"Ostensibly," Fitzroy intoned, somewhat mournfully. "Kit Wood presents the rather touching scene of a fisherman in the act of saying good-bye to his family."
I notice Louisa's stare intensify as she takes a step closer to the easel. 'The Fisherman's Farewell' is an oil, significantly wider than it is tall, and the colours, in my opinion, are muted and cheerless. Personally, it seems devoid of the charm and naïveté so obvious in the other pieces that appeal to her, but she seems to be drawn towards it, almost hypnotically.
"This work was painted in 1928, shortly after Wood's first meeting with Alfred Wallis, and we can clearly see Wallis' influence in the primitive style and the distorted perspective."
I hear her sigh deeply and I'm surprised to see that she has wrapped both arms around herself, as if she were cold. It's only the fact that she bites at her lip wistfully, that alerts me to the fact that something is wrong.
"Compositionally, in the quieter background to the left, we see fishermen about to set sail, which balances the more dramatic background to the right, where, once again, the lighthouse reminds us that we are in St Ives."
Louisa's hand goes to her chin; I'm mystified by her reaction and how disconcerted she seems by Fitzroy's explanation, and I briefly wonder if there's an hormonal explanation for her heightened emotional state.
I watch as he bends slightly, his ageing body stiff and unwieldy, as he peers closely at the painting, his brow wrinkling thoughtfully.
"As no doubt you are aware, Louisa, the life of a fisherman was exceedingly dangerous but it was one of the only ways for a man to provide for his family as, even if you owned land, the harsh climate and rocky coastal landscape provided little possibility of farming profitably. Life was perilous; if you weren't a fisherman, you were a tin miner, equally as likely to suffer injury or death in the pursuit of a livelihood."
She nods and I'm alarmed to see that there is a hint of a welling tear in her eyes. I think of Auntie Joan's farm, and Uncle Phil's premature death, and the haggard, pinched faces I recall from my visits to Port Wenn. For all it's beauty, the Cornish coast has truly been a harsh mistress.
"History tells us that the prevailing industries of fishing and mining were both on the decline and so Woods has presented to us, not merely a tender family portrait but also a commentary of societal and economic change, and the inescapable financial hardship which was the way of life for the working poor. The mother, cradling her child, understanding that her husband risks his life in order to what is necessary to support them, rendered more poignant by both of them knowing it may be the last time they see each other."
Louisa half turns toward me, her expression forlorn, and I'm horrified to see a large tear roll down her cheek. I retrieve my handkerchief from my pocket, holding it in front of her until she takes it from me, reluctantly, and dabs at her face. I watch as she struggles to collect her thoughts, biting her lip rather brutally, and blinking rapidly as if to focus more clearly. For a moment, she is again the temperamental, sensitive teenager I first encountered, as tempestuous and unpredictable as the Cornish sea she now misses so profoundly. I find myself not that unchanged either, as I struggle with my own ineptitude, unable to discern a suitable response to her obvious distress. After a moment, she composes herself enough to speak.
"The mother..." She asks, her voice hesitant, and flattened by sadness. "Would you say her hair is red?"
As she speaks, she shudders, making a quiet, gasping noise, and I feel slightly panicked, unsure of what to do. Something has clearly upset her and I wonder if I should be reassuring her and, if so, what should I say? The recent memory of the comfort I have felt from her squeezing of my hands encourages me, but hers are balled as fists, and clasped tightly in front of her mouth, which makes a similar response from me both awkward and ungainly. In the end, I take a self conscious step towards her and place my hand, tentatively, around the back of her arm. Her skin is smooth and warm, and I'm relieved when she lifts her head and gives me a grateful, if somewhat pensive, smile.
"Are you alright?" I murmur, bending over closer to her ear, baffled by what has caused her to be so upset, and rather concerned that the evening is about to go off the rails completely.
I glance across at our guide by he is still engrossed, hands on hips, staring fixedly at the painting. Relieved that his attention is elsewhere, I run my fingers lightly up and down the back of Louisa's arm and surprisingly it seems to distract her enough that she shakes herself out of whatever was causing her sudden funk, lifting her head and inhaling deeply.
"Sorry." She replies, dropping her hands away from her face and raising her eyes, glassy with tears, up at me. "Silly really."
Crying women have always made me uncomfortable. In my professional capacity, when I am placed in the unfortunate position of having to impart bad news, that particular outpouring of emotion is probably the one I find most difficult to respond to. I gaze down at Louisa, once again astounded by her inherent, unwavering loveliness; even her countenance being so melancholy has had the affect of transforming her expressive mouth into a rather captivating pout, and her long eyelashes are rendered even darker by the damp vestiges of her tears. Seeing her, somehow so delicate and vulnerable, causes a flood of confounding feelings within me and I glance across at Fitzroy, hoping he either rather promptly recommences his discourse, or finds a reason to bugger off out of the room.
"Mmm." I say, helplessly, feeling woefully inadequate, as my face creases into a concerned frown. Perhaps, later, when we are alone, I will ask her to explain to me the cause of her distress but, for now, I satisfy myself by piloting her by the arm, turning her gently back toward the easel and positioning myself closely behind her shoulder.
Fitzroy recommences his talk, this time describing the tragic suicide of the artist at the age of only thirty and, as I feel Louisa begin to tense again, I'm starting to think that the viewing should be promptly brought to a close. I clear my throat loudly and, fortunately, he glances across at me and pauses, so I hastily redirect him to the last, and largest, of the works on display.
"Aah, yes, Henry Moore. Catspaws Off The Land 1885. Not the Henry Moore, you understand, but a well respected marine and landscape painter nevertheless..."
I hear him say that the scene could be in Devon or it could in Cornwall, the exact location is lost in the midst of time, but I'm now no longer paying attention. Instead I cast a glance around the room, roughly counting the as-yet unviewed works on display, and quickly calculating that we face an impossible task. Fitzroy, rather aggravatingly, seems to have become over involved in his thoughts and, seemingly, carried away by the occasion; like many speakers I've had the misfortune to have to listen to over the years, he also seems rather too enamoured by the sound of his own voice.
I see Louisa's empty champagne flute and I make the extremely uncharacteristic decision to refill it. As I hand it to her, she flashes me a surprised look but I'm glad to see the return of a little bit of insouciance in the smile that she rewards me with. As our lecturer briefly pauses for breath, stepping back from the easel, and rubbing his chin thoughtfully, I ask Louisa rather loudly, if she would like any cheese. I hear her utter an amused and slightly disbelieving snort but she follows me to the corner of the room, standing peaceably beside me as I point at the various selections with the cheese knife, and either nodding in agreement or declining with a shake of her head. There is rather too much soft cheese for my unilateral approval but Louisa seems delighted by the prospect of runny Camembert, creamy Stilton and quince jelly. I add a generous handful of grapes to her plate, she smiles at me warmly and makes her way back toward Fitzroy who has finally noticed that we had removed ourselves to the other side of the not insubstantial gallery, and stopped talking.
As I choose my own selection; a few slithers of a stout cheddar, some crumbly Red Leicester and a small wedge of bitey Dorset Drum, I hesitate over the Stilton,but before I can make up my mind, there is a loud, hollow sounding bang and one of the huge entry doors is pushed fractionally open. I glance up and, to my horror, there stands Fitzroy's dreadful wife, whose name I have forgotten but whose modus operandi I have not. I experience rather a strong pang of aggravation that she has the shameless affront to join our private viewing without invitation, a sensation shortly followed by the feeling that I am, in some way, cursed and that despite all my best efforts my plans are always to be upended, and my privacy always interrupted.
The worst thing is that she hasn't acknowledged her husband at all or, seemingly, even noticed Louisa's presence. She makes a beeline toward me, twittering inanities and gesturing theatrically, and I glance across at Louisa who gives me a questioning look as she watches on, her face assuming an expression I have seen before but can't place. Just as the woman approaches, I sidestep her deftly and retreat to the other side of the table before she can lay a heavily bejewelled hand upon me. Without pausing for breath, she follows me, finally greeting Fitzroy with rather less enthusiasm than she showed me and, as my longer strides return me rapidly to Louisa's side, I'm relieved to see my relentless pursuer stopped, momentarily, in her tracks.
She stares at us both and, without skipping a beat, her face assumes a brittle smile; and I watch in astonishment as still she attempts to approach me, arms outstretched. I fervently hope that Louisa will understand my cowardice as I slip in behind her and use my free arm to position her between the wretched woman and myself, somewhat like a human shield. I hear Louisa introduce herself, and I detect a terse element to her tone. I'm silent as they exchange insincere pleasantries, gingerly reaching out and placing my plate of cheese, untouched, on the table behind me, cringing inwardly as the awful woman waxes lyrical; embarrassingly and hyperbolically describing my surgical skill as if I'd performed a heart transplant, using only a knife and fork. Even Louisa falls into a stunned silence and, as if she understands my fear and apprehension, she slips her arm through mine and leans into me. I have to admit that the discomfort I would normally feel at such a public display is completely assuaged by both the relief at the effectiveness of her tactic, and the strangely pleasant feelings it evokes in me as I realise I don't at all mind what I hope is perhaps a demonstration of possessiveness.
Behind us, the door creaks open again and this time it's the fatuous buffoon who welcomed us earlier, shuffling in obsequiously, with his shameful shoes and his genuflecting gait. Now, though, I really have had enough; I glance at my watch and decide categorically that it's time to leave. Louisa looks up, surprised but not disappointed, and she grins at me impishly as she reaches for her replenished champagne flute and empties it in one deft swallow. Fitzroy grasps my hand and we shake affably; he, secure in the knowledge that he has secured two new Private Members, and a reasonably generous donation to the Tate coffers and, me, merely relieved that it is over, that Louisa has forgotten her tears and that his voracious wife has been thwarted, and forced to keep her grubby, wandering hands to herself.
If I weren't so keen to rapidly put distance between myself and the marauding strumpet upstairs, the gloomy corridors and deserted vestibules might have otherwise tempted me to linger briefly. There is something about Louisa's closeness, her energy, her soft, feminine presence beside me that makes me seriously contemplate pulling her into one of the deep, dark doorways and seeing if I can't immediately elevate both our moods. But, as tempting as that idea is, as usual, I cannot summon the courage and so I content myself with, for a precious and private few minutes, feeling her hand in mine.
I find myself distracted and, uncharacteristically, I'm not really paying attention to where we are going. After a few wrong turns, wandering along dusky, echoing hallways only to find ourselves up against locked doors and dead ends, outcomes that I find frustrating but that merely seem to amuse Louisa and restore her spirits to their previously buoyant levels, we eventually find our way outside. The evening is still pleasant enough and we stand momentarily beneath the grand front entrance, looking out toward the Thames through a portico of Corinthian columns. The sun is low in the west, and dazzling as the trees along the river are dramatically backlit to great affect. Overwhelmed tourists mill around in indecisive groups as joggers and recreational cyclists weave in and around them, the obligatory hum of traffic providing the endless backing track to this theatre of a meandering populace.
At the top of sweeping steps, she looks across at me before reaching for my hand.
"Martin, that was totally brilliant. Thank you so much." She holds my gaze, smiling at me and, when I can't find any words, she gives an encouraging nod of her head.
"Mmm." I reply, staring at her as I try and formulate the meaningful response I know she is waiting for. "I'm glad...ahh...that you found it..umm...worthwhile."
She rewards me with a look that even I, obtuse, perplexed, emotionally-stunted Martin Ellingham, can tell indicates that my plan for the evening has been well received. I feel sure that I detect a longing in her eyes, a smouldering urge at least equal to my own and the realisation sends a ripple of excitement through my body. If I were a less cautious man, less risk-averse and less of a coward, I would hail a taxi and we would bypass the restaurant and return directly to the comfort and privacy of my own flat. But, despite my many other personal failings, irrationality and impulsiveness are not part of my make up and so I am prepared to wait, and even perhaps to enjoy, the mysterious and delicious air of anticipation that seems to exist between us now.
"I have to say, that woman was a bit odd." Louisa says, thoughtfully, with a wry smile. "Are all your patients that grateful?"
"God nooo!" I reply, a little too vehemently. "That was simply excruciating. I'm sorry."
She lets out an amused snort.
"No, it's fine, Martin, actually I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I haven't, you know, really given much thought to your work."
"Why should you? It's, umm, it's just my job. There's no reason for you to find it interesting."
"Yeah, but, it isn't just a job, is it? You're actually saving people's lives..."
"Not every surgery is lifesaving, Louisa." I interrupt, feeling suddenly self conscious, and desperate to deflect her attention. "Some people, well, let's just say I make them marginally less ghastly, that's all."
She laughs again and pulls me toward the road, declaring she wants to walk part of the way along the river so I, of course, acquiesce and we dodge in and out of traffic until we make it to the safety of the other side. I slow my normal pace to hers and she bounces joyfully alongside me, squeezing my fingers for emphasis and smiling up at me as she speaks. I wonder if she understands how big a step this is for me, walking hand in hand with her in broad daylight. I have no choice, I either resist the contact and risk more upset or, worse still, I am forced to explain my pathological need for privacy to her, revealing my most deeply hidden fears, displaying my fragilities and exposing my weaknesses. While I'm sure the day will come when Louisa can no longer ignore how flawed and unlikeable I am, at the moment she is like the late summer sun and I just want to bask in the warmth of her for as long as I can.
So, I ignore my discomfort, focusing instead on her contagious enthusiasm, silently relishing her obvious delight at the artistic wonders revealed to us within the towering walls of the Tate's Grand Saloon. By the time we arrive at the restaurant, I realise that she's spent the entire time clinging to me, touchingly, with an almost childlike eagerness and, not only have I forgotten my initial discomfort but, now, as she relinquishes her grip and we part ways in order to slip more easily between the tightly packed tables, I feel almost bereft at the physical separation.
Dinner is a blur. We share a bowl of warm olives which Louisa likes, and an antipasto platter which she partakes of equally enthusiastically, her only ambivalent response being a reluctance to even try the pickled onions; mercifully in view of my anticipation of what the rest of the evening might hold. Between us we drink a large carafe of water, as I enjoy a simple yet well prepared fish of the day, with grilled vegetables, and Louisa has a dozen Cornish scallops, smiling at me endearingly as she needlessly apologises for the predictability of her choice.
Before we have even finished our course, she is stifling a vigorous yawn, looking relieved at my suggestion to skip coffee and to call a taxi for the last leg of her journey home. For a moment, I feel rather disappointed but then it's clear that she's insisting that I join her in the taxi, promising to make me a cup of tea and swearing black and blue that no one else will be at her flat, other than us. I really detest her flat, and its unrelenting attack on my olfactory senses. I hate the dismal peeling paint and the gaudy carpet. I hate the strip lighting, the shabbiness and the neglect but, most of all, I hate the fact that her tiny, airless, cheaply furnished room, with her impractically small, child-sized bed, is the only space in the world she can actually call her own. But I agree to join her because, as we sit on the bench outside the restaurant, in the coolness of the late dusk, though she pretends to silently scan the side street in which we wait, I feel the delicate weight of her hand on my thigh, tracing the inside seam of my trousers with gentle, mesmerising circular motion.
I'm almost relieved when the taxi arrives, though watching her clamber into the back doesn't help my slightly inflamed state and I do have a sudden feeling that it was probably wiser to have bade her good night and fled to my own flat rather than run the gamut of horror her own home provides. I do sometimes find it difficult to ascertain when Louisa is serious or when she merely entertains herself by teasing me but, even in the poorly lit gloom of the back seat of minicab, I recognise the Mona Lisa like smile on her face, the insolent twist about the corners of her lips, the way she glances at me sideways, always checking for a reaction, always searching for a rise. In a way I understand it. I'm a dour, humourless individual and she is bright and funny and energetic; I must seem so stuffy to her I suppose, a really easy target for her mirth, taking myself so seriously, a boring and turgid mind in a young man's body.
These thoughts fill my mind for the short trip to her flat and, to my infinite relief, her promise that we would be alone seems to have been genuine. Once again, the stuffiness assaults us as she pushes against the front door, and I feel a flash of frustration. The key is left under the door mat but they can't open any windows? But Louisa is either oblivious or unconcerned, making her way through the unlit living room and flicking on the kitchen lights, pausing for a few seconds as the fluorescent tubes flicker and ping, and suddenly burst into life, imbuing the room with a sickly glow.
I watch her as she fills the kettle, and I watch her as she reaches up to the tea caddy above the sink, scooping the loose tea into the teapot, adding the boiling water and swilling it around a few times before setting it aside to brew. I can't tear my eyes away from her as she frowns thoughtfully, rummaging in a drawer for teaspoons and retrieving the milk from the refrigerator.
I continue to stare as she takes a moment to select two mugs, and fill each one with the steaming black liquid. I know what is coming now; she will add sugar to hers and wait to get a reaction from me, no doubt scooping and stirring with a provocative flourish designed to incite maximum aggravation in me. But, I feel a strange sense of composure and I gaze back at her with equanimity, merely continuing to appreciate how, even late in the evening and viewed under harsh light, Louisa is still so very beautiful. I'm experiencing an unusual feeling of contentment, amazed that merely observing her carry out as mundane a chore as tea duty can be so satisfying, when, suddenly, I am jarred from my meditation by a moment of horror. As I watch in peaceful silence, she takes the lid from the bottle of milk, and now I recoil in disgust as I realise what I have just witnessed, and as she adds the dubious contents to our tea.
"Louisa, you sniffed at it three times!" I bark at her.
She starts to giggle and slips the bottle behind her "It's absolutely fine" she says.
"Let me see." I say, holding my hand out to her.
"Martin, stop it, it's fine, alright?" Her face splits into a grin and she edges closer to the refrigerator, turning her back on me and slipping the offending bottle hastily back into the door.
I think about snatching it from her, and I take a step forward but she slams the door and spins around to face me, suddenly irresistible, with her sparkling eyes and wicked grin. There is nothing between us; no space, no time, no sound. She shakes her head imperceptibly as a lock of escaped hair slips down over her eye, and the milk is instantly forgotten. Involuntarily, my hand goes up to brush the strand of hair away, sweeping it behind her ear and, slowly and deliberately, drawing my fingers gently across her cheek; relishing her radiance, her warmth and the softness of her skin. Her little defiant smirk returns, our eyes meet and I'm drawn in toward her as she leans back against against the cupboards and flattens her arms at her sides.
I know what she is thinking, I understand the game she plays with me, she told me as much last week, when she lamented the fact that she was unable to keep her own vow to avoid once again being the instigator, the arsonist, the incendiary device. And it seems that tonight she means to keep her word; displaying an uncharacteristic abeyance, despite her eyes flashing at me, illuminated by the insolence of her smile. If she means to tease me with her impassivity, then I may have to indulge in a little provocation of my own.
Truthfully, I will never get tired of tracing her jawline with my fingers; it is a deeply intimate gesture that reduces me to an inner helplessness. For someone as guarded as I have always been, it is a profound expression of communion. So, as our eyes are locked together, the challenge still so evident in her expression, I follow the curve of her neck with my fingertips, delicately drawing the outline of her throat, and lingering momentarily on her suprasternal notch.
"Did you know..." I murmur, "Right common carotid...Breaks off here...and the internal thoracic runs down there..."
Languidly, I follow the cutout neckline of her dress, running the tip of my finger across the bare skin of her chest, as the audacious smile gradually fades from her face.
"Right subclavian runs across here...And then the lateral thoracic branches off, and runs down here.."
She is motionless now, her breathing shallow and almost imperceptible, until I hear a tiny, almost inaudible gasp. I pause for the merest second, enjoying every moment of her breathlessness, marvelling that someone as clumsy and awkward as I, can illicit such a heated response in her. But anything that can put Louisa on the back foot, that even momentarily wrests away her power over me, is to be relished and I have no intention of stopping yet.
I lift my chin and look down at her.
"You're very quiet, are you alright?"
Her mouth twitches.
"The anatomy lesson...interesting."
That knowing look and the hint of a sly smile is enough to encourage me. She is nothing less than intoxicating and I realise that I am well on the way to being drunk.
"I thought you wanted to know more about my work?" I reply airily.
Her eyes flash and I know what is coming but I have nothing to lose. Before she can respond, I lean over and kiss her, delighting in the soft sweetness of everything about her, covering her mouth with mine so her words are lost forever. It seems we are locked into a contest with no rules and, though I generally detest games and I struggle to understand them at the best of times, now it's crystal clear to me. It's not enough for Louisa tonight that I am merely compliant, or even just receptive. She needs me to be demonstrative and her response is a barely discernible shudder as I notice, with some satisfaction, that she has goosebumps.
"Are you cold?" I whisper in her ear, as I can no longer help myself and I'm irresistibly drawn to bury my face in her neck, to feel her perfect skin so warm and silky against me. Finding my way slowly around her exposed flesh, breathing in the scent of her, hearing her sharp intake of breath as my mouth finds the base of her throat; her response to me seems so miraculous, that any action of mine should bring her pleasure seems simply too implausible to be true.
"Yes, Martin, I'm freezing." She replies throatily, and I hear the smile in her voice. Her sparkle is dazzling, her joy infectious; it seeps through me from the lightness of her touch, osmotic and transformative.
"You might need to lend me your jacket." She adds casually, pulling away slightly and glancing up at me, the mischief in her eyes filling me with a rush, a surge of desire, a rare sense of effervescence. I watch as brow knots in mock concentration, as her hands shift from her sides and I experience a moment of trepidation as I realise she is undoing the buttons of my suit coat.
Two buttons.
And yet it is as if she cleaves me open. As usual, so casual, so apparently unaware of the manner in which she slips so easily past the legions of security I have employed over the course of my life. Stripping away my resolve as easily as she slides her fingers over the fine cotton layer of my shirt, the only thing that now separates her exploratory touch from the tightly clenched muscles of my abdomen. I swallow hard and focus on my breathing as I feel her arms around my waist and she shifts her weight against me. Her head rests against my chest and I wonder if she can hear my heart; if she feels a sense of triumph at the rapidity of it's beat.
In the middle of this room, in this maelstrom of heat, humidity and slightly unpleasant odours, surrounded by peeling paintwork and dubious dairy products, beneath flickering strip lights and above garish carpets, amongst surroundings that are repulsive and disgusting to me, I discover a stillness I would never have imagined possible. Almost beyond my own comprehension, at odds with every foundation upon which I have based my life, with my mind mercifully free of fear and self-denigration, I find genuine comfort in the closeness of another; a mysterious, electric contiguity that defies explanation. The air escapes my lungs in a long, heavy breath and, when I inhale, I am filled with the distinctive scent of her; soft, playful, warm and welcoming.
"This is nice." Louisa murmurs dreamily.
I can't even think of an answer that won't sound woefully inadequate and I don't want to speak, lest I spoil everything. I glide my hands down her sides, braver again than the last time I held her thus, gently gripping her gorgeous bum and pulling her tightly against me, dipping my head to find her mouth, so softly at first and then, more desperate as we explode with a thrilling intensity. Her fingers clutch at my shirt as she pulls it free of my waistband and I shudder at the sensation of the delicate softness of her hands against the bare skin of my chest. As fantastic as this feels, as hungry as we both are, when her thumb starts to caress my nipple, I have to pull away. When I open my eyes, we are both breathless but still in her appalling kitchen, illuminated by a stuttering strip light that hangs, adorned with decades-old fly excrement, only inches above my head.
"I'm sorry." I say cupping her face in my hands and gazing at her with an intensity I hope she understands. "Not here Louisa, not like this."
She stares at me for a second and then she smiles, sadly and somewhat apologetically, and nods in reluctant acknowledgement. I kiss her gently on the forehead and gather her into my arms, resting my chin on the top of her head, and we are clasped together in a sort of disbelieving silence, as we wait for our heaving chests and thumping hearts to return to normal. I breathe in her reassuring fragrance and hold it in my lungs, fighting to get myself under control once more.
"When are you next in Kensington?" I say as softly and calmly as I can, defying my desperate urge to run my thumb across her tantalising bottom lip, knowing that if she responds, resisting her will be next to impossible.
"Hold that thought." She says quickly and wriggles out of my grasp, dodging around the work top and fleeing the room at high speed.
I sigh and begin to reassemble my clothing, fumbling with my own buttons with trembling fingers, my legs like jelly. As I lift my chin and straighten my tie, I hear the toilet flush and somehow that makes me feel better, knowing that it was only a call of nature that caused Louisa to escape from our embrace with such haste. I reach into my pocket and the invitation is still there, crisp and unopened. I still have to broach that subject and I have no idea whether I have upset her or not. There is so much I need her to understand, so much I need to tell her and I'm rapidly losing my nerve.
I reach for my tea, inhaling its aroma deeply and suspiciously but, to Louisa's credit, it seems unadulterated. I lift it to my mouth and, suddenly, I am distracted by loud voices from the street, feeling a surge of annoyance as the shouting seems to be coming from just outside the front door of Louisa's flat. I stick my head around the edge of the cabinetry and I'm perturbed to hear the sound of a key in the lock. Muttering under my breath with exasperation, I can't help myself and I snatch up the two mugs of tea and hasten inelegantly to the safety of Louisa's room.
(Ps, We have created a forum to discuss any questions anyone might have. If you haven't already got a log-in, please create Yourself one, and come and join us. It could be fun.)