Martin would know what they are called, the complicated sensory receptors within my fingertips. The nerves that thrill so overwhelmingly at the feel of his skin, which seems almost childlike in its softness, enticing and so utterly overwhelming.
Underneath the formidable exterior, the immaculate suits and the inscrutable expression, there is a delicious warmth. He feels divine, his skin as smooth as the finest Baronet satin, his body firm and crying out for further exploration, a desperately raw need that is only inflamed by the way he has become our collective voice of reason.
"Not here, not like this." He says, and the look in his eyes makes a long delicious shiver surge down my spine. Ultimately, I know he is right, his expression so intense and imploring as he cradles my jaw in his hands and stares down at me with a desperation that causes my heart to lurch. After a moment, he envelops me in an embrace, holding me so gently, yet so ardently against him that, for the first time in my life, I think I actually feel truly secure, as if his strength can protect me from anything.
Wrapped in his arms, our bodies pressed together as he strokes my hair and murmurs apologetically in my ear, I lean into him and listen to his fast, shallow breathing. I feel him against me and the realisation that our need is most definitely mutual creeps into my consciousness. He wants me. Me, Louisa, the actual person, with faults aplenty, awash with insecurity and teeming with self doubt. Gauche and unsophisticated, emotional and unpolished, my mother a bolter, my father a criminal. He wants me. And, not only does he want me but, unlike every other male that has crossed my path, he wants something better for me than a quick shag in a dismal flat. I squeeze my arms around his waist as I tightly as I can and, at that moment, I love him so much it hurts.
But, after a moment I become aware of another even more pressing need and I reluctantly tear myself away, flying up the stairs, and cursing myself for my abysmal timing. It's my own fault, caught out trying to impress Martin with my responsible, adult-like commitment to keeping hydrated; matching him glass for glass at dinner, completely bogus on my part and, clearly, confusing my kidneys in the process. Does this happen to other people in real life? Because you never see it on television or in the movies, do you? Scarlet O'Hara disentangling herself from Rhett Butler's arms, calling at him over her shoulder as she flees the room, exclaiming that she is sorry but she is desperate for a pee, all the time reassuring him that she will be as quick as she can.
And, now, as I stand in the bathroom, amongst the myriad of mosaic tiles that makes it feel like you have walked into a migraine, how I wish I hadn't looked in the mirror. To say my make-up needs touching up is an understatement; my face is pink and shiny and, rather unsurprisingly, I haven't the barest smear of lipstick left in place. Great swathes of hair have come asunder and the elegance and finesse with which I thought I had presented myself seems to have evaporated into the ether. I could remedy myself easily enough, and return to Martin, reconstructed and readjusted, but, frustratingly, everything I need is either downstairs on my dressing table or tucked away in my little handbag and goodness knows where I slung that when I got home. I grimace awkwardly, and check that my teeth are free of the little bits of chopped parsley that garnished my meal. I learned that lesson the hard way and it wasn't one of my finest moments.
Still, the recollection makes me giggle and just thinking about the evening so far floods me with a kind of breathless elation. Your brain absorbs so much, doesn't it., over the years? All the things that people have said to me about love, people I trust like Libby and Karen Freethy, and all the glib little phrases, the endless articles in magazines, the books I've studied and the movies I've seen; colloquialisms, adages and things I perhaps considered Old Wives Tales; suddenly I sort of understand. Everything they say, everything I feel right now: my lightness of spirit, my need to be with him, all of it, brightly, boldly, screamingly true. And the feeling is nothing less than exquisite; as I dry my hands, aware of a barely discernible tremble, I feel giddy, and floaty, and jubilant.
My hand is on the door and I am reaching for the light switch when, suddenly, I hear the front door slam. For one horrible moment my blood runs cold and, as usual, I immediately fear the worst. Please don't tell me that, once again, I have scared Martin away and he has bolted into the night. My head spins and my thoughts send me rapidly descending into panic and despair so I stand, frozen to the spot, for one horrible sickening moment until, oddly and somewhat confusingly, I hear shouting emanating from downstairs.
As my ability to reason finally returns and I open the bathroom door, I'm aware of fast approaching noise; heavy footsteps on the stairwell, an unfamiliar male laugh and, then, a high pitched, rather forced sounding, girly squeal. I close the door quickly and lean against it, holding my breath and listening, and it's not long before it dawns on me where I've heard the faked hilarity before. Judging by the loud and erratic footfall and way she bangs against the door frames and bounces off the walls of the little upstairs corridor, Toni is plastered. That's a bit of a surprise actually and it is a bit unusual for her. Admittedly, she did get trollied a few times after she and Giles broke up but it's usually only when things go badly awry for her, or when she isn't getting her own way that she comes home so under the weather. Unlike Libby, Toni is not a fun drunk and, what's really out of character, is that she appears to have brought someone back to her room.
I hear her bedroom door slam, followed by sound of more hilarity through the thin separating wall, a heavy muffled thump and, then, silence. Relieved, I take my opportunity and slip from the bathroom, moving cat-like along the corridor and then flying down the stairs, in the desperate hope that Martin hasn't already been spooked into absconding. To my despair, the kitchen is empty and, at that moment, my heart absolutely sinks. I stifle a frustrated shriek and settle instead for a string of expletives, slapping my hands on the countertop and leaning over them reeling with disappointment and frustration.
After a moment of utter despondency, I stand up and look around me, and it's only then that I realise that, though the teapot stands abandoned and uncovered on the draining board, my mug of tea is nowhere to be found. Then it dawns on me that Martin's tea is nowhere to be seen either, and the penny drops. Sometimes, I honestly don't know what comes over me. It's as if I am pre-programmed to always assume the worst, to continually put myself through unnecessary torment when, in fact, if I'd bothered to even look, I would have seen that the door to my room is slightly ajar and a thin, pale strip of light jags across the hallway toward me.
It only takes me three or four anxious and rather bouncy strides to get there, throwing myself into the room inelegantly, and coming face to face with a rather sheepish Martin who is perched, self-consciously, at the end of my bed, a steaming mug in each hand. He glances up at me enquiringly, his eyes wide and a little anxious, and just seeing him, sitting there is enough to make my stomach flip over. I feel my face split into a relieved grin and immediately his expression relaxes.
"Sorry about that." I say as slide in beside him, and he waits until I have made myself comfortable before solemnly handing me my tea.
In confined spaces, he seems even larger than normal, despite his quiet and surprisingly gentle demeanour, he seems to fill the space. I can immediately tell, though, that he is uncomfortable and I reach over, with a newly discovered confidence that surprises me, and place my free hand over his loosely clenched fist, working my fingers between his knuckles in what I hope is an encouraging manner. He takes a cautious sip of his tea, staring down at our intertwined fingers and, after a few seconds, he clears his throat awkwardly.
"Umm, Louisa, who was that?" He asks carefully, in a low quiet voice.
"Oh yes, god, sorry. It gave me a bit of a start too, especially when I heard the door slam." I give his hand a playful squeeze and smile at him but he continues to gaze at our hands impassively. "It's, umm, it's Toni and it appears, umm, that she's brought a friend home."
"Toni?"
"Yes. One of my flat mates. You met her earlier."
As I finish my sentence, there's another heavy thump above us and, disconcertingly, what sounds like a loud moan. Martin glances up at me, his eyes widening and I hear myself giggling nervously.
"Perhaps we can just ignore them?" I ask him hopefully but my optimism is dashed by yet more discomfiting noises, this time what sounds like joyful whooping.
Martin frowns and he is neither giggling, laughing or whooping. In fact, he looks horrified, and I'm about to apologise again but my voice is almost drowned out by a blood-curdling shriek, mercifully followed by more laughter, enough at least that I don't feel obligated to immediately phone 999.
The muffled thumping now becomes more frequent, settling into an unmistakeable rhythm that sees both Martin and I staring at the floor, his misery and embarrassment is palpable as I struggle to control my own instinct, which is merely to laugh and, instead attempt to make mindless conversation, as is my habit.
"So, what was the thing you wanted to talk to me about?" I ask loudly enough to make myself heard above the dull, repetitive thumping that continues on the wall above our heads, but I can tell he is too mortified to respond, as a deep blush begins to colour his face and he assumes an expression of abject horror.
"They must be nearly finished." I say, trying to reassure him but, judging by the appalled glance he gives me, I have had quite the opposite effect.
He pulls his hand away from me, stands up hurriedly and then thinks better of it, sitting down again in an agony of indecision. I wonder about his reaction, actually, because if Libby were here we would be having hysterics but it seems like Martin can't see the funny side at all and I can only suppose, because he is so private, that this must seem like the grossest of indignities to him.
I'm suddenly hopeful that my prediction might have come true because, momentarily, the thudding from upstairs ceases and he raises his eyes upwards, cautiously, before turning back to me. I watch as he hesitates, glancing around nervously, before placing his mug, carefully and symmetrically, at the corner of my cluttered dressing table. Looking back at me warily, he takes a deep, nervous breath and I wonder what could possibly be so onerous that it has affected him like this.
"Louisa, I...umm...you see, there's this thing." He says, his voice uncomfortable and unhappy. "And, I wondered...umm...I wondered if you could possibly come with me?"
He pauses and I reach again for his hand, desperate to reassure him that's there's nothing he can ask of me that needs cause him this much angst. Earlier, I'd been both thrilled and quite mesmerised when he'd been teasing me. It seemed almost as if he had something bubbling within him that I hadn't seen before; his mood was definitely elevated and I'd loved seeing him like that as much as I loved what he was doing. But, now, any element of enjoyment, any lightness, any good humour, has disappeared and he appears so grave and so unhappy that I'm actually a bit concerned.
"Martin?" I say, laughingly, trying to tease him. "If you're asking me out again, that was a pretty rubbish attempt..."
He whips his head around and looks at me as if I've slapped him, and I suddenly feel really, horribly sick. While I admit I don't know him that well yet, as I look at him, his brow furrowed and his mouth partially open, as if he's trying to speak but can't find the words,
I put my mug down hastily and rather awkwardly, and the resultant clatter startles him. I reach over to put my arms around his chest, upset and perplexed by how vulnerable he seems but, when I touch him, he is so tense and his posture so rigid, that he feels like a statue, hewn of granite.
He swallows again, a miserable gulp, and then, after a few seconds, he looks at me, our faces so close that I can feel his breath. His expression is so pained, his eyes so wrinkled with worry that I feel my chest contract; I bite on my lip and squeeze him as if to encourage him. He doesn't respond and I realise, with a sense of desperation, that I really have no idea what to do or say to him.
To my horror, just as I raise my hand to stroke his cheek, the thumping starts again and I feel an flash of anger. I swear and, to my surprise, Martin frees his arms and, gently gathers me to his chest, holding me tightly as I feel him pressing his lips to my hair. He breathes deeply and, when he starts to talk, his voice is cool and quiet, and he seems oddly disconnected.
"Louisa, it's difficult. My father is retiring, ahh, I believe he and my mother are planning on emigrating abroad and, as such, he is...he has organised a farewell function to which I feel obligated to attend."
He kisses my forehead and I hear him sigh again, sadly, as if his speech exhausts him. I reach up and run my hands through his hair, realising how much I love the sensation, the way it feels between my fingers as I push them gently across the back of his head, finding the thick muscles at the base of his skull, and relishing the feeling of him as I sense him start to relax.
"I'd like that, I mean it would be really nice, really lovely actually...if, umm, you are asking me to go with you...I mean are you? Or..."
Before I can finish, there's a crash above us and a screech of slightly hysterical laughter. I hear Martin mutter something under his breath and then he pulls away slightly so he can look at me. I'm a bit surprised at how on edge he still seems and, whether it's the late hour, or the overwhelming evening, or even the horror of listening to the dubious activity upstairs, I feel a bit overcome with emotion.
Slowly, and with evident discomfort, he replies, softly in my ear, his voice low and hesitant.
"It's difficult between us, my parents and I, you see." He says, and I feel his fingers absently stroking my back. "We, umm, we don't really speak and, well, I...I...well, it could be...quite umm..."
"Awkward?" I interrupt gently, his face so near that I am tempted to place a tentative kiss on his pensive mouth; chastely of course, despite the brooding expression on his face, his tousled hair and the slightly parted lips that make me feel anything but chaste.
He nods but, at the same time, there's another loud bellow from above us and I'm rather distracted this time, as it sounds suspiciously like a cry of discomfort. It was definitely a male voice and I can't help but wonder in horror what the hell is going on up there. I feel his body tense and he writhes slightly, as I realise he's trying to retrieve something from his pocket. Eventually, I see he has a neatly folded piece of paper in his hand and he presses it into mine, gently and somewhat nervously.
"This is the invitation. Umm, perhaps you could have a look at it?" He says cautiously. "Before you say yes, I mean."
"I've already said yes." I reply simply, raising my eyebrows and nodding at him.
There's a look in his eyes I haven't seen before. Admittedly I don't know him that well but it looks like regret and while I'm puzzling over what it might mean, he stands up and I realise that this time he is actually leaving. He holds his hand out to me and, I grasp it, smiling gently up at him, hoping that I might get to sneak at least one more cheeky snog in before he goes but, just he pulls me to my feet, the rhythmic pounding starts again in earnest and, now I realise my patience and good humour have run out.
"For god's sake." I spit in frustration. "It sounds like she's got the entire Crystal Palace midfield up there with her."
Martin looks at me in horror and I realise what I've said.
"Gosh, no, umm Martin, I don't mean that's something she'd actually do!" I say, with an awkward, barking laugh. "It was just, you know, an analogy."
I suddenly have the feeling I am making everything worse. Martin is overwhelmed and clearly, once again, in full flight mode, hurriedly pulling open my bedroom door, and letting me pass in front of him so we make an uncomfortable, single file procession to the kitchen.
"Shall I call you a taxi?" I ask, and he looks at me pensively, as if he is about to agree.
I take a step towards him. I need to thank him for so much; for organising such a thoughtful evening, for being so understanding of my love of Port Wenn, for the for the lovely dinner, just for going to so much trouble really and, embarrassingly, for not allowing me to pay for a single thing. And I know exactly how I'm going to express my gratitude and I'm about to put my arms around his neck when we both hear what sounds like a long, stifled yelp. As we both turn in unison toward the stairs, an infernal bellowing starts up, emanating of course from Toni's room. Whoever this bloke is, there is no denying he has perfect diction; his words are loud and they are clear, and there is no mistaking the fact that both Martin and I have just heard something that we weren't meant to and which has mortified us both. Without even looking back at me, he is away, suddenly hauling on the front door and leaping out onto the street, stepping nimbly over the door mat and taking a few strides along the pavement before pausing and looking back at me as I struggle to keep up.
"What about your taxi, Martin?" I call after him, holding on to the doorframe in despair as he edges further away.
"I need the walk." He says hurriedly. "I can hail one along the way."
