She told me that she missed the sea.
I think back, remembering how the sun reflected off the cobalt water on a cloudless day, the feeling of drawing the clean, moist air into my lungs, the endless salty breeze and the thunderous roar of the waves against the cliffs. As indignant seagulls terrorised the sky, and the kelp flailed in the tide, I knew of her approach by the sound of her flip flops slapping against the soles of her grubby feet; her earnest, childlike expression belying the cruelty of the adult world she is having to learn so rapidly to contend with. And I had been so disinterested in her, so cold and determined to repel any attempts at interaction beyond that which I had promised Auntie Joan.
I'd needed her to be the scruffy, uninspiring child she initially appeared to be; irritating and gauche, poorly dressed, with no manners and dubious personal hygiene. It had to be that way so that I could justify my generally cold and unfeeling approach. As much as I didn't want to feel any empathy with her, Louisa, as I have come to realise, had other ideas. Firstly, she was at that difficult age where she was no longer a child that can be easily dismissed; ignored or told to go away in the way I was by my parents, but nor was she an adult, with a free will that she could be held accountable for. She was like the coastal kelp, hanging on grimly, as she was battered constantly by the tidal surges. As hard as I had tried to remain impassive, I couldn't help but have a grudging admiration of her total refusal to be cowed. Now I realise that it is our strange sense of shared neglect which inexplicably, binds us together.
Afterwards, as I drove home to London, feeling only abject horror at the way the weekend had unfolded,it had dawned on me that, in my whole life, everyone always wanted just to tell me what they expected of me. My parents, my schools, University, and especially Edith; everything I ever did was judged so harshly, every success measured and compared unfavourably to that of others, every failure chastised and gloated over as if that provided more joy than my success. And then there was fourteen year old Louisa, with nothing and virtually no one to call her own, who became the first person to point it out to me, so adamantly, that I was allowed to have needs and expectations of my own, that I didn't deserve to be treated poorly, and that I did indeed deserve better.
Of course, I'd rejected her words, humiliated at the circumstances that resulted in a child trying to empathise and condole with me, and I'd retreated behind the cloak of arrogance that had increasingly become such a reassuringly good fit. After I'd dismissed her reassurances, harshly and without acknowledgement, she had looked at me with such dismay that I'd actually felt a pang of guilt despite my well-practiced cold exterior. But, in retrospect, even if her sentiments had only vaguely sunk into my subconscious, unknowingly, Louisa herself had clearly taken far deeper root.
Because she misses the sea, I wracked my brains for something that might be appropriate. I'd toyed with the idea of a drive to Kent, or Chichester, but the thought of navigating the inevitable crowds, the sand in my car, the plethora of objectionable foodstuffs that were bound to be on offer, all combined to seem more off-putting than enticing. I briefly pondered a weekend, maybe somewhere further afield, with just a coastal view rather than having to set foot on the beach itself, and I had started to warm to the idea when the reality hit me like a proverbial dowsing in ice water. Inviting Louisa for a weekend away was nothing less than horribly presumptuous. If that idea weren't tachycardic enough, the pressure I'd feel at merely trying to maintain conversation for two days is almost as daunting.
So, now, I find myself sitting in my office and listening rather resignedly to the dreadful 'on hold' music as I wait to be connected to the phone extension of the Tate Gallery's Assistant Director. The office staff have drifted away and the never ending squeaking humming of the printers have been mercifully silenced. And it seems that, despite my grim determination to keep her at bay, at least professionally, it has taken less than a day for Louisa to pervade every aspect of my life. While Chris Parsons is partially deserving of the blame, for dragging her into this morning's harrowing ordeal, the idea for this particular excursion, and the necessity of making these telephone calls from my little corner of the vascular office suites, is all my own doing.
In my defence I'm trying to tie this all up before he leaves for the day and, after a frustrating day of missed calls and answerphone messages, we finally speak in person. He greets me heartily and I'm rather surprised at his enthusiasm for my request. After informing me of his wife's renewed post operative zest for life, a fact that leaves me feeling awkward and uncomfortable, he reassures me that private viewings are becoming more common and he's confident that there will be enough relevant works available to make it interesting for Louisa. I am encouraged, and we conclude our conversation with the understanding that I will confirm the date with him as soon as I can. The purchasing of gifts is something that has always caused me much consternation but I feel rather more confident in my ability to arrange an experience and I'm hopeful that it's something Louisa will enjoy. Besides, and I see no reason to hide the fact, I like to take full advantage of any educational opportunity that is offered; the gaining of knowledge is something I would choose over frivolous entertainment every single time.
I glance at my watch. It's just after six o'clock and I'm very much ready to go home. While I consider myself to be robust, and I hope that I have achieved a certain degree of inviolability, I do have moments when my skin feels thin and the interaction with my father this morning has bruised me. Unfortunately, my usual strategy of keeping busy hasn't been enough to keep the resentfulness and aggravation at bay and I have been edgy and restless all day. To add to my feelings of disquiet, I have now allowed my thoughts to dwell on Louisa and, as a result, I feel a strange and unfamiliar longing. That somehow just seeing her, just hearing her voice, will be in some way comforting.
During the day, I haven't allowed myself to even consider Chris Parsons' opinions on what she may or may not feel but, as I pack my briefcase and make my way along the corridor, I can think of little else. Running down the stairs seems to make it worse and, scientifically, his theory just doesn't make sense at all. The laws of probability, the laws of attraction, probably a whole host of other scientific logic, all seemingly fallacious if I am to believe the observations of my only friend. And I do want to believe him, but I'm at a loss to understand my own reaction. How can I so wholeheartedly want something to be true and, at the same time, be so abjectly terrified of that truth?
The front doors open and I'm out on the street. The air is warm and it's surprisingly pleasant so I briefly consider walking but my need to be home is greater and more urgent and, instead, I hail a taxi. My flat is somewhat stuffy but I don't bother opening any windows, I promptly shed my suit coat and toss it, uncharacteristically, over the back of a chair. In my office, I retrieve the tickets to my father's farewell party from my briefcase and place a little glass paperweight on them. I will enter the details into my diary shortly but first I have a pressing matter to attend to. I have it already memorised but, regardless, I check Louisa's telephone number in my mostly empty address book and, before I allow myself to think too much, I dial.
An unknown female voice answers; her accent sounds rather forced and affected and I don't recognise her as anyone I have spoken to previously. My impatience probably makes me sound curt as I ask to speak to Louisa but I really don't care. Everyone else is of no consequence to me.
There's a wait before I finally hear the sound of the receiver being picked up and I'm so inordinately relieved to hear her voice that I hear myself stammering my full name by way of a greeting.
To my relief I hear her laugh gently.
"Gosh, that's very formal! Hello Martin Ellingham. How are you?"
I realise that I should have thought through what I was going to say before I called as my jumbled thoughts start to backlog before they reach my mouth. I so badly need to see her, I've rung with that express purpose and now my brain's response is confused silence.
"Wasn't it hot today?" She asks after a moment.
"Umm, yes, yes it was." I reply after what seems like forever. "Though, ahh, I was inside for most of it. My flat...my flat was warm when I arrived home. I just umm, arrived home actually...mmm."
I know how hopeless I must sound. How ridiculously tongue-tied and uninspiring I am. I glance down at my watch again as I try desperately to remember Chris' words of encouragement.
"I was just getting out of the shower actually." She says and I can hear her smile in her voice. "You can imagine what it was like on the bus tonight. Ugh."
I inhale deeply.
"Right, umm, are you...were you...umm...Louisa, do you have any previous arrangements for this evening?"
There's a moment of silence and, instantly, my heart sinks. I clench my jaw, preparing for the disappointment, readying myself to hang up as quickly as I can when she inevitably tells me she has something else to do. I have so stupidly let my own need to see her blind me to all the possibilities for rejection I have opened myself up for. I swallow hard and, as usual, I realise I have forgotten to breathe.
"No, I don't have anything planned." She says and she sounds genuine. "Were you, umm, were you thinking about doing something tonight?"
"Umm, yes." I croak as my heart hammers again. "I'm aware that it's a bit...last minute...but I..I..I just wondered..."
My voice trails off and I wonder if I sound as humiliatingly needy as I feel. I don't have any idea where I can take her. I am woefully unprepared and making an idiot of myself.
"That would be really nice actually." She says. "I do have to work tomorrow but what about meeting for a quiet drink somewhere?"
It's almost as if she knows what complete rubbish I am at this and she's trying to help me. It doesn't even seem important to remind her that I don't drink. It's almost immaterial what we do as long as she consents to see me.
"Yes." I hear myself croak. "Perhaps, you know of somewhere? Is there a particular, umm, establishment you frequent?"
She laughs. "There are a few actually, Martin, but I don't think you'd care for any of them...ummm, let me see...there is quite a nice place called the The Cormorant. It's a bit mad on the weekends but during the week it's much quieter...I could meet you there at half seven?"
She rattles off the address before breathlessly reassuring me that she is looking forward to seeing me, and then she hangs up. I hold the receiver in my hand for a moment, staring at it, before I do the same. Why had I anticipated such a huge degree of difficulty? I realise I am an idiot, but I am also an idiot who needs to shower and change so I have no time to dwell on my less than consummate performance if I don't want to be late. Because, while punctuality is a virtue, so is a clean shirt, a fresh suit and a smooth jaw.
When I arrive, she looks at me sideways, smirking, as she glances at her watch. I immediately feel what is becoming a familiar lurch in my abdomen. The best analogy, I suppose, is that my insides turn to treacle, even if that is a medical impossibility. She'd like a glass of Chardonnay and I return moments later, and place it before her, hesitating as she stares up at me, because I have no idea of the protocol. She asks me if I'd like to sit outside and, by virtue of the fact that there are several groups inside the bar, I agree, and we decamp to a small courtyard which is, mercifully, deserted.
Despite having the choice of any table we please, it seems we are both as equally riddled with uncertainty. She smiles at me nervously as she indicates a tucked away corner and I nod in affirmation, all the time wondering what it is that makes her so unsure, and concluding that it can only be me. Even for the few moments we were in the bar, I noticed the attention she garners from the male patrons so I can't remotely imagine that she has any lack of confidence in herself.
I wait for her to sit down and then I choose the seat opposite her but I'm surprised when she immediately moves nearer, sliding her chair noisily across the brick paving so that she is at right angles to me, and disconcertingly close. I reach across and retrieve her wine glass, placing it in front of her and she thanks me, again with that nervous smile. She shifts in her chair and I feel her knee against my thigh. She is searching in her handbag for something but, even as she straightens up, an envelope in her hand, it's now her whole leg, gently pressing against mine. It is mesmerising, and I very much want to slide my hand underneath the table and run it slowly across her bare skin; imagining how smooth and warm it would feel almost takes my breath away and, as she speaks to me, I wrench my thoughts back to the letter she is unfolding, and clasp my glass in both hands.
"It's from Karen Freethy." She says and she beams at me expectantly before my blank expression obviously gives away the fact I have absolutely no idea of whom she speaks.
I watch as she stifles an incredulous laugh and instead she reaches over places her hand momentarily on my arm. I'm surprised to find myself hoping she will leave it there, such is my newly discovered need for her reassurance. She seems to have the ability to always apply the right degree of firmness or the most needed shade of gentleness and, to someone with my degree of physical isolation, it feels both miraculous and soothing.
I'm listening as she reminds me who was whom in her makeshift upbringing and while I do now vaguely recall them, and I acknowledge that I possibly owe them a debt of gratitude, I am not the least bit interested in the outcome of their lives and especially not that of their experiences of life in the third world. But I feel an unfamiliar contentment, listening to Louisa speak, her musical intonations and frequent amusement enliven what would be, in any other circumstances, a rather torpid missive. Every so often, she looks up from the page and offers me an explanation, smiling frequently as she recounts some long past situation and, often, becoming sidetracked and cheerfully distracted along the way.
I wonder if she realises now how completely I am in her thrall? I think I am able to maintain my well practiced air of impassive coolness but I can't really be sure. The more glances I snatch in her direction, the more compelled I seem to be to stare at her. Many great teachers of medicine have, throughout the ages, emphasised how supremely important the art of observation is. As a diagnostician, observation is paramount and we are warned of the perils of conflating observation with perception, as our minds will always want to interpret what they see.
I observe that Louisa is clear-skinned, bright-eyed, has good posture, and appears healthy and physically fit. Beyond that point any impartiality, and my scrutinising skills, desert me as I feel the unwavering and delicious touch of her leg against mine. It seems to me that she seems to comfortably make eye contact with me, she smiles frequently and warmly as she does so, and she appears to be taking quite a deal of care to explain the contents of the letter or me as she reads it. She is unselfconsciously beautiful and, as I glance at her, she appears as if she glows in the evening light like the sanctimonious gilded Buddha that I recently shifted into the anonymity of my spare room. My perception, as imperfect and fallible as it may be, begins to whisper, enunciating cautiously, and with a large number of attached stipulations, clauses and provisos, that Chris Parsons, although he may not have been completely correct, was also not utterly mistaken.
"He really liked you, you know." I hear her say and I'm shaken back to reality.
"Umm, pardon?" I ask quietly, embarrassed by my lack of attention.
"Lester." Louisa replies, frowning at me quizzically. "He liked you...told me so, several times in fact. Is that so hard to believe?"
And while it is indeed hard For me to believe that anyone likes me, I'm struggling more with the issue of who this Lester might actually be, until eventually my brain finally makes the connection.
"Aah, yes...The policeman with the appalling diet. Walking advertisement for Ischemic Heart Disease as I recall." I say, unable to hide the disapprobation in my tone. "I'm amazed that he's still alive, his arteries must be like concrete."
Louisa lowers the letter, stares at me with some force and, although I can sense reproof in her expression, I ignore it. If she cares to take me on in this, my area of expertise, I will stand my ground and so I hold her stare and hope that my quizzical eyebrow is enough of a counter to her challenge.
"Actually, Martin, he lost all that weight when they got together." She said, a hint of tartness creeping into her voice.
"When who got together?"
"He and Karen!" She exclaims and she lets out a short, incredulous snort. "Did you not wonder how they ended up in Vanuatu together?"
I stare at her blankly. I've never honestly given it a moments consideration though, on reflection, it does make the letter she is reading to me be of marginally more sense.
"Umm, well, I just thought...you know..." I mutter awkwardly. "That they...were...perhaps..."
"Friends?" She interrupts, and she shakes her head slowly at me. "Honestly, Martin, he gave up his home and career and moved to the other side of the world, to live in a blimmin' grass hut, because she was his friend?"
I open my mouth to protest but I can't think of anything to say that isn't highly inflammatory. Clearly these people mean something to Louisa but I am merely feigning interest for her sake.
"It was wise of him to lose some of that weight. Morbid Obesity is three times more deadly for men as it is for women." I say, with some finality.
"Martin!" She exclaims. "He wasn't morbidly obese."
"He was well on the way. And his BMI would clearly indicate clinical obesity."
"Well he isn't now, and that's the main thing, isn't it?" She says, this time with more restraint, as if she's trying to mollify me.
I think I have made my point and I nod.
"Yes. Yes, it is." I add, attempting to be conciliatory.
She finishes her drink and places her empty glass carefully on the coaster. Immediately, I begin a complex internal struggle around whether to get her a second glass of wine, as my desire to make her comfortable and happy becomes at odds with my professional opinion on the over consumption of alcohol. I glance at my watch and, immediately, I notice the expression on her face change. The truth is that I'd be happy to prolong our time here. It's pleasantly warm and we are alone and relatively unobserved in the small private courtyard. The scattered containers of riotously flowering annuals, though not to my taste, give the area a cheerful summery feel and I'm surprised at how at ease I'm actually feeling.
"Do you need to go?" She says earnestly, and I wonder if I'm imagining a slight hint of disappointment in her voice.
"No!" I say, in hindsight probably a bit too vehemently. "I...umm...I just wondered whether I should...that is to say...if you...wanted another glass of umm..?"
She smiles at me and, as she did at lunch, her hand slides over the top of mine and I can't help but look down as I feel her fingertips gently stroking my knuckles.
"It's a school night." She says. "So, reluctantly, no thanks."
We sit like that for a moment, and I stare silently at her slim elegant hand as it clasps mine. I've never taken a lot of notice of hands from an aesthetic point of view but Louisa's are, unsurprisingly, beautiful and I'm enjoying her perfectly weighted touch. It's reassuring, and more than a little invigorating, and I'm able to draw a little courage from the feeling.
"I can...ummm...walk you home, I mean, if you want.." I say hoarsely, clearing my voice and wondering where this ridiculous recent croakiness has sprung from.
Louisa beams at me. She pulls her hand away and reaches for the letter which she'd dropped on the table in front of her.
"Martin, that would be really lovely. Are you sure it's not too far out of your way?"
"No, umm, I'd like that. Perhaps I can call a taxi when we get back to your flat?"
She gives a little nod of her head and for a moment she almost looks uncertain but then her composure returns and, as is her habit, she stuffs the letter carelessly into her handbag and bounces to her feet. I'm surprised, as I let her lead the way out, that she reaches for my hand again. My first instinct is to hesitate and, as she intertwines her fingers with mine, I feel a flush of embarrassed discomfort as we walk back through the bar. However, as we push through the disgusting fog of cigarette smoke that floats below the ceiling, I notice one or two men turn and watch Louisa as she passes, without even attempting any subtly to their lechery. They remind me of my father and I feel a sneer twisting at my face as I recall his shamefully libidinous behaviour. Memories of the disgust he has caused me to feel over so many years has the affect of making me grip her hand even more tightly, and I forget the unease I usually experience at the idea of public displays of affection.
The barman nods at me but it's the man who he is serving that holds my gaze. There something in his expression I'm not familiar with. He lifts his head as we pass and it's almost as if he's acknowledging me, resignedly, as some sort of victor. It's offensive behaviour, befitting the moronic Neanderthal he truly is, but I'm momentarily taken aback. Other than in the few moments at Med School, as everyone waited nervously to enter the hall, dreading a particularly galling and demanding final examination, I've never experienced the sensation that I am envied. Never in my life has anyone ever wanted to change places with me but that's exactly what I'm feeling now and I'm not sure how to react. Part of me is mortified, that our privacy should be thus invaded and that anyone else should be having lascivious thoughts about Louisa. But, I'm ashamed to admit, there's a part of me that also wants to hold my head up, smugly, and glance back at the licentious arse as if he is of no consequence. However, I settle somewhere in the middle, clasping her fingers firmly and staring fixedly at the creamy perfection of her shoulder blades as I follow her out on to the street.
We make our way along the back avenues, it's dusk and, though the evening has begun to cool down, every so often we hit a strange patch of warm air, so noticeable that Louisa remarks upon it and laughs. She starts to talk about this Karen woman, whose face I cannot for the life of me bring to mind, and the relationship that developed with the formerly fat policeman and, more specifically, how she, Louisa, was completely oblivious to its development.
"Right under my nose!" She says, shaking her head in disbelief, an incredulous smile splitting her face in two. "And I had no idea! How dense can you be?"
"Some people just prefer to keep things private." I mutter. "Perhaps it was special, perhaps they didn't want to.. umm..risk...anyone spoiling things for them."
She stops dead in her tracks, and as my arm reefs and I swing around to face her, I realise that she's frowning at me in surprise.
"Martin." She says and a mischievous smirk suddenly appears on her face. "That was beautiful. If I didn't know better I'd swear there was a helpless romantic somewhere under that cool dispassionate facade."
I glance at her, and I feel my eyebrow climb up my forehead.
"There isn't." I reply truthfully and I'm surprised when she laughs and squeezes my hand.
We walk on in silence for a while. Occasionally we pass another oblivious couple, or a staring and judgemental tomcat but, mostly, we have the streets to ourselves and I realise that this is exactly what I wanted, what I needed, when I risked my phone call to Louisa earlier in the evening. That strolling in silence, our only communication our gently entwined fingers, could provide such succour to my troubled mind, is a revelation to me and I can't help but hope the walk is a long one because I would be content to do this for hours.
But soon I recognise the streets of Belgravia and I realise sadly that we are nearly back at her miserable flat. I am feeling somewhat buoyed and encouraged however and, though as usual I am starting to lament my own lack of understanding, and the infinite mysteries of courtship decorum, instinctively I seem to know that I must do something.
As she unlocks the front door, she apologetically warns me her flat mates are home and suggests with a giggle that I should be prepared. I nod and follow her through the door and what I am actually totally unprepared for is the heat and the sultriness of the air inside the building. It hits me like a warm wet, stale towel and I can't help but wince. I'm relieved that there appears to be no one in the kitchen or the poky living room though. As much as I want to be with Louisa, I'd rather I didn't have to run the gamut of her friends every time I visit her or contact her via the telephone.
She points to that very device and I place a call to the Minicab company with which I have an account. While under usual circumstances I would be incensed, tonight I'm oddly pleased when they apologise and tell me the wait will be at least twenty minutes. I replace the receiver, and glance slowly up at her.
'A twenty minute wait." I say, clearing my throat awkwardly and I notice that, while she bites her lip thoughtfully, her gaze is unwavering.
I realise I'm fiddling with my cuff links and I wonder whether I should ask for a cup of tea, or a glass of water, anything to break this strange stalemate we find ourselves in. Perhaps Louisa is tired and she wants to go to bed. She did point out to me earlier that she had work in the morning and I definitely don't want to outstay my welcome. I'm about to suggest that perhaps I should wait for the taxi out in the street when it dawns on me that I have not even mentioned The Tate, so spellbound and feeble-minded have I been all evening. Before I have a chance to open my mouth, I feel Louisa's fingers firmly around my wrist and, wordlessly, as she tugs gently on my arm, I find myself following her down the short hallway, willingly, to her bedroom.
My heart is hammering as I stumble through the door behind her into the gloomy, unlit space. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, she pushes the door closed and then I feel myself gently propelled backwards against it. I am unresisting as I feel her arms slide behind my neck and I wait, as if I am in suspended animation, for her mouth to find mine. So unbelievably soft and gentle, her tentative exploration of my mouth is hypnotic and I pull her against me, relishing the feeling of her body against mine.
This time, I'm determined not to rush. I have less than twenty minutes but I am determined to make the most of it. Frenzied passion certainly has its place but this is not it; I want the reassurance of long, lingering kisses. I want to be mesmerised by the sensation of her mouth on my neck, her teeth on my earlobes and her hands in my hair. I want this because I've never had it. My hands slide up from her waist and I can feel the firmness of her body through the light cotton of her top. Sweeping her loose hair over her shoulder with the back of my hand, I bury my face in the smooth softness of her neck and I can't help but let her name escape from me in low, hungry moan.
"I promised myself I wasn't going to throw myself at you again." She whispers into my ear and I feel her cheeks rose as she smiles, the hot air of her breath causing a ripple of goosebumps to wash seductively across my chest.
"I'm glad you didn't take your own advice." I murmur into her hair.
My hand slips up over her rib cage as she finds my mouth again and I can't believe how unbelievably sensual and arousing it is to have her slowly graze on my lips. Everything seems languid and dreamy, as if our need for each other is implicit and we are unhurried and prepared to luxuriate in the moment. I pull her to me, more tightly now, my arm at the back of her waist and I can't stop myself from cupping her delightful bum in one hand, feeling my confidence grow as she mutters her approval. She is so divinely firm, every curve seems to fit my hand perfectly and I feel a sudden intense longing to feel her bare skin against mine. The surge of desire is so powerful that I pull away suddenly, conscious that my need might be becoming a little too obvious.
I run my hands up over her shoulders and down her bare arms, clasping her at the elbows and leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead, ensuring that I keep some sort of distance between us now. I hope she knows how much I want her, how bloody difficult it is to walk away now and climb into the back of that sodding taxi. I hope she understands because I can't find any words. I step around her and open the bedroom door, immediately dazzled by the dismal collection of bare bulbs that hang from the ceiling on yellow and fly-specked wires. This time, I hold her hand and she follows me out onto the street where even the polluted London air seems fresh and cool by comparison.
It's dark now but with the street lamps, I can still see her face clearly and the way she looks at me now is so divine, so sweet and trusting, that I have to look away, such is her affect on me. We hear the sound of a car engine behind us and, immediately we both turn and look. It is indeed my taxi, and it proves to be both my saviour and, conversely, a cruel implement of torture, dragging me away. I can't do anything else but brush her cheek gently with the back of my fingers and she gives me a self conscious smile. As I pull open the door, I remember the Tate yet again and I spin around anxiously, realising as I speak that I am barking out the invitation to her like some demented Sergeant-Major.
To my inordinate relief, she smiles broadly back at me and nods so, with my wits now about me, I tell her I will call her to make the arrangements, and she thanks me breathlessly. I clamber into the back seat and watch her wander back into the house before I quietly give my address to the cabbie and we make the short trip back to my flat. There's always plenty to look at through the window of a London taxi but, tonight, I don't see much. For most of the journey, my head is thrown back against the seat and my hands are pressed firmly over my eyes as, thanks to Louisa, one state of disquiet is seamlessly and stealthily replaced by another.
