I woke early, as usual, sometime around sunrise. The curtains were open and, somewhere nearby, a lone blackbird sang a vociferous welcome to the new day. I'm gradually aware of the sound as I return to consciousness and I have a momentary sensation of not being entirely sure where I am. I suppose it's unsurprising that I should feel slightly disorientated; on top of yesterday's emotional exhaustion, I find myself in rather a state of disbelief. I struggle to recall the last time I even slept naked, and I certainly can't remember ever waking up seemingly so exposed, watching the dawn light streak across the sky through the bare, unobstructed windows. And then, as I incline my head to confirm the surreal sensation that has all but overcome me, there beside me is Louisa, peaceful and so surreally beautiful that I swim in a sea of incredulity as I roll onto my side to gaze at her.
I have no idea how long I lay there, drifting in and out of sleep, peripherally aware that everything has changed for me, not knowing where to begin to start making sense of it all. I can't seem to focus my mind on anything much at all, and I almost don't want to try because it seems so much more preferable to remain in this delicious dreamlike state; physically sated, my desires fulfilled, my every need gratified. I float along in blissful semi consciousness, a delightful sensation that is completely and utterly new to me.
It is only when my sharpness of mind finally returns again that I experience a tiny moment of fear, I feel a shred of panic and even shame, as I envisage the chance her face might become awash with regret as she wakes, as she realises where she is and what she has done. Momentarily, all reason deserts me, and the jeering starts, a tiny whisper of self doubt, an irrational feeling of uncertainty that causes my pulse to quicken and my eyes to squeeze shut as if I can force the despairing thoughts from my head. But at least now I have some ammunition, some evidence to the contrary, and I rush to reassure myself; I did not imagine what happened between us last night nor did I imagine what she said to me, and the memory fills me with defiance, an intensifying determination that nothing is going spoil this for me. If she can survive my parents, if she can persevere with me after seeing me at my absolute worst then I have to, I must, believe in this. Whatever happens from now on, even it doesn't last forever, for a few precious hours, she was mine, and I was free.
She stirs and I watch as she awakens; all tousled hair, softly parted lips and dreamy doe eyes. God, she is beautiful. Ethereal. Perfect. Divine. My stomach lurches and I wait.
A tiny smile plays at the corners of her mouth and she holds my gaze, sleepily; her expression calm and contented.
"Hello you." She says, her voice low and soft.
Bewildered, I stare back at her in shock and wonder, and I feel myself exhaling sharply, experiencing the most incredible sense of relief. I realise that I have been clutching at the bedding, and I try desperately to relax my hands, to breathe normally as I only seem able to refill my lungsby a series of gasps. I blink at her and slowly raise myself up into my elbow, buying time as I attempt to calm my pounding heart.
"Hello." I reply gently. "How are you?"
She smiles at me then, sweetly and perhaps just a little bit self-consciously, looking down and absentmindedly smoothing the wrinkles from the sheet that barely covers her. My fingers twitch. I want to pull her towards me, enfold her in my arms and feel her softness and warmth permeate into my hard, cold core. I want to tell her that I woke this morning feeling exhilarated, unburdened and disinhibited. I need her to understand that I could lie here for hours and watch her gorgeous face as she sleeps, and that the realisation that she is here with me, in this bed, has stirred me in more ways than I could have ever imagined. But, as usual, words fail me so I reach for her hand and, for a few divine moments, we gaze at each other as lovers, and I feel the need to kiss her again just to remind myself that this is actually real.
Her lips part beneath mine, so soft and welcoming, and for the first time I truly understand that everything has changed. The axis of my world has forever shifted, and she and I share a gentle embrace, satiated, enamoured and content. When we reluctantly separate from each other, her eyes are shining, and an impudent smile slowly spreads across her face as she runs her fingers lightly across my jaw.
"Stubble..." she says, her lips twitching
"Not for long..." I point out.
"That's a shame." She replies, leaning in to me. "I quite like it..."
I raise an eyebrow at her, incredulously. It strikes me that I have discovered another benefit to Louisa's inability or disinclination to hide her emotions and I'm suddenly aware that the expression on her face, the thoughtful, rather dreamy look in her eyes, has a rather distinct meaning. For a split second, I'm almost tempted but, the truth is, I am now in dire need of staving off hunger of a different kind. Missing breakfast is anathema to me, especially after having also skipped supper the previous evening and, dare I say it, having a rather more physically taxing night than I'm obviously accustomed to.
Reluctantly, I roll away, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and pausing for a moment as I contemplate the fact I must now walk across the room, flooded as it is with the morning sunlight, in a state of stark bollock nakedness. I can almost feel her eyes boring into me from behind, imagining the amusement she will garner from my discomfort, the insolent smirk that she is surely already wearing, and what she will find to say to me that will inevitably make me blush or stammer, or both. My dressing gown hangs on the back of the ensuite door and I cover the few strides calmly, confidently and, mercifully, without comment. Wrapping myself in it rather hastily, I casually offer her the first shower, fetching her a towel and returning to find her crouched by her overnight bag, rummaging around in it ineffectively, occasionally snatching at an item of clothing and tossing it idly onto the bed.
I busy myself with picking up the detritus of the previous evening; the sight of her beautiful dress, discarded haphazardly on the floor, horrifies me and so I carefully gather it up, laying it gently on the bed beside her and she smiles at me in acknowledgement. I'm relieved to also retrieve her underwear which had somehow migrated beneath the bed; wincing as I can imagine the housekeeper's thoughts should she have been forced to extricate a tiny pair of red silky knickers from the vacuum cleaner hose. I fold them in half, gingerly, and pass them back to Louisa, clearing my throat slightly awkwardly.
She wanders off to the en suite and I hear the shower door slam, followed by the sound of rushing water. Everything else that was clearly so impetuously shed is mine and I gather it up, dropping it all into the laundry hamper, except for my shirt which I will add to my dry cleaning bag. I contemplate changing the sheets but think better of it and, after I have made the bed, I wander off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
"Lovely shower." She says when she finally emerges, and I glance up from coffee machine.
"Mmm." I reply and, as I stare at her helplessly, I realise I'm going to have to have stern words with myself because, once again, I find myself reverting to some fairly elemental, rather primitive thought processes.
She is luminous, her hair in a loose ponytail, damp around the edges of her shiny, clear, freshly scrubbed face; clear eyed and glowing with health. She is the most fulgent of breakfast companions, and though she is dressed simply in a white singlet and a shortish skirt, as usual, she looks lovely.
"No breakfast in bed then?" She asks, airily as if she is testing the water, slipping her hands behind her back and regarding me carefully.
I almost cannot believe my good fortune to have her here with me at this moment, but standards are standards, we both need to be aware of each other's dislikes and this seems like an opportune time to start; I probably need to make mine clear from the outset since, admittedly, I do have rather a few.
"Ummm, no." I reply, cautiously, as I place her cup on the table. "I...ummm...I have rather a thing about that...eating in bed...I'm not..umm..I'm not too keen on the crumbs..."
"Oh. Right." She says, flashing me a smile tempered by only the mildest hint of disappointment. "Okay, then. Well, never mind..."
Though I suspect that Louisa feels somewhat thwarted, as she bites her lip and gazes at me thoughtfully, I don't dwell on it, preferring to move on quickly, detailing the many healthy breakfast options available to her, and it is then I find myself experiencing my own modicum of chagrin as she quickly rejects my high protein selections or hand made mueslis, instead indicating her clear preference for white toast and jam. As I watch her heap sugar and splash milk into her espresso, it dawns on me that we really have a lot to learn about each other.
"What would you normally be doing on a Sunday?" She asks a while later, biting into her toast and gazing across at me as she chews. "If you weren't at work, I mean."
I'd set the table and, oddly, though it was a complete novelty for me to have breakfast guest at my flat, it also seemed quite natural, almost easy, to have Louisa here with me. Her positivity was quite infectious, it warmed me and encouraged me even if I didn't show it, and, though I realised that she was rapidly going to discover what a dull life I really lead, outside of my work. I put my fork down and dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.
"I would usually take some exercise, weather permitting, and then try and catch up on some reading."
She inclines her head at me but I fear again that I must disappoint her.
"All medical I'm afraid, a never ending battle to stay current." I admit and, as I cast my mind back I can't remember the last work of fiction that I read, the last time I opened a book purely for entertainment. "What about you?"
She gazes at me thoughtfully as she chews.
"What would I be doing, or what would I be reading?" She says, after a moment, using the tip of her index finger to dab up the jam that has fallen onto her plate through the holes in her toast.
"Umm...both?" I reply because I am actually interested, a fact that surprises me.
"Well, I always have a few books on the go at once actually. I like Ruth Rendell and I just finished her latest. I'm also reading Rosamunde Pilcher but her latest one isn't about Cornwall this time, it's about Scotland, so I'm not enjoying it as much actually. I love her other books, I mean, I'm probably not her usual, ummm, type of reader but it's just that her descriptions of things, houses and suchlike, always make me feel really cosy and safe somehow. I can't explain it really...And I've just started reading the Camomile Lawn again because I read it when I was at school and I thought a lot of it must have gone over my head. Ummm...It's set in Cornwall too...on the coast..."
Her voice trails off a little self consciously, and she grimaces at me, before she takes another bite of the toast that she has been waving around in the air as she gesticulated so enthusiastically, warming to her topic. While I have vaguely heard of the Rendell woman, the rest of the names mean nothing to me, not that it matters of course because observing Louisa become animated and vivacious is entertaining enough. I can't fathom how everyday works of fiction, the battered little paperbacks of my imagination, probably borrowed from the library, dog eared and tatty, can inspire that sort of fervent acclaim.
"I don't always have to read books that are set in Cornwall, obviously, but I started to the first summer I was in London. I got a bit homesick I suppose. It was so hot and sticky and reading about the coast was almost as good as being there." She says almost apologetically, and then she grins. "If I stuck a wet towel over the fan and lay around in my knickers..."
"I see." I reply weakly, standing up to clear the table. "Another coffee?"
"Yes, please!" She says, and she sounds ridiculously grateful, as if I'd offered her something rare and valuable.
She wanders over to join me, putting her dishes in the sink and hesitating for a moment before slipping her arms around my waist and leaning against my back.
"This is nice..." she says softly and I murmur my assent, all the time conscious that I am clad only in a dressing gown and that I feel in desperate need of a shower. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Louisa clasps her hands together over the top of the fabric and gives me an affectionate squeeze.
"It feels really, you know, normal..." she adds, letting go and stepping aside as I place the cups on the worktop.
"Yes." I say simply, thinking that if I had to imagine a perfect Sunday morning this would have to be close to it. "Have you had enough to eat? Would you like some fruit? I could peel you an apple?"
"No thanks." She replies quickly. "And I'll do the dishes if you want to have your shower. Can I put some music on though?"
I glance at her, surprised. "Umm, yes, of course...but I'm not sure I have anything you'd like?"
She grins at me, sparkling and irrepressible
"Would you be surprised to hear that I brought a couple of CDs with me?"
I scowl at her in mock disgust, shaking my head as I walk away. I retrieve the remote controls from the cupboard by the fireplace and place them on the arm of the Chesterfield before giving her a meaningful stare, one that I hope is loaded with caution; a warning to use restraint and to display a degree of consideration for my possibly still-sleeping neighbours, as I abandon her for the reward of a brief but reinvigorating hot shower.
As I stand under the relentless pulsating water, I realise that Louisa didn't get as far as telling me how she usually spent her Sundays, so I have no idea if she has things she must attend to today or whether she intends to stay with me a little longer. In view of my own indecision on what the day might hold, I choose a pale grey lightweight cashmere suit that is a particular favourite of mine and that should prove suitable for most eventualities.
As I adjust my tie, I'm relieved that I'm not aware of a pulsating bass hammering through the walls. Upon re-entering the living room, I'm surprised to see Louisa is sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, her legs stretched out in front of her, and the room is in silence. She smiles at me and pats the carpet next to her, encouraging me I assume, to sit next to her.
"Umm, Louisa, the speakers are designed so that, acoustically, the best position for the listener is at sitting height." I tell her, gesturing at the centre of the sofa.
"That might well be true but I feel like sitting on the floor." She replies haughtily, before a smirk hijacks her face.
"Right." I say cautiously, snatching at my trousers and lowering myself down beside her.
I realise what has happened. It seems that I will never offer any resistance. At breakfast, I'd imagined myself peacefully ensconced in the living room, Louisa absorbed in one of the books from my shelf perhaps; me, alongside her, relaxing with an article I'd been meaning to read for weeks: 'Ethanol embolization of vascular malformations', not entirely ground breaking but definitely thought provoking.
But Louisa has other ideas. She's discovered the Rodrigo CD and, having never heard it, she wants me to tell her about it. Apparently she quite likes Bossa Nova and classical guitar, and the Spanish title has her intrigued. So she slides herself under my arm and leans her head on my chest as, absently, I impart what little knowledge I possess on the Concierto de Aranjuez, playing with her ponytail and smiling inwardly at her typically Louisa take on things.
The first movement, roughly six minutes long, piques her interest, as enamoured as she currently seems to be with Flamenco, and she listens in silence, periodically glancing at the CD case as if she is attempting to commit the details of Allegro con spirito to memory. The second movement, over eleven minutes long, and the best known, starts off slowly and with a haunting spareness that always seemed to me to be full of loneliness and regret. I mention this to Louisa and she looks at me sadly, telling me that it has the opposite affect in her and that it reminds of her of a conversation, between the guitarist and the orchestra. After a few moments I tell her that, many years after it had debuted at the end of the Spanish Civil War, with the Second World War looming over Europe, Rodrigo's wife had admitted that her husband had composed it to evoke the memories of their honeymoon, and she stares at me, her green eyes wide and soft, as if the romantic connotation has made the piece even more meaningful and somehow more intense for her.
I notice that she experiences frisson as a result of the music; goose bumps appear on her arms and she closes her eyes almost rapturously, as I try to recall how it felt to hear something as pure and transcendental as this, for the very first time. I marvel at the perfect joy she seems to feel at such a deep level, and I almost envy her her freedom to respond with such emotional honesty to things that move her. I can't help myself and I bend down to kiss her as, for an infinitesimal moment, my emotions threaten to choke me too. Her hand slides up through my hair, creating a frisson all of her own and, in an instant, I capitulate. Despite it being Sunday morning, never mind that we are both freshly showered and fully dressed; I am not even deterred by never before having even the slightest inclination to make love on the carpet, I submit and Louisa again has her way with me, as the orchestra builds in the background to an earth shattering, climactic molto appassionato.
And so, before the third movement is even underway, she is lying spreadeagled beside me, laughing, and grinning at me as wickedly as I've ever seen her look. I rest my forearm over my eyes and exhale in a long, shuddering, disbelieving breath. Because I know now, as deeply as it is possible to understand anything, that I am both enslaved and liberated, all at once.
