know?" I reply, slightly more tersely than I intended as I realise that the dim-witted secretary has not only supplied me with the wrong case notes but, like the incompetent ignoramus she is proving herself to be, has returned to me the same pile of documents I'd given her this morning to file.
Muttering under my breath, I slam the lid closed and glance surreptitiously at Louisa. Her air of discomfort is still apparent and I wonder what else I might say when, as usual, any words of reassurance and encouragement fail me. I'm aware that I can never offer her excitement or adventure. I am no raconteur, and I have no interest in sporting pastimes, and even less in popular entertainment, nor have I any knowledge or appreciation of the music that she so obviously delights in. But now, at least, I can be be responsible for ensuring she has a roof over her head, a sanitary environment in which to live, and a guarantee that she is safe, warm and well fed.
"Are you ready for supper?" I ask her, placing my envelope on the desk and dropping the remainder of the files back into my case, heavily and rather crossly. "This can wait."
Leaving her to open her mysterious piece of internal mail, I make my way briskly to the kitchen. One of many observations I've made of Louisa is that she is more likely to eat brassicas when they are overcooked and smothered in butter or, worse still, some sort of creamy sauce. In an attempt to compromise, I begin to experiment with the creation of a more healthy sort of white sauce, using eggs and Parmesan, and two percent milk. If I can even partially disguise a taste that seems to apparently disgust her, then perhaps I can encourage her to include more vegetables and more fibre in her diet. As I am arranging a selection of julienned root vegetables on a baking tray, she wanders in, an empty wine glass in her hand.
"Mind if I have a top up?" She asks, and I hesitate for a moment before swallowing hard and clearing my throat.
"Umm...no..." I tell her, rather unconvincingly and she smiles at me; a relaxed, knowing expression which immediately fills me with relief.
As she fills her glass, rather generously for a Monday night by even my father's dipsomaniacal standards, she glances up, glaring at me fixedly until I look away, my attention now solely on the stirring of my experimental sauce.
"Don't you want to know what was in the envelope then?" She asks loftily, displaying a large amount of sauce of her own. "I thought you'd be dying to know.."
"No." I say, innocently. "None of my business. I'm sure you'll inform me if you think it relevant"
She laughs as she leans against the kitchen worktop beside me, holding her glass of wine against her chest and observing me over the top of it, a rather insolent yet utterly beguiling expression on her face.
"And what about Graham Terrace? You must be desperate to know, you know, what happened...why I want to move out?"
I remove the saucepan from the heat and switch off the element before turning nonchalantly to face her, reaching for the tea towel to dry my hands with protracted thoroughness, as I gaze at her impassively. She is frowning, and chewing on her lip in an apparent eagerness to acquaint me with the details; childlike and suddenly animated in a manner that's really rather endearing. I raise my eyebrow at her inquiringly and, as she breathlessly reveals the details behind her unexpected decampment, I find myself becoming more and more indignant with every new detail she provides.
"Would you like me to arrange a moving company to retrieve the rest of your belongings?" I ask her. "We could have them put into storage if you like, I mean, in the interim, obviously..."
She shakes her head.
"Thanks but there's no need,really. To be honest, I don't actually have that much stuff. The room came furnished so there's only the rest of my clothes...and just my stereo really. I can easily pop in on my way home and collect a bit more every night..."
"Louisa, I really don't think that's a good idea." I interrupt hurriedly. "Just get the movers to pick everything up. It sounds to me like the less you have to do with your former housemates, the better..."
"No, Martin, that's just a waste of money. There's probably only two or three cartons worth of bits and pieces. I'll have it all back here by the weekend and then I can forget all about it. And them."
I stare at her, exasperated, reaching up to rub my temples as I struggle to compose myself. While I respect her pride, and her insistence on frugality and fiscal independence, everything about her plan is bordering on lunacy. Lumping cartons onto crowded public transport is bad enough, never mind exposing herself to the risk of further unpleasantness, and even conflict, with the hags and necromancers with whom she once shared her flat.
"I'm sorry Louisa, but I insist." I say, my voice a low, grimly patient growl. "I'm going to put a condition on you moving in here with me and that condition is as follows: tomorrow evening, you and I will drive to Graham Terrace and load what's left of your belongings into my car."
She smiles at me; a slow, warm, encouraging expression of gratitude that makes me feel like I'm momentarily suspended in warm honey. Her eyes sparkle and she somehow seems to glow with a different sort of radiance. If only she would let me fix things for her more often, I could so easily make her more comfortable but, instead, she fights me tooth and nail, as if our lack of financial parity is somehow demeaning to her. I am, however, very relieved at the thought that her ugly utilitarian furniture will not be coming with her, and her extra belongings should be easily accommodated in the vast and virtually empty storage of the second bedroom. As I make a mental checklist of the items I will need to bring with me, she slips her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my chest as she stares up at me. I glance down at her, surprised, as I wrestle with the location of my reel of carton closing tape, and ponder the necessity of purchasing a roll of bubble wrap.
"Can we compromise, and say I'll meet you there?" She says, standing on her tiptoes to kiss me before I have a chance to either object or agree, forcing my mouth open with an intensity that's rather unexpected, especially in the kitchen, as I'm preparing our evening meal.
For a moment, I don't even pretend to resist. She's well aware of how suggestible I've become; how pliant I am and how irresistible I find her and, as usual, she seems to take an infinite joy, and not inconsiderable amusement, from seducing me at every opportunity, inappropriate or otherwise. My apron doesn't even impede her determination, and the dexterity of her fingers as she release my buttons, unsighted, is actually quite impressive. Obviously, I can tie knots one handed, using my left or my right hand, but Louisa's adroitness would give many surgeons a run for their money; her skills only enhanced by her fervid enthusiasm. I'm starting to breathe quite heavily, and the deliciously familiar fog of desire begins to overwhelm my feeble, libidinous mind. Distracted by the realisation that my braces have now been detached, a vague, fleeting feeling of trepidation assails me, before just as quickly disappearing, obliterated into nothingness as her hand slides inside the waistband of my trousers. Involuntarily, I gasp.
"For god's sake Louisa." I murmur against her ear, completely unconvincingly, and she responds with a soft, throaty laugh, unconcerned and insistent, drawing me momentarily into her joyous, spontaneous world; a place where the contents of my boxer shorts are never off limits and testing my willpower is an Olympic sport.
As she tightens her grip, and as the last of my self restraint volatilises into the ether, all thoughts of maintaining even the most basic sense of propriety and decorum have gone. My nebulous, concupiscent mind can only grapple with the distance to the couch, and the fastest way to get there, as I hear myself tell her, in a voice I barely recognise, what it is I need to do.
"Yes, please." She replies gleefully, and I can hear the elation in her voice, the ability she has to not only find exhilaration in the most unusual of circumstances but to draw me along so pleasurably beside her.
I know that I must tell her how glad I am that she is here, how relieved I feel, how imperative she is to me, but I'm beyond any carefully constructed, florid declarations of concurrence. We collapse onto the Chesterfield and she laughs with delight as she pulls her shirt over her head and disentangles herself from the garment she always refers to as the good bra. Impetuous and unconstrained, pushing me down and kneeling over me, her eyes bright with desire; everything about being with Louisa in this moment is perfect. No constraints, no rules, no judgements, just a fleeting feeling of freedom and, presently, the most incredible sensation of release. No sooner does it occur to me that I should tell again how much I love her than, out of nowhere, all hell breaks loose and the room is filled with an excruciating, high-pitched scream, a deafeningly painful sound that lacerates our eardrums.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" I shout, as she scrambles to her feet, her expression now that of bemusement and disappointment as she stares back at me, suddenly conscious of her nakedness.
"Martin?" She cries. "What is it?"
"Smoke alarm." I groan, aggravated beyond all measure, snatching angrily at any clothing I can find before charging furiously into the kitchen and turning off the cooker.
She follows me, clutching her shirt in front of her, her delicate vulnerability somehow making the frustration and the depth of the irritation and disappointment I feel, even worse.
"Just turn it off then." She says, as her smile returns. "We can just carry on from where we left off..."
"After I've phoned the fire brigade and fended off the concierge." I tell her grimly, as I clamber up on to a chair and immobilise the alarm. "The damn thing is hardwired. Any minute now they'll be evacuating the building, and the stairwell will be filled with firemen in breathing apparatus..."
Though her response is laughter, I notice how quickly she gathers up her clothing and disappears into the bedroom, only re-emerging as I'm attempting, unsuccessfully, to resuscitate most of our supper.
"All sorted?" She asks casually, as if negligently almost setting the house on fire whilst in the throes of passion is a throughly unremarkable occurrence.
"Mmm." I reply as I'm excoriated by yet another wave of embarrassment.
The truth is, I've allowed myself to be distracted, shown altogether too much emotion, and temporarily abdicated my responsibilities in a manner that was nothing short of dangerous. Frankly, I have absolutely no right to be surprised at the ensuing carnage, having behaved like a lascivious billy goat. Chastened, I place the plate of roast vegetables, somewhat self consciously, before her.
"This looks nice." She says, enthusiastically, reaching for the salt and applying it liberally to her meal.
"I'm sorry the meal was ruined...I couldn't resurrect the fish and I had nothing else to replace it with, unfortunately...umm...I wasn't expecting..." My voice trails off helplessly as I watch her load her fork.
"God, no, Martin! It's brilliant!" She says, enthusiastically, mercifully interrupting was was about to be a rather tedious explanation of my grocery shopping routine. "Whatever this sauce is, it's delicious."
I glance across at her, ruefully. Almost half an hour has elapsed since the unfortunate alarm shattered my composure and I have spent almost the entire time basting myself, as I roast in the oil of self-reproach. Yet Louisa, wearing a tight red sweater that does nothing for my agitated state, appears jaunty and lighthearted as if she enjoyed every minute of our thwarted encounter. As she waves her fork around, she cheerfully informs me incredulously that roasted parsnips taste far better than they sound like they might, pulling a face as she chews on her broccoli but eating every last floret regardless. At the end of almost every sentence, her face breaks into a smile; her manner so effortlessly charming and her expression utterly without guile.
"Besides," She says, her eyes flashing as her smirk takes on a slightly suggestive air. "I quite like impetuous Martin."
"Mmm..." I reply somewhat shamefully, as I'm overwhelmed by a blush of crematorium-like intensity; one I hope rather vainly that she won't notice.
I clear my throat awkwardly and she grins lopsidedly at me, as she reaches out and slides her hand over mine.
"I mean it...and, come on, there's no harm done. Not even one fire engine in the street, Martin. No one naked on the fire escape, no awkward insurance claims, just a bit of a laugh, that's all...no one else will ever know..."
I frown at her but it's obvious she realises my heart isn't in it and she gives my hand a playful squeeze; tossing her head like an obstreperous teenager and smirking at me sideways.
"It was a bit of a false start though, wasn't it?.." She says airily. "What do you think...p'raps we could have another go?"
I can't not stare back, her eyes sparkling with mirth, so very bright and clear and emerald green; spirited, effervescent and unaffected, Louisa clearly feels no regret. Underneath everything, chafing below all the complex layers of behaviours and proprietaries I've assumed in my life, I am simply a clumsily besotted man; one who is gradually realising how tired he is of a life of endless self-opprobrium. As she smiles at me, with rather breathtaking suggestiveness, I realise I am one step closer to shrugging off this endless self-reproach.
"Obviously, you know, we'd do the dishes and tidy up first..." She adds, her tone now blatantly teasing.
It would nothing short of pointless self deception to pretend, should Louisa attempt such inveiglement again, that I would not respond with similar intensity. Perhaps though, in the interests of good sense and experiential learning, I would first remove the meal from the cooker. I lift my chin, and gaze at her down my nose as I feel the subtle flicker of a smile hover around my mouth.
"Umm...without wishing to disappoint you, for the rest of the evening, only the most resolute and circumspect facets of my character will be in evidence." I tell her, with mock solemnity. "I have something important to read that will require my full concentration."
"Okay." She replies thoughtfully. "I've got a bit to get through too...and a few more of my things to find places for...I'll see you when you're fed up with reading then, shall I?"
I watch her as she dances off down the hallway, so lithe and nimble and energetic. Hips swinging, her hair shining; even wearing jeans, her face free of make-up, she has such ineffable femininity that I can't tear my eyes from her retreating figure. When she disappears from my sight, and as the usual impassive stillness returns to the kitchen, I take care of the dishes unassisted. In a silence only broken by the occasional screeching of clothes hangers, or the rumble of overloaded drawers, I settle myself down with the Imperial contract and begin to fill a page with rather extensive notes. Eventually, when I glance at my watch and decide that it is time for bed, I discover Louisa already asleep. Clad in one of the tee shirts I used to sleep in, before she informed me that it was against the rules, she lies on top of the covers, a handful of papers still in her grasp. I fetch a blanket from the spare room and lay it over her carefully, moving her reading material to the bedside cabinet, and curling up behind her as gently as I can manage. As I wrap my arm around her, she stirs and mutters something indecipherable, reaching for my hand sleepily and tucking it against the soft swell of her breast. Summoning all my courage, I inhale deeply and press my lips against her hair.
"I'm glad you're here, Louisa" I whisper, just loudly enough that I hope she might hear me.