He exhales heavily and I feel his breath, a fleeting sensation of heat that shimmies against the bare skin of my neck. His warm hand closes over mine, a huge, bear-like paw which envelops my own, his actions as usual so firm and decisive yet his touch so typically gentle. I've been waiting all day for this and, as his voices lowers, I glance up at him, twisting my neck so that I can see his face; the intensity with which he concentrates reflected in his enthralled expression.
"Umm, do you mind?" He asks, huskily, squeezing my hand as he slides it sideways. "You see, if you just…"
I hear myself utter a little snort of laughter, offering no resistance as he presses his index finger down on mine, once, and then again. Martin and his rhetorical questions, taking control before I even have a chance to answer. I trust him though, especially in a situation like this, because obviously he's had a lot more experience than I have and his air of confidence, his glowing self-assurance, makes it clear that he knows exactly what he's doing. I realise he's surprised at how easily I have capitulated this time, how I've let him take control without the merest murmur of dissent, and he seems determined to make the most of it.
"There." He says, his voice velvety and reassuring, and I sense he is starting to enjoy himself. "Now you try it."
I take a deep breath as he lets go of my hand, repeating the steps in my head, trying desperately to remember the sequence so I don't make a fool of myself. I'm just not used to this at all and it seems at once so thrilling, so full of infinite possibilities and yet just a little bit daunting. It's funny too how much I like having him there behind me, so poised, so capable, pressed just close enough that I can hear the fabric of his shirt murmuring softly as it shifts with the motion of his arm. I've waited for any hint of impatience to reveal itself but, so far, he's been composed and a model of forbearance which has actually inspired me to be intrepid, perhaps almost fearless.
"Can you just show me one more time, please?" I ask him in a low voice, reaching up and pulling my ponytail down thoughtfully over my shoulder.
"Ahh, yes…of course…" He replies leaning in over my shoulder and pausing for a moment before gesticulating. "Shall we go back to the beginning and…."
"Actually, Martin, umm, I'd find it more useful if you, you know, showed me the actions." I tell him, struggling now to suppress the laughter in my voice. "Like you did before…"
I wait for him to twig to my ruse but this is Martin to a tee: so focused on teaching me the basic operations of his new computer that it would never occur to him that I'm winding him up, flirting with him really, just for the sheer triumph of having successfully distracted him. I can't help myself actually because ever since he arrived home, and discovered the boxes in the entryway where the delivery man had left them, Martin has been a man on a mission. It had taken every molecule of resolve I possessed not to tear open the cartons as soon as they arrived so to have to wait for him to come home was a bit torturous, and to watch his painstaking and methodical unpacking was more than excruciating to say the very least.
I'd noticed the gleam in his eyes immediately, smiling to myself as he'd darted past me into the kitchen and returned with a scalpel, wielding it with precision, carefully slicing through the cardboard and sellotape to expose the mysterious contents. Whereas I'd been so desperately excited that I'd wanted to rip off the plastic and plug everything in straight away just to see what happened, his main concern had been that we should not damage the packaging in any way that might cause little bits of polystyrene to become stuck in the carpet. I'd groaned in mock despair, and remonstrated with him as he'd unfolded my fingers, removing a box of floppy discs from my hand but he'd merely shot me a look of such haughty and indisputable authority that I'd found myself momentarily silenced. By the time I'd thought of a suitable retort, he'd already disappeared, carrying everything into the spare room where he began the task of assembly in his ubiquitous calm and thoughtful fashion.
After a few minutes, he'd removed his jacket and, for a while, I sat on the bed and watched him work, vaguely amused by the veil of concentration that had fallen across his face. He has stacked the instruction booklets neatly on one corner of the little desk, and that he knows how to connect everything without needing to use any of them is really quite impressive but, even so, I feel my attention starting to waver. For the briefest of moments I allow myself to be distracted by the set of dark blue braces he is wearing or, more accurately how pleasingly they nestle between his shoulder blades, how satisfying their symmetry is when viewed from behind. How unintentional and uncontrived his attractiveness is, and how completely oblivious he is to it, just seems to make it all the more intense and irresistible somehow. I smile at him, unobserved, and sit on my hands. But, when he bends down to switch on the power, I can contain myself no longer, leaping to my feet and throwing myself at his back, wrapping my arms around his chest, eager to see exactly what it is he has assembled for me. I'm sort of familiar with word processors, the ones I've used in the college library anyway, so I'm a bit disappointed to see just a black screen with a single flashing thing in the top left hand corner.
"Oh." I say, deflated, as I watch him type. "What's DOS?"
"Umm, it's a computer language, I suppose you might say. I have to use it to..umm…ask the programme to…ahh…to talk to the printer…" He informs me, before glancing cautiously sideways. "If I could just, ahh, free my arm, that is."
"Right." I reply unenthusiastically, without moving.
I'm not sure what I expected but it wasn't this. He punches at the keyboard rapidly. Dots and dashes, backslashes and meaningless combinations of letters fill the screen and for a moment I wonder if he's bought the wrong sort of computer. It seems unlikely because he did seem quite clear on what he thought my requirements might be but I still feel the grim chill of doubt and disappointment seep into my bones. Still, trying to seem interested, I remain draped around him like a human shawl, my chin on his shoulder, watching what he is doing and trying to make sense of it, all the time hoping desperately that this isn't what it's going to take every time I want to type up an assignment. Suddenly, it doesn't seem like fun any more and, yawning, I feel my enthusiasm ebb away.
Idly, I run my left hand over his shoulder and down his arm, an affectionate gesture that I hope demonstrates my gratitude for his efforts on my behalf anyway. Despite the fact my initial excitement has dwindled, and even though he casually informed me that the computer was for him, I'd have to be a bit thick not to notice that he was setting the thing up in my designated study area, not in his office. I realise why, too. I mean I know it's my own fault for reacting so childishly last time, which was a moment so lacking in grace that I cringe again now just recalling my behaviour. I'd panicked and I'm not even sure why though I suppose, on reflection, I've had a lifetime of gifts always coming with a caveat; an ice cream from dad to soften me up for a week of abandonment, or a new record player, there one minute and gone the next, presented to me with a fanfare yet whisked away in the dead of night never to be seen again. I can't imagine that ever happening with Martin, him being so reliable and consistent and honest to a fault, so I can't picture wandering in here in to print off an assignment only to to be met with a deathly, uncomfortable silence, and a beer soaked pawn slip where once the machine had sat. But some things are so ingrained that you can't just forget them at will and I'm certainly guilty of that myself. In fact so many of the things I hear in lectures seem to strike a chord, mostly in my Psych classes which is rather embarrassing. I do pay attention though, grimacing with each response I check off as familiar, but really I just want them to progress to the part of the course where we learn what to do about them.
I close my eyes briefly, squeezing them tightly shut as if to parry the blow, the flash of sadness that assails me at my childhood recollections. No wonder I've tried to forget so much of it, to bury half my life in a place where it's no longer accessible. I suppose, while my dad might have gone to jail, I feel better thinking that he was always just skirting around the outside of the law, simply trying to make ends meet for us. Okay, so he had some dodgy mates and made some poor decisions but he was never a bad man. He would never have hurt any one. And, yes, obviously, he shouldn't have done what he did but he was just the driver, it wasn't as if he was the one in the bank, pointing the gun. It must have been hard for him too after mum left, trying to find a job that allowed him the time to look after me. He always seemed to be looking, always assured me that he was, so I have to believe he did his best. Besides, the most important thing is that I know he loves me and I'm confident of that because he was always telling me. Even when he wasn't around, I could still hear him in my head, reassuring me that I was his little girl, holding his arms out sideways and telling me he loved me 'this much'. It always made me feel special, valued even, and I never got tired of hearing it.
I wrap both arms even more tightly around Martin, as if to assuage the sense of loss that inexplicably assails me. When I got a cuddle from dad, he was usually wearing a battered denim jacket or a chunky seaman's jersey knitted from greasy wool. Inevitably, he smelt of cigarette smoke, and his unshaven cheeks felt abrasive against my sensitive child's skin. Everyone smelt of fags growing up and I'd eventually come to dislike the odour really strongly but I'd put up with it, just for the fleeting security of my dad's embrace. Thinking back now, it's his smell I recall the most vividly, the stench of his boozy late nights and raucous card games; burned toast and smelly socks, memories that linger far more vividly, far more tangibly than any childhood sense of certainty or any teenage peace of mind.
Martin clears his throat and I'm jolted back to the present, and struck immediately by the contrast; his perfectly tailored shirt cut from a soft, smooth, and expensive fabric, one that feels quite lovely beneath my finger, a man who exudes the pure fragrant neutrality of sunshine or the crisp rarified air above a mountain lake. I breathe him in, deeply, relishing what is the essence of him, like the gentle hint of ozone in the air after rain; clean, fresh and restorative. As usual, he is cleanliness personified; his collar and cuffs completely spotless as if pollution, and blood, and dirt does not dare sully his immaculate appearance. I incline my head and press my lips to his cheek but he seems oblivious, reaching for what he calls 'software', and pushing the little floppy discs into the slot he refers to as a 'disc drive.' Even as I ramp up my ministrations, nibbling on his ear in a way that generally leads to him rapidly losing his composure, he barely acknowledges my presence in the room. Sighing, I abandon my efforts and stare defeatedly at the screen.
"Right." He says, after a moment, pressing the last of an apparently random combination of keys with the merest hint of a flourish. "We should be just about there."
The computer starts to hum and, suddenly, there before us, as the monitor blinks and flickers, is a brilliantly reassuring sight, the joyfully familiar blue screen.
"Well done." I murmur breathily, because I really am impressed. "Martin, you set it all up from scratch!"
"Mm." He replies, with just a hint of discomfort, a symptom of his usual reluctance to accept any sort of praise or recognition. "Now we need to have you proficient in its use."
He springs to his feet and gestures, indicating that I should sit down, gazing at me, his posture that of a sentry as I smile at him apprehensively and lower myself carefully into the new leather office chair he brought home last night and rather cleverly assembled with a device he called Bob or Pete or something equally as unusual. He waits while I make the adjustments, his expression thoughtful, offering suggestions on how I might best assume the most comfortable position yet one he believes delivers optimum visibility.
"Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious, I might not be a computer whiz but I am capable of adjusting a chair up and down, as it happens…" I tell him, fixing him with a pointed stare.
"Yes." He replies briskly, standing up perfectly straight, one arm folded behind his back, staring painfully into the middle distance as I glance from the keyboard to the screen and back again, flexing my fingers, in a vain attempt to appear even vaguely conversant with the process.
I'm not sure exactly why I don't want to look incompetent but it suddenly seems very important. I have honestly never given it a minute's thought, never contemplated at all that he might have this sort of expertise with computers. I always imagine him in surgery, performing some heroic life-saving act, or striding up and down corridors growling at people to get out of his way but, as he enfolds my hand as I clasp the mouse, and guides me confidently around the screen, I get another tiny glimpse into his profession. There was really only once when he'd opened up about his world, and expressed his passion for medicine, a stimulating place where his vascular part combines with x-ray thingies to be, as he informed me seriously, at the forefront of medical invention. For a moment the light in his eyes became an intense and mesmerising gaze, as he told me in a soft low voice how new uses for technology seem to be discovered daily, squeezing my hand as if to reiterate his point. He spoke of imaging and techniques, and stent positioning, and even record-keeping amongst a raft of other terminology I didn't really understand. I could sense his passion for it though, his excitement at what seems to be a whole new world of scientific opportunity, all courtesy of clanking, buzzing and incomprehensible machines just like the one I'm sitting in front of now.
After a few more minutes tuition, when he is satisfied that I am not completely incompetent, he excuses himself to prepare our supper, leaving me to explore what seem like an endless selection of options. He returns twice, firstly to check on my progress though he's not brave enough to actually enquire, preferring to loiter silently in the doorway, one eyebrow raised and his arms folded firmly across his chest. Ten minutes later, he appears again, to inform me rather formally that our meal is ready. I can sense him observing me, his mild interest turning rapidly to disapproval as I throw my arms up theatrically and stab at the power button in frustration.
"What are you doing?" He gasps.
"Switching it off." I reply haughtily. "I've had enough for one night."
"That's not the way to do it, Louisa! You need to close the programme and wait for the computer to indicate when it's safe to shut down. Then, and only then, should you switch off the power…"
"Well that's not how any normal person does it. Everyone I know just switches it off and it seems to work just fine!" I bark at him defensively, folding my arms and glaring at him frostily.
He sighs loudly and stares back at me, his expression one of sheer exasperation. After a moment, he seems to collect his thoughts, clearing his throat several times before addressing me in a low voice; calm but irresistibly firm. While I'm sure it's a particular tone he developed originally for negotiating with obstinate patients, I'm only too aware that he has recently been perfecting its use for the placation of defiant girlfriends.
"In that case, it's extremely important that you save as you go, Louisa. These programmes are notoriously unstable and, if they crash, there's a high chance you will lose your work." He says solemnly, lifting his chin as he speaks, cautionary and ever so slightly pompous.
"Yes, I'm aware of that. File. Save. Whatever." I reply, pulling a face at him. "I'm not a complete idiot."
His lips part and he frowns helplessly, glancing around the room as if to compose himself.
"I wasn't suggesting that you were! For goodness sake, surely it's better I tell you something you already know rather than neglect a detail which might later cause you significant distress?" He says, in a strangled sort of voice, tearing at the ties of his apron and pulling it over his head, agitatedly.
"Yes, Martin, I get it. But I wasn't even typing anything, I was just having a look around. So there wasn't actually anything to save…"
"If I may say so, always following the correct file-saving procedure is a habit worth acquiring. It should become automatic, if only because I've seen it time and time again; hysterical clerical staff, distracted by horoscopes, or plates of biscuits, or photographs of bloated, unprepossessing babies, returning their attention to the screen only to discover hours of mindless labour have been lost simply through their own negligence, and lack of process…"
"Yes, alright. As I said, I get it!" I interrupt quickly. "And I swear on Dave Gahan's life that I will always save as I go, now can we just leave it?"
Instantly, it's like his air of superiority, his self-confidence, his weary displeasure, all just evaporates and he stands rigid and uncomfortable, gazing at me with an odd, puzzled expression on his face.
"Dave Who?" He replies slowly and cautiously, his worried eyes and protruding lower lip giving him a touching sort of appearance, momentarily vulnerable and helpless like a lost little boy.
The contrast is so marked that I find myself suddenly drawn to him and I stand up, hesitating momentarily before I approach him. I briefly contemplate explaining my love for Dave and then decide better of it. I'm hungry and tired, and I know from experience that Martin would never understand my feelings, just as he'd can't abide the music I listen to, or the books I read, or understand the appeal of any popular culture really. Reaching up to ruffle his hair affectionately, I smile at him.
"Similar haircut…Dave wears more leather though, and way more jewellery." I tell him cheerfully, smoothing the front of his tie and running my index finger from dot to dot, absentmindedly. "I've just bought his new CD, we could give it a listen after supper if you like?"
"Aah. Dave is one of your pop stars." He replies, as his shoulders seem suddenly to relax.
"Yes, that's right, Martin. I have a bit of a thing for him at the moment." I say casually, glancing up at him surreptitiously, hoping desperately for a reaction.
"A crush?" He suggests, and a hint of levity returns to his voice. "On a singer."
"Possibly." I reply airily, looping my hand through his arm. "I'll tell you all about him if you like but can we please eat something? I'm starving."
"Yes of course." He answers briskly, turning around and indicating that I should lead the way. "Pan-fried Salmon, sauteed spinach and wasabi potatoes."
"Smells lovely." I assure him, as my stomach gives a long low rumble, throwing myself into my usual chair and inhaling deeply.
"Tell me, can Dave cook?" He enquires airily, a few minutes later, his expression now imperious, glancing at me speculatively as he places the plate down elegantly in front of me. "Or is pratting about in earrings and cowhide considered accomplishment enough?"
I pause for a moment, ruminating on the question. As much as I adore Depeche Mode, Dave is actually becoming quite useful from another perspective, an aspect I've never previously considered. Who would have imagined that a glowering Martin, brooding and apparently jealous, could actually be quite so unintentionally magnificent, as well as so infinitely entertaining? As wrong of me as I know it is I can't help but be a little but gratified by his response.
"I wouldn't be so disdainful if I were you." I tell him, waving my fork around in the air, to reiterate my point. "The fact is, I don't know if he's brilliant or useless in the kitchen but I do know he gives pleasure to an awful lot of people."
"Mm, I bet he does." Martin replies drily, taking a large swallow of water, and holding my gaze firmly as he does so.
I start to smirk as I watch him place his glass down rather firmly on the coaster but it's when I notice the definition of his cheeks change, and the appearance of the diamond-shaped dimples that pierce them, like studs on the chesterfield, that I can't help myself and I start to giggle. And it dawns on me then that this is us, Martin and me, laughing together. Not in the way I'd cackle with Libby; tears streaming down our faces, and paralysed with mirth over something ridiculous. Of course this is different but, in a way, it's better because who else gets to see this side of him? Who else notices this sudden lightness of spirit, the softening of his features, and the brightness of his eyes, all the subtle signs that he finds something amusing? It's all there, when you know to look for it.
I don't pretend to understand how he keeps himself under such tight control though. None of this answers my endless questions about how on earth you discipline your face never to properly smile, or worse still, why you'd even want to do so but, right now, I'm happy enough that it's just another little secret part of himself that Martin reveals only to me. Waiting in the medical centre once, I'd read an article about this place in the U.S.S.R where the ancient permafrost melted gradually one summer to reveal all sorts of extinct animals. It feels a bit like that for me; discovering a bit more about him every day, as he gradually begins to thaw. Despite how much as I'd love to see him throw back his head and laugh, uproariously and uncontrollably, I have to be content now with what he gives me, the faint twinkle in his eye, the dimples of course, and the tantalising glimpse of his teeth, seen fleetingly through his full, pouty lips.
I put my knife down and reach over to him, closing my hand over his and giving it a long, fervent squeeze.
"Thank you." I tell him, and I really mean it. "Having access to a word processor at home is going to really make things so much easier, with assignments and things. And I've been thinking, I don't have lectures on a Thursday afternoon so instead of spending the afternoon fighting for a seat in the library, I could just come home. And, you know, work on assignments here."
He glances across at me, his expression thoughtful, and I wonder if he is silently debating whether to point out the holes in my logic, or if he's about to warn me of the importance of having the appropriate reference books on hand, or even insist that the atmosphere in the University library is far more conducive for understanding abstract concepts. But, instead, he says nothing and we eat in silence, though it is the peaceful, contemplative kind. Afterwards, I clear the table and our conversation is polite and solicitous; even without realising it we've started to settle into a rhythm, Martin and I. While it's often as cautious and circumspect as you would expect from two people who have such inherently different approaches to life, the more time we spend together, the smoother our synchronicity becomes.
It seems to me that, in general terms, there are two types of people in the world; those who need to row the boat, with a steady, purposeful stroke, always knowing where they want to go, and always prepared for everything. And then there are others who like to be the one laying back in the bow, trailing their fingertips lazily in the water, happy to be surprised by the destination, and delighted that there was even a space for them to climb aboard. Two people trying to steer, or even two people just lolling about, would just be hopeless, wouldn't it, so as long as I'm allowed my fair share of being in charge of the oar, I really believe that the way I feel about Martin will enable us to surmount all our differences.
"Perhaps, I could make popping down to the dry cleaners part of my Thursday routine?" I suggest, a bit more earnestly than I'd intended, as I watch him scrub the dishes with his usual scowling intensity. "I thought, you know, that it'd be one less thing to fit into your day?"
He turns around to face me, opening his eyes wide and looking at me with a mixture of surprise and concern, his expression so sweet and touched by gratitude that it causes an intense sort of jolt inside me. For someone as self-contained as Martin, apparently so disinclined to rely on anyone or anything, his reaction to my offer is totally unexpected and, involuntarily, I flash him a nervous smile; an awkward response to something that seems, momentarily, to reveal something quite vulnerable.
"Aah…is that wise, do you think?" He says slowly, slipping off his enormous rubber gloves and drying his hands on the tea towel that lays over his shoulder. "Anything that…ahh…distracts you from your studies needs to be of the greatest importance otherwise it's an unacceptable waste of your time."
"Martin it's ten minutes, fifteen at the most. I could spend that staring out a window and not even notice." I groan, wiping the table and, with just a hint of frustration, tossing the cloth into the sink. "Please just let me do that at least?"
I stand in front of him, intent on drying my hands, wiping them up and down on my jeans until he sighs and proffers the tea towel to me. I ignore him. In my stocking feet, he towers above me, seeming even taller because of his apparent determination not to give in to me, his bearing steadfast and unyielding. I know that I'm tired but I can't help but feel a little resentful at his attitude. I find myself wondering if his reluctance to accept my assistance is more to do with the fact he doesn't trust me to follow his instructions, and carry out quite a straightforward errand, than anything to do with my education.
"Martin." I add crossly. "If you don't think I'm capable of carrying out a simple task, you know, something any ten year old with their wits about them could manage, perhaps you should just say so."
"Umm, actually I was going to suggest a trial period." He replies amicably, brushing the back of his fingers gently across my cheek. "Should we say a month, to make sure it's not too intrusive on your studies? Does that sound fair?"
I tilt my head back to look up at him, feeling such a intense surge of warmth that I slide my arms instinctively around his waist. As ridiculous as it probably sounds, having someone place their trust in me has always been such a thrill. I recall every occasion so clearly; like the time I was asked to look after the class goldfish in the school holidays, how useful and reliable I'd felt. And Lester Tregurtha, letting me drive all the way home from Delabole that first time, or when I was left alone in a strange house to babysit little Albert Large, while his dad disappeared off overnight on some flimsy pretext, and even when Holly presented me with my key to the flat, after only being in London for a few days, I'd felt such a terrific sense of accomplishment. Even now, it's funny how other people's trust in you, their belief that you are responsible enough to deserve their faith, is sometimes more important than the actual trust you have in yourself.
Martin's hand slides around my jaw and he stoops to kiss me, a sensation so delicate and deferential, his mouth silky and gentle as it meets mine it's as if he's mastered the idea that less is more, and the lightest of pressure can, in fact, be the most intense. My head swims and my skin, rippling and supersensitive, trembles and burns beneath his hands. I'm reasonably sure that my heart doesn't actually stop beating but, breathless and light-headed, and clinging to him as if I'm about to be swept away, I'm unable to describe it more aptly. He leans away from me, softly and reluctantly and, suddenly, I remember to exhale.
"Actually, Louisa." He says, mildly. "I should tell you that I have been able to come to terms with Imperial."
"Come to terms?" I ask absently, resting my cheek on his chest, focusing on undoing a single button on his shirt, just so I can slip my hand in against the firm, smooth flesh of his stomach.
Whoever said that beautiful skin is the sole dominion of women obviously never had their hands on Martin Ellingham, I think to myself, smiling as I feel his abdominal muscles tighten, rather chuffed that I can still provoke that reaction, especially as I can no longer be much of a novelty.
"Umm, yes, I mean I have signed a contract with them." He says, as casual as you like, as if he were telling me we were getting low on toothpaste or that I had marmite on my cheek. "I start on the first."
I tilt my head back and stare up at him, incredulous. I wasn't even aware that he'd been formally interviewed or whatever the particular process is for surgeons, never mind that he'd received a formal offer. Suddenly, the little warm ball of happiness that had been fizzing away inside of me self-destructs and I have another of those horrible lonely moments, feeling like an outsider, like I've been deliberately, and rather brutally, shut out of his life.
"Oh." I reply hoarsely, fighting desperately against the choking fear that creeps up my insides, it's grip firm around my throat. "I see. When were you going to tell me this, Martin?"
"Isn't that what I'm doing? Telling you now?" He replies, his tone infuriatingly calm, his fingers stroking my hair like he's petting a sodding hamster.
"It's just that it seems like quite a big step, actually, and it's just a bit funny you never mentioned that it had got this far, after the dinner and everything." I tell him, struggling hard to remain reasonable, despite my instinct being to flee to the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind me.
"Essentially everything since then has been boring details Louisa, nothing that would interest you. Research budgets, patient targets, remuneration, that sort of thing." He says, pressing his mouth to the top of my head and running his fingers lightly up and down the backs of my arms, as if he is endeavouring to seduce me rather than attempting to soothe me. "I assumed you'd find it all somewhat tedious."
I sigh with such intensity it feels like a spasm, a jarring physical response to what feels like a huge intentional snub; a career decision made, possibly a life-changing direction chosen, and I was all but excluded from the proceedings. God, it hurts, it really hurts; a bewildering sensation like I don't actually matter, that my opinion isn't important and my support is simply not required.
"Actually, Martin, you know, I understand that it's probably none of my business but, by not saying anything, I just feel like my interest in you, in your life, and your career..and…and…something as important as your happiness, is, well, it's obviously just really unwelcome…"
"What? That's not how it is at all!"
"Well, I'm sorry Martin, but that's how it makes me feel." I say firmly, and we stand in silence for a few desperately sad moments until, eventually, he clears his throat.
"Yes. Perhaps I should have realised that you might see it that way but it was never my intention." He says formally, his discomfort suddenly palpable. "Umm, if I had discussed with you the soporific detail, the tedious minutiae of the negotiations, would that have made you feel…happier?"
I'm not even sure how to explain it to him. If I say yes then I suspect, in his usual literal fashion, he might go too far the other way, regaling me woodenly with facts, and particulars, and technical specifications until I either scream, or throw something at him.
"Martin, the way I see it is this." I say after a moment, using the same tone I might use on a perplexed eight year old, and drawing upon every reserve of patience I possess. "You and I, we're a couple aren't we? So we should share the good things that happen to us, and the bad things, and anything else that might affect our future together. That's just what couples do. It's…well it's the whole point really."
"Mm." He replies, after an uncomfortable pause, dropping his arms to his sides, and staring at me, glassy eyed, his body rigid. "It's just…well the truth is I felt…I felt as if I'd imposed upon you enough by, umm, by dragging you along to that awful dinner."
gently, I shake my head at him, reaching up to loosen his tie, and release his top button, smiling at him as I notice the rapid rise and fall of his Adam's Apple. Finally, he is opening up and honestly I feel like cheering, like whooping for joy; at last he is explaining his reasoning in a way that might help me to understand him. And, in the spirit of the sort of educator I so want to be, I am determined to reward the effort, and so I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, gently at first until I can't resist a suggestive little chew on his lip, just so he knows he's alive. It has the desired effect of course and, after a moment, when his hands go to my hips and I hear his breathing change, I draw away.
"Early night?" I ask, slipping his braces over his shoulders as he gazes at me helplessly, watching as I undo yet another button, enough to ensure my unfettered access to his chest.
"Umm…" He replies after a moment, as his torso becomes a rippling sea of goosebumps, and a soft strangled moan escapes his throat as I kiss him again, this time a little more fiercely.
"Louisa." He says desperately as he gasps for breath but I ignore him, biting at his lip and attempting to cover his mouth with mine, as he staggers backward a few steps and we come to rest against the kitchen worktop.
Laughing, I pull his shirt up, freeing the tails from the confines of his waistband and I have a fleeting mental image, an idea that seems like one of the best ones I have ever had. Glorious and unrestrained, free-spirited and passionate in a way it can only be when two young people love each other as much as we do, I lean back and smile at him, suggestively.
"What about here?" I say hopefully, laughing at the way his brow furrows and a haze of disapproval wafts across his face.
"Really?" He gasps, his expression now one of abject horror. "It's not exactly hygienic, we eat off these surfaces…."
"Oh my god, I can't believe you even said that! Next you'll be wanting to go and scrub up!" I shriek at him, overcome with such paroxysms of mirth that I am unable to hoist myself up in the worktop, flopping helplessly into his arms instead. "Do as you're told and help me up."
He says nothing, but then again he doesn't need to to, his face says it all.
"Martin!"
"Ah, Louisa." He says, his voice low and worried. "I'd really rather…"
"Martin." I interrupt firmly. "We're in the privacy of our own home. We can do what we want! Now help me up before I change my mind!"
For a split second he stares at me, every emotion he's ever felt for me flickering across his face in an instant, like a very short movie starring an utterly bewildered man. Wide-eyed and terrified, in one movement he puts his arms around my waist and I fly like a tossed caber, airborne and weightless, until he deposits me, surprisingly gently, at the end of the counter.
"Thank you." I say, grinning wickedly, pulling my shirt over my head, delighted to be at eye level with him. I hold out my arms to pull him towards me but instead of the fierce embrace I was hoping for, the mad, impetuous frenzy I'd imagined, he turns on his heel and walks away.
"Where are you going?" I cry out, incredulously, as I watch him pause a few feet away, cunningly just out of my reach, methodically tucking his shirt into his trousers, elegant even as he contorts himself, wrestling his braces back into position.
He turns and glances at me sideways, his expression innocent and oblivious, and unlike anything you'd expect from a man who has just abandoned his lover, without explanation, half way through an act of passion.
"I…umm…I noticed that you didn't replace the protective plastic covers over the monitor and the keyboard, Louisa." He says, his face assuming a vague scowl of disapproval. "You're probably not aware but…umm…dust particles collecting inside the computer, on the cooling fan, on the heat sinks, on any metallic part that maintains a faint electrical charge really..umm…can cause the components to overheat and malfunction…"
"What?" I bark at him in utter disbelief, my hands flying up to my head.
"Someone needs to see to it." He says matter-of-factly, and he turns on his heel and is gone.
