Illness obliterates all sense of time, doesn't it? Minutes are fuzzy, hours are vague, and the day becomes almost indiscernible from the night. I am febrile and restless until exhaustion sedates me, hot and cold, feebly entangled in a knot of crumpled linen, my fringe stuck to my forehead by perspiration, and my throat burning like bare feet on asphalt on a hot summer's day. It hurts just to swallow now, even worse when I cough; my chest is crushingly heavy, and my headache intense. And, when a sharp irritation deep in my lungs induces a hacking spasm that shakes me awake, I roll onto my side and force my eyes to open, squinting helplessly in the pale half-light. I feel about as ill as I have ever felt, and utterly and miserably alone.
Shakily, I turn the pillow over, pressing my face into the icy cool side, grateful for a moment's respite from this overheated state. But there is little point to consciousness when it offers no relief. Instead I give in to overwhelming tiredness, falling into a fitful slumber that masks the misery of the flu. Dreams come in fits and starts; vivid, dramatic and totally absurd. Snippets stay with me, haunting and upsetting. My mum turns up at school, I am late for exams, I lose my purse. Bold colours and sharp light. I can't find my friends at a concert and I wander helplessly through unfamiliar rooms until Martin and I are suddenly in a taxi, which somehow becomes a plane. And then there's an accident, some sort of crash. I can't find him but I can hear him, calling my name. Desperately I float towards the sound of his voice, rising all the time until, suddenly, I open my eyes with a horrible start.
"Louisa," he says again, as his face swims and shimmies until he comes into focus, his brows knotted in concern. "How are you feeling?"
"…Rotten."
I have become his patient, and a thermometer under my tongue becomes the punctuation between days and nights. He whips it from his inside pocket with such a flourish, his expression one of studied concentration as he gazes down at me.
"Have you noticed any neck stiffness? Any vomiting or skin discolouration?"
I grunt, shaking my head gingerly, and the effort makes me cough.
"102.9" he replies, withdrawing the thermometer and exhaling loudly, as if he disapproves.
"My neck's…not… stiff exactly but I…I really just ache all over…"
"Hmm, perhaps I should examine you." He replies, galvanised into action by something only his medically trained eye can see. Reaching down, he begins to unbutton his jacket, purposefully before I've even had a chance to answer.
"Martin…just a bad cold…going round at college…" I mutter, and I realise I don't want him to touch me, to feel my sticky, sweaty, burning skin. I don't want him to look closely at my unwashed hair or note that my armpits need shaving, and I especially don't want him to palpate my uncomfortable tummy or press a stethoscope to my tender breasts. I can't bear to hear that I'm being emotional or over sensitive or I need to watch my anaemia. And I certainly don't want him to raise an eyebrow at me but yet not say a word, knowing all the time that he's doing mathematical calculations in his head, probably congratulating himself at his brilliant gynaecological skill.
He looks at me, his mouth opening in disbelief, the frustration obvious on his thwarted face. But I'm too sick to care. I know he's a doctor and he can't help himself but what I actually would like, more than anything, is some sympathy; a lovely comforting hug perhaps, a cool flannel for my forehead and a nice cup of tea. I watch him, despondently, as he produces a pair of surgical gloves and eases them onto his hands, momentarily distracted by his need to pick up a day's used tissues from the floor by the bed, his mouth curving into a fastidious sneer as he carries them into the ensuite.
"Louisa you have a sudden onset fever, a crashing headache, and muscle pain." He says tersely, over his shoulder. "I can either examine you now, and hopefully rule out meningitis. Or we can both ignore your symptoms in which case I will probably see you in theatre, in a few days time, when you have developed septicaemia and I'm forced to amputate your extremities…"
His censorious tone strikes me exactly as he intended and, sighing heavily, I give in. I can't be bothered arguing with him and I can't think of a suitable retort so I simply close my eyes and roll onto my back, submitting to his ministrations in a dignified silence. As he slides my tee shirt up over my ribs, the cool air on my hot, clammy skin is almost a relief. It takes only moments for him to complete his scrutiny, his touch deft and light and almost imperceptible. I breath in, and I breath out, on command, and offer no resistance as he rolls me gently onto my side, emptying my burning lungs as he examines my shoulders and back.
"I've finished." He announces as he carefully puts my clothing back into place, and replaces the bed covers far more neatly than they were.
"No rash." He adds, clearing his throat, and I hear the sharp snap of his gloves as he tugs them from his hands. When I eventually open my eyes, he has gone.
So, for the next few days, this becomes our routine. I have little appetite but a powerful thirst and Martin makes it his mission to ensure I am hydrated. I get up to use the loo, but, other than that, I choose sleep; a congested, aching, bleary-eyed denial that the world outside the bedroom exists.
On one of the evenings, when my head is pounding and congested, Martin loiters by my bedside. I have such a hope for some gesture of affection, or the comfort of his soothing hand, unadorned in latex, but instead he clears his throat and suggests, cautiously it might be time to change the sheets. Half-heartedly, I protest that I don't want to get up, so he simply works around me, rolling me from side to side, easily removing and replacing one set of white linen with another. As miserable as I feel, I can't begrudge his skill and I smile at him, weakly, for the first time in what seems like an eternity, but he just looks away, gathering up the bedding and disappearing briskly from the room.
Later in the week, I manage a shower, glancing at my pale grey face in the mirror, noting the dark shadows beneath my eyes, my hair lank, and my fringe haphazard and oily. I spend the day on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, dozing intermittently unable to do much more than read a few columns of the latest Radio Times. When Martin finally arrives home, I'm asleep once again, woken by a touch of my shoulder, my name like a question, his voice low and calm but somehow relieved. He's in his dark blue suit, the one that I love, and I feel that funny sensation in the pit of my stomach, a vague excitement, a tiny thrill at seeing him. I must be improving I think to myself and I stretch, a long, slow smile of relief and recognition on my face. I don't even know what day it is, and it still hurts to breath, but I'm glad that he's home.
"How was your day?" I ask him hoarsely, trying unsuccessfully to clear an irritating rattle in my chest.
"Busy." He replies firmly, glancing around the room. "Are you hungry? I think you should eat, if you can."
Without another word, he disappears and I hear the sound of the fridge opening and closing, drawers rattling, and tins clanking. I picture him, staring at the contents of his kitchen, trying to think of something that might tempt me; something sensible, balanced and healthy. But, the truth is, all I fancy is a bit of toast perhaps with some jam, or marmalade, or maybe just butter alone. But he returns, brisk and confident, as if he's already made up his mind, and I grimace at his suggestion, reaching for a tissue so I can blow my nose.
"Honestly Martin, " I tell him feebly, "I don't even know if I want anything. Don't go to any trouble, please. I'd probably just as soon have a biscuit and a cup of tea…"
He sighs and looks at me despairingly, like a lawyer who knows his client is guilty of some heinous crime and yet he must defend them regardless.
"I still feel lousy. I just want something to cheer me up. " I explain, before he has a chance to reply, as defiant as you can be with a runny nose, a tickly throat and a throbbing sort of lump on your forehead that threatens to erupt into an horrific pimple.
"Louisa," he says, with an air of brittle and tenuous patience. "You haven't eaten for days and your body is trying to fight a nasty infection, a particularly severe case of influenza. Are you sure I can't prepare you with something that will provide at least some form of nutrition?"
"I'm not actually hungry, Martin. I only fancied a biscuit because I felt…I feel rubbish…"
"You know, you really need to start thinking of food as fuel, not merely as a reward." He says wearily, as if he is resigned to yet another one of my foibles driving him to despair.
"Well, perhaps I can't help it?" I say croakily, and I smile back at him now, sensing he is on the back foot. "Perhaps it's just what I've always done…conditioning, you know, a bit of chocolate when I'm studying late, a bit more if I pass my test…and, actually, even before that, when I was really little, my dad used to buy me an ice cream… if he thought I'd been a good girl and done as I was told."
He lifts his chin and appears to contemplate me. I notice his upper lip flicker and then it is still.
"Not many ice creams then?" He replies after a moment, raising his eyebrows like it's a rhetorical question.
Soon afterwards, he brings me my supper and I slump down on the sofa, a mug of tea clutched in unsteady fingers. Apparently the rules about not eating in bed are set in stone, even when there are mitigating circumstances such as having the flu. Sometimes, Martin can be so infuriatingly inflexible and, if I had the energy to flounce away, I absolutely would have. But my limbs are floppy and I feel about as weak and ungainly as a newborn giraffe, so I balance my plate on the vast rolled leather arm of the Chesterfield, and nibble at my toast; whole grain bread, a thin film of butter, and a less-than-generous smear of strawberry jam. After a moment he joins me, holding a glass of water in one hand, and snatching at his trousers with the other, as he lowers himself down at the other end of the enormous seat.
"Are you not eating?" I ask and he shakes his head.
"Umm…not really hungry. " He answers flatly, as if he too is feeling weary. "And it's late. I should go to bed."
I have an idea then, and I wonder if there is anything I can say that might encourage him to return to our room again. I've got so used to him beside me, I feel almost bereft now, being alone. I'm about to suggest it, tentatively, when he covers his eyes with his hand and I notice how he rubs his eyes, discreetly suppressing a yawn that, for some reason, he doesn't want me to see. It feels odd and I realise it's because, although Martin will occasionally say that he's tired, he doesn't often show any sign. After a few minutes of silence, I push myself to my feet and stand in front of him, a bit wobbly and struggling for breath. I honestly have no idea of the hours he has been keeping, or even how long he's been gone when he returns to the flat, and it dawns on me that perhaps I'm being selfish, that he still needs the sleep a coughing and snoring girlfriend would inevitably disrupt.
"I'd ask you to join me but…you know…I'm still really congested…" I say, grimacing apologetically.
He pulls a wry face and inclines his head matter-of-factly, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a pager, holding it in his hand and staring at it, as if he's never seen one before.
"Yes. Of course. And, when this goes off…" he says, wafting the little black gadget in my direction. "..obviously, it will disturb you too… so...umm…well, anyway, it's very important, Louisa, that you get some rest."
"Yes." I reply quickly, feigning brightness. "Of course. Well, goodnight then."
"Goodnight." He replies rather too formally and, as I walk away, I have the strangest sensation that he is watching me, assessing me, perhaps even judging me. As much as I want to, though, I can't bring myself to turn around.
Saturday morning arrives with the dismal realisation that, just as it was when we first started seeing each other, the weekend no longer means anything, leisure-wise, to Martin. I am home alone on a crisp, clear morning, weak sunshine seeping through the windows to the east, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on my bedside table the only proof that he was ever even here. I am not ill enough to be confined to bed, but not well enough to venture outside, not so sick that I can easily sleep, but not yet bright enough to read more than one chapter of my book. The day seems to drag infernally, every boring hour marked by a cacophony of contemptuous clocks. I put a CD on but take no pleasure in listening to it, an attempt at the crossword sees me bugger up the very first two clues I try to solve; I frown at the illegible scribble that has disfigured the puzzle and toss it despondently to one side.
Hunting out the chocolate biscuits occupies a bit of time; devouring half a packet, a little longer. I feel sick then, and a little ashamed, slinking back into the kitchen to put them back where I found them, hoping that Martin won't notice that his kitchen cupboards look like they've been ransacked. The remedy for my upset stomach might be a glass of milk, but I regret that, too, almost instantly, my airways protesting furiously as they fill with an impenetrable, viscous, glue-like substance that threatens to choke me. I wear myself out coughing and spluttering, but propping myself up on the sofa with a pile of pillows enables me to attempt a nap at least. When I eventually wake, confused and light-headed, my mouth is like the bottom of a parrot's cage, and my throat is dry and abraded. Darkness has fallen, my stomach growls like a cornered badger but, most miserably of all, I am still depressingly and frustratingly alone.
It takes a good fortnight for my energy to return and for my cough to eventually clear. Towards the end of the second week, I go back to college, relieved that I haven't missed much. Unfortunately, Martin's days seem to only get longer. He is like an apologetic ghost, gliding in and out of the flat at odd hours, saying less and less, and sleeping whenever he gets the chance. I'm not sure what to make of it and I ask him, tentatively but frequently, if he is okay. Inevitably, he squares his shoulders like I've offended him, and replies briskly that of course he is just fine. And I'm desperate to believe him because I just want everything to be okay. On Saturday morning I discover that, by some miracle, he is home though he is fast asleep. When I hear him get up, I follow the sound, waiting in the spare bedroom for him to return, leaning casually against the wall, a teenager again, dawdling outside the school gates, waiting for her crush to wander past.
Of course, the room is impossibly neat, his clothes hung carefully on hangers, even his discarded shirt laid carefully across a chair. His watch, wallet and pager are arranged by his bedside, along with a half full glass of water, some coins and his trusty travelling alarm clock. The bed itself looks barely slept in and I smile to myself as I recall the self conscious way he used to smooth the bed sheets out across his chest the first few times I stayed the night. He returns, hesitating for a fraction of a second in the door way before walking toward me. Old habits die hard, I think to myself, noticing that once again he has adopted his preference of night attire; a tee shirt and a pair of old man pyjama bottoms, oversized and sedately striped.
"How are you?" He asks and he sounds almost cautious. "…the coughing, it seems to have almost abated?"
"I'm fine, really." I assure him, flashing him a quick encouraging smile. "But glad to see you though..."
He glances at me. "It's been difficult for you…"
"Well, yes, but, sometimes situations arise and you just have to make the best of them, don't you…?"
He lifts his chin and nods but he doesn't move and I feel a flash of frustration. I'm used to his reticence, his childlike shyness and his determined reserve but, honestly, he hasn't laid a hand on me for over two weeks unless it's to inspect me for signs of infectious diseases. I'm not expecting him to throw me down in the bed and have his way with me but a hug might be nice, a bit of affection perhaps. Sharpening my gaze, I take a half a step toward him, willing him to make some sort gesture, to offer some sort of physical response. It seems that, as well as his return to impenetrable night wear, we're back to me always needing to be the instigator; Louisa the seductress. I stifle a mirthless laugh at the thought.
"Actually, I was gonna suggest, you might want to, you know, move back into our room?" I say hopefully. "Now I'm better…"
Just for a moment his expression changes and he looks at me like one of Colonel Spencer's faithful old gun dogs, the one we used to lure from his side with handfuls of cold chips down on the Plat. In the most minute of split seconds, Martin reveals himself to be just as hopeful and eager as that hungry little dog, before his face once more assumes a mask of neutrality.
"Is that what you want?"
"Well, yeah, of course it is." I answer quickly, my tone incredulous. "Why wouldn't it be?"
I put my hand on his chest, seeking out the warmth and confidence he exudes, hoping that he'll draw me in towards him, wrapping me up and holding me tight. But I'm thrown off balance because I realise he feels as if he's made of granite, like a castle keep or a Cornish cliff; hard and cold and scarily remote.
He clears his throat.
"If you recall, you seemed rather upset with me…discovering that I worked over Christmas appeared to cause you a large degree of agitation…which I don't believe was ever resolved."
"Well, yeah because it was really a shock, Martin." I reply, a little defensively. "Frankly, the way you told me, we'll, it was like it was a…a fay…a fade…a fater ….umm"
"A fait accompli?"
"Yes! A fait accompli!" I retort and now I am cross. "And, I don't know, I just think perhaps that's something you might have discussed with me first, that's all. I mean, what did you think I was going to do, day after day and everything closed? Sit here by myself, eating a Terry's chocolate orange and listening to the Queen's speech on the blimmin' radio?"
He looks at me, his face expressionless, like any emotions he possessed have long since abandoned him, and taken his voice too it seems. His mouth, capable of such tenderness, now set in resolute indifference, his hands, always so gentle with me, clenched at his sides. Even with tousled bed hair and a shadowy jaw, informally clad in loose, wrinkled cotton, he seems haughty, icy even, his armour impenetrable.
I sigh, shrugging my shoulders helplessly at him.
"I suppose I just need to know whether it's going to be like this forever, or if this is just a one-off." I tell him wearily. I don't know what else to say.
"Forever?" He replies, and I notice he's frowning now, as if he's perplexed.
I feel a flash of impatience at him then; at his obtuseness, at his inability, or perhaps his reluctance, to grasp what to me seems such a simple concept. Christmas is a time for family, for sharing the celebration with the people you love
"Alright then, Martin, perhaps I'm not explaining myself well…let's just say, next year, or in five years, or even in twenty years time…will I be spending yet another Christmas…you know…alone…because, once again, you'd prefer to be working?"
If I sounded annoyed, I couldn't help it. But the flat seems suddenly silent, even the faint hum of distant traffic seems to have dissipated. Barely half a yard separates us but neither of us moves. He seems frozen to the spot, staring at me with parted lips that move and twitch spasmodically, as if he wants to say something but doesn't know either what or how.
"I don't know…" he replies eventually, frowning in concentration, speaking slowly as if he's trying to make sense of his thoughts. "Twenty years…it's a long time. I mean…I haven't thought that far ahead…"
I wait now, determined not to interrupt because I need to know the answer. I've had weeks to think about it, endless hours to dwell on what seems like one of the saddest, most dismal choices I've ever heard anyone consciously make. More importantly, it made me realise that there was still so much we'd never even discussed, important things like rituals and beliefs, and a life beyond just the two of us and our little bubble in this comfortable flat.
"Have you?" He adds, and his tone is hesitant and cautious, almost like he's frightened of my answer.
And just like that, out of nowhere I am unable to suppress a tiny smile, albeit a self conscious one, glancing awkwardly down at my feet, and then around the room, feeling breathless and strangely exhilarated, like opening your exam results to see that you've passed.
"I'm starting to." I admit, and I feel myself blush.
"Good." He says softly, and in the quiet of the room, even such a peaceful and moderate word seems to become enormous, resonating off the walls, hanging in the air long enough that it seems to become the most vital thing he's ever said.
I don't quite know what to do with myself then, so I sit on the bed. I bounce up and down a few times on the edge, as the enormity hits me, that perhaps we both see a future that we hope is together.
"Is this bed comfy then?" I ask him, still breathless and vaguely giddy. "How's it been to sleep in? Alright?"
To my surprise, faint dimples appear in his cheeks, and he reaches out his hand as if he wants me to grasp it.
"Subtle as a brick." He says, and a gleam returns to his eyes as I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet.
I'm still laughing when he bends to kiss me, until his lips covers mine, his grip just a little firmer than usual, his mouth harder and more insistent.
"I've missed you." He mutters and his hand is around my jaw, kissing me like I've caught him by surprise, as if it's the last thing he'll ever do, perhaps even as if his life depends on it.
Goosebumps ripple across my flesh, the familiar dreamy lightheadedness returns and we tumble backwards, collapsing onto the bed with the sort of insatiable desire they choreograph into certain French movies. I fumble with my shirt, wrenching it over my head, giggling at my own ineptitude as it ensnares both my arms. I'm laughing now, so much I almost can't speak, imploring Martin to help as he props himself up on his elbow to observe, like some casual bystander. But I notice the faint smile on his face, as if he's weighing up his odds, lazily following the curves of my breast with the tip of his finger as he watches me struggle.
Eventually, I free myself, throwing my discarded shirt at him in mock outrage, and it's different after that; making love becomes a leisurely stroll, a to-and-fro match, a dance between two people intent on enticing each other to edge of the cliff. I'm at the point now though where I no longer care about the rules of the game; which one of us conducts our orchestra, who might take the lead in this heated little waltz. The only thing that matters is that I want him now, and I tell him so, groaning his name and petitioning him for relief as my fingers entwine themselves helplessly in the edges of the bed linen.
He pauses then, kneeling over me, staring at me as he so often does, one hand resting on my thigh, the other reaching out to lightly stroke my face. It seems an odd moment for such a gesture, for such thoughtful contemplation, and I start to laugh, a nervous, impatient giggle borne of never quite knowing what is on his mind. Together, like this, his intentions are always very clear, but he seems to be gazing at me even more than earnestly than usual.
"I'm not gonna beg, you know." I tell him, and I laugh again.
"You don't have to." He replies, and he slides his hand up the back of my thigh, easing my knee upwards, encouraging me to curl my legs around his hips.
He moves slowly; it is mesmerising and I shudder, a gasp catching in my throat. I close my eyes and abandon myself to the sensation, the exquisite tension that is building, how powerful he feels, the depths of every stroke. I grip him so tightly now that he mutters an oath or addresses god with every shallow breath. The rhythm is perfect, the sensation incredible and I know it's coming, that delicious flow of heat that bubbles up from my fingers and toes. I cry out his name, urging him on but he doesn't hear me. He couldn't possibly. The room is filled with the shrill, insistent sound of his pager, shrieking for attention from its place by the bed.
He gives an agonised cry, and swears with a vehemence I've never heard him use before, attempting another few half-hearted strokes before collapsing despairingly on top of me, both hands covering his face.
"I'm sorry." He says, and he repeats those words again, several times, as he extricates himself and rolls onto his side.
I watch helplessly as he reaches up awkwardly behind him, and fumbles for the pager, cursing the thing with a pretty impressive command of both French and Anglo-Saxon, and threatening quite plausibly to crush it with his own bare hands. After peering at the screen, I hear him sigh and he apologises again, explaining that he has no option but to attend, the complication being beyond the remit of both the registrar on duty and the consultant general surgeon. In a split second, he is sitting upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and glancing forlornly down into his lap. I notice and, for some reason, the look of utter despondency that flashes across his face makes me laugh, sympathetically.
"Ohhhh!" I say, trying to sound reassuring, leaning over to rub his shoulder affectionately. "It's alright! And there will always be another time, won't there?"
He turns to look at me, agreeing with a short, morose sort of nod, his eyes lingering on me for a moment, rather sweetly full of regret.
"It was going quite well though." He says shyly, after a moment, watching me from the corner of his eye, as if he could possibly need my affirmation.
He must know, having played me like I was a violin for a good ten minutes, with all the skill of Nigel Kennedy warming up the strings of his Stradivarius, and producing perfect renditions of at least two of the Four bloody Seasons.
Going quite well?
For God's sake Martin, my heart is still pounding, my legs are like jelly and we didn't even make it all the way to the end.
I watch him walk away, as naked and graceful as a Greek god carved in honeyed shades of alabaster. Strong young men walk with such unconscious swagger, as if their limbs are coiled springs and their beautifully formed bodies will never let them down. And Martin really is beautiful; so effortlessly muscular and athletic that it's almost a shame that more people don't see that side of him. I think about that for a split second, and then I reconsider, deciding that it's my good fortune to access what is well concealed beneath his soft, well tailored shirts and his legion of bespoke suits.
"Yes, it was…" I call out after him, the laughter obvious in my voice. "It really was going quite well."
Knowing that he can shower, shave and dress in under ten minutes, I drag myself off the bed, gather up my clothes and make my way back to our bedroom. I hear him in the study, ordering a taxi, and from now on, I know that he will be single-minded in his preparation, like it's a time trial and he must beat his Personal Best. I watch him dress, because I like that, though my offer of assistance is declined.
"No thank you, I can manage." He tells me calmly as, one handed, he fits and adjusts his cufflinks, twisting them around at ninety degrees and then examining them carefully to check their positions match.
He runs his fingers over his tie selection, choosing a rather more flamboyant Florentine pattern than I'd usually seen him wear to work. He turns to face me as he ties his perfect Windsor knot, and already I can see he has assumed the serious mantle of the senior consultant. I hold his gaze but his expression doesn't change. He is resolute, focused and calm, and not even the frivolous smirk on the face of his besotted girlfriend will distract him now. He moves to the doorway, the frustration and the disappointment of mere minutes ago apparently long forgotten. He looks every inch the intimidating surgeon as he lifts his chin and gazes down his nose at me.
"Yes Martin?" I say in anticipation, cocking my head at him, my face wreathed in a ridiculous grin.
"Ah, Louisa, " he says briskly, "This Christmas thing…since it seems important to you, umm, perhaps it could be up for discussion…"
And without waiting for my reply, he turns on his heel and is gone.
