The air is hot, and the bay is a stunning crescent of gleaming white sand, as powdery and soft as the finest icing sugar. Before us, a vast horizon, an endless ocean of white caps and sparkling turquoise. The relentless Australian sun has turned Martin's skin to a rich shade of gold. It has bleached his hair to platinum blonde and he stands, bold and self-assured against the tide, his swimming trunks slung low beneath his hips. As a wave breaks over him, he flashes me a smile of almost childlike innocence and I realise he has never looked less out of place.
God, he is beautiful; beads of moisture glisten on his chest and upper arms as he wades through the waist-deep water, the sodden fabric of his shorts clinging to him in all the right places as the wave recedes. Staring distractedly, I squeal as I am broadsided again and this time he laughs, reaching out his arm toward me and pulling me into an enthusiastic embrace. Above us, seagulls reel and cry in the impossibly blue and cloudless sky, and the powerful Pacific roars like a territorial fur seal as it crashes against the shore.
"Jump!" He tells me, as the next wave approaches, and he laughs again as I throw my arms around his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist as I feel his hands grip the tiny bottom of my ridiculously expensive black bikini.
"I've got you." He says as I cling to him, his skin smooth and slippery against mine, his lips tasting of the sea as I steal an opportunistic kiss.
Unlike his mouth, his body is cool and firm, with that effortless strength that a young man's vitality brings him. His flesh puckers as I slide my hands across the breadth of his shoulders, glancing up at him as I lick the salt lazily from his nipple. Neither of us need say a word, it's enough that the beach is empty as he carries me ashore. His mouth covers mine, and I feel his tongue, as sweet and light as lemon coulis, tracing the inside of my upper lip. We're both laughing now, thrilled and helpless as we collapse sideways into the enveloping warmth of the shallows. I feel his hands then, sure and assertive, sliding beneath my swimsuit, as he gazes down at me, eye brow raised, his suggestion wickedly but temptingly clear.
And though I am half-blinded by another thundering wave, I can still see the intent in his eyes. The roar of the breakers is like a pulsating bass, the ocean current tumbles us across the sand, and nothing is more imperative than our need for one another. This is what I always wanted for us; this lightness, this freedom, this gasping, heart-exploding joy. With eager, fumbling fingers, I tug at the drawstring of his board shorts, desperate to free him, as if it liberates us both. I need him right now, beyond all sense, despite all reason, because I know without a doubt now that this is what life always had in store for us. From the first moment I laid eyes in him, this is what I wanted: the two of us and nothing else matters, united by a special sort of understanding, blissfully together in a way that makes my spirits soar like a sea eagle, spiralling to the heavens on a powerful thermal updraft.
"Martin, promise me you'll never leave me." I whisper.
"Leave you?" He asks, gazing down at me, dumbfounded. "Why would I ever leave you? Louisa, you're the best thing that has ever happened to me."
I grin at him then, dizzy and dazed, yet so safe and secure. The tepid sea, the hot wind, the beating afternoon sun; they all combine to envelop me in the warmest and gentlest of embraces. It's like I've been holding my breath my whole life and, as the air is expelled from the very bottom of my lungs, I feel as weightless as gossamer, as airy as a dandelion clock drifting on a summer breeze.
"I really can't wait any longer…." He growls, and his tone is suddenly insistent.
I have longed to see him like this; with his eyes twinkling and his expression almost devilish as he pins my wrists above my head, sliding between my thighs with practiced ease. He says my name then, urgent and low, and, as always, it thrills me. But today it elicits something else as well. I feel buoyant and utterly carefree and, as we gaze at each other, I am overcome by a delicious sort of happiness. I can wait no longer either, and I close my eyes in anticipation of the feeling, that sense of satiation that feels like nothing else on earth.
"Louisa," he says, more loudly now. "I'm sorry but I really do have to go."
Where does he have to go, I wonder, the urgency in his voice irrationally disappointing. I feel his hand on my arm and for some reason he is shaking me, and it's as if I am floating away. The temperature plummets and the sun is obscured by cloud. My eyes jolt widely open and, instantly, as I look around me, I am totally crushed. There is no sunshine, no languid subtropical heat. There are no tiny exquisite shells cartwheeled along the sand by the crystal-clear ocean current, there are no strange and exotic birds screeching in the trees. Sea foam does not sparkle on Martin's biceps, the veins in his arms do not stand out like ropes beneath the unblemished bronze perfection of his skin, rather he stands grey and glassy-eyed beside the sofa, his hair combed flat, and his tie neatly knotted. For a moment it is all just horribly confusing and, as reality hits me harder than the seventh wave, I let out a soft, anguished sort of whimper, forced to watch my delicious dream recede into dismal winterly nothingness.
"Martin…" I mutter, in a daze, swinging my legs off the couch and pushing myself upright, smothering my disappointment, like a yawn, with the back of my hand. "Sorry…I must have…gosh…"
"It's fine." He interrupts briskly as he lifts his chin, standing like a sentry, briefcase in one hand, suit hanger in the other. "It's just that it's three o'clock and…"
"Yes." I say, and I cut him off. "I know. You have to go."
Perhaps I am just resigned to the fact now. I'm not entirely sure. Every time I do start to feel resentful, I remind myself of Bucky, and then I feel a little bit ashamed. The worst thing is I've tried to understand what it is that Martin does every night but, if I try and ask questions, like I did this morning, he seems set on keeping all the details strictly to himself. Even now, as much as I attempt to hang on desperately to the Martin in my dream, the reality is a growing expanse between us, as if he is intent upon keeping his distance; serious, purposeful, and resolutely silent.
"Feel any better?" I ask, tentatively, recalling how uneasy he'd seemed, almost embarrassed, when he insisted on putting himself to bed only minutes after he had walked in the door.
He inclines his head, and grimaces. "I turned the heating up. Just a few degrees but you should find it more comfortable…"
"Thank you." I tell him, momentarily perplexed, and I smile because I don't know what else to do. "Did the nap help then?"
"I'm sorry, Louisa, but I really do have to go."
And then even his kiss feels tense, his jaw muscles taut and unyielding, and suddenly I just feel desperately sad. I want us to be like we were on some imaginary beach in Sydney; passionate and we didn't care who knew it, breathtakingly enthusiastic and unconstrained. The sensation is fading but I do everything I can to hang on to it. I whisper in his ear and assure him that I love him, and I miss him, and that nothing is the same when he's not here. I hear him sigh, I feel him press his mouth to my forehead and suddenly everything might actually be alright again. But then his briefcase collides with my hip as he attempts to pull me into a hug; it doesn't bother me but he jumps back with the speed of a scalded cat. Before I have time to reassure him, he has muttered an apology, made a dash for the door and I am left speechless in his wake.
And it dawns on me then, as I gaze at the wall, how skilled he is at deflecting my questions. It's as if enquiring after his well-being is seen as an insult, perhaps even an accusation of weakness, meaning I end up clearly none the wiser despite there being something obviously wrong.
"You alright?" I'd asked him this morning, as he'd held me so securely I was almost unable to move.
"I wasn't the one sitting in the wardrobe…" he'd replied, and he'd suddenly relaxed his hold.
Smiling ruefully, I'd reached up to touch his cheek again. I'd run my fingers through his hair, stroking his head absently as we'd stood there together, leaning on each other, his breath warm on my skin, his touch light on my waistband. For a moment I thought we'd found some peace and reassurance in the silence, perhaps, you know, a sort of recharge, the reinvigoration you can get from an understanding and consoling sort of embrace. But then he'd cleared his throat, as if he was really quite impatient, as if he'd remembered a million other things it was imperative that he should do.
"Sorry…Louisa, umm…but I really do need some sleep…"
"Oh, okay…I could come with you, if you like…" I said hopefully, and I flashed him a smile. "Just to keep you warm…"
"Keep me warm?"
"Yes, Martin, warm. I don't know, perhaps it's just me but it does feels a bit chilly in here….I just thought it might be…nice…"
"Aahh…" he said, and his pause felt almost interminable before he finally spoke again. "No…umm, best not…"
"Oh…" I replied, hoping he didn't notice how I winced.
"Louisa, please understand…it's almost impossible to, umm, to get any rest at all in the on-call rooms. Of course, installing sound proofing never occurred to the incompetent addlepates responsible for the latest refit, and it's…it's obviously too much to ask that they provide beds in which an adult might comfortably fit…"
It was all I could do to nod in acknowledgment and turn away. Because his rejection had stung. So I'd simply abandoned him to it, but only after watching him for a moment as he began to peel away the layers of his clothing, noticing with concern how he collapsed wearily onto the edge of the bed, snatching clumsily at his tie. Observing Martin without his normal air of command, his invincibility, made him disturbingly vulnerable and, as I watched him, I'd felt both a little bit shocked bit also ridiculously protective. The first thing I did after I closed the door quietly behind me was to march off in search of Mrs. Holm, suggesting to her that she should leave cleaning the rest of the flat for another day. She'd been put-out of course, and I could see it so clearly in her eyes; I was a mere stripling, a pop tart, and barely an adult, so who did I think I was, telling her she should go? But I'd stood my ground and, oddly, it was actually quite empowering. I felt my confidence growing, like this was my flat now, too.
It's dark outside as I wander into the kitchen, in search of the pot noodles I'd hidden, grateful I'd had the presence of mind to stock up earlier in the week. It seems a bit premature to eat supper but I'm ridiculously hungry, and I'm already feeling a tiny bit bored, and alone. The long night stretches out ahead of me and, for some reason, it seems especially melancholy to yet again be cooking for one. I think longingly of Sydney, and the Martin that lifted me clear of the surf, and I can still feel his hands, strong and sure around my ribs. He had been so relaxed, enjoying himself in a way any regular young person might and, god, it had all felt so easy and untroubled, so spontaneous and just totally brilliant really. The residue of it still clings to me and the essence of it still glows, fizzing in the very marrow of my bones. We were just Martin and Louisa, natural and happy, and it didn't matter who saw us; we were just a normal couple doing normal couple things.
It takes me a while but I eventually notice that the flat is unusually quiet. There are no clocks chiming, few are even ticking and that disconcerts me probably more than anything else. I know I'm being selfish, and I realise it is ridiculous but this dreary feeling of isolation only seems to incrementally grow. It's not that I mind my own company, usually, it's not even that I can't usually find enough to keep me occupied, I mean, I've always got lots that I should do. I tell myself it doesn't help that the weather is so dismal, and I reason that I'm such a long way now from college that it's hard to maintain the normal student social life. But the honest truth is, I'd felt like I'd outgrown it, so I fear I've burned a few too many bridges on the way. It had seemed only natural to revolve my life around Martin, and now I'm left with an emptiness I can't imagine anything else filling. I wander off to bed, aching to dream again of Sydney, and a demonstrative Martin, sharing a bottle of champagne, and talking to me all night, as we lie blissfully in one other's arms. I go to sleep clinging desperately to the feeling, the aura of a person who really doesn't exist.
So, you can understand my delight when he's there to wake me, just before seven. I hear my name, and I open my eyes to find him hovering above me, his expression almost vacant as he waits for me to focus, his eyelids heavy and his eyes, pale and grey and bloodshot.
"This is a nice surprise." I tell him sleepily, trying to free my arms from the covers.
"I can't stay long. I…ahh, I brought you something…" he says, and he reaches into his pocket.
"Martin!" I exclaim softly, suddenly as excited as a little girl at her own birthday party.
"Yes, umm…I'm…concerned…about the potential for infection in your burn." He says, and he places a small plastic pot on the bed beside me. "So I picked up some Silver sulfadiazine. And some sterile dressings. I just have enough time to dress it for you while I'm here…"
My heart sinks but, if I show my disappointment on my face, he doesn't notice. Perching on the edge of the bed, he reaches for my wrist, frowning with concentration as he turns my hand over and gently folds back my fingers. He is all confidence again, his movements deft and precise as he tears open the little packets and smears the white ointment delicately across my palm, holding the little applicator stick between his strong enormous fingers
"You're good at that…" I tell him as he winds the bandage smoothly around my hand and wrist, and expertly secures it in place.
He glances up at me sceptically. "It's not an aortic arch aneurysm repair, Louisa, it's a merely a very basic dressing…"
"Still…" I insist. "It's very neat…."
"It's very important that you try and keep it dry. " He says, and his tone is almost dismissive, in a way that's quite deflating.
"Can you stay for breakfast?" I hear myself blurt out, resting my free hand on his thigh in a way I intend to be innocently encouraging yet still which causes him to glance at me sharply.
"Louisa." He replies, and he sighs. "I appreciate that the situation is far from ideal…but please understand…"
And it strikes me now, as I stare back at him, how weary he seems; his eyes look small and almost shrunken, his shoulders slump and, as he reaches up to rub his temples, he seems almost despondent, as if he's actually run out of steam. It's hardly surprising though, is it? I mean the hours he's working, the strain he seems to be under, it just seems ridiculous and, worse still, horribly unfair. But I keep coming back to the thought that, if he really wanted to, surely he could take a few hours off. I feel suddenly desperate for him, desperate for us and I wonder if even if he won't ease up on his workload for himself, perhaps he might reconsider if he knew how it was affecting me.
"But I miss you." I tell him emphatically. "If that makes any difference. And, you know, umm, actually, it's not much fun just being here by myself every single night, if I'm honest. Even the bloody clocks have gone quiet."
Just for a moment, he looks back at me helplessly, his eyes watery and infinitely sad. All I can do is to smile back at him, a dismal, disappointed, rueful grimace, when what I actually want so badly is to throw my arms around his neck and to hang on to him for dear life. I want to hear him whisper in my ear with hot breath and unconcealed desperation; that he loves me, I need to hear him reassuring me that this is just as hard for him. Even if it's just for a minute or so, I just want a demonstrative, affectionate Martin, I want the daring, fearless man who dives headlong into the thundering surf, and surfaces so powerfully that I am lifted from the water, finding myself giggling hysterically, the wet flesh of my thighs squeaking where they sit atop his shoulders.
"Louisa…" I hear him say, resignedly, and the weariness of his voice jars me back to reality.
"Yes Martin?" I reply hopefully, noticing how he sighs so heavily, before he leans in to kiss me lightly on my cheek.
"…Just remember…umm…. that…a plastic bag secured around your wrist with a rubber band will work for showering…it really is very important to keep the wound as dry as possible."
And, with that, he rises to his feet, mumbling an awkward and almost incoherent goodbye. And then he is gone and, the result is, for the rest of the day I have a vague feeling of shame, as if I've been too demanding, as if I'm so pathetic that I'll have everyone thinking I can't fend for myself. And that makes me cross, so I resolve to do better, to be more understanding, more patient and a lot less feeble. So, I call in at the stationers and buy myself a packet of aerogrammes, and I pop in to Sainsbury's and choose something green, healthy and prepackaged for my lunch. Most importantly, I skip my last lecture and get off the tube several stops sooner than is usual, making my way nervously to the lingerie section of an upmarket department store and trying not to gasp as I squint in horror at the prices.
I've got so used to never having much money spare, knowing that I was reliant on the generosity of others, and I suppose being frugal just works it's way into your psyche, doesn't it? But, in this case the expense seems totally justified, imperative even. The snooty, cold-fingered assistant wraps me in her tape measure and pulls it tight, and I walk, self-consciously, to the cubicle brandishing my selection of B-cups. In the end I choose the delicate floral that was Martin's reluctantly-admitted preference, and something called a Gossard Wonderbra which is apparently the absolute best thing since sliced bread was invented.
When I get back to the flat, I am still feeling motivated. I open a bottle of wine and sit down at the kitchen table, staring at the blank blue page, and chewing on my lip. I've received a few aerogrammes over the years and I always thought the hardest part was knowing where to cut them open, so you didn't end up trying to read something that looked like a string of paper dolls. But, in fact, the most difficult thing is trying to fill them, especially when there really isn't much exciting about your life to share.
8-Nov-90
Dear Libby,
Oh my god, I was so excited to get your postcard! That beach looks amazing and it sounds like you are having just the most brilliant time. I'm so happy everything is going so well for you with Matt and everything. That's fantastic news! I'm also just the teensiest bit envious of all that sunshine though! Winter seems to have been going on for too long already and it hasn't even started yet. All it does is rain! I did treat myself the most gorgeous pair of stompy boots from that shop you liked in the King's Road but it's not much consolation really.
I take a sip from my glass, and re-read what I have written, exhaling in dissatisfaction; although I'm grimly determined to do this, I'm not really in quite the best frame of mind. To be honest, I feel like I'm living like a recluse, with little left to counter with when I compare my current state to the glittering excitement of my best friends new and exotic life. Revolving restaurants and seafood platters; sighing, I pick up the pen again.
Are you sure Moreton Bay Bugs are really a type of lobster, it sounds to me like someone was pulling your leg.
I chew on the end of my biro, a habit that Martin frequently chides me for. I hear his voice in my head, horrified and disbelieving, as if my behaviour is not only reckless and appalling, but also threatens all of western civilisation.
"As well as destroying the mechanism, Louisa, it's also highly unsanitary, and…and…potentially dangerous too, should a piece break off and be accidentally inhaled… or ingested."
I close my eyes briefly, and shake my head at the way everything in Martin's life is, at best, a medical risk and, at worst, a potential catastrophe. No wonder he hardly ever relaxes, he's always on alert, anticipating the next potential disfiguring or disemboweling disaster. I glance down at the wad of bandage that encases my hand, realising smugly that it just proves my point. A basic burn that just stung a bit and now I'm wrapped up like Tutankhamen, with strict instructions that I must keep it dry no matter what. Has he ever tried to wash his hair, one-handed, I wonder, or to do the dishes with one arm trussed up in an enormous plastic bag?
Only a few weeks to go until the end of the term, thank god. I was hoping that Martin and I might go to the village for Christmas and stay with his Auntie for a few days, but your suggestion of Sydney has really put the cat amongst the pigeons. It's sounds so tempting but I'd be coming by myself, I think.
Reluctantly I read back what I have written and it sounds happy enough, though I have barely filled one third of the page. I want Libby to know that, if Martin, would join me, I'd be there like a shot. I draw a little sad face like an emphatic bit of punctuation and then I take a deep breath, hovering with my pen above the paper.
Hospitals don't stop for Christmas and Martin unfortunately will have to work. It's such a long way to go, for the few days that he has free and I have to decide whether I'm prepared to go out there on my own to visit you.
But that's not strictly true, is it? Martin hasn't even agreed to any time off; not for me, or Joan, or Cornwall or anywhere. My favourite time of year hangs not only in a sort of horrible limbo, I also now want to be in three blimmin' places at once. The pen clatters to the table and, miserably, I bury my face in my hands. The bandage smells faintly medical, with a slight hint of mayonnaise and conclusive evidence of a soy sauce misdemeanour. With my good hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose, as my eyes threaten to erupt in tears. What if the mad regimen Martin has committed to isn't just a short term prospect? What if I'm still sitting here alone, on Christmas Eve? What if I'm still trudging off to college, feeling sad and abandoned, when the daffodils start to poke through the frozen ground? If these circumstances go on indefinitely, how horrible am I going to feel then?
My little moment of self pity is shattered by the doorbell, a persistent buzzing that is actually something of a surprise, so rarely do we hear it. And it dawns on me too, a little bit grimly, how reclusive I must be feeling if the sound of it makes me jump out of my skin. I dash to the door panel, enquiring hurriedly who it is, anxious about the answer because no one ever visits uninvited, in fact no one ever visits us at all. So it's an enormous relief to hear a friendly voice ask for me by name, and tell me he has a delivery, from that posh electronics shop in Kensington High Street, that place where the walls are painted black and nothing has a price marked on the tag.
"What's this then?" I ask, as he struggles up the stairs, the weight of the carton turning his face to an alarming shade of purplish-puce.
"I'm here to deliver your new telly, love. Philips Matchline thirty three inch." He announces, breathlessly, as I stand with hands clasped behind my head, gazing at him in confusion.
"Did Martin organise this?" I enquire hastily as he places the carton on the Chesterfield, and performs several elaborate stretches in an attempt to limber up.
He pulls a wad of folded paper from the pocket of his cream dust coat, shakes it out dramatically, and peers at it intently.
"If the Martin you're referring to is a Mr. M. Ellingham then he did indeed." He replies cheerfully, flashing me a gap-toothed smile.
"But I've got no idea where to put it or anything." I tell him, and I feel a little panicked. "And, honestly, I don't know the first thing about installing a telly!"
He smiles again, this time more awkwardly, in fact he seems to have trouble just clearing his throat.
"Yes, funnily enough, it, umm, it mentions that you, umm…wouldn't…couldn't…anyway, the good news is your man there has taken the trouble to draw a little diagram, and he paid an extra fifty quid for delivery and installation, so how about I take care of all that for you, sweetheart, while you make us a nice cup of tea?"
I stare at him as I feel a flush of embarrassment colouring my face, searing across my torso, causing my woolly jersey to itch and irritate where it lies against my skin.
"Oh, right." I say, and I feel rather deflated. "How do you have it?"
"Milk and two shoog." He replies distractedly, brandishing a box cutting knife in one hand as he carefully attacks the cardboard, apparently enthused for his task.
Within twenty minutes, I have an large, black, fully functional television at my disposal, located precisely where requested by Martin, to the closest one eighth of an inch. Once he has tuned in all the available channels, I thank the man profusely, yet I barely listen as he details all the innumerable features, and gazes at it with unabashed paternalistic pride. And, when he has gone, I sit on the sofa, with the remote laying loosely in my hand, waves of disappointment sucking away my self-assurance, utter dejection causing the tears to slide helplessly down my face. I'm so ashamed of myself, too, for feeling so unappreciative, and so horribly self-centred, and furious that I can find no way to staunch this self-indulgent weeping.
Later I will add a post script to my letter, telling Libby that it was a touching gift, and a wonderful surprise, making me feel guilty for being a liar too, on top of being the most ungrateful person I know. But for now, I will slip silently into an enormous empty bed, alternating between abject despair and a fury so intense that I simply cannot get to sleep. That he believes I might be placated by a telly is upsetting, that he thinks it might just shut me up makes me too incensed for words. So, by the time yet another grey, gloomy morning rolls around, I've made a few decisions, and as I drink my generously sugared tea, the first thing I do is place a call.
