The first few days back at college had been a bit of a blur really. I'd returned to Graham Terrace on Sunday night as usual, taking the bus, much to Martin's exasperation. Of course he'd suggested that he might drive me but I'd declined the offer, conscious that he would be off to work shortly, and then on-call all night. Being as pragmatic as he is, I thought he'd see the sense of it, and he did eventually grunt at me with his usual sort of detached agreement, but not before I'd seen a glimpse of something in his eyes that, if I dare say so, almost looked like disappointment. I'd been staying with him for nearly a week, so I'd found his reaction rather sweet, and quite reassuring actually, because he does seem to live a well-ordered, tidy life and, frankly, I really don't. Having realised I hadn't actually outstayed my welcome though, I was so chuffed that I didn't even argue with him when he insisted on carrying my bag of textbooks, and walking me to the bus stop, even though it is literally only four hundred yards from his front door.
The bus was late and so we'd stood waiting for a while, Martin standing like a sentry while I leaned against the wall of the shelter. While I scanned the horizon he took it upon himself to check every aspect of my preparation, treating me as if I was a five year old about to go to school for the first time and not a nonchalant and well seasoned student, simply meandering back for a new term. Eventually, exasperated, I'd squawked at him, imploring him to give the next round of Twenty Questions a miss, and assuring him that I would be absolutely fine.
"You know, p'raps you should head to the hospital now?" I'd suggested through clenched teeth. "I don't want to make you late."
"Mm. Yes. Of course." He'd agreed firmly, though I did notice that his tone was at odds with his hesitant demeanour, as he'd hovered in front of me, apparently in an agony of indecision.
Sometimes, as much as I love him, the temptation to wind him up just becomes too much. I'd glanced casually at my watch, pushing my sunglasses up on to the top of my head, and using them like a headband to stop the breeze whipping my hair about. As the traffic roared by, I just stood there, motionless and impartial, gazing up at him with as innocent an expression as I could muster, my hands buried deeply in the pockets of my jacket. Watching him, all I could think of was one of his clocks, the brass one with the glass panels, where you can see all the gears going around inside. To me, the similarities were hilarious; his thoughts so clear and obvious as he grappled with what to do, all the time his brow furrowed and his mouth twitching nervously. And then, like a swallow swooping across the surface of a pond, he'd bent down to kiss me, and I'd felt his mouth brush my cheek, delicate and fleeting but inexpressibly significant.
I'd smiled at him then and, wide eyed, he'd held my gaze for barely a moment; a silent, split second of communion amongst the noise and rush of the Sunday afternoon traffic. I'd felt my heart swell in my chest at what was, for Martin, an act of boldness, an impromptu gesture of affection in full view of countless random strangers, as spontaneous and completely irresistible as the protective arm he'd thrown around me as we'd left the restaurant the other night, forced to fight our way through surprisingly rowdy, evening throng.
"Bye." I said breathlessly. "Love you..."
"Yes." He'd replied, and then he was gone, without ceremony, striding off across the pedestrian crossing and disappearing behind a long line of slow moving vehicles.
Once the bus had finally arrived, I'd heaved my bag into a seat and collapsed alongside it, happy to secure a window seat on my preferred left hand side, a vantage point which allowed me to people watch as we crawled along the Chelsea streets. Sunday afternoon was traditionally a busy time at Kensington Gardens and there were still lots of family groups making the most of the late summer weather; kids in strollers and fat little dogs straining on leashes. The leaves were beginning to turn on some of the trees too, I suppose as a result of the unusually hot dry weather we'd had, but I found it a bit sad really, realising that winter was not that far away now. I was quite looking forward to the autumn term though, logistically, managing to keep all my coursework and suchlike together when I was going to be residing in two different places, was going to be quite demanding. I have to admit, being super well-organised is not my forte but, if I wanted to make my new living arrangements work, then I was really going to have to lift my game.
We'd pulled up at the lights and I realised I was staring blankly at a billboard, smiling as it dawned on me that it was an advertisement for Les Miserables, at the Palace Theatre. The little French girl, tinted red white and blue made me giggle as I recalled how I'd felt like such a blagger at Martin's work dinner. I'm still a little bit triumphant actually, at my success; bluffing my way through ordering from a menu written entirely in a language I have virtually no clue about. Luckily, I'm not a fussy eater but I had braced myself for disgust and disappointment as the waiter approached the table, plates balanced rather impressively up the length of both arms. Though I would never admit it to Martin, the French words had meant very little to me so, when I'd seen coquilles, I'd been hopeful, as you have to admit it did sound reassuringly like cockles, a childhood treat and therefore a low risk selection. When I'd announced my choice to Martin, I'd watched his face closely, knowing that if I'd inadvertently ordered horsemeat or jugged pigeon, the Arched Eyebrow of Disapproval would surely have made an appearance. So, when he'd just nodded solemnly, I was immensely relieved, but the depth of that emotion was nothing compared to the complete joy I felt when the enormous plate of cheesy scallops was placed rather ostentatiously before me.
I'd actually thoroughly enjoyed myself all night, not least because it's been such a novelty, this new realm I've been introduced to. I love having the opportunity to dress up for a start, and then there's the fantastic food, and the interesting people I get to meet. I couldn't believe it when it turned out that Tzippy is an actual clinical psychologist, and Aoife used to be a social worker before she became a full time mum. I was so full of questions that the evening flew by and, for the three of us anyway, the initial polite conversation transformed quickly into a virtual children's mental health symposium, fuelled mostly by my questions and their vigorous, good-natured debate. It had been exhilarating really and, though I could sense Martin's relief as we stood up to leave, I was honestly a little bit sorry that we had to call it a night.
In the taxi, he'd refused to be drawn on his prospects yet he'd seemed composed, and almost light-hearted, in his own phlegmatic way.
"You seemed to enjoy being embroiled in that...ummm... hornet's nest of earnest conviction." He said, the triangle shaped dimples appearing again on his cheeks as he'd gazed at me airily.
"I did actually." I'd replied, with a defiant smile. "They're both dynamic women, in their own way, and what they had to say was really interesting."
He'd nodded at me, maintaining his almost-amused demeanour but had said nothing and, eventually, I'd turned back to gaze out of the window, taking in the bustling, brightly lit excitement with just a hint of wistfulness. I'd felt like carrying on somewhere; a pub or wine bar or even a music venue and, beyond the streaky glass, the excitement of the city beckoned. For just a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of disappointment, a little sad ache inside because, out of nowhere, I just really wanted to go dancing but I knew that, as long as he lived, Martin would never be the one to take me. Loud music, pulsating bass, crowds of sweaty people; oh god, he'd just hate it; standing out like an enormous, disapproving sore thumb in his immaculate suit, surrounded by a frenzy of carefree revellers.
"At one point Sholto's wife was positively emphysematous with enthusiasm." I heard him say, rather artfully and, weirdly irritated, I swung around quickly to face him.
"It might surprise you but she had a lot of really fascinating stuff to say, actually." I heard myself reply, with just a touch of tartness, as my uncomfortable feelings of regret and exclusion bubbled their way rather vigorously to the surface.
He'd stared back at me, in apparent surprise, his lips parted, as the amusement evaporated from his expression. Silently, he'd folded his arms and for some reason I'd seen it as an act of disparagement; a dismissive sort of gesture which seemed even more autocratic because of his impeccable appearance, and the commanding demeanour that he'd displayed all evening. I'd felt a flash of fury at him, at his idea that being a much vaunted surgeon meant that he could pour scorn on dancing, and popular entertainment, and women who dared to have opinions.
"I suppose you think we should all just sit quietly, Martin, hmm" I added, raising my eyebrows at him, indignantly, as my breath roared through my nostrils.
I watched as his brow creased deeply into furrows, bands of light and shade passing across his face as the vehicle picked up speed. An uncomfortable silence descended upon us and I felt suddenly as if I'd had a rather worrisome glimpse into our future, a world where perhaps our expectations would never dovetail into one another.
"Is that what you think a woman should do, Martin? Just be content to stand in the shadow of her husband, speak only when she's spoken to? Is that it?" I added tersely, whipped along by concern and frustration, my irritation now painfully obvious.
"Why would you ever attribute such nonsensical notions to me?" He'd replied quietly, after a moment, his tone now as pained and his expression bewildered. "Louisa...you could never be...in anyone's shadow."
Even days later, the recollection of that moment, his voice so hesitant yet so full of feeling, his words wrapping around me like a cashmere pashmina, is enough to make me smile, and to bite my lip self-consciously. But, at the time, I'd experienced that all-too-familiar feeling of mortification, and I'd been disappointed in myself, and desperate to make it up to him.
"Oh." I'd replied, chastened, grimacing at him slightly shame-faced. "I thought we'd, you know, annoyed you or something..."
He shook his head; a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes not leaving mine for a single second, and I knew that I was gazing at a man of almost infinite complexity; whatever the human equivalent was of an iceberg, with only the barest glimpse visible above the crashing waves. Wherever we went, whatever the company we were in, he simply stood out. He is always taller and broader then everybody else, better dressed and always so perfectly groomed; my own obvious bias aside, his physical presence always seems to dominate every situation. But tonight it had been even more than that. Not only was Martin obviously gifted when compared to his own age group, but older, more experienced people like Sholto and Zalman seemed to really listen to him, to really take note of what he had to say, dare I say it, even to defer to him. And yet here he was, with me, shy, tentative and almost bewildered, staring back at me so helplessly, his lips parted and eyes so wrinkled with concern.
As I leaned in to kiss him I realised something else; that what he lacked as a dance partner, whatever frivolity gene he was missing, however intense and focused he is about things I barely understood, none of it mattered. I slipped my hands around his neck, and I waited, anticipating the hesitation but, this time, there was none. His hand came up to my cheek, clasping my jaw, and his mouth found mine, hot and impatient, and more spirited, more fervent than I expected. It was only a moment before we parted; the taxi pulled into the kerb and, reluctantly, we relinquished our hold. In the half light of the empty stairwell, he'd taken my hand, pulling me gently upwards as I'd laughed and begged him to slow down. Determined, he hadn't relinquished his hold, even as he fumbled for his keys and, as the lock clicked, I'd skipped across the threshold behind him, light headed and almost intoxicated by anticipation.
Inside, in the darkness, I'd found myself gathered up, enveloped in an embrace so tight that he'd actually lifted me from the ground momentarily. There was something unusual, an indefinable difference about him that I couldn't quite fathom but I decided not to dwell on any possible explanations. Just like that first After Eight mint, I couldn't wait to unwrap him; sliding my hands up under his jacket and feeling the satin of the lining deliciously smooth against my bare arms. Everything about him is now mine, at least for the next short while. He suggested casually that I remained dressed and so I kicked my shoes off and lay on the bed, smiling at him, watching his increasingly familiar routine of disrobing, so precise and organised, and with such economy of movement.
There's something about his confident surgical persona that I find madly attractive, for lots of different reasons, and I won't deny that I loved observing him at dinner, so magnetic and self assured. But, as I watched him lay his trousers out neatly over the back of the chair, I knew that this was the Martin I adored the most, his expression almost coy as he climbed onto the bed and paused, on his hands and knees, to gaze down at me, almost deferentially.
"I feel overdressed." I told him, laughing in disbelief at how his mere his proximity, and the look in his eyes, could cause my heart to thump so dramatically in my chest
"Not for long..." He replied, as his dimples reappeared and he ran his hand languidly along my thigh and up under my dress.
"You don't have snaggy nails do you Martin?" I asked him suddenly. "I mean, it's vintage lace and it'll pull really easily if you're not careful..."
I heard him sigh, close by my ear
"Of course I don't..." He'd murmured and, true to his word, he'd been careful in removing it, pausing to glance at me superciliously as he disentangled it from my hair, and gently folded it in two.
Afterwards, drowsy and rather relaxed, I'd tried again to draw him out on how he felt the meal had gone
"Do you think the dinner went well? Do you think they will offer you the job?" I'd asked, kissing his shoulder blade lightly as I lay, curled into his back.
He'd sighed and reached for my hand, pulling it down across his chest and pressing it to his mouth.
"My impression was that the dinner was a success." He replied slowly, his voice low and his tone measured. "But, ahh, I suspect that the stand out candidate tonight was actually you..."
I'd laughed, and inferred that he was was being ridiculous but, even so, I'd felt deliriously happy for the few brief moments before sleep had claimed me. I thought about again several times over the next few days and, every time, I'd felt warm and a tiny bit thrilled. And I was a little fascinated by my own response really too, because I suddenly felt more confident, and I'd have these random moments of irrepressible buoyancy, fleeting sensations of absolute delight. As I got off the bus, I thought about it again, this time using the feeling to fortify my resolve and remind myself that life was brilliant and I had more opportunities now in my life, more love, more stability that that scruffy, abandoned Portwenn teenager could ever imagined she would experience.
I'd lumped my bag along uncomfortably as I made my way along Lower Sloane Street, ignoring an offer of assistance from a young lorry driver who had catcalled me as he'd driven slowly past. I'd walked this route so many times with Libby, at all hours of the day and night, with varying degrees of excitement so to traipse along by myself seemed like rather a lonely, dispiriting vigil. I wondered if she'd phone when she was settled, or whether I'd simply receive a hurriedly scrawled postcard, with a cheerful yet generic greeting; the merest indication that she'd arrived safely and was living it up in style on the other side of the world. You never knew what to expect, or where her focus would be and, at the moment, it was clearly on Matt, so all I could do was wait.
By the time I got to the front door, my tomes were indeed extremely weighty, digging into my hips and pulling painfully down on my neck, despite clumsily changing shoulders with the bag several times during the short walk. The funny thing about my flat is that it never seems that bad when you recall it, especially if you are comfortably ensconced somewhere else. I had vociferously defended this place so many times to Martin because I'd always felt a fierce loyalty towards it as one of the few things in my life that I could sort of call my own. But, as soon as I'd staggered down the bus steps, my determination to make the best of things had all but deserted me and I felt more like I was shuffling, leaden-footed, toward the gallows rather than returning cheerfully to my actual home.
The first surprise was that we had a new front door mat; a large, brown one with a colourful illustration of a smug ginger cat, and 'Welcome' scrawled across it in bright red cursive lettering. I think we'd all got into the habit of leaping over the grimy threadbare one that had been there previously, risking life and limb, tottering across in ungainly steps after a big night out, especially if you happened to be wearing heels. As a decorative item, the mat certainly didn't seem like Holly's usual style but, other than that, I really didn't give it a second thought until I let myself in through the front door and, bewilderingly, it was like I'd walked into a completely different flat.
Above the sofa, where previously an old movie poster for The Living Daylights had been secured with huge gobs of Blutack, there was now an enormous print, in a heavy Victorian style of frame; a hunting print of all things, with goggle-eyed hounds, pursued by rat-faced men in red coats, atop determined looking horses with tiny heads and enormous muscular bodies. Over the end of the sofa someone had deliberately folded and draped a blanket printed with what appeared to be Beatrix Potter-like rabbits, and several, new, tapestry-patterned cushions were arranged precisely against each grubby arm. A jar full of joss sticks smouldered on the occasional table alongside a selection of magazines laid out in a fan shape; not our usual flat fare of Cosmo, Vogue and the Radio Times but, instead, glossy new copies of Tatler, and Country Homes and Interiors, and even something rather horrifyingly called The Shooting Times. Looking around me, I struggled to suppress my incredulous laughter; unbelievable that someone might be so deluded to attempt to transform a tired student flat into something out of the pages of Country Life.
Still, I felt quite disconcerted. Was it irrational of me to be piqued by the arrival of a new telly, a large black cube that took up so much space that it had forced the complete rearrangement of that side the room? I understood that things would move on after Libby left, but I still live here, I still pay rent, and my share of the expenses, even if I am no longer a full time resident. I felt a flash of annoyance that no one had even bothered to consult me on any of the many changes that had taken place, as if my opinion no longer mattered. In the kitchen, there was a new microwave, a hand painted, wooden bread bin, and a ceramic chicken on the worktop which, upon investigation, I discovered contained six brown eggs. In happier news, this time, there was nothing actually festering in the fridge; no yellow milk or grey butter, no green yoghurt or black bananas, apparently no need to peer in with baited breath, and a cast iron stomach. So I suppose, to this new flatmate named Jo, I did have something to be grateful for, even if I didn't feel very congenial towards her.
Despite tripping over the new polyester Turkish runner in the hall, I still was determined to maintain a level of cheerfulness though, and so I called out a friendly greeting, loudly, up the stairs before I put my shoulder to my bedroom door and forced my way in. I paused to listen but there was no reply from above, just an empty silence, a chilly, unwelcoming atmosphere of exclusion made even more palpable by the envelope that lay on my pillow, my name inscribed in boldly underlined capital letters and terminated with an emphatic exclamation mark. Heaving my bag onto the bed, I plonked myself down next to it and cautiously tore the envelope open, rolling my eyes at the heavily embossed, rose-scented notepaper that Holly had seen fit to write to me on, reading each line with growing antagonism. Not only was she coldly informing me that my share of the rent was increasing by seven quid a week but our expenses were also going up. She also suggested that I should make a voluntary contribution to Jo for her generous providing of the new television set, an idea that just got up my nose. Muttering indignantly, I flipped the page over, and that's when I got really wound up; several photocopied invoices were stapled to the letter, apparently my share of 'recent unforeseen expenditure'. Fifty quid for a new microwave, with no explanation of what happened to the old one, one pound fifty for the new door mat and, outrageously, fifteen blimmin quid to have the carpet cleaned on the floors upstairs, including Holly's room, a space she'd always made very clear was off limits to anyone else.
With that, I'd kicked my boots off, experiencing the unpleasant sensation that someone was trying to make a monkey out of me, and I was rewarded by a loud, satisfying bang as they clattered heavily into the wardrobe door. I reached for my pillow and hugged it to my chest but it was no consolation; it felt thinner and lumpier than I remembered which made me realise how quickly I'd become accustomed to the comfort and cleanliness of Martin's flat. My plan for the evening had been to refresh myself by re-reading some of my notes from last year but I was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to talk to him, to share the injustice I felt I'd been the victim of even if his reply was merely just a somber 'I see'. On further reflection, I think about his reaction. At heart, Martin is a pragmatist and a problem-solver, and he will either simply want to fix everything for me, or he will say nothing, in which case his silence will be deafening.
Sighing heavily, I gazed around the room, feeling nothing but bitterness and disenchantment. I paid lip service to my revision by pulling out a folder of notes but I abandoned that idea rapidly; my seething sense of inequity really put paid to any sort of serious concentration and I found myself instead stuck in a endless thought-loop of indecision and uncertainty. Simply staying regular nights at the Kensington flat is significantly different to the commitment of moving in together, isn't it; I mean it really implies an level of permanence, doesn't it? But Martin has always been clear to point out that he didn't actually ever ask me to give up my flat or my independence, so perhaps he's not ready to take that step either. I'm conscious that, since that difficult initial discussion where I behaved appallingly, he's never mentioned it again, in any sort of formal way. Even if he does suggest that we live together as a couple, should I accept the offer? I mean, how soon is too soon to make that sort of commitment, even when you know that you love someone?
I'd pulled my flip flops out of my overnight bag and walked briskly down the street to the pub, attempting to find one of the bar staff that I know by name. Simon was working, apron on, his sleeves rolled up as he polishes glasses and stares vacantly into the middle distance. It's the tiniest bit awkward, because he actually asked me out once and, though I was nice about it, I did turn him down so I hope he won't hold it against me now, when I need his help. He nodded at me speculatively, his eyes dropping briefly down to my chest before reluctantly returning to my face, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed on his ever-present wad of gum. I'd made my request as casually as I could and he'd nodded, a slightly unpleasant gleam in his eye.
"Help yourself." He said, squinting at me enquiringly but I hadn't feel like explaining myself, so I'd flashed him a quick smile and made my way back outside.
It was still light and I found the alley as he described, making my way round the back to the little line of dilapidated sheds, and a row of small, banged up, overflowing skips. I managed to retrieve a few clean dry boxes and I'd wedged them awkwardly inside each other for the short walk back to the flat, without even taking a backwards glance. Truthfully, I can't imagine that I will ever drink in there again, not with Libby gone and a whole new atmosphere in our household; not that it really matters but Jo seems more pious than party-girl and Holly wouldn't be seen dead in the place. Of course, Toni will never go back in either, not after the night when Simon propositioned her too but, pretty unwisely, she took him up on it, and everything ended apparently rather badly. Though Libby and I had frequented the premises in our early days, it was never really our kind of place; only attractive because of the proximity to home and the fact that, way back then, they never ever asked us for ID, despite the fact we were obviously underage.
I dropped the boxes on the floor at the end of the bed and, slowly and carefully, I'd begun to pull down the books from my precarious shelves, and pack them, spine up. When I'd cleared the shelf, I felt better, so I repeated the process with the contents of the bottom of my my wardrobe; bulging envelopes of photos, bundles of letters, old concert tickets, bulldog clips, spare laces for my boots; the ephemera of my so far brief foray into adulthood. I'd continued to potter away, awash with a vague sort of nostalgia over a motley accumulation of history of no value to anyone but me, until I started to yawn and I'd realised that it was after ten o'clock. I hadn't heard anyone else arrive home and I'd forgotten to eat but I'd felt oddly relieved that the evening was over and I could escape what was left of it in sleep. I crept upstairs, showered quickly, and returned to my room, slipping under the covers and wincing at the distinct lack of give in the mattress as I attempted, in a gesture of futility, to plump my pillow.
Of course, then I'd just lain there in the dark, wondering what Martin was doing, or even where he was. Previously, telling him that I missed him just seemed to make him uncomfortable but it's the truth, I really do. I miss falling asleep with my head on his chest, the way he waits til he thinks I'm asleep before he cautiously extricates his arm from beneath me, or wrapped around each other , nestled like spoons if it's not too hot, smiling to myself as he slowly and deliberately smooths my hair down to prevent it from tickling his face. There is a reason women's magazines like to write articles in praise of scenarios like this. It's love they say, or at least more than just lust, and really it's so much better than even the most gushing journalist could do justice to in a few measly paragraphs. Stealthily, he's become like my fulcrum; a constant, a steady and reliable presence while I dart and scamper around him like an excited puppy, over sensitive and unfettered, my life an an endless yo-yo of emotions. Yes, the truth is, I miss him horribly and, embarrassingly, its barely been five hours.
This morning, when I awoke alone in the damp, stuffy morning light, after enduring only a single night at my flat, I'd known what I must do. Afterwards, I'd spent half of the day on campus, going through the enrolment process, wandering from building to building, alone and deep in thought. When I finally had everything sorted, I'd made my way to the tube. The trains ran every ten minutes or so but I just couldn't bring myself to get on any of the services that would take me to Graham Terrace. Instead, I'd sat there on the bench, paralysed by the realisation of what I'd done, as the implications suddenly loomed over me like so many Godzillas. When a train came that would take me to Kensington, I'd clambered aboard almost as if I was an automaton, fishing for the door key he'd given me, hopeful that it was somewhere in the bottom of my backpack.
Now I find myself sitting on the floor of Martin's utility room, transfixed, watching my smalls go round and round in his washing machine, and sipping from the generous glass of Chablis I've poured myself. I'm still not even sure what I am going to say to him yet, but I've made my decision and I have to live with the consequences. I'm not sure how long I sit there but, when I do stand up, my bum has started to go numb. As I make my way out to the kitchen for a top up, I hear his key in the door and I pause, my heart hammering, holding my empty glass rather guiltily behind my back.
When he sees me he raises his chin and gazes at me rather speculatively but there's a hint of a smile around his mouth, and his eyes are soft in a way I don't suppose many others are ever lucky enough to see.
"You're back." He says evenly and I smile up at him, suddenly so nervous that I'm unable to prevent my teeth from digging fiercely into my lip.
He turns, briefly, to close the door and I hear myself exhale sharply, a loud uneasy gasp, and I wonder if he will notice how my face has suddenly contorted into a grimace, as I'm overcome by an avalanche of apprehension. This is a watershed moment for both of us and I've brought us to this point without even consulting with him. I suppose I was aware of the risk I was taking but, now that Martin is here in front of me, I'm suddenly terrified of how he might react. I reach up to kiss him and a horrible thought forces itself into my mind. What if this gentle, relaxed lover's greeting is the last time our lips ever touch?
"I most certainly am." I tell him, and I can only hope it's true.
