I'd sat on the bed, barely brave enough to look at him, the room illuminated by the flames of all the bridges I'd burned. That I love Martin is beyond doubt, that I'm capable of enacting it is now not so certain; our lives seem just so discordant, and the determination that has always carried me along in a steady fashion now seems to have so much momentum that it wants to crush everything in its path. If my reactions tonight have proven anything, it's that this intrinsic need to be fiercely independent, but loving someone, wanting so desperately to be in a relationship with them, to really mean something to them, all might just require the sort of communication and negotiation skills I simply don't possess. As the ripples fade from the pond, it feels too as if he is slipping away from me. It's so quiet in this house, so still; no distractions, no street noise, no brawling neighbours, no barking dogs. I feel exposed; my limitations illuminated, my immaturity, my ignorance, my total lack of life experience, all of it on show, like so many dead moths pinned to a lepidopterist's board.
My knee hurts too but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest. It feels like I have an anvil on my rib age, an incessant pressure that just might suffocate me. Despite how hard he tries to maintain a neutral expression, there is such a lot of hurt still showing in his eyes, so evident in the unhappy twist of his mouth; he is wounded and I feel sick knowing that I am to blame. This close to defeat, it doesn't feel like I have much to lose really; most people find it hard to admit when they are wrong, and I'm certainly no exception but the events of the day, the emotion of it all and especially how Martin proved again how deserving he is of respect, in desperation I find myself offering him one last, genuine attempt at an apology. I know him as a man who doesn't waste words; brooding and unforthcoming at the best of times, but it is as if the floodgates have been opened and he unleashes on me. Even wrapped up in his velvety voice, his words are hard to take; he is aggrieved, and it seems his feelings are clearly more easily bruised than he lets on. It's not a happy sensation, actually, when someone else sees you almost more clearly than you see yourself, especially when it's someone you still want to impress, someone you hope sees you as the person you'd like to think you are. To have him point out some fairly serious character flaws, honing in on them and exposing them with surgical precision, has really really stung me.
I'd attempted to defend myself though because, despite the fact I realised there was quite a lot of truth to his argument, I'd had a moment where I'd been absolutely overcome. Every fear, every insecurity I'd ever experienced seemed to link arms and come at me, like some sort of emotional bull-rush. I'd really struggled to control myself then, because it was like a valve had been opened and, once again, I was that disappointed kid, spending my birthday sitting in a stranger's car outside the Betting Shop, bribed with a bag of jelly babies, or a defiant teenager attempting to make the best of what was a pretty rubbish situation, trying so ferociously not to let dereliction and resentment drag me down. But, as all the pent-up bitterness surfaced, all the deeply buried indignation that I have been suppressing for what feels like my whole life threatened to erupt, I'd blurted out a little bit more than I'd intended. Martin had just looked at me, listening with a furrowed brow; the shadowy light emphasising the hollows in his cheeks, and the disapproving set of his mouth giving him a pensive, disappointed air. As usual, he sat perfectly upright, not prepared to compromise on his perfect posture even as he is assailed by the overwrought revelations of his ashamed, and immature, lover.
And so my fear of losing him grew with each silent minute, and I prepared myself, waiting for that moment when he'd stand up, and wash his hands of me. Glancing at him, the thought of him treating me with the same cold aloofness he displayed to the rest of the world filled me with the worst sort of dread. It was like seeing the lightning flash across the sky, and waiting with bated breath, the air ominous and charged, for the roar of the thunder. In the stillness of the room, however, the denouement seemed to come and go without a murmur; I found myself distracted by an ice pack, and the sad realisation that, even when he was upset with me, and even though I'd obviously hurt him, he was still prepared to take care of me, determined to make sure that I was alright. It was so touching that I almost started to cry again and, instinctively, I reached for his hand. It feels cold, because he's been gripping the ice pack, tending to me, which just makes my outburst seem even more ridiculous somehow; no wonder he looks so confused, as I take my opportunity and reassure him with every ounce of sincerity I possess that I do actually want to take up his offer. And, though I'm now acutely aware that I've been overtly emotional and really illogical, I can't quite bring myself to admit it to him just yet.
It's the expression on his face that fells me; the worried frown, his eyes so wide and hopeful and childlike, the dimples that appear briefly in his cheeks as I grimace at him, apologetically and so self-consciously. Martin is such a paradox, demanding and quite assertive if my window into his professional world is to be believed; impatient, taciturn and aloof too, I'd got the impression. He'd told me once that, to a surgeon, being in control at all times was second nature, that confidence and self-belief were essential and, even today, he had moved around the hospital with an assuredness that almost reminded me of some sort of superstar; a feted opera singer or an arrogant royal, comfortable in his skin, and in total control of his environment. I feel the desire to touch him mushrooming inside me, and, suddenly, I am desperate for his reassurance. I want to crawl under that skin, become at one with him, feel his arms securely around me. I need so badly just to be comforted, to feel like I actually deserve his integrity, his stability, and his strength.
And I give him no choice really, literally jumping on him before he even realises what's happening. In turn, he gazes back at me, wide-eyed and surprised, as if he's never heard the concept of making up this way, reconciling so enthusiastically after a lover's tiff. As usual, he is gentle beyond belief, with the same familiar, tiny hesitation, after our lips touch, before he responds. But something feels different for me and I throw caution to the wind, because it suddenly strikes me that this might be a very effective way of reminding Martin that he does not always have to be in command. My need for him hits me like I've just thrown back two or three generous Sambuca shots, a rapidly involving fire burning in my stomach, an insane and intense rush that sees me rather madly compelled to follow Libby's advice, take control, and bonk him senseless.
"Bloody hell." He murmurs breathlessly, in apparent disbelief, as he falls on to his back, a ghost of smile twitching across his face.
Totally depleted, I'd clung to him afterwards, collapsing onto his chest and pressing my face into his neck, his hand so comforting, so light and unhurried, smoothing my hair, sweeping it to one side, burying his fingers in what had become a wildly out of control mane. With his breath light and warm against my ear, he'd told me that he loved me, kissing my neck softly before hesitating and then, with an almost remorseful tone, assuring me so very gently that all he ever wanted was for me to be happy. Feeling the quiet rise and fall of his breathing, I believe him, and as I respond with a few heartfelt reassurances of my own, I seem completely disconnected from my limbs, unwilling to move, mesmerised by the way he trails his fingers lazily across my skin, his long arms offering quite a significant reach advantage, entwined as we were. It was a divine moment of stillness, a sensation of total and utter serenity, as if I am floating in the warm shallows, after coming ashore on the crest of an enormous wave; damp, salty and exhausted. Being here like this, with him, was like being wrapped in a warm, soft, chenille dressing gown, enveloped with a lovely feeling of comfort and security, not wanting a single thing to be different as I fall into a deep and exhausted sleep.
He'd warned me of his early alarm but it was still a shock when it went off, a high-pitched ringing that jarred me back to the reality of a drizzly work day morning. He was up and out of bed before I'd even managed to get both of my eyes open and, as I watched him move purposefully around the room, disappearing rapidly into the shower, it was once more pretty obvious to me that Martin's world was distinctly black and white. The drone of the shower and the whine of his razor were almost soporific but I'd felt this requirement to remain awake, because watching him get dressed seemed almost as entertaining as actually stripping him off. He was so purposeful and so focused, even about something as ordinary as getting ready, clearing his throat thoughtfully as he chose his cuff links, and frowning at himself in the mirror as he effortlessly tied a perfect Windsor knot. And then he'd stood at the end of the bed, immaculate and imposing, gazing down on me as I smiled back sleepily, admiring him from beneath heavily-lidded eyes.
"You look very smart." I told him, but he hadn't replied, preferring to adjust his cuffs, dust off his sleeve and, after a moment, offer me a hot drink.
Gratefully, I'd asked for a cup of tea and, when he brought it to me, I'd laughed at him as he'd lowered himself down onto the bed, by my feet.
"Don't you trust me?" I'd said, enjoying the way his face coloured slightly.
He'd given a nervous little cough and avoided answering me, preferring instead to detail what I might have for breakfast, where I could find what I needed, how to lock up the flat, even reminding me where he'd left the bus timetable, and I'd tried to imagine what it must be like to live a life where nothing is left to chance, where every eventuality is planned for, every problem anticipated. He was so completely reliable, unlike anyone I'd every met before, of my generation anyway. I doubted if he was ever casual or informal, and, as I gazed back at him, I wondered if he even owned any other clothing other than his seemingly vast collection of suits. Tempting as it was to poke around in his wardrobe, it felt somehow rude and disloyal to do so unless he was with me, knowing how private he was, understanding how hard he'd found it at boarding school, when all of his habits were so ruthlessly pilloried. That particularly enticing reconnoiter would have to wait for another time.
"Louisa." He said carefully, opening his mouth as if he were going say something, and then pausing, his lips forming a small, perfect circle. "Umm, I wondered if you might have dinner with me tonight. If you recall, I promised you a, ummm, meal out to celebrate your exam results..."
The suggestion bought a broad smile to my face; not only because the promised dinner sounded appealing but, more amusing still, even after we'd spent the night in a fairly intimate entanglement, he still had the capacity to sound so proper and so correct, as if we were meeting for the first time.
"I'd really like that." I assured him as I began, mentally, to plan my outfit. It was only when I thought about my footwear, I remembered Libby's leaving drinks on Friday night.
I wanted really badly for Martin to be there with me and, admittedly, most of my reasons were selfish. I suppose, in a way, I wanted to know what it felt like to do the simple things together that so many other people take for granted. Despite the voice in my head that reminded me that he would hate every minute of it, there was a part of me that hoped he might be persuaded, that a night out with me and my friends might possibly be fun. One glance at his somber, scowling face, however, and I realised it was rather a long shot. For an introverted, tee-totaller who detested loud music, our local on a Friday night would probably seem like purgatory to him but I still entertained the vainest of hopes that somehow I could make it bearable for him, that he might even enjoy himself, if only he'd just give it a chance. I smiled at him, tentatively, and, because I knew he was paying attention, I sat up in the bed and swung my legs over the side, reaching down to floor to rummage in my overnight bag for some clean clothes.
"Actually, Martin, I know it isn't your thing." I said slowly, as wriggled into a fresh pair of knickers. "But it's Libby's farewell drinks at the pub on Friday night and, you know, it would mean a lot to me if you'd come with me."
"Libby?" He said bemusedly, glancing at me for a moment before averting his eyes, rather awkwardly.
"You know, Libby." I replied, a little impatiently, standing up and pulling the tee-shirt over my head. "My flat mate, and my best friend too, I suppose. She's going out to Australia with her boyfriend."
I reached for my hair band, gazing at him hopefully, as I wrestled my hair into a pony tail and secured it in place. He glanced back at me, rubbing his ear thoughtfully.
"I see. And you want me to come too?" He asks, as if he's somehow surprised.
I'm cheered by the fact it doesn't seem like a refusal and so I nod at him, encouragingly.
"Yes, Martin. I want you to come too."
"I see." He says, as if he doesn't quite know what to make of my request, as if I'm speaking to him in a foreign language, or some sort of indecipherable code.
I take a few step towards him but, suddenly, it's as if he knows exactly what methods of persuasion I have at my disposal and he leaps instantly to his feet.
"Let's talk about it tonight." He says quickly, as I slide my arms around his waist, and he reaches down, pecking me hastily on the cheek before rapidly extricating himself from my grasp.
"I will make the reservations for seven o'clock." He says solemnly, as he walks away. "I should be home by six-thirty. And, umm, telephone me, if you need to..."
"Yes, fine." I call out to his back as he strides away. "Bye then..."
I hear the front door close and I feel, momentarily and pretty oddly, bereft. Climbing back in to bed, I wonder why it seems to be such a huge part of my make up, always looking for the next thing to worry about. God knows how many hours I'd agonised over my inability to find a proper boyfriend, scared that any sort of physical satisfaction would always elude me. My seemingly endless insecurities had hung over my head like the sword of Damocles; the best school subjects to take, the minimum exam results I'd required, which universities to apply to, what career path to choose; I'd spent so many hours second-guessing every decision until I'd tied myself in knots. In many ways I have Libby to thank for the fact that I am so aware of my natural inclination for doubt and fear in almost every situation. In fact, I probably have her to thank for the fact I am now luxuriating in Martin's bed, satisfied and even rather smug, admiring the pristine white walls and staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, so delightfully free of nicotine stains and fly poo. When I was a kid, I'd always gazed upwards, searching out the patterns; the water marks that looked like faces, the mould that seemed to resemble birds, the cloud that rolled across the sky like a rearing horse. Pareidolia Martin had told me it was called as we'd sat in the park and watched the cumulus build into the sky. Seeing things that aren't there, tying myself in knots over vague possibilities, feeling intimidated by the unknown, and falling victim to pointless insecurities; that is me, Louisa, in a nutshell.
I reach for my tea, smiling as I realise that I may also have finally triumphed in the little sugar battle that Martin and I have been waging. He does not let me get away with much really, without comment; from the first time I recall meeting him he'd been so severe on me, so strict and forthright in his opinions on my health and well being. He had seemed so impossibly grown up and responsible, and it hadn't taken me very long to quite fancy him, in my own gauche, ignorant, adolescent way. I'd spent most of the weekend mooning around after him, longing for something I couldn't even describe, couldn't even picture really, if I am honest. And then, when he'd gone, I'd constructed a world for him, an imagined society where everyone felt the same way about him that I did, rubbing salt in my own wounds by picturing him with an endless stream of beautiful women, blonde and blue-eyed, sophisticated and accomplished, fawning over him and going for long drives in the country in his shiny, new car. To be honest, I was still tormenting myself with those very thoughts reasonably frequently, right up until last night actually, because there seemed to be so many women around him that were so much more suitable for him that I would ever be; smart, capable, no-nonsense types, level-headed, dispassionate and serious, far closer to his intellectual level than I would ever be. He'd folded the counter pane neatly at the bottom of the bed and pulled the sheet up over us. I had curled on my side, barely half awake, cuddling into him as he cocooned me from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me gently against him. Squalls of rain clattered into the window and, in the distance, a clock chimed; a soft melodic sound more like the soft chords of a guitar than somber antique; peaceful, soothing and soporific. I felt Martin stir; his chest expanding as he exhaled in a long, shuddering sigh. I could feel his lips against my shoulder, and I sensed his hesitation, hearing his breath catch in his throat as he whispered my name.
"Louisa...please stop, umm, imagining...that there has ever been...or could ever be...anyone else...that could ever compare to the way I feel about you."
I'd heard him of course but, more importantly, I had felt his words so deeply, so resoundingly inside of me, and they felt like a soothing ointment applied to a sunburned skin, the relief of hot water on a weever sting; a desperately needed, reassuring balm for my insecure soul, like the nacre Martin had called the substance oysters use to smother an irritant, encasing the aggravating agent until they form a pearl. If my exhausted mind couldn't really process the importance, I still felt the implications instantly, actually I was even less able to reply, so intense were the emotions I was experiencing. In my state of fatigue, it was all I could do to reach up and squeeze his hand tightly, desperately hoping that he didn't notice the silent tear that had escaped my eye and was trickling slowly down my cheek, towards his immaculate bed linen.
