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Out on the street, it's just so beautiful, so festive, so perfect. Fairy lights twinkle above us and, beyond them, a million brilliant stars. A lifetime ago, a little girl lay in the grass and gazed up at the heavens, for the first time aware that she was only a tiny speck in an enormous universe. But tilting my head back now makes me oddly lightheaded, and I wobble and miss my step. Clearing his throat, he offers me his arm for the steep descent and, just for a moment, I rest my temple gratefully on his bicep, smiling at the lanterns gleaming in doorways, and the tinsel that shimmers gently in the shifting breeze.
"Isn't this just lovely, Martin?" I gasp, and even my breath sparkles as it condenses in the cool night air.
He pauses at a shop doorway, and suddenly he is the image of his son, innocent, enthralled, his eyes wide and shiny and soft, Portwenn spread out before us, like a jewellers window.
"Yes." he says, reaching out toward the door and running his knuckle around a Christmas wreath composed entirely of feathers. At the bottom, two little felt robins shimmer with glitter, and they seem to enchant him, his lips parted as he stares at them with endearing childlike wonder.
"Did Joan ever bring you to watch the Lantern Parade when you were a little boy?" I ask, breathlessly, a little bit enchanted, and smitten by him all over again. The air is so crisp and the light so bright that I see him now with such amazing clarity; complex, brilliant, a man of principle, a wounded bird.
"Umm, perhaps. I don't recall." He replies thoughtfully, and a shadow of something flickers across his face. "It was a very long time ago."
It's true that neither of us is getting any younger, and we must have made love a thousand times yet, like a hormonal teenager, desire envelops me now like a summer fog. I feel dreamy, thoroughly distracted, knowing how his mouth will feel, how his body will respond. What lies beneath that suit is so familiar but, like unwrapping a Chocolate Orange slowly, piece by piece, I still can't wait to see him out of it. I bite my lip, suppressing a grin. A gull on a chimney calls out to the night, inside a nearby house a door slams; the spell is broken, and we are on the move again. Behind us, receding into the distance, the throb of thundering bass. The beat is now the slap of our shoes on damp, uneven cobbles, and we are in step, Martin and I; comfortable, content with our own rhythm, happy with our own sort of harmony
"You've never really been a fan of Christmas really, have you?" I ask him, tightening my grip on his elbow.
He clears his throat. "No. I suppose not."
"Not even when you were a little boy?"
"Especially not when I was a little boy." He says, airily, without any hint of bitterness.
I give his arm an encouraging squeeze, thinking about his mother, and another small, sensitive, intelligent boy, not more than a few hundred yards away from here. The joy and excitement that everything about Christmas brings James, I mean, what sort of person would deny their child that? But to try so hard not to perpetuate the cycle, to show patience and kindness as a father when you were never set an example, when you had so few positive childhood experiences to call upon; that is the measure of Martin's character. If nothing else, it illustrates his decency, and his honour, and I wonder, when I actually feel it really strongly, why I still find it so hard to tell him he's such an extraordinary man.
As we pass the Crab, the smell of roasting meat wafts across the lane but he doesn't pull his usual fastidious face. In the distance, the echo of a sea shanty, the voices warm, rich and hypnotic, carries on the salt-laden air. Ahead of us, the pharmacy is all in darkness, the Slipway empty, the street deserted. Only from the Mote is there a faint hum of conversation, the scraping of cutlery, the clattering of dishes. My steps become slower and shorter until we stop by the enormous Christmas tree dominating the Platt.
"Martin!" I gasp, and my mouth falls open.
All around us the walls glow with colourful decorations; solar powered snowflakes, baubles, icicles, flashing red, green and white. Windows glow with a warm reassuring lustre, the cottages so cosy and safe as they snake up the hill in every direction. Like an overexcited child, I pirouette, gazing all around me, heady, grinning, breathless, unable to take the brilliance of it in. I murmur his name again, feeling him close behind, wordlessly wrapping his arms around me and easing me gently against his chest. And together, we stand there, silent and transfixed, the colours reflecting off the flat sea, a giant moon emerging through the towering cumulus behind us. As it rises, it illuminates the clouds from within, like enormous puffs of clotted cream, bathing the village and the sea in a delicate opalescence.
I feel elated. Being here, secure in his arms just fills me with indescribable joy. "My god, Martin, you ever seen anything so beautiful?" I whisper, barely able to breathe as we gaze out across the mirror-like harbour.
His mouth, gentle and featherlight, brushes against my ear, his voice a low rumble deep in his chest.
"Mm…" I hear him murmur, his hand on the front of my hip, drawing me tightly against him. "Fortunately for me, she's…umm…she's beautiful all of the time… not just for a few nights a year."
Closing my eyes for a moment, I just want to purr, his words like a comforting shawl across my shoulders, so warm and reassuring. God knows, Martin's compliments are rare, but this one is so sweetly sincere, the timing unbelievably perfect. Honestly, I've spent half the night feeling so frumpy, so tired and over-inflated. Swollen feet forced into my favourite boots, even my maternity blouse uncomfortably tight across my chest. In the mirror, in the harsh light of the village hall loos, I'd looked every inch the geriatric pregnancy, nothing that could be fixed with just a lick of mascara and a splash of colour across my cheeks. Worse still was emerging to the sight of Melanie Gibson, in a skin-tight, red sequinned Santa mini-dress, shimmying back and forth across the stage. Everywhere I looked, short skirts and high heels, flat stomachs and narrow hips. And I'd felt just so ridiculously emotional, a roller coaster of feelings that refused to be contained.
"Thank you." I mumble, and I feel myself blush. "But I still feel a bit like that poor whale that beached itself at Perranporth a few years back. The incredible exploding woman."
"You're not going to explode." He assures me, kissing the top of my head.
A vehicle comes down Fore Street, it's headlights on full beam and I wonder who it is, and if they've seen us, giggling like we are a couple of amorous adolescents caught red-handed. I wait for Martin to drop his arms to his sides, to clear his throat and move quickly away. But he seems totally oblivious, unrepentant, even composed, and I shiver, and writhe, suddenly ticklish as his hand slips inside my coat. Crunching into low gear, the car heads up Roscarrock Hill while, behind us, a lone waiter collects the signs from in front of his restaurant, folding them up and laying them down flat. They clatter against the concrete but it doesn't make a difference; Martin is strangely nonchalant, it really is as if no one else in the world exists but us.
I lean my head back and look up at him. "I suppose we really out to be getting home to James. And Ruth will be wondering where we are…"
He lifts his wrist, glancing at his watch. "It's not late. We don't have to go yet, unless you want to…perhaps you're tired?"
"Not very." I assure him.
"Right." He says and he takes my hand, encouraging me to follow him past the upturned dinghies lined up along the Platt. Unlike his usual ground-covering quick march, tonight he is happy to dawdle, to thread his fingers through mine and just wander, as if he's forgotten the meaning of the word impatient, the most relaxed I've ever seen him, certainly outside our bedroom walls.
"So, what's got into you?" I ask, grinning at him. "You're usually the first to want to call it a night…."
"Oh…I don't know. " He replies evenly. "I suppose Ruth will want an espresso….and a chance to quiz me on the blood thing, no doubt. James will request a story…I'm waiting on an email from Chris, which will require a prompt and detailed response…with the new baby not far away, perhaps it just feels like we should snatch a few minutes for ourselves."
We stop at the bench and I'm definitely glad of it; I still feel vaguely unsteady. Wobbling a little, I stand there, smiling to myself at his idiosyncrasies, waiting for him to produce his handkerchief, anticipating that glower of disapproval as he cleans off the seat with a matador's flourish. But he's certainly full of surprises tonight, we take the bench as we find it and, instead, his hands are firmly beneath my elbows, gentle and solicitous as I lower myself down. Watching him is strangely comforting; elegant and immaculate as he snatches at his trousers, bending those long legs and settling in close beside me. Of course I'm familiar with his height but tonight he really seemed to tower over everyone. It was almost ridiculous, every time I'd looked around the hall, it was like he was standing in a spotlight, and I felt myself blush, as giddy as a teenager, spotting her crush across the room. If he asks me again if I feel dizzy or light headed, I might have to admit that I am.
An arm slides along the back of the bench, encouraging me into his shoulder; his gentleness, how tentative he is, suddenly fiercely endearing. "Are you warm enough?"
I smile to assure him that I'm fine, taking a deep, leisurely breath, inhaling the scent of pine tar, of wood smoke, and the crisp aroma of the sea. We're so lucky to live here, the waves lapping lazily at the shore, the fishing boats rocking hypnotically on their moorings. It's so tranquil, so picture perfect, my heart feels as if it might explode
"Anyway, it's so much nicer out here." I tell him, sighing contentedly. "That hall's always been stuffy. And damp. The ventilation's rubbish…"
"Ghastly." he replies, stroking my hair absently, as he gazes out toward the harbour wall.
In the peace that follows, I realise that it wasn't just the lack of fresh air that made tonight's gathering just that bit peculiar. Surely Martin noticed it too. I mean, it was a pretty weird sort of atmosphere, as if everyone had been stripped of almost all their inhibitions. I can't put my finger on what it was exactly; a bit too inflamed, over excited, almost euphoric somehow. From the moment the stage lights went off, I certainly felt unusual, in fact I'm still feeling a little bit that way right now. I've been blaming my hormones, and the excitement of a night out, but perhaps Martin was right, perhaps there was something in the punch. I wonder briefly who might be responsible, it seems a very reckless thing to do.
"Ghastly or not, it didn't stop the village letting it's hair down." I say, snuggling into his chest, so lovely and solid beneath the cashmere of his coat. Idly, my finger traces his trouser crease. "It sort of reminded me of the old Portwenn Players Dance? Do you remember them?"
His chest expands sharply and I hear him tut, as if I'd reminded him of something abhorrent, his thigh suddenly taut beneath my hand.
"Of course I do. " He growls and I can't help myself, I start to laugh.
"Come on, Martin, they weren't that bad! I mean, I know it did get a bit of a bad reputation towards the end but I always thought they were just a bit of fun really…"
"I don't recall them being any fun at all." He interrupts. "Seeing you…in that red dress…and the Dancing Policeman walking you home… so unbearably smug. Appalling is the word that comes to mind…"
Frowning, I twist my neck to look up at him, my voice an incredulous bark. "What?"
"Oh, nothing…I mean, obviously, I'd upset half the village…and Stewart was on a rampage which was, apparently, my fault." He hisses, as if he is reliving it all over again. "And then, to lay awake for hours…imagining the worst. You. And Mark Mylow. Together."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Yes, but you can't have believed that for very long, could you? Martin?"
But, clear as day, his expression tells me that there was a time when that's exactly what he believed. Apparently still affronted, he raises his chin and glances at me haughtily. I can't help laughing at how implausible this all is, and I give his leg a reprimanding squeeze.
"Um, actually, now I come to think of it, I asked you to come with me! I even bought you a ticket and you still turned me down!"
For a minute or two, we sit in a funny awkward silence; me, amused and, I'll admit, just a bit taken aback. And Martin, dusting at his knees with the back of his fingers, prim, disappproving, and apparently deep in thought.
He clears his throat cautiously after what feels like forever. "Mm…"
I smother a sigh. Unless the topic is medicine, he's never talked much and, though it hasn't been easy, I've come to accept his taciturn disposition, even tried to respect it. Sometimes though, like now, I just need a little bit more. Reaching up to touch his face, I flash a sympathetic smile. His cheek feels so smooth and warm beneath my fingers, his jaw so firm and resolute. If only I knew how to free it, to encourage him to tell me what's obviously on his mind.
"Why was that, do you think?" I ask him gently, feeling the lightest of pressure, the faint weight of his head leaning back against my hand.
He moistens his lips, slowly and deliberately. "Umm. I don't know…Perhaps…in the end…I thought it better to die wondering."
"What?" I say, frowning, confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Umm. Just that it seemed….preferable, I suppose, to cling to an ideal." He replies, his voice distant, his eyes glassy. "Declaring myself to you….ahh…and risking rejection… I simply couldn't do it. I couldn't bear the idea of no having hope at all…"
My chest tightens. Everything feels unreal, distorted by cheap special effects, the sand on the seafront rippling like a desert mirage. Martin discussing his feelings should make this moment quite special but instead I am surprised, and a little confused. The waves slap at the sides of the boats, a lone paper cup rolls erratically along in front of us, pushed along by the shifting breeze. Snatching at my pony tail, I watch as it prescribes figure eights across the cement and, honestly, I can't quite believe what I'm hearing. What was the word I used to describe every encounter we had back then? Combative? Weren't we always at loggerheads, even over the tiniest things?
"You might have said something." I protest weakly. "You weren't the only one lying awake at night overthinking everything. Honestly, I felt like I couldn't do anything right…"
He hesitates; contemplative, serious, his arm now tense around my shoulder.
"Louisa, please understand, I came to Cornwall with no other agenda than to resurrect my career."
Closing my eyes briefly, I feel the rise and fall of his chest, his heart a familiar slow, steady beat beneath my ear. "Yup. I was on your interview panel remember?"
"Mm. And finding myself utterly captivated by the lovely Lay Member…before I'd ever set foot in Portwenn…frankly, that was a maelstrom I simply wasn't prepared for…"
Startled, my eyes snap open and, instantly, I am trembling, too hot, and even more confused.
"Martin…" I whisper, hoarse with disbelief, desperate to recall that flight in any detail. I do remember enough to know I'd been so sharp with him, so assertive and abrupt.
I smother a nervous laugh. The truth is, I'd noticed him too. Tall and well dressed, striding through the departure lounge, with just enough swagger that he was instantly attractive. Then, later, when he held the lift door open, indicating that I should go first with an imperious nod of his head, I'd been even more intrigued. Well-built, self-confident and with surprisingly nice manners, sitting across from him presented a chance for a conversation, maybe even a meaningless flirtation. But I was doomed to be disappointed and, honestly, well it was quite a blow to my ego to find myself ignored for most of the journey. And then, that blatant, eviscerating stare, the one that had me consign him to oblivion, along with all the other leery perverts I've encountered in my life. Emanating from near the school, the sound of booming laughter reaches us. Somewhere up by Trewetha Lane, a car alarm sounds and I let out a long shuddery sigh. How had I so misread him? How had I got everything just so very very wrong?
Sitting up, with some difficulty, I swing around to face him, and his expression is so uncharacteristically earnest, his eyes wide and bright and unblinking.
"But you told Dr. Timoney that your first impression of me was that I was suffering from glaucoma!" I object and, despite myself, I start to laugh again.
"Diagnosing the glaucoma took less than thirty seconds." He says dismissively, and he pauses, still gazing at me intently, reaching up slowly to curve his hand around my jaw. "I read the same sentence in the newspaper a hundred times, Louisa, and do you know why? Because you were then, and still are, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen…"
My breath catches in my throat and I stare at him helplessly, the look on his face so open, so honest and imploring. Such a contrast to the man on the plane; that penetrating stare, those piercing eyes; honestly my discomfort had been off the scale.
"I got up and moved away…" I say weakly.
His voice is almost dreamy. "You did. You gave me a rather filthy look too, do you remember that?"
Funny how someone can get under your skin, right from the very first time you meet. Luckily, I'm no longer completely unnerved by the way he looks at me and, right now, I love the hint of dimples in his cheeks, the impression of a smile as he relives a moment, lost in his thoughts a million miles away.
"Flounced off is probably more accurate." I admit, ruefully.
From somewhere close at hand, the screech of female laughter reverberates down an alley, and the sound of a can, being kicked across the cobbles. Apparently oblivious, Martin's eyes sparkle as he lifts his chin and holds my gaze; an expression that makes him completely irresistible; just a little bit provocative, just a tiny bit cocksure.
"As you sat down, your skirt became caught on the armrest of your seat." He says, his voice deep and velvety. "So, as a consequence, I had a rather memorable last impression of…of…umm…well, it doesn't matter. Let's just call it a rather distracting view."
I grin at him defiantly. "Of what? Knickers and a bit of leg? You're a doctor, Martin, you'd have seen a bit of bare skin in your time…"
"Yes..But I hadn't seen your skin before…" He says, absently pushing my fringe from my eyes with a languid stroke of his index finger. "And I couldn't stop thinking about it, every time I saw you…"
I lean back, my shoulders against the back of the bench, my head resting on his forearm. As his words sink in, self-consciously, I bite my lip. "What? All those years? Right from the very start?
"All those years…from the very start." He murmurs. "In fact, I'm thinking about it now…"
His touch is so light, so delicate as he traces my cheek. In my stomach, a thousand butterflies erupt as he abandons his principles, cupping my jaw, his thumb tightening its grip beneath my chin. In the silence of the deserted Platt, I whisper his name, but his kiss devours it, and we collide, conjoined in the way of romantic heroes and desperate young lovers, with hungry, insistent mouths. And I cling to him, barely able catch my breath, exhilarated, inflamed, aching to feel his hands on my bare skin.
Someone shouts, but I can't make out what they're saying, and even if I could, I wouldn't care. He breathes for both of us now, and I see stars, as dazzling as seed lights scrunched up in a jar. A catcall, and then another; perhaps they're getting closer but now his mouth is on my throat. Spine tingling, skin rippling, a potent heat pulsing deep inside my hips. The most beautiful woman he's ever seen, isn't that what he said? My mind is blank, no space for any thoughts, madly overwhelmed by sensation. He is spreadeagled on the bed and I have a feather trigger, so carefree and unrestrained, his body hard, his mouth so soft.
"Let's go home," I gasp. "…I'll take care of James, umm…you see to Ruth. I don't know..umm…just say I'm tired or something…"
His lips brush mine; a hint of bruising and it's like a charge of static electricity, my desire now a juggernaut.
"Of course." He says. "Whatever you want…"
"Oi, you two, get a room!" A bevy girl shrieks from vicinity of the Slipway, and it seems to echo off every wall, to reverberate off every building.
It's too close to ignore now, and I hear Martin groan, exhaling crossly as we separate. Pressing my face into his chest, I start to laugh; unconcerned and actually quite shameless. But I suppose, if they're turning out of the village hall, then they'll be on their way to the Crab, so it seems even more timely that we make our escape. The appearance of a single stranger has already dampened our heat, and soon the foreshore will be filled with thwarted revellers, and disgruntled patients harassing Martin to examine them in the street. It's been too brilliant an evening to bear the thought of anything ruining his mood. And I want so desperately to prolong this, to see where it takes us. But, most of all, I can't imagine anything better than to fall asleep in his arms, the lullaby his astonishing declarations, if only I can cajole him into reliving his first impressions all over again.
"If you can keep your hands off each other for five seconds, perhaps you can tell me where to get something eat in this bloody place?" Petulant and bad-tempered, the woman's cackle has me glancing up suddenly as she lurches down the road toward us. "Everything's closed and it's barely eight o'clock!"
Martin raises an eyebrow at me, and I grimace back at him helplessly; we've both recognised the voice, the walk, the glow of the cigarette held aloft. Like one of my own teenage clients, embarrassed by their parent, I feel a surge of irritation, and a slow burning flush of shame.
"Is she drunk?" Martin asks, watching with interest as she stumbles on the uneven surface, the bracelets on her arm clattering like a Tamborine.
"I have my suspicions." I mutter, not caring at all if I sound churlish. How typical of Eleanor to turn up now, just in time to ruin everything. "Why doesn't she just go back to the Crab? Have something to eat in her room?"
"The state she's in, she'll most likely fall into the sea and drown." He replies mildly and, before I realise what is happening, he stands up and walks toward her, as slow and cautious as if she were a madwoman swinging an axe.
"Oh my God! It's you!" Eleanor shrieks, and she starts to laugh. "Bloody hell, Rudolf Bloody Valentino! Aren't you a dark horse then?"
I clench my jaw, feeling the joy being sucked out of the evening. God, I really can't stand the way she speaks to Martin, she really has no idea about him, she really doesn't understand him at all. Unless Valentino was a seventeenth century Florentine Clockmaker, he'll be totally unfamiliar with the name. In fact, he won't even be listening now, unless it's to identify a slurring of her words, aphasia or an unusual speech pattern. He's in doctor mode, as if someone has flicked a switch and, with his head bowed, he watches her closely, attempting to place a steading hand on her shoulder as she wobbles past. But my mother is having none of it and, with her usual thoughtlessness, her incredible breathtaking selfishness, she rudely shakes him off.
"Fancy Mr. High 'n' Mighty, smoochin' on the Platt. " She sniggers, poking him in the chest with a heavily bejewelled middle finger as she passes. "Not so superior now are we, eh? I wonder what's got into you?"
"Please don't speak to Martin like that." I hiss at her, and I laugh mirthlessly. "You seem to forget he saved your life…"
But to my surprise, he holds up his hand, the sign language he uses when he wants me to stop talking. I suppose I should feel gratified, to everyone else he just barks the order to shut up.
"Mrs. Gla…umm…ahh…Eleanor. " He says, in an unfamiliar tone. "Why don't you…umm…come over here and sit down for a moment? Please?"
"Ooh, I wouldn't want to play gooseberry…cramp your style" She replies slyly, attempting to wink at me. "After all…three's a crowd…isn't that right, Lou Lou?"
"Someone's had a good night then?" I snap, not even bothering to hide how salty I feel toward her. How dare she try and embarrass us, the hypocrisy is breathtaking, after she's made a spectacle of herself with Chippy Miller of all people; for goodness sake, she's old enough to be his mother.
"You know, every night's a good night, if you just have the right sort of attitude. " She smirks, in that condescending way she has, so scornful of anyone who might take their responsibilities seriously, behaving as if fun is the only thing that matters.
"Yeah, well forgive me if I don't think your attitude is all that brilliant, Mother. " I mutter, glancing at Martin who stands tall and expressionless behind her. "Some people might think it was time you grew up, actually."
"Time I grew up? That's pretty rich coming from someone caught snoggin' in public, in full view of the entire village!" She cackles. "Honestly! Just like a bloody pair of hormonal teenagers, you two…hilarious!"
"For someone who apparently forgot about her own teenager, you seem to know an awful lot about them.."
She rolls her eyes. "Ohh, that old chestnut. For goodness sake Lou Lou, change the record, will you? I'm off to find something to eat."
She reaches into her deep sagging pockets and I stare at her, biting my lip in absolute fury. So many years have passed, I have a family of my own and still she finds a way to irritate me, she just seems to know instinctively how to light my fuse. I'm at that point, I really don't care if she leaves, or if I never see her again. Every time I spend any time with her, I just end up horribly disappointed. And, honestly, I can't imagine abandoning James, whatever age he might be. I mean, what sort of mother barely stays in contact, forgets birthdays, takes such little interest in their child? What sort of parent only writes to demand an adolescent makes life-changing decisions when their hardest choice should only be whether to have marmite or honey on their toast?
As if Martin understands, he comes to stand beside me, slipping his arm gently around my waist, and it feels supportive and, sweetly, rather protective, not annoying, not suggesting he thinks I can't take care of myself at all. And I know he's always been wary of my mother and, actually, I might have finally decided that he is right. All the times I've defended her to him, frustrated because he couldn't understand how torn I felt. Everything is always so black and white to him, he'll either do everything he can for someone, or he can barely stand to say hello. And I realise now, he's learned the hard way, some people are more trouble than they're worth, whether they're your flesh and blood or not. I glance sideways, flashing him a grateful smile, feeling thrilled to be so connected, like we are completely on the same page. But his brow is deeply furrowed as if he's deep in thought and he's certainly not looking at me.
"Eleanor. " He says, his voice kind and sort of awkwardly sympathetic. "Umm…It's getting cold. It's late. Why don't you come up to the cottage now, and I can prepare us something nice for supper?"