Afterwards, little moments from the evening would return to me, appearing like a series of vignettes, an odd chiaroscuro of events that had brought my time at Graham Terrace to a disturbing and rather emphatic end. The haphazard collection of cardboard boxes would come to mind, overflowing with sentimentality, and smelling vaguely of beer and vinyl LPs. Beneath them, the bare mattress, stripped of its linen, sunken and grey and revealing its age. The gloomy, yellow light, the threadbare carpet; everything still springs so effortlessly to mind. I will wince at the sting, still grieving I suppose, that my flat mates would gang up on me like they did, sighing with dismay at their meanness. And the flashback to Holly's face, and the look she gave me as she fled the room, is a horrible recollection; her spiteful glare conveying quite clearly that I will never be anything more than 'Poor Louisa' to her.
But, above all else, it is Martin I recall, suddenly materialising at the doorway. An imposing man in a small space, uncompromising and unassailable, his tone colder than glacial as he dismantles Holly's position. In full flight, he was formidable, his argument as lacerating and as indisputable as any Cross-examination at the Old Bailey might be and, after I kissed him, I'd clung to him, momentarily undone by relief and gratitude. As he slipped his arms around me, it dawned on me that this might actually be what real security felt like and admitting I might need him was suddenly less terrifying, less jarring than it had seemed before. Perhaps it shows on my face, perhaps he can sense my assent, but as he gazes down at me, in the most delicate of gestures, he disentangles a fine lock of hair from my eyes, separating a single strand from my lashes with the deftest of touches, his coldly commanding dominance replaced by his usual gentle hesitancy.
The accusations that have just been levelled at me still smart and, as much as I know they were baseless and unfair, I find myself just little bit anxious, keen that Martin didn't overhear any of them. To think I once considered Holly a friend adds to my disappointment and I sigh. It's as if he reads my mind, quietly drawing me closer and pressing his lips to my forehead. His hand comes up to stroke my hair, absently, and I hear him murmur a careful enquiry into my well being. I shudder involuntarily, an odd ball of tumult, literally fizzing with love and gratitude yet smarting and disillusioned, bruised by what feels like a particularly mean-spirited ambush, the nasty sort of confrontation that usually happens in the changing rooms, after Form Four gym class.
"Thank you." I say quietly, tilting my head to look up at him, the fabric of his suit pleasingly cool and smooth beneath my cheek.
"You're welcome." He replies, gazing down at me and I notice the hint of a worried frown on his brow, the return of those familiar wrinkles of concern, radiating out from the corners of his eyes.
Beneath my ear, his voice reverberates in his chest, resonant and reassuring. Melting against him, I squeeze my eyes closed for just a few seconds, relishing the feeling of comfort his embrace offers, and allowing myself a brief pause to regather my thoughts, fortified by the surprising peacefulness of the moment. When I look up at him again, I smile gently, full of hope again now. I'm beginning to understand it all so much better than I did; his need for encouragement, the importance of positivity and reward, and anything else I can give him that helps him understand that his supportive and unflappable presence is exactly what I need just now. It won't be the last time I feel a debt to Tzippy, as I offer up silent thanks in my head.
He clears his throat and I wait for him to speak, feeling heartened and full of anticipation. If Martin could read my mind, he would know that now would be the perfect time for him to tell me again how he feels about me. To hear that he was looking forward to me moving in, and how lovely it was all going to be, would go a long way to neutralising this sense of sadness that won't quite leave me. Being disappointed in your friends is one thing but just a few earnestly whispered endearments from the man you love would certainly nullify any remaining unhappiness almost instantly.
"Louisa…" He says solemnly, his voice apparently deepened by the importance of what he is about to tell me. "I….umm….I hope this highlights to you the extreme naivety of entering into informal, trust-based arrangements, umm…certainly where financial transactions are involved."
I watch as his face is transformed once again by an austere frown, his expression now shaded by a hint of admonishment and, taken aback, I feel a familiar flash of irritation. Not only am I not to receive any declarations about the depth of his feelings, but I am going to have to suffer a sodding lecture on the importance of legal contracts. I lean backwards so that I can glare at him more effectively, narrowing my eyes as I feel his hand slide up my back, his forearm at the base of my ribs, as if he means to steady me or possibly even restrain me, in case I attempt to leave before he has completed his reproof. It's as plain as day, written all over his face actually, how much my casual attitude to things really frustrates him. Suddenly defensive, I want to point out to him that I was a teenager, wet behind the ears and virtually alone, when I entered into the arrangement. Yes, I was ignorant but I was honestly doing my best, and I can't help but feel a bit aggrieved, by both his usual insensitive timing and the fact that, deep down, I know he is right.
"Lucky for me the place stinks then, isn't it Martin so, you know, you could find a loophole…" I reply tartly, turning my face away so I don't have to suffer his lofty, almost patronising demeanour and, worse still, experience the feeling that, basically, I've disappointed him.
I feel him stand up straighter, squaring his shoulders as my grasp on him becomes listless, my arms sliding down his chest almost defeatedly.
"I don't know about lucky but it does seem fortunate that one of us, ahh, has a basic understanding of tenancy rights. It also appears that the timing of my arrival was rather opportune, too, under the circumstances…"
I do understand that be sees things differently and, to him, I've been lackadaisical and ill-prepared, and I also appreciate that his timely arrival and emphatic intervention did prevent what was about to be a rather unpleasant scene. But that's no excuse for smugness, or for Martin to assume an expression of self-satisfied superiority, and so I'm not having it.
"Yes, well, I have to give you that, Martin, it was quite an arrival." I tell him airily, brash now, my tolerance exhausted. "Do you practice it, that sort of entry I mean?"
"What?" He asks, confused enough that he abandons his pompous headmaster persona, my half-hearted teasing returning him instantly to his wide-eyed, perplexed demeanour.
"I mean, do you practice making an entrance like that? Appearing from nowhere like some sort of enormous apparition?" I ask him, unable to suppress the hint of a smirk now as he frowns at me in utter bafflement.
He squints at me, his gaze speculative, his eyes gun metal grey in the murky light.
"The door was open. I merely walked through it."
"If that's how you walk into your operating theatre, you must have to resuscitate half the staff, before you even start on the patients…." I reply, as my determination to be irritated by him starts to waiver. "It's no wonder they're all terrified of you…"
Before he notices, I turn my head away, glancing at him from the corner of my eye as I fight to prevent a triumphant grin from taking over my face. His expression is pained but, after a few seconds, as he finally registers that I'm winding him up, it's as if someone had finally replaced the dodgy tube in the strip light above us. The tone of his voice lightens and, when he replies, he actually sounds relieved and almost as if he is just the tiniest bit amused. As he speaks, I relish the return of the gleam to his eyes; his swagger in place, cocky and lighthearted, he scrutinises me.
"Unfortunately, the individual I would be most keen to attempt resuscitation on, seems the least likely to require it." He says, calmly and rather contemplatively.
I glance at him innocently, pretending that I am preoccupied with removing imaginary crumbs from his immaculate lapel, smiling as I feel his hold on me almost imperceptibly tighten.
"Which is a shame…" He adds in a breathy tone, and I feel the implication of his suggestion in the subtle pressure of his fingers, as his hand slides around my hip.
I suppose there isn't that much still to do, though I'm aware that the car won't load itself, but I don't pull away. I want to relish this moment. I've banged on before about creating new memories and this seems like not a bad time to consider it for myself. The lecture is already over, and superior, judgmental Martin seems mercifully to have been banished. Reluctantly, I know I should now behave like a responsible adult, intent on delivering an affectionate peck that would bring this embrace sadly to an end. There's something about his mood though that, for Martin, almost seems flirtatious and, honestly, in rare moments such as these, I find him absolutely irresistible. I lean against him, and he feels so dependable, so solid and strong. Grinning in a way unique to lovesick idiots the world over, I push myself up onto my tiptoes, and I kiss him again, quite chastely really, my intention simply to put in place a quick, reassuring bookmark, a covert promise that we will revisit this feeling soon, when we are safely home, and the car is unloaded.
I feel quite virtuous actually, as I attempt to pull away, exhaling through my nose rather heavily, to express how reluctant I am to abandon him. Perhaps he senses my half-heartedness or maybe he decides to tease me in return because he follows me, his lips firming, and his kiss intensifying. His insistence makes me giggle, and I gasp for breath, feeling myself bent backwards over his taut forearm which sits firmly and purposefully across my back. It feels like an old fashioned clinch from a movie, and I can picture how it must have looked. As dramatic as if it were in black and white, thrilling and powerful and rather madly full of passion. After a heady minute, we come up for air and, as his mouth slides down to my throat, I laugh and throw my head back, as goosebumps careen across my chest.
"Now I'm amusing." He mutters with mock outrage, pressing his lips to my ear. "I suppose it's an improvement on terrifying…"
"If you two could stop behaving like disgusting animals for a moment, I need a forwarding address."
We both turn sharply in the direction of the sudden interruption, an vehement exclamation almost strangled by frosty outrage, only to see that Holly has appeared around the half open door. She glares at us like an outraged Mother Superior, her French-polished nails gripping the edge of the flaking panel so fiercely that I notice her fingers are white.
"I'm sorry, what?" I ask her, slightly breathless with embarrassment, and about to surrender to an attack of nervous giggling.
"Your post. I need to know where to send it on to." Holly says rudely, as if we are misbehaving children, incapable of following even the most basic instructions.
Martin's face is a picture as he looks at her, cold and unimpressed, the tiniest sneer apparent on his upper lip as his haughty demeanour reappears with a vengeance. He seems almost reluctant to relinquish his hold on me and, sighing impatiently, he reaches into his back pocket, withdrawing his wallet with an air of inconvenience and irritation. I lean out of his way as he energetically pats his chest pockets, apparently searching for a pen. Anything that goes in my bum pocket always comes out permanently curved but I should have expected that the business card he retrieves from his smooth, slim wallet is immaculate and unwarped. Turning to press against the wardrobe door, he scrawls his address across the back of the card; clasping it between his fingers and holding his arm out towards her with an expression so sour and disapproving that I almost laugh out loud.
Predictably, she snatches it from him, glancing down at it and carefully turning it over to read both sides before tossing her head and gazing at me with her jaw clenched, everything about her just so hostile and acrimonious. If I didn't know her better I think I'd be bewildered but I am only too aware that she thinks she is better than me. I know, too, that she feels like she should be in my place. It's not that she even appears to like Martin but she most definitely is of the ilk that sees him as a prize. Her eyes had been riveted on him as he opened his wallet and I'm sure she would have seen the wad of notes he inevitably has on hand. Knowing her as I do, fury at not being able to use someone like Martin to buy her the lifestyle she wants will be eating away at her long after we have disappeared from her flat. And the front of his card, with all the letters after his name, and his job, understated, laid out in a typeface and with a subtlety that just oozes quality; it must be just killing her that it's Poor Louisa about to go home with him and not her. I'm even sure I saw her blanch when she read his address; for someone as aspirational as Holly it must seem like the cruelest and undeserving of blows and she doesn't mean to take the insult lying down.
"The mattress isn't yours so you better not think of taking it with you." She snaps, glowering at us and, beside me, Martin gasps incredulously.
"Taking it with us? Have you taken leave of your senses?" He growls, disgust dripping from every tersely enunciated word. "You can't possibly expect anyone to sleep on that. The damn thing needs to be incinerated, and promptly."
She smiles, exuding an irritating sense of superiority and self-satisfaction; a simpering grimace framed by her carefully coiffured hair, her lips shiny with gloss, her eyelashes as thick and heavy as if she had dipped them in tar. Turning as if she is about to leave, she pauses, fixing her gaze on Martin, the look in her eyes half covetous, half derisive.
"Really? Well Martin, let's just say that none of Louisa's other boyfriends have complained about it, shall we?" She purrs, her eyes glittering with such malice that I'm temporarily rendered speechless; sickened and horrified beyond belief.
