Holly is no procrastinator, I'll give her that. Wearing a pale lemon linen suit, and with her hair curled to Young Conservative's perfection, she sits elegantly on one end of the couch, her legs folded neatly beside her, purring like a catarrhal cheetah. At the other end, facing her, is a complete stranger; a sharp-featured, fair-skinned girl with fiery red hair in a long plait that trails down her back. I recognise this scene, this warm reception, this rapid new induction into our household because once, not that long ago, I too sat on the couch and was similarly impressed by Holly's confidence and apparent geniality. I remember so clearly feeling as if I'd found a home away from home, that elusive gateway to real adulthood, and the autonomous life I'd always dreamed of having. But now, standing in the threadbare living room, as the stench of dampness seeps into my nostrils as it rises from the carpet, I recognise that, in fact, there's nothing left for me here.
There's a finality to the realisation that's oddly invigorating, a recognition that I no longer need cling to this disintegrating bit of flotsam when, on the horizon, an allegorical luxury yacht is moored. Whoever this new flatmate is, it suddenly doesn't seem to matter if I like her or not; if she fits in, if she doesn't, it's suddenly immaterial to me. And, though it appears that I don't have a say about who moves in to replace Libby, as apparently it's already a fait accompli, even such an obvious slight feels more tedious and predictable than disrespectful. The reality is that, even if I don't give up my room completely, I still can't imagine myself spending many nights here in the weeks to come. I suppose hanging on to my room here was simply the reassurance of having my own roof over my own head, the key to maintaining my independence I suppose but, even though Holly has hurriedly cleaned up the kitchen and there are flowers in a jar on the table, Graham Terrace seems grimmer now than I've ever acknowledged before and, mentally, it dawns on me that I have already moved out.
Gushing like the upstairs pipes the night the shower tap fell off, Holly introduces me to the new girl, Jo. I smile at her and, though she smiles back, I recognise in her eyes an expression of calculated appraisal, which is a bit unpleasant really. There's something artful about her gaze, a sharpness that makes me instantly wary, like we are in some sort of competition but I'm not actually sure what the prize is. I've met girls like her before and, in my experience, it's always best to avoid them and I don't intend to change my strategy just because we live under the same roof. Her stare is a bit disconcerting, and just a bit superior really, and I'm unsurprised to learn that she's pursuing a first in politics and economics. Recently transferred from some European university I've never heard of, she struggles to hide a smirk as she examines her nails and listens; by Holly's reverent tone, it's apparent that I should be both terribly impressed and also slightly daunted. Refreshingly though, I realise I'm neither and I can only assume that it's because, however accomplished and intelligent this Jo is, it's all relative, isn't it? One thing I'm absolutely sure of is that she could never hold a candle to Martin's searing intellect, and, if I'm not intimidated by him, then I'm most definitely not fazed by her.
Cheerfully leaving them simpering in simpatico, I excuse myself, retreating gratefully to the flummery-free zone of my tiny room, and throwing myself down on the tiny bed. It has been the sort of afternoon that prompts reflection and, in the silence, apparently summoned by my retrospection, my room fills with ghosts, both the friendly leggy blonde sort and, embarrassingly, the grim spectres of boyfriends past. God! those weedy, hairy, clueless boys who, though they all talked the talk, had about as much sensitivity as Roche Rock and about as much regard for my adolescent hopes and dreams. Actually thinking about them now just fills me a sort of vague disgust and it seems like yet another indication that my time here at Graham Terrace is almost up. Perhaps this place just has too many associations that I need to leave behind, a dingy reminder of a less than stellar youth best left buried and forgotten. If I never understood Libby's frequent absences from the flat, her preference for overnighting in the room of whoever she was seeing at the time, I certainly do now. Now, since she absconded permanently, there is absolutely nothing to keep me here. Certainly not the lumpy mattress nor the thin pillows, or the windows that won't open and the doors that don't close.
Later, when I hear tinkling laughter, and the front door slams, and hurried footsteps up the stairs thud above me, I slink out into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. After a moment, I hear the distant hum of the cello and I pause for a moment to listen, but I can't make out the piece. If I liked Holly more, I might want to listen to her play; I might want to discuss Elgar and Bach and Albinoni with her but instead I turn away and, just for a moment, this all feels actually quite funereal. The notes she plays are like a somber lament, a sad concerto farewelling an epoch or a reign; a moment in time where this flat represented everything that was important to me. Once the whole house was alive with thumping bass, and hilarity and excitement, and wicked banter. Now Holly's slow, almost morbid playing echoes in the silence, and it feels somehow even emptier; each drawing of her bow across the strings is like a howl of despair, a dull moan of isolation.
Shaking my head, I glance at my watch, wondering what Martin might be doing right now. I'm hungry and, as usual, there's nothing much in the cupboard; the fridge is bare and its miserable emptiness batters the last of my resolve to at least spend two or three nights a week residing here. If Martin is home, he will surely be preparing his evening meal, methodically and hygienically; laying the table with surgical precision, unfolding his linen napkin and seasoning his meal with a subtle little flourish. Or perhaps he's at the hospital, calmly taking control of whatever emergency he's faced with. I wish I knew because just thinking about it makes my chest ache, and I glance over at the telephone. I did say I'd call him but, instead, I hesitate, knowing that even hearing his voice might be enough to see my determination to stay here tonight evaporate completely.
In the end, when I discover my book is missing, my resolve disappears entirely and I dial his number. I notice my heart beats faster as I wait for him to answer and, when it seems like he has picked up the phone, I feel a shuddering flood of warmth that emanates from my chest; a sudden electrical charge that, for a split second, makes me catch my breath. But, of course, it's just his sodding answerphone and I wince again at the coldness of his message before I leave my own garbled response; a dim, patently transparent excuse, vaguely questioning the whereabouts of my elusive paperback. I can only assume he's at work and I sigh as I imagine him arriving home and, as usual, ignoring the little blue light that flashes so insistently in his study.
I finish my cuppa and it's obvious that my hunger pangs have not been drowned. Funny how quickly your body gets used to the regular meals that are a fact of life in Martin's nutritionally balanced world. He's honestly such a true zealot when it comes to eating. You can't even dig in to a plate of Eggs Benedict without receiving a running commentary on its tsunami of calories, or the potential health complications arising from the consumption of Hollandaise sauce, or how smoked salmon would have been a healthier option than bacon. In the end, he'd only shut up about the dangers of cured meats when I'd threatened to order chocolate crepes and a Bloody Mary chaser, glaring at him ominously as I chewed my way through what until then had been a delicious brunch. Honestly, it's like he's never off the clock, there's no leniency, no relaxing of the rules, not even a concession to special occasions, only unabashed admonishment or, if you should make him desist, a slightly sour, rather reproachful silence.
Remembering this morning's lecture, I smile to myself, and it's then that I decide that perhaps a cheeky kebab might actually be in order. As much as I love Martin, and as badly as I want to be with him, I still need to be my own person, I can't subvert everything about myself, just because he declines to give his approval. Besides, if I can look forward to a sneaky takeaway when I'm at my flat, it might make both parts of my life more bearable; I can eat healthily when I'm at his house and slightly less-so when I'm here; and isnt that the best of both words really? Smirking, and feeling rather like a naughty school kid, I wander back to my room to pull on my boots and grab my bag, my mouth watering at the thought of Lamb Shis and maybe a bit of baklava or even an ice cream.
I haven't even made it as far as the kitchen, or been bothered to do up my laces, when the phone rings, and I answer it quite reflexively, distracted as I search for my house keys which seem to have disappeared through a hole in the lining of my bag.
"H'lo." I bark, through the clenched teeth that grip the handles as I fossick frantically around in the recesses of the rucksack, the accessory that has become my hold all for every occasion.
"Louisa, it's Martin." I hear him say evenly.
"Oh hi!" I reply breathlessly, feeling that delicious surge of heat that seems hijack me at the mere sound of his voice. "You got my message then?"
"Yes. Umm, one of a surprising number but...none as imperative to respond to as...ahh..the mystery of the disappearing novella. Which I have located, by the way..."
"Oh brilliant, thank you! Where was it?"
"It was wedged down the arm of the sofa...along with one small black sock and what appears to be some sort of hair restraint device..."
I feel myself smile.
"That's a relief, I was imagining I'd left it at the airport or in the bus." I say quickly, keen to sidestep another 'tidy house, tidy mind' lecture.
"The remains of The Remains of The Day." He says, drily. "Unfortunately, it appears to have suffered a terminal comminuted vertebral fracture, the cause of which appears to be sudden and extreme compression."
"What?" I ask, laughing with incomprehension.
"Someone sat on it, and broke its spine."
"Oh, right. Well, never mind, I should still be able to read it..." I reassure him quickly.
"Mmm..." He replies and I hear him sigh with the particular inflection that indicates his world-weariness, the genuine mystification he feels at the general behaviour of the rest of mankind.
"Anyway, how was your day?" I interrupt hastily as the vague memory of a crunching sound returns to me as I recall where I sat to put on my boots on this morning.
"Umm, satisfactory, thank you. And yours? The airport...that went well?" He asks carefully and, though I sense something in his enquiry, I decide to ignore it.
"Yeah, that was fine...a bit emotional but, you know, okay. You won't believe it though, I fell asleep on the way home. Nearly missed my stop. Made the time pass quickly I s'pose..it was quite a long way." I say, barking with laughter as I recall my moment of panic when I was startled awake, clueless as to where the hell I was.
Before he can warn me of the dangers inherent in failing to maintain consciousness whilst utilising public transport, I continue.
"It's a bit strange to think that I'm not going to hear Libby's key in the door though, or have her burst into my room and drag me down the pub..." I add, with no attempt to hide the regret that's crept into my tone.
"Yes, I'm sure that will take some...adjustment..." He says thoughtfully, after a moment, before adding somewhat cautiously. "Umm, have you had your supper?"
"No, not yet." I reply, absently twisting and untwisting the cord around my fingers as I listen to him.
"I see." He says knowingly. "Your flat is in its usual state of perpetual famine, I presume?"
"It's fine!" I retort, aware of how defensive I sound. But, as usual, he hits a raw nerve, unsurprising I suppose when you consider he knows where they all are. It's just like it seems he has a sixth sense about my eating habits; an uncanny knack of catching me red-handed, his tone now just the tiniest bit superior and judgemental. "What about you? Have you eaten?"
"As I mentioned, I have just walked through the door." He replies, rather formally. "But I'm about to prepare something. Umm, I picked up some French pears this afternoon and some walnuts in their shells, so I thought I'd make a salad...with perhaps some Stilton. Something light as it's...umm...it's getting quite late."
I wonder if he can hear my stomach rumble as he speaks. I can picture it all so clearly, his pale blue glass bowl and his pewter salad servers, his array of knives laid out beside him as he peels and cores the fruit so expertly.
"That sounds nice." I say, slightly sadly. "And you're having fish, of course...what sort?"
"Umm. I picked up some Dover Sole but, I...umm...on reflection, I decided that there's too much for one person so...umm...I grilled some haddock. Do you...umm...have you eaten Dover Sole? Do you like it?"
"Why? Are you going to cook it for me, Martin?" I ask, hopefully.
"Mm." He says, rather sweetly hesitant. "I mean, I will if you want."
"With chips?" I say, grinning as I picture him wincing, awaiting his horrified response.
"I don't like your chances." He replies acerbically. "Though potatoes in some form are a distinct possibility..."
"That would be lovely then, yes please." I assure him quickly, in case he changes his mind. "When were you thinking?"
He hesitates and I wonder if he's thinking the same as I am; how soon is too soon? I mean what constitutes a decent interval apart when you are totally besotted with someone? Is he, like me, still figuring what is appropriate, trying desperately to play it cool and keep his emotions in check, when, actually he cant bear to be apart from me? Or, is it wholly more likely that logical and organised Martin is simply checking his commitment-heavy diary and seeing where he can fit me in? The longer he takes to reply, the more my keenness to see him increases yet the more my fleeting feeling of insecurity heightens.
"How long can you keep it in the fridge before it's not safe to eat?" I ask quickly, congratulating myself on what I consider is rather a clever angle, leveraging on Martin's total commitment to food safety.
"Umm, best eaten fresh I should think." He replies firmly.
"So, tomorrow then?"
"Mm. That would seem the most sensible option." He says, and clears his throat. "Unless, that's not...convenient? I should be home sometime after six, if nothing untoward crops up..."
"I should be able to manage that." I tell him vaguely, smiling to myself as I do so. "But, Martin, can I place a condition on this? I mean on coming over tomorrow?"
"A condition?"
"Yes, Martin, because, as we discussed, one of us needs to tell Mrs. Norton. Because I'm starting to feel like we're being secretive and because that makes me, you know, well, it makes me feel really uncomfortable."
"Yes. Okay. Fine. Umm, after supper perhaps, we can phone her?" He says and I can hear the discomfort in his voice again, the same tone he always assumes when the subject of making his aunt aware of his change in circumstances arises.
"Is there something wrong with telling her? I mean, don't you want to?" I ask him, as I experience a sudden stab of anxiety at his apparent reluctance to share with his supposed favourite relation, the news that he and I are a couple.
"No, nothing like that. Of course we should inform her. I'm just not very good at that sort of thing, that's all..."
"Inform? That sounds a bit cold...you know, like you feel like you're delivering really bad news..."
He sighs heavily.
"Please don't start quibbling over semantics Louisa, don't start reading anything into my choice of words. In a moment of tiredness, I merely resorted to professional terminology..." He says and his voice trails off in a cloud of thinly-veiled frustration.
"Will you promise to sound a bit more enthusiastic when you do tell her though?" I retort. "Just so she doesn't think it was all my idea?"
"Well, I can't promise a fanfare of trumpets." He says a little crossly. "But I will endeavour to express my satisfaction with our situation, to her, to the best of my ability, if that's what you want."
"Thank you, Martin, that's exactly what I want." I reply sweetly.
"Good...right. Yes."
"So, I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" I ask, as my stomach rumbles and I'm assailed by a rather unpleasant stab of hunger that makes me suddenly conscious of what time the Ottoman Kebab closes on a Sunday night.
"Yes, tomorrow evening." He says briskly before I sense him hesitate; his breathing changes and I hear his nervous swallow. Of course he'd choose this moment to become a telephone conversationalist, the very second my need for food is inducing spasms of mouth-watering nausea.
I clasp one arm across my stomach in a vain attempt to muffle the sound, as the rumbling of my insides seem suddenly louder than Concorde hurtling down the runway at Heathrow.
"Was there something else?" I prompt him, possibly with a bit too much sharpness. "Martin?"
"Umm..." He replies slowly. "Just that I...umm, that I'm...looking forward to it. To seeing you, I mean..."
His words hang in the air, as persistent and prominent as Jubilee bunting, and I'm suddenly completely and horrifyingly appalled at myself. Here we go again, the re-emergence of impatient, suspicious, insecure Louisa, always choosing the worst moment possible to reveal her shallow, selfish perspective to the world. I could kick myself, I really could, I'm so disappointed at my own insensitivity. Although Martin sometimes finds his voice in the dark, when there's just the two of us, I realise that the declaration he's just made, unprompted and in broad daylight, is actually what I've wanted so badly to hear. But, with my usual stubbornness, and in my haste to get a stupid bloody takeaway, I nearly missed out on the moment.
"Me, too." I reassure him quickly, my voice softening rather rapidly. "And I missed you today. A lot actually."
"I see. Despite the rather fervid attentions of your Cymotrichous admirer?" He says, with more than a hint of bitterness, and I feel a sudden and overwhelming sense of delight.
Though I have no idea what that word means, the sentiment is clear and I couldn't honestly be happier. If I'm not mistaken, sanguine and unemotional Martin, so haughty and self-assured, is actually jealous. I'm hopelessly torn between putting him out of his misery, and wallowing in the joy of the moment for just a little longer. It seems a shame to admit so soon that Stephen's predilection to crush on straight boys has seen him suffer endless romantic disappointment and more than his fair share of heartbreak.
"He is quite good looking, isn't he?" I reply dreamily, fighting to keep the mirth from my voice. "In a Hugh Grant sort of way..."
"Is he?" Martin growls. "I wouldn't know."
"You'll just have to take my word for it then." I tell him cheerfully. "How cute he is, I mean."
"Clearly." He says, making little effort now to hide his disgust. "Since you seem to have taken enough notice for both of us."
"Sadly, I'm just not his type though, Martin" I say, fighting to keep myself under control as laughter threatens to choke me.
"How disappointing for you." He replies, so acidly that his voice is now almost a snarl, his tone so laden with disgust that a snort of unbridled mirth escapes me and it's enough to force the floodgates open as I collapse across the worktop, prostrate with mirth.
Once I gather myself and manage to tell him that he, and he alone, is Stephen's type I'm met with a deafening silence; a full minute of recuperation where the energy and effort he puts into regaining his composure is almost tangible. After he clears his throat for the second time, he finally responds and his tone is predictably unperturbed.
"I see." He says, simply. "There does seem to be no accounting for taste."
I'm not sure if it's his calm acceptance of Stephen's preferences or his modesty that that I find the most touching in his response. It might be that Martin's medical training that has taught him not to judge, nor to feel threatened, nor even, as so many blokes are, to be disgusted, but I still love him all the more for it because, to me, it's just another indicator of his superiority of mind.
"Looks like you're stuck with me, then, Martin. Stephen's certainly not the one to take me off your hands..."
"Mmm." He replies but I'm sure I can sense a note of relief.
In the lonely moments after I replaced the receiver, I'd stood in the kitchen and simply stared at the telephone, thinking about Martin, thinking about how he really is a good man, honest and decent and principled. Suddenly, a Sunday night stroll down to fast food strip seemed alarmingly disloyal, and somehow even a bit treacherous. It was the sort of reaction that really did me no credit, and I probably needed to face up to what was quite a childish and petulant response to someone actually taking in a genuine interest in my well being. Of course, when you spend all day dealing with sick people, like Martin must, it stands to reason you are going to be hyperaware of risk. To be honest, despite how little he speaks of his job, I am aware of his frustration at how many of his patients suffer from ailments that he says are self-inflicted and avoidable. I wonder, too, a bit shamefully, why my first reaction is always to defy him, to sneak behind his back and be amused by thumbing my nose at all of his regulations. I was always quite good at following rules, you know, at school, at Karen's house, even at the flat; I've never been one for rebellion and anarchy, ever. So I wish I could understand why it is exactly that Martin's commandments, and there are a lot more than ten of them, at best make me want to challenge him and, at worst, just seem to make me want to do exactly the opposite of what he specifies.
Sighing heavily, I pull out a packet of instant noodles and shake out the last few lumpy granules from the Bisto cylinder over the top of them. As I wait for the kettle to boil and, later, as I savour the grim paucity of my makeshift dinner, the meagre meal seems to just reiterate that it's time to really start living as if I am in a new phase of my life. All I've done is wax lyrical in my head about it while continuing to carry on like a ditzy, disorganised, mutinous teenager which is just really embarrassing actually. The problem is, if I stay here, with all of us now living such disparate lives, not sharing meals and seldom all here at the same time, how can I be sure to eat better, to make sure that there is food in the fridge for my consumption without becoming one of those people who labels their own food and becomes madly possessive and trivial. Besides, half the reason for the student tradition of appalling dietary choices can be blamed on the fact we're always broke. It's going to be galling enough to pay my rent, and a quarter share of all the bills when I'm barely here, never mind forking out for better quality nutrition.
I feel myself blush with embarrassment at my own stupidity; my ridiculous and over-the-top reaction to what now seems like Martin's well thought out musings on how we might spend more time together. Because I'd rejected his suggestions so vociferously, was he ever going to offer again? A proper word processing computer, my own space to study in and a big colour telly to relax with; I feel almost like crying now when I realise how unlikely it is that he'd offer again and what a proper job I've done of shooting myself in the foot. But he admitted that he was looking forward to seeing me and it hadn't even been a whole day apart. That must mean something, mustn't it? Convincing myself that it did isn't difficult and, optimistically, I feel the need to hasten to my bedroom where I start by picking up the CDs from the floor and packing them into an empty shoebox.
