My body is still and heavy, cocooned in contentment; lethargic and replete. Idly, I wonder if it is possible to become inured to this feeling, these quiet, private moments when almost every stress, every burden and every torment have been suctioned, pro tempore, from my most hidden self. I have lain awake for some time now, waiting for my mind to assume a similar quietude but, every time I drift toward sleep, the events of the day seem determined to drag me back toward their careful contemplation. Meanwhile, burrowed into my chest, Louisa sleeps, her hands clasped at her chin, her arms folded tightly like the resting wings of some exotic butterfly.
In the city, it is seldom truly dark and, since she triumphed in our earlier curtain dispute, I have become used to sleeping in this strange half-light, a reflective yellowish murk that renders every shape discernible despite the lateness of the hour. Though I can't imagine myself admitting it to her, there are advantages to this. For Louisa, it's being woken by the morning sun, as she'd told me breathlessly; glimpsing the sky at dawn, and watching abstract patterns play on the wall as the light refracts through the glass.
Though I was reluctant to agree to unobscured windows, and rendering the curtains redundant, the benefits are now obvious, and rather exquisite in their intimacy. With this pale illumination, she is never invisible, her face is never lost to me in a tenebrous shroud. I wonder if she knows that I am rewarded a hundredfold, seduced almost as much by the radiance of her skin as I am by the way it feels beneath my hands? Does she understand, I wonder, how much confidence I draw from the brilliance of her smile, and the way her eyes sparkle as she gazes up at me. Faint light turns her hair to burnished bronze, luxuriant and enticing, a lustre so rich my fingers are compelled to bury themselves within it. Indeed, hers is a distinctive sort of glow, undefinable yet unmistakably Louisa, with a luminescence as warm as it is brilliant, and as spectacular as it is natural.
"Mate, you must pinch yourself every morning." Chris had said to me, as he'd slumped onto the overstuffed club lounge, in the darkest corner of the gloomy basement bar she'd dragged us into.
I'd glanced across at him sharply, having been more or less unaware of my own actions, helpless and involuntary in the way I find myself gazing at her as she walks away. In my defence, after she'd disappeared from sight, I'd scanned the room carefully, identifying the locations of the fire exits, reassuring myself as best I could that all the relevant public health bylaws were adhered to, and all the fire safety requirements were well in place. Assuaged somewhat by the prominent placement of the numerous extinguishers, an overhead sprinkler system, and at least two points of exit, I'd allowed myself to relax. But when I'd turned back toward him, and his face was wreathed in a lubricious, knowing smirk, I'd felt a familiar burr of irritation.
"Must I?" I'd replied, raising my chin and gazing haughtily back at him, almost as if I was challenging him to say it out loud, to point out to me my phenomenal good fortune.
Of course he didn't need to, no one does; I am fully cognisant of the miracle that has befallen me. I saw it again tonight, the ripple in the room when Louisa arrived, the question on everyone's lips being why? But, whatever her reasons for persevering, for stomaching me against all odds, for swimming against the tide of popular opinion, it certainly isn't anyone else's business, not even Chris Parsons, though he does not seem to view it quite that way. I remain intent on a path of stoic forbearance, of building my immunity to outside commentary; meanwhile my own feelings quietly grow stronger, and my commitment to her feels as if it's forged in steel.
I do recognise that Chris is oddly intrigued but, whatever the bonds of our friendship are, they do not extend to discussion on matters of the heart. It's not even my usual fanatical desire for privacy that precludes any further elaboration on this topic. The only way I can describe it is as so much more than that, it's a fear I suppose; of jeopardising or even jinxing something that seems so alchemistic and improbable. People can make all the assumptions they like, speculate on what it is that draws Louisa and I together but, to me, it's the aching impalpability of what we have that makes it even more precious, and in need of such fierce protection. It's like watching the shimmering surface of a bubble, taking pleasure from that mesmerising rainbow of thin-film interference, when one is only too aware, at any moment, it might be on the cusp of collapse.
Standing in that room today, forced to listen to the ill-conceived invective of those blustering, obsolescent fools had left me seething. Until she appeared in the doorway, I'd felt like I was jammed into a poorly fitting cervical thoracic orthosis, and I'd watched her make her way toward me, willing her on, as she drifted in and out of view. All the while, as I waited impatiently, I'd chafed against the bonds of duty that held me captive to the impotent attempts of the Dean and his cronies to effect a change of my mind. When finally I'd freed myself, I'd taken her elbow, adamant that we must leave and, while the plan was a simple one, the execution was less certain. We had inched our way back toward the exit, each interruption exponentially more aggravating than the last, while, alongside me, Louisa had simply smiled in her angelic way, apparently enthused at every greeting, partaking happily in pointless pleasantries, and remembering endless irrelevant names.
I stifle a yawn and, instinctively, I turn my head but I am unable to see the face of the clock, nor can I reach for my watch without the risk of disturbing her so, like so many other things that I imagined previously to be important, I simply abandon my attempt to ascertain the time. More and more, it feels as if my fundamental beliefs are lined up like some sort of philosophical advent calendar and, every day, Louisa opens a tiny door and challenges whatever it is that she discovers within. Tonight, it was due solely to her insistence that I'd found myself a patron in a crowded, smoky venue, ducking my head to avoid the low beams as she bounced along ahead of me, turning to grin, gleefully, her utter delight inexplicable to me as I'd frowned back at her, dubious and ill-at-ease.
The truth was, right from four o'clock this afternoon, when the shifts changed, I'd just wanted to go home, chiefly because it had been a particularly unenjoyable day, filled from start to finish with all the tedious addendum of medicine; ensuring that every t was crossed, every i dotted and every clerical task fulfilled. The greater part of the morning had been consigned to handing over my outstanding cases to the remaining vascular team. As a result I'd spent at least an hour in the company of that most ophidian of colleagues, the loathsome and odious Ben Dixon. Such an occurrence is usually guaranteed to put even those with the sunniest of dispositions, without exception, into a vile, dyspeptic temper. Even at the best of times, he is an emetic in human form, but today saw him reach new heights of rancour and antagonism toward me, as he'd taken every opportunity to snipe and to censure, finally revealing the full extent of his enmity.
"No photos of Louise?" He'd scoffed as he glanced around my office. "Or has she come to her senses, the poor impressionable young thing."
"It's Louisa." I'd corrected him tersely, without thinking, forcing me to add quickly, and with some belligerence. "And it's neither any of your business nor relevant to this discussion, so let's just stick to the point, shall we?"
And for the rest of the conversation, with a mind rather too attuned to jeering, I could detect it in his tone; a gloating sort of jocularity which made it obvious that he was buoyed by his perception of my failure, overjoyed at the apparent demise of a relationship that he did not feel I deserved. He was wrong of course but I had no intention of enlightening him. Not only was the man beyond the pale but personal discussion of any sort was anathema to me, even with colleagues I respected. When it came to Ben Dixon, such was my dislike and detachment, I wasn't prepared to discuss even the weather with the vitriolic little malcontent and, after glowering at him ferociously for quite some time, my upper lip flickering in and out of a sneer, he appeared, finally, to get the message.
"You know he wanted the Imperial role?" Chris had mentioned later, his stance wide and his hands thrust deeply in his pockets, gazing up the mirrored ceiling of the lift as we descended from the intensity of the board room level to the rewarding anonymity of an empty street.
I'd looked across at him, incredulous, folding my arms across my chest, and snorting with disbelief.
"Who? Dixon?" I'd replied, scornfully. "You're not serious?"
"He'd been lobbying Sholto with serious intent for months apparently. And now he's as bitter as hell, told Bernard your appointment was like a kick in the guts…"
"The man's deluded. He's already in grave danger of being left behind even at consultant level." I'd growled, my tone contemptuous. "He can barely keep up with current technology, never mind suggest any advancements of his own."
Chris had laughed, nodding his head with the fervency of a chimpanzee who has just been offered a banana, forcing him to reach up and push his glasses firmly back up onto his nose.
"I think we both know it was more the cachet of the title that attracted him, Mart, that and cornering pretty young registrars in supply cupboards of course…" Chris had chortled. "But can you honestly imagine that he gave any consideration to what Imperial might actually be looking for?"
Beside me in the lift, still maintaining a careful distance, Louisa seemed suddenly uncomfortable. Though often I do find her moods quite mysterious, and her thought processes quite impossible to fathom, there are certain quirks that even someone as obtuse as I am could not fail to pick up on; the nervous shredding of her lower lip, the anxious twisting of the hem of whatever garment she is wearing, in this case the little black leather jacket that is so redolent of when we first met. Watching her divest herself of it, so unselfconsciously, in that Japanese restaurant had left me in heated, breathless discomfort, just as observing her perform the same manoeuvre in the middle of the crowded function room tonight had been so momentarily distracting.
As the lift lurched, she'd wobbled closer, and I'd glanced down at her, my brow knotted with confusion but she seemed simply lost in her thoughts. With no reproachful glances to guide me as to what infraction I may have committed, I could only infer that it was the shop talk that had upset her. But I'd found that even more perplexing considering that, barely half an hour earlier, when I'd told her it was time we went home, she'd stared at me in utter disbelief. I'd even go so far as to say she'd been disappointed in me, as I'd gazed back at her blankly, struggling to understand how the assertion that Chris had come up to London especially to attend this pointless function might somehow have any bearing on my desire to now seek only the comfort and privacy of our flat.
Her silence seldom lasts and, in her own mercurial way, she'd simply bucked up I suppose so, with some relief, I dismiss it from my mind. The transformation is complete when, as we'd walked out through the front doors of the main hospital building, she'd turned to me, her expression rather sweetly concerned, searching my face intently, her eyes huge, and as green and bright as polished nephrite.
"Are you okay?" She'd asked softly, sliding her hand surreptitiously into mine, and squeezing my fingers gently but with an obvious and rather touching solicitude.
"Okay?" I'd replied, determined to maintain my peremptory tone, glancing across at Chris, uncomfortable that he might be paying too much attention to both her words and the affection apparent in her gesture. "Yes, I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?"
"It's just…well, it's just that it's almost your last day and, tomorrow, you'll be walking out of here for good, won't you Martin? What I mean I suppose is that you've had a long connection with St. Mary's and now that's over. Some people might, you know, find that a bit emotional…"
"No, it isn't." I told her baldy, frowning with vague confusion. "I'll be back here, probably not next week but definitely the week after, and then every week after that. All Imperial's surgical procedures are performed here. It's been that way ever since the merger…"
"Oh." She replied, flashing me a grimace of uncertain significance. "Well, umm, okay then but, you know, what about the people?"
"The people?" I heard myself splutter. "Louisa, rest assured, there are people at Imperial too, no doubt all as similarly aggravating and uninspiring as those that I leave behind here..."
Beside her, Chris began to cough violently and for a moment, I wasn't sure where to look; at his ruddy, apoplectic face or at Louisa, who stared up at me, shaking her head incredulously from side to side. I could tell that she wasn't satisfied by my answer but, honestly, what on earth did she want me to say? That I'll miss some of them? That anyone under that notoriously leaky roof might cause me to have a single regret about moving forward with my career? The suggestion was frankly so laughable that, had anyone other than Louisa suggested it, they would have felt the full brunt of my derision. But holding her soft, warm hand in mine was an undeniably pleasant sensation, despite being in full view of the world in general, and of Chris Parsons in particular. I was also aware of the way he gazed at her, like a hopeful puppy, cavorting along beside her with such uninhibited enthusiasm, his glasses rather tellingly jammed into his top pocket again, that I suspected that if I hadn't taken firm hold of her hand, he'd have volunteered to take my place.
Threading my fingers through hers, and securing my grip, I'd cleared my throat.
"Umm, yes, perhaps there are one or two colleagues whose expertise and, ahh, mentorship I will recall as valuable." I'd told her slowly, watching her expression soften as she listened to me, a smile of approval forming about the corners of her mouth. "But, I…umm…I expect to find a few, equally competent individuals, professionals just as deserving of respect as those that I…umm, that I worked alongside here…"
It was a reply that seemed to satisfy her, and she'd smiled broadly at me, suddenly so lovely that, as much as I knew I'd probably live to regret that moment of weakness, I'd acquiesced to her again, this time it was her beseeching and breathless suggestion that the three of us might eat at a restaurant.
"Bit of a turn up for the books, this." Chris had remarked as Louisa had lead us, with unassailable cheerfulness, along the busy footpath, searching for somewhere that might welcome us without a reservation.
"What do you mean?" Louisa had asked him lightheartedly, rising to the bait where I had expressly refused to do so, turning to face him as an expectant grin lit up her face.
"Well, exactly this, Louisa…me….playing gooseberry to Mart, instead of the other way around…"
"Chris! You're no such thing! We love seeing you and, really, we should do this more often, shouldn't we Martin?" She'd cried, nodding at me encouragingly as I'd glanced at her in disbelief.
Looking over Louisa's head at his rapidly receding hairline, I'd snorted at him derisively, convinced that my memory of our rare social occasions was infinitely more reliable since, invariably, I was sober and, invariably, Chris was not.
"I can only assume you mean the endless hours of tedium I suffered, forced to watch you lose what little dignity you had, in the hopeless pursuit of disinterested women." I replied rather archly before changing the subject rather skilfully. "What about this one, hmm? I've had supper here before an, as I recall, the hygiene standards were tolerable…"
"I dunno." Louisa said, with a surprising hint of disappointment in her voice as she stared at the menu displayed in the doorway. "I was sort of hoping for something other than…well….fish, I suppose..."
"But, Louisa, they specialise in fish." I'd replied, slightly confused. "Look at the name. 'Pêcher de Mille Façons'. It's what they do…"
"Yeah, umm, and that's sort of the point actually, Martin…I 'spose I just fancied something a bit different… for a change…" She said slowly, slipping her arm through mine and gazing up at me hopefully.
"Right." I'd answered briskly, though I honestly couldn't see her point. "We'll keep looking."
Subsequently, we'd walked for a reasonable distance and I'd noticed that, after a while, she had started to limp. My enquiries as to her well-being had been summarily dismissed with incredulous and vehement denial which led me to suspect that I was correct in my diagnosis. As fetching as she looked in her outfit, and as difficult as I'd found it not to stare at her with heated and mildly hypertensive admiration, I believed, once again, her impractical footwear to be the obvious culprit. As usual, my well-intentioned advice was not warmly received so, assailed by both thirst and rather thunderous borborygmi, I'd walked along in silence beside her, happy to let Chris do all the talking. After a while though, and as nebulous as the rules were to me, I couldn't help feeling rather peeved as I was forced to listen to his apparently endless attempts at flirtation.
So, when she finally made her choice, I'd lost the will to argue and I allowed myself to be dragged down a steep set of stairs to an ill-lit, poorly ventilated establishment that seemed to inspire an excitement in both Louisa and Chris that I found completely baffling. It quickly became apparent that the two of them felt as if they had discovered a sort of seventh heaven in the bowels of Edgware Rd; beside themselves with joy at a tapas bar and the promise of some sort of ear-ringingly loud, live music. I'd sighed impatiently, returning her delighted smile with a depressed and resigned expression of my own, my mouth drooping open in dismay as we circuited the pokey venue.
"Will this be ok?" She'd asked me, her expression suddenly dubious as she waited for me to sit down.
"Umm…yes…" I'd replied, not entirely convincingly. "If this is what you, ahh, if this is what you'd like…"
"Thank you." She'd said breathlessly, as I'd glanced down in despair at the cracked leather of the seating, wondering when last it was cleaned and whether they'd ever heard of saddle soap and leather conditioner.
She'd been able to catch me unaware then, sliding her arms around my neck and kissing me gently but still rather suggestively, in full of view of not only Chris but several other onlookers as well, her hand in my hair, her body pressed against mine quite purposefully, lingering just a fraction longer than she ought.
"It's great to be out, isn't it?" She'd said as she threw herself down onto the sofa beside Chris, grinning up at me as I'd struggled to regain my poise.
"You don't go out much then?" I heard Chris ask, as I'd lowered myself into the chair opposite them, with as much dignity as I could muster. "Martin isn't whisking you off to the Savoy at every opportunity?"
I glared at him, fiercely.
"As you well know, Chris Parsons, not really my thing, overpriced, overrated hotels. Especially ones teeming with drug-addled old has-beens and plastic-faced, bulimic pop tarts. More your idea of heaven, I should think…"
"Tsk tsk, come on Mart, you're only young once.." He replied, his expression suddenly mischievous, sweeping his arm around in the air and allowing it to come to rest on the back of the seat behind her. "After all, look at you, you're living in this great city… If I were you, especially if I had Louisa on my arm, I would be out every night, if only just to show her off…"
He'd glanced across at Louisa as he spoke, and I watched as she gazed back at him, sweetly, her elbow on the table, twirling a lock of hair thoughtfully around her fingers. For just a split second, her eyes had narrowed and her jaw had flexed with all that terrific teenage feistiness I remembered. In fact I'd actually felt myself wince reflexively as I braced for her response but she'd surprised me, elegantly extending her free hand across the table and wrapping her fingers affectionately around my closed fist as I watched, somewhat transfixed.
"Perhaps when I first arrived, that sort of thing might have seemed exciting but, you know what, I'm well over that phase of my life now. I'm as happy as anything just pottering around at home with Martin..." She'd said, flashing me an encouraging smile. "I suppose we're a bit like an old married couple, these days, aren't we?"
Unintentionally, my head had flown up in alarm and I'd looked directly into his eyes as a grin split his face in two.
"Are you now?" He'd replied, his eyes twinkling with mirth, stretching his arms up and interlocking his fingers behind his head, waiting with unabashed delight for my inevitably awkward response.
I'd felt the weight of Louisa's stare too, and even I could sense that she realised what she'd said and was now in desperate need of some form of reassurance. How should I reply to a simile which has, quite frankly, disoriented me? There's the chance, I suppose, that she simply refers to my strict and rather unwavering routine, although I'm sure she understands that, by necessity of my job, I am required to live quietly, and to keep regular hours. But I'm not inclined to agree with her otherwise, principally because the times she and I are together would appear far more physically demanding, and infinitely more madly and intensely libidinous, than any geriatric husband and wife I've ever heard of, especially those who claim a long marital association.
"Perhaps, only in that we don't go out much during the week." I'd replied cautiously. "Early nights are an occupational hazard, as you must be aware, a fact that Louisa has…umm…adjusted to quite well…"
"I bet she has!" He'd cried, cackling to himself as if it were the most entertaining anecdote he'd ever heard.
As I glanced at her, she'd blushed, grimacing at me ruefully as if she'd made some sort of ghastly faux pas, and I'd waited for a flash of mortification to impact upon me, the usual feeling of shame and distaste that assails me whenever the walls of my privacy appear to be breached. But, other than a slight feeling of annoyance, I felt nothing, experiencing just a vague irritation at Chris' puerile, suggestive ribbing, a reaction I suspect I would have had regardless of who the unfortunate subject might be. Silently, I'd raised an eyebrow at her, and I hoped that, like me, she'd realise that none of this was worth our concern. While I'd never find myself relaxed in an environment like this, having a discussion like this, and I'd never ever be willing nor enthused, it had struck me then I was no longer constrained by discomfort, not self-conscious nor uptight.
In most of society I'd always felt like a fish out of water but perhaps, with Louisa alongside me, perhaps I might assimilate well enough that my awkwardness isn't quite so conspicuous. While I will never enjoy the crowds and noise that so many others, such as my present companions, seem to find thrilling, I could probably learn to tolerate them for very short periods of time. The idea was quite encouraging and, later, I managed to bury what remained of my uncertainty, by standing behind her as she gazed rapturously at the stage, lowering my eyes to watch her as she swayed slowly and rhythmically to the beat. As far as musical performances go, it was inoffensive; a young female singer, accompanied by a double bass and a percussionist, her voice surprisingly powerful even if her interpretations were rather too progressive for my taste. There was something about her voice though, it had depth and resonance, and the crowd began to thicken as it was drawn toward her. Holding my position as if I were hewn from stone, with my size advantage I was unmovable, secretly quite satisfied as Louisa leaned ever closer into me. Eventually, emboldened by the gloom, I'd placed my hands on her waist, resolute in my desire to prevent her from tottering over on her heels.
Beside me, Chris was then preoccupied with impressing the unfortunate woman beside him so he took no notice at all as I cautiously slid one hand inside Louisa's jacket and wrapped my forearm around her protectively. As long as we stood there together, it felt as if I were part of an alternate universe, an accident of fate that saw me content to stand in a hazy basement, against all my better judgement, because it made Louisa very happy. Soon enough, I would be Mr. Ellingham again, serious and severe, with the endless weight of responsibility pressing down upon my shoulders. Regardless of how harried and harangued I was, I would always stand my ground; sticking firmly to my principles whether my adversaries were pig-headed Administrators, incompetent registrars, argumentative patients or fractious aunts.
But, for the briefest time tonight, I was just a man named Martin, and no one wanted anything from me. There, in that airless and uninspiring cellar, I'd tasted a hint of the liberation that I'd only felt previously inside the fortress that is this flat. Standing there almost helpless, I'd watched greasy vapours swirl in the stage lights, with the instigator of that feeling of freedom pressed rather too provocatively against me. As soon as the musicians announced that they would take a break, I'd ducked my head and pressed my lips hopefully to her ear, suggesting that the hour was now such that perhaps we should leave. Without a single objection, she'd agreed, running her hand up and down my thigh as if to wordlessly display her assent. Without explanation, we'd abandoned Chris Parsons to his heavy handed blandishments, dismissing his bawdy attempt at humour in the form of a theatrical wink, by glaring back at him disapprovingly, torn between reminding him he had a fiancé or simply walking away.
Once we were alone in the taxi, I'd wanted to tell her, but she'd been so effervescent, so intent on sharing her thoughts on the night. She'd lain her head so peacefully against my shoulder as told me about her day that I was actually sorry when she'd glanced up, only to discover me sniffing at the fabric of my suit, my disgust at its foul, smoky stench quite apparent. I'd been surprised to see a flash of anxiety pass across her face and, despite my half-hearted assurances that it would fine, and I would have it cleaned, she had suddenly begun to rummage around in her handbag, searching anxiously for a moment, before thrusting a dry cleaning receipt into my hand.
"Oh, right, thank you." I'd replied carefully, glancing at the name on the top of the paper. "It wasn't too inconvenient? Too far out of your way?"
She'd shaken her head, shifting her weight as I reached for my wallet, and watching me silently as I slipped the chit carefully inside. Before I could attempt to raise the subject again, we were home, and by the time I'd paid the fare, she'd already punched in the door code and was standing in the foyer. As weary as she now appeared, the stairs were heavy going and, once inside the flat, I'd excused myself, desperate to shed my malodorous clothing and partake of a short, hot shower. Cleansed and refreshed, I emerged to find the bedroom floor a sea of discarded clothing and Louisa tucked beneath the bedsheet, tranquil and ethereal as she succumbed to sleep; somehow so fragile and delicate, like some precious object of wonderment.
As I'd dried myself, I'd convinced myself that now was the ideal time to broach the matter. I was tired, too, and it seemed like the perfect solution to wrap my arms around her and tell her calmly by speaking softly in her ear. As I climbed in beside her, she'd half-opened her eyes, gazing back at me dreamily, a faint smile on her flawless face. The last glimpse of her I'd seen, before I switched-off the bedside lamp, was so sweet and so disarmingly innocent the thought crossed my mind that perhaps now was not a good time for discussion since she seemed already half asleep. Fresh from the shower, I'd sought the luxury of her closeness; the cool sheets and her warm smooth skin a sensory juxtaposition that was almost too hard to ignore but, nevertheless, I was content enough to do so. While I would never ever take her for granted, I had advanced a little from my desperate fear that every time I made love to her might well be the last.
She'd found my hand and, wordlessly, our fingers had entwined; I'd felt her lips pressed softly against my neck, and then on my chest and, again, in my throat.
"You feel nice." She'd said, in a low voice, as her mouth closed over mine, slow and almost dazed, as if she were in some sort of trance, light-headed and heavy-limbed, taking me with her as we drift effortlessly toward that familiar, soothing conclusion.
There was such ease, such smoothness in everything we shared, a reassuring togetherness that comforted me to the depths of my soul. It was not the moment to suggest something new, there was nothing wild or ferocious in the way we come together; no mad impetuosity, no furious passion that might set us aflame. It was more the languid dance of inseparable lovers, restorative and gentle, and serene. Finally, stirred from my recumbency, I'd rolled her lazily on to her back and, as she wrapped herself around me, we'd moved together in time, as slow as an Adagio, as deep as a Loch.
Afterwards, we'd lain together in a comfortable silence, as tranquility finally descended upon me and I slipped toward the oblivion of sleep. Sirens sounded in the distance and, in the throes of unconsciousness, Louisa groaned softly and rather touchingly, her arm twitching where it lay stretched across my chest. As contented as I felt, as physically sated as I was, sleep became elusive; my Aunt had not finished with me yet. Her earlier admonishments, once merely enervating, now become persistent; a jarring repetition that plays in my head like doggerel verse. Louisa stirs beside me, flopping her arm out beside her like a petulant child. Her breath is slow and rhythmic, and peaceful in the way of gentle waves lapping at a sun warmed shore. Carefully, I reclaim my shoulder from beneath her head and I reach down, somewhat reluctantly, to slip the sheet up over her bare chest, tucking it under her arm in a vague gesture of modesty that I know would amuse her greatly should she be awake.
As the gentlest of snores escapes from her soft palette, the clock in my study strikes the hour and I realise with dismay that I'm still awake and it's one in the morning. Rolling onto my side, I rest my hand on her hip, marvelling at the heat she seems to radiate and hoping that, this time, the comfort she offers will lure me toward sleep. All tomorrow holds is the prospect of tedious farewells and a chance to clear my desk and so I envisage a leisurely breakfast and, as I absentmindedly draw my fingers lightly along the curve of her breast, perhaps any other benefit I can extract from not having to depart the flat at dawn. And then, perhaps, I can tell her of my phone call to Joan, and brace myself for her usual wholehearted response.
