After a closer inspection I was relieved to discover that, despite a few breakfast dishes haphazardly piled into the sink, the kitchen is cleaner than I feared it might be. However, other than salt and pepper, the cupboards prove completely devoid of any of the ingredients I have decided that I need. As I search, I make a mental list and, as I do so, it dawns on me that it was fortunate that, having recently lunched together, I'm now aware of at least some of Louisa's food preferences. It is useful, I will choose accordingly and hope that I might encourage her to eat at least one balanced meal for the week.
It is a relatively quiet Sunday morning, and many of the larger shops are closed but, in the square, I discover a small but well stocked fruit and vegetable stall, and a European style cafe/delicatessen where I select a small wholegrain loaf, some large free-range eggs and a pound of cold-smoked salmon. The shop assistant also helpfully directs me to the location of a seven-day chemist where I make several purchases, before I make my last stop: a small, old fashioned grocers.
For my own piece of mind, the first thing I looked for on the congested shelves were rubber gloves, and I'm relieved they have a suitable style in an extra large size, after which I walk up and down the unfamiliar rows, assembling a selection of fundamental elements with which I hope to create an appetising and nutritious lunch.
Consequently, I am rather heavily-laden as I walk briskly down the road, admiring the dignified terraces of stuccoed, late Georgian homes that rise up elegantly around me. As I listen to the fast, rhythmic sound of my footsteps I can't help but examine my motivation for the mission I find myself on. This time, I'm not fulfilling any sworn promise to my Aunt to be kind, nor am I assuming, however briefly, a burden of responsibility because, morally, it is the right thing to do. As usual, when I try and delve more deeply into my own thoughts, I'm met by a vague feeling of shame and discomfort so, even if I wanted to, I'm not sure I can identify what it is that tempts me even slightly to venture out from the safety of my solitary, well-ordered detachment.
Then there are the highly disturbing sensations I noticed this morning which appeared only to be due to Louisa's proximity to me. I can't recall ever experiencing this jittery nervousness, this vague excitement, or anything akin to the heightened physical awareness I have of everything about her. I feel as if I am on a precipice, inching closer to the edge, or a child staring at hot coals, wondering what it would feel like to reach out and poke a finger into their mesmerising glow, too nervous to proceed but too entranced to turn away.
Once again, I hear the familiar, cautionary voice in my head, and it reminds me that it's highly unlikely, in a city the size of this one, and with a woman as desirable as she is, that Louisa does not have many other admirers, all of whom would have a great deal more to recommend themselves than I do. While I do concede that to be true, I can't help but point out to myself, somewhat defensively, that it's actually me making sure that she is taken care of this morning. There's no evidence of anyone else giving up their day off to make her lunch and ensure she has a supply of appropriate analgesics on hand. Now, the jeering voice chimes in, suggesting my motives are less-than-honourable and pointing out, because it is me, and I am who I am, I am doomed to fail. I feel my jaw clench as my face forms into an angry scowl and I experience the fierce burn of my self-administered scorn. As I approach her flat, fear has the last say, reminding me in an admonishing tone that there is no evidence of my feelings being requited, nor are they ever likely to be. I close my eyes and let the self-contempt wash over me, in the vain hope that perhaps it will fortify my resolve when I step back inside Louisa's house.
When I finally reach her door, after setting my collection of bags on the pavement, I remove the rubber gloves from their packaging and slip them on. They are bright yellow and look incongruous paired with the sobriety of my suit but it is the only way I am comfortable touching the horrifying and repulsive door mat; holding my breath, lifting one corner and groping gingerly underneath it until I locate the front door key. Letting myself in as quietly as I can, I first place the perishable items into the refrigerator and then I walk tentatively down the small hallway towards Louisa's room.
Perhaps I am more acutely aware of my surroundings than most, but I can't imagine that this flat is a comfortable place to be when one is ill. Dank and gloomy, with a faint odour of drains, it reminds me of some dreadful location Chris Parson attempted to drag me off to in our early days of Med School; I recall an appalling student party and his hope of a liaison with some disinterested girl who was, much to his frustration, beyond persuasion, no matter how hard he tried. Despite his mediocre success rate, he would still have seen the inside of more women's bedrooms than I had, yet another contributing factor to my current awkward pause as I stand by her door.
Just as I remember from her Port Wenn cottage, Louisa has attempted to make her bedroom somewhat welcoming. It's clean, though not especially tidy, and it smells pleasant; light and floral, and somehow more airy than the rest of the house. Glancing in, I can see that she is asleep, once again on her side, appearing tranquil and disconcertingly innocent, with both hands clasped almost angelically beneath her cheek. It is quite a marked contrast to the facial expressions I have come to most identify with Louisa and I find myself unable to look away. After the briefest moment, I suddenly feel as if I am trespassing, so I pull the door gently closed and go back to the kitchen, to focus my mildly disturbed mind upon making a lunch that might tempt her.
The most difficult task is determining how the cooker functions; once I have that sorted, the rest of the preparation is straightforward. There is a toaster but the frayed cord concerns me and I decide to err on the side of caution. I locate the tea pot, and I set it aside while I turn the toast over under the grill. I glance at my watch. It's well after eleven.
I toss the spinach leaves into the small frying pan and lightly sauté them, turning them out onto the plates before adding the mushrooms I prepared earlier, and the salmon omelette from the larger pan. I am about to add the boiling water to the teapot, when I notice movement in my peripheral vision and, surprised, I turn around.
Louisa is standing a few feet away, waif-like and pale, wrapped in a short, pale, silky robe that she clutches tightly across her chest. Still only half awake, she smiles tentatively and walks toward me seemingly bent on inspecting what I am doing.
"Smells nice." She says, coming into the tiny kitchen and standing beside me somewhat awkwardly.
"Good." I reply, focusing intently on pouring the tea. I fetch the milk from the refrigerator and I notice that her face has assumed a slightly impudent expression. She looks at me sideways and retrieves a canister of sugar from a shelf above the sink, liberally spooning it into the cup she has claimed for herself.
"Really?" I grumble, as I watch in disgust. "Do you know that diabetes is the leading cause of non-traumatic Lower Extremity Amputation?"
She glances across at me with an innocent expression and begins to stir her tea thoughtfully.
"No, Martin, I did not know that." She says, and our eyes meet "Did you know that the leading cause of me being a bit grumpy is when someone tries to make me drink tea without sugar?"
"Hmmmph" I say, turning away to see to the toast. "Your funeral."
She opts to eat in the living room, sitting cross legged on the couch and balancing the plate precariously on her lap. Judging by the way she clears her plate, the meal has been a success; she even admits to liking the addition of the feta to the omelette and I can see that almost instantly colour is returning to her face. Judging by her more cheerful demeanour and the way her side of the conversation is flowing, she must be feeling better.
She asks me where I live and, to my surprise, I tell her without hesitation. Unprompted, she tells me that she is remaining in London for the summer; that she starts a new job on Tuesday, employed as in-home tutor for a boutique agency. I am more than happy to listen, enjoying the way her face lights up as she speaks, content just to listen to her effervescent speech patterns, delivered in her warm, joyful, melodic way.
I am relieved that she is feeling better prior to beginning her summer job and I tell her so, even though I struggle to get the words out and, as I hear myself speak, I seem wooden and stilted. Desperate to retreat to my area of comfort, I ask if she now needs any pain relief. I am mildly surprised when she declines my offer and so I toss the packages at her and tell her to put them somewhere safe for next time, in case I can't be around to provide them. She thanks me politely and when I glance across at her I see that she is looking at me with a strange expression on her face. She never did like being told what to do, I recall.
After we clear the plates away, she suddenly excuses herself and, as I fill the sink with hot water, I suddenly remember her watch. As I enter her room, I hear the toilet flush upstairs and, as I reach underneath her bed to reclaim the paper bag, my hand brushes something soft and deliciously silky. Without thinking, I pull it towards me and I find myself staring at a dark blue and shiny under garment, the fabric of which seems impossibly smooth and sleek. Realising that I am inadvertently fondling Louisa's lingerie, I swallow hard and quickly put it back where I found it; snatching at the paper bag and hurrying back to the living room. By the time Louisa returns, I have regained my composure by removing my jacket, rolling up my sleeves and plunging my hands into the hot soapy water of the sink.
She greets me with a grateful smile and, as she reaches for the tea towel, I see that she has noticed the paper bag and her face has now assumed an enigmatic expression. I watch her surreptitiously from beneath my brows but I say nothing because, for some reason, I seem to be enjoying her hesitancy, and her almost childlike anticipation.
After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of crockery and the the gurgling of the drains as I pull the plug out, she can no longer help herself.
"What's in the little bag?" She says airily, feigning disinterest.
I don't reply and instead focus intently on unrolling my sleeves and securing my cuff links.
"Martin?" She asks again.
I glance at her as I slip my jacket back on and she stares at me as I fasten the buttons.
"Hmmm?" I say, relishing the brief and unusual opportunity to see her relinquished of her usual control.
"I think I know what it is." She says, ignoring me, and starting to twirl a lock of hair absently around her finger.
"Do you?" I ask impassively, and I raise an eyebrow at her enquiringly.
She wanders back into the living room and I follow, observing her blandly as she sits down on the sofa, leans back and pointedly crosses one leg over the other, fixing me with her penetrating stare and folding her arms.
"You're not teasing me are you? That's not a very nice thing to do, is it, to someone who's sick?" She says, as the slow, insolent smile returns.
I am defeated before I even start. I would hold my own against some of the sharpest wits in the world of medicine but, instantly, before Louisa and her eviscerating stare, I surrender. Cautiously, I extend my arm and lower the bag onto the sofa beside her. She smiles at me for a second, knowingly and perhaps even triumphantly, before seizing upon it like a child at Christmas.
I'm pleased to see that she at least pauses momentarily to admire the box. Though it wasn't particularly expensive, in my opinion, it is a work of art; of such delicate fineness that it deserves appreciation and I'm gratified that Louisa seems to recognise that.
"What a lovely little case!" She says and her delight sounds genuine. "Did you buy it especially?"
"Mmm" I say and I feel myself enveloped bodily by a self-conscious blush.
I don't know why, but I find myself holding my breath as she gently prises the lid open. I'm torn between the pleasure of observing her face as she discovers that her father's gift is now fully operational, or running terrified from the room such is the alien feeling of something indescribable that now floods through me.
As she gazes at the watch, her eyes are wide and disbelieving and, as she looks up at me briefly, I see tears begin to well up. Her lashes darken from the moisture and a drop rolls slowly down her cheek as she bites her lip and swallows hard. I feel an unfamiliar panic arise . Though I do know something of tears, in my case, it is only the hurt, frustrated or fearful variety I am familiar with. As I watch her lip tremble, I can't bear to imagine I've caused her any of those.
Then, just as quickly, a slow incredulous smile starts to spread across her face and I realise that Louisa's tears are those of the airport arrivals lounge, the Registry Office or the maternity waiting room. She weeps for joy and I am flooded with relief. I feel the encouraging sensation that I have achieved something worthwhile; despite her illness and her exhaustion, and despite the fact that I know myself to be a difficult and unlikeable man, even if just for the briefest of moments, I have made Louisa happy.
"Martin, it's beautiful." She says softly, and her voice catches with a sob. "I don't know what to say."
She is crying again, openly now and, as heavy tears roll down her pale cheeks, it is almost as though I feel the need to comfort her. I take an involuntary step forward before thinking better of it and reaching into my pocket for a handkerchief, which I proffer awkwardly.
"Don't, ummm, don't cry, Louisa." I hear myself say, relieved to detect a cool professionalism in my voice which doesn't reflect the flash of anxiety I am experiencing. "It will only lead to inflamed sinuses, and neck and shoulder tension, potentially, ummm, causing a flare of your migraine."
She looks up at me with what seems like surprise; even as she weeps she is still so beautiful. Suddenly, a sweet smile flickers across her face, transforming it but, as she takes the handkerchief from me, there is a particular look in her eye and I am reminded of a tiny Port Wenn cottage, and a waif-like, mercurial teen who challenged me at every turn.
"Thanks Martin, I'm sure that's very sensible advice." She says, dabbing at her eyes and slipping my handkerchief into the pocket of the dressing gown she is wrapped in.
"Mmmm." I reply, clasping my hands behind my back, unable to prevent myself from staring self consciously into the distance.
Before I realise what is happening, she is on her feet and beside me; sliding her hand up my lapel and stretching, tentatively, to kiss my cheek. Her face is so close to mine that I feel the warmth of her breath, delicate and feather-light, against my skin. The gentle pressure of her hand on my chest leaves me with a pleasant imprint of warmth, and the softness of her lips as they brush my cheek causes a dreamy, languid sensation to flow through me; gentle and, surprisingly, comforting.
I stand immobile, rooted to the spot, with my arms rigid at my sides, aware of the faint twitch of my fingers as I inhale the delicately scented air that surrounds her. For a disconcerting moment, it is as if an invisible barrier has been broken down, an outer wall breeched. For so long I have avoided the touch of others; conditioned like a beaten animal to assume violence at their hands rather than solace, and to expect hurt instead of comfort. Yet now, I revel in her closeness and it feels nothing short of divine.
She softly murmurs her thanks into my neck, before sliding away from me, but her hand lingers momentarily on my arm and I have the brief sensation of anticipation. Again, the temptation to pull her to me is intense but I remind myself firmly that she is unwell and that my behaviour would not only be totally inappropriate but undoubtedly very unwelcome to someone recovering from the misery of a stress-induced migraine. Not for the first time since Louisa and I were reintroduced, I sternly remind myself to maintain my composure and self control.
There's a moment of silence as we stand awkwardly in front of each other. Louisa looks up at me thoughtfully and then, retrieving some sort of elastic band from around her wrist, without even looking, she gathers her hair in a sweeping motion, and fixes it on top of her head in a loose, rather fetching bun.
Smiling hesitantly, she slowly holds the box out toward me.
"Would you mind?" She says as I take it from her.
She turns her back to me and, loosening her dressing gown, she twists her shoulders so the garment slides languidly down her upper arms, allowing me unfettered access to the soft nape of her neck.
I swallow hard as I feel my heart rate increase and, not for the first time, I'm grateful for my exceptionally steady hands. I slide the choker from the red lacquered container and, holding it across the palm of my hand, I pass the box to her and slip the chain genty across the front of her throat.
"It, umm, it is designed to sit a little higher than I believe you wore it previously." I say. "I just need to...umm...there is some adjustment here...just, umm, just bear with me while I see...if...I can..ummm...there."
The placement of the links do allow for a shortening or lengthening of the chain but, for some reason I struggle with the catch. As conscious as I am of trying not to touch her, it proves impossible and I seem to have the greatest control over my fumbling fingers by momentarily resting the heels of my hands on the inside edges of her shoulder blades. The distraction of her soft skin, her elegant neck, and the loose tendrils of hair that hang so alluringly about it, is disconcerting and I hope she can't hear how heavily I am now breathing. As I struggle, I feel a wave of relief as the catch snaps in to place and I step away rapidly, horrified at the effect having her body, even so fleetingly, pressed against mine, elicited.
She turns to face me.
"What do you think?" She says, her face slowly transformed by a hopeful smile.
I don't know what to say. The locket sits perfectly at the base of her throat and, with her hair up, she looks different. Older, more sophisticated possibly but, truly, she is so beautiful she could wear a horse brass around her neck and still make it look elegant.
"Yes. Mmmm. Good." I say, helplessly after a moment of feeling frozen with fear.
"I'm going to look in the mirror." She says, almost exuberantly, and rushes from the room.
When, after a few minutes, she hasn't returned, I cautiously walk down the short, gloomy hall, and tentatively call out her name.
"Sorry Martin, I'm in here." I hear her reply and I pause in the doorway of her tiny cramped bedroom. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection and I notice that she has removed her dressing gown and it sits around her waist in folds. She is now clad only in her nightgown and, even though it's not particularly revealing or risqué, seeing her in her bedroom, somewhat scantily clad, provokes a feeling of intimacy that I'm not quite ready for.
Turning away quickly, I mutter something vague about the time and having something important to do. Before she has time to answer, I call out a strangled goodbye and without waiting for her response, I hurl myself through the front door and stride as briskly as I can towards the main road and the safety of a taxi.