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In the end, I'd walked all the way home. By the time I'd looked up, and realised where I was, I'd already come as far as Imperial College so it seemed pointless to try and hail a taxi. I've been in somewhat of a daze, covering a distance of perhaps just over two miles with barely a coherent thought in my head the entire time; my mind an unsettled, obfuscated mess.

I have always known myself to have a propensity for ruination, a talent for blundering, a social ineptitude on a grand scale and, depressingly, this evening has done nothing to dissuade me. It serves me right for earlier allowing myself to hope, to walk hand in hand with Louisa and to mistakenly believe that I had achieved some measure of success. God help me, I'd even permitted myself a degree of levity and optimism only to then have to stand by helplessly and watch the occasion descend into a total farce. If I were a superstitious man, it would be far easier, indeed far more appealing, to blame the apparent cursedness of my life on something other than my own clumsiness and incapacity. But I am a man of science and I fear the blame lies entirely at my feet.

When faced with a debacle such as that which occurred last evening, I can scarcely conceive any other possible reaction than abject horror and, consequently, an instant need to remove myself from the source of my embarrassment. Now, as I lie here in the early dawn, examining the depth of the character flaw that forced me to flee from Louisa, I wonder how I can ever make her understand the abhorrence I felt at the situation; how I can possibly justify the overwhelming feelings of disgust I experienced at such a sickening intrusion into our time together. What hurts most now is the amount of effort I put in to attempting to making Louisa happy and now, all I can think of is that she will not understand my reaction at all; that she will merely see me as an impossible, dour prude, as someoutraged old fuddy-daddy, a prig, a Puritan, a thin-skinned hysteric.

I feel utterly despondent, furious that fate could not let the cards fall into place for me, even just this once. I had tried so hard, and she in turn had reacted exactly as I'd hoped, brimming as only Louisa can with warmth, genuine interest and joyful enthusiasm. Obviously in our reactions to so many things, we are such polar opposites but, despite often being confounded by her, heart-on-her sleeve sleeve honesty is one of the many things I realise I find so attractive about her. It's like seeing the world through a completely different lens; a compassionate, empathetic view; sensitive and perceptive, driven by kindness and genuine interest. I will never be any of those things, those capacities are beyond my limited emotions, but it does not mean I don't admire and value them in Louisa.

I have been discovering a legion of tiny delights; infinitesimal enchantments that I never would have believed significant. The softness of her hands, the scent of her hair, the way her warmth radiates as I hold her against me, even the gentle weight of her head as she rests it, peaceably, on my chest. Things that I didn't even realise that I wanted or needed suddenly seem imperative to me. I know now that I am the desiccated leaf, the parched ground, the barren desert, and it is with her meaningful glances and reassuring gestures, in the smallest and quietest of ways, that Louisa sates me like a softly falling rain.

My hands cover my face in a vain attempt to shut out the morning, and the miserable cold world that it reveals. Gone is the enthusiasm I felt yesterday morning; my eagerness evaporated, even the surprising fizz of anticipation that stoked my courage in expressing to her, by some sort of meaningful gesture, that I wanted to make her happy; all vanished, along with my vague hope that Louisa might actually see something worthwhile in me. Now, what does she think of me? If I let the jeering voices have their say, undoubtedly the answer is that she sees me as an awkward, graceless, absconding coward. When we reach a more reasonable hour, I will telephone her and I will apologise in my own insufficient way, but I know I will never, ever be able to explain.

So, for entirely different reasons this morning, my time in front of the bathroom mirror sees me, once again, somewhat abashed and ashamed. Showering, shaving and dressing seems like an inconsequential act, a pointless donning of chain mail when one has already suffered a mortal wound. Staring coldly at my own reflection I realise that, although I knew the day would always come when Louisa realised the extent of my inadequacy, even I hadn't anticipated that I would be exposed so soon. As I switch off the light and plod morosely toward the kitchen, I know that my only option is to fill every spare minute and, for a moment, I am glad that I am on call from late afternoon. Going in to work, spending the day within the cool, achromatic impersonal environs of the vascular department seems like a very appealing option. Absorbing myself in my research project, surrounding myself with science, my dependable companion; in medicine I will find my mistress and my muse.

The perfect silence of Sunday morning is suddenly shattered as the telephone rings. I stand motionless in the kitchen, about to tamp the coffee grounds, grit my teeth and decide to ignore it. The only person who ever calls at this hour of the morning is Auntie Joan and, for the life of me, I cannot face a conversation with her in my current state of vexation. I'm actually relieved that I haven't yet revealed anything about Louisa to her because to now admit to her that it is probably over before it has even begun would just be too mortifying for words, my humiliation truly complete.

But it's not Auntie Joan's forthright voice that booms at me loudly as the answer phone clicks in. There's no lecture, no lambasting, no criticism, no castigation. I don't hear for the hundredth time that my message is brutally unwelcoming, that I'm clearly avoiding my relations, that I'm negligent in my return of calls, my letter writing principles and my visiting schedules. Instead I hear the hesitant and altogether far more welcome voice of Louisa, endearingly anxious and apprehensive.

"It's me, umm, a bit early, I know, but I just sort of assumed you'd be up already...sorry...I hope you are or I've disturbed you haven't I? Unless...I suppose you might have left for work already...ummm, anyway, I was hoping to catch you...but...obviously I've missed you...so perhaps...could you please call me back? That would be really good ...umm...I will be here all day...Okay.."

Before I even realise it, I've dropped the coffee into the sink and I'm flying across the room like a madman, grabbing at the handset as if my life depended upon it. A drowning man, clutching at straw.

"Louisa?" I cry, juggling the receiver and nearly pulling the entire unit from the wall. "Are you still there?"

"Oh Martin, thank goodness! I've been really worried about you." She says and her voice has a note of desperation about it that momentarily confuses me.

"...Worried about me?" I ask after a moment, feeling myself frown.

"Well, yes, actually, you seemed really upset and you disappeared into the night so, yes, I have been worried about you."

I recognise the sudden change in her tone and, already, I seem to have said the wrong thing. I cast my mind about, desperate to find something that will ameliorate the situation but, as usual words fail me.

"No, I didn't...umm...I didn't mean to sound...it's just that...ummm...Louisa, when I left last night I..."

"Yes, I know, and I'm so sorry." She interrupts, her voice breathless and emphatic. "I've lain awake half the night thinking about it actually, and I just feel so sick about it. God, you went to so much trouble and it was just so lovely...Wasn't it?... and then...well...anyway... I just wanted to apologise to you. I had an amazing evening and I'm just so unbelievably sorry about the way it turned out. That's all."

Though I the hold the receiver to my ear, and as far as I am aware, my auditory perception is more than satisfactory, I struggle to process what Louisa is saying. I feel my mouth opening and closing several times in the vain hope of forming a few coherent words but nothing is forthcoming.

"Martin, are you still there?" I hear her ask and I swallow hard.

"Yes...so this is you, apologising to me?"

"Well, yes." She says slowly, before her voice takes on a slightly tart note. "I'm not sure what else you want me to say. I sort of hoped that ringing you at the crack of dawn might be enough but, clearly, I was wrong."

"No, Louisa, please don't...ummm...please don't be cross...I thought it was I that owed you the apology. I wasn't...I wasn't expecting you to call me but..ummm...I'm very glad you did...I'm glad you phoned."

"Oh right." She says, a little awkwardly and then there is silence.

I hold my breath, terrified of saying something inflammatory; blundering on in my own inimitable fashion, putting my foot in it, endangering what seems to be some sort of miraculous reprieve. I will her to say something, anything.

"Can I see you?" She blurts out.

"Of course." I reply without thinking, stunned by the apparent turn around in my fortunes. It is only then that I remember my roster and my plans for the day which seem to have evaporated into the ether. "But I am on call later...umm...from six...umm...unfortunately."

It strikes me that I've never before considered being on call, in fact any facet of my work commitments, to be unfortunate. I close my eyes briefly and run my hand over my face. It feels like a seismic change.

"Oh right." She says slowly, as if she's waiting for a cue from me. I can hear her breathing into the mouth piece, husky and shallow, as if she holds the receiver tight and close. I imagine her, huddled in the kitchen of her appalling flat, without privacy or comfort, and it suddenly strikes me what I should do. If I'm going to jump off the precipice, it may as well be some sort of spectacular swan dive.

"Umm, Louisa, why don't you...why don't you come for lunch? I mean, if you want to that is..."

"To your flat?"

"Mmm..." I reply and then it dawns on me that she may have had something else in mind completely. On reflection, admittedly, it doesn't sound a particularly exciting invitation but at least my flat is clean and sanitary and the milk was only bought yesterday. "Of course, unless you'd rather not?"

"No, I'd really like that actually." She says and I do detect a degree of enthusiasm in her voice now. "What time, and what shall I bring?"

I so badly want to tell that she need not bring a thing, that her mere presence is all I need; her warm, comforting, joyful proximity. If only Louisa knew, by her solicitous act of telephoning, how she has dragged me up from despondency; if she understands that, if I must, I will run barefoot over broken glass to fetch whatever is required, just for the chance to be with her, in privacy, unobserved, and away from the lascivious glances of pub patrons, waiters, taxi drivers and the fawning halfwits that we seem to encounter wherever we go.

I wait while she searches for a pen and notes my address, refusing my offer of a taxi and, instead, insisting on public transport, chastising me for daring to suggest the route and laughing condescendingly when I helpfully suggest the time at which she should probably leave her flat. She hangs up, a detectable note of excitement in her leave-taking, and I collapse onto the sofa, both incredulous at the reprieve I have received and utterly determined to make the most of it.

Having recovered from feeling like a condemned man, pardoned, I am surprised with the efficiency with which I am able to prepare lunch and still commit satisfactory hours to the reading I knew I must complete today. It's warm so I change into a lighter weight suit, and a fresh shirt and, by the time I hear the door buzzer go, and feel with it an abdominal lurch of anticipation, I am comfortable and well prepared with only the merest touch of anxiety. I seldom invite anyone to my flat, and I have certainly never brought another woman into my fiercely protected private space but, as I run down the stairs I realise that, in one way, having her here feels like a particularly large leap for me, in another, it feels like the easiest and most natural of progressions.

She is late of course and, as usual, radiant, standing back from the doorway, clutching a paper bag in each hand. Two men stand behind her on the street, talking loudly, and, momentarily distracted, I glower at one as he stubs his cigarette out on the footpath and walks away. Louisa takes the opportunity to stretch up and kiss my cheek, greeting me breathily as I offer to take her bags, an offer she declines, cheerfully, gazing around her as if the foyer of my building is the most interesting place she has ever visited. I follow her up the stairs, allowing myself the smallest enjoyment of my vantage point, before she pauses on the landing, and I push the door open, quietly ushering her in.

Instantly, dressed as she is in red and black, she stands out like a beacon in the monochromatic room and I can't help but stare at her, slightly disbelieving that she's actually here.

"I'll just put these down here, shall I?" She says, smiling at me mischievously, and I hear the distinctive clink of glass bottles as she places her shopping on the countertop, and turns back toward me, eyes sparkling.

I have a moment of hesitation as I wonder where things sit between us now. Perhaps her kiss on my cheek is the only appropriate greeting, and the slightly twitchiness I feel is merely the improper reaction of a man overwhelmed and out of his depth. I decide on caution; instigating nothing will be be my safest bet now until I am able to better understand the ramifications of last night.

"A good thing for you to do right now would be to offer me a glass of wine, actually Martin." She says and nods at me encouragingly as I stand, staring at her like the captivated fool I am.

I glance at my watch.

"Mmm, yes, of course. Did you..ummm...did you bring something. Yes?...or I have...umm." I mutter, gesturing in the direction of the refrigerator and raising an eyebrow at her.

"Don't mind." She says distractedly, looking around her, her eyes widening. "Gosh, this is a really lovely flat..."

"Mmm." I reply, not knowing how I should respond, exquisitely conscious that whatever I say might be viewed as an insult or, even worse, smug and self satisfied. "It...umm...it suits my needs quite well."

I remove the cork from the bottle she has brought with her, and pour her a small glass; glancing at the bottle and noticing it's from South Africa of all places.

"Do I get a tour, or is that not the done thing?" She asks me as I pass her the wine, and I'm taken aback.

"A tour?"

"Yes Martin, a tour of your flat." She replies, twirling the stem of her glass and glancing at me sideways, a smirk twitching about her mouth. "Unless you have secrets you don't want me to see?"

"Secrets?" I reply, mystified, until it dawns on me that she is teasing me. If only I were that interesting.

There's an expression on her face that I can't quite identify. She looks at me so expectantly but I have no idea what she wants me to say. I clear my throat uncomfortably and I seize upon the painting above the fireplace, explaining the link to our excursion of last evening, and experiencing a wave of relief she smiles at me dreamily, and insists on thanking me again.

"It's umm, it's fine." I say helplessly, hastily moving down the hall and indicating the whereabouts of the bathroom and the lavatory.

She steps inside and looks back at me, raising her eyebrows.

"I was going to say that the bath is huge but then you've got to fit in to it, haven't you?" She says matter-of-factly and then she pauses, gazing around as if deep in thought. "I've never been in such a lovely bathroom, gosh, this is really nice."

Seemingly reluctant to leave, after a moment I give a small cough and, eventually, Louisa follows me to the guest bedroom where I stand, awkwardly, in the middle of the room. She wanders around the crisp white, minimalist space, comfortable accomodation for the guests I never invite and , honestly, there isn't much to see. My only concession to decoration is a particularly nice Chinese antique jewellery box that belonged to my great grandmother; one I'd been forced to retrieve from a skip as my parents ruthlessly emptied Henry's house after my grandmother's death. Louisa smiles at it, noting the mother-of-pearl inlay. A couple of old prints on the wall catch her attention and she tells me, struggling to keep a straight face, that she now considers herself an art critic. The way she looks at me nearly creases me in half and I feel an intense spasm of longing, a deep, resonant need so acute that it takes my breath away as she passes in front of me, inches away and seemingly oblivious.

My discomfort level is well outside even my normal parameters, as I stand outside the door of my bedroom, frozen to the spot and unable to enter, but Louisa has no such qualms, raising her eyebrows as she saunters past me.

"I see you've tidied up." She says and I'm about to object when I realise. More teasing.

"There's, umm, there's an en suite through the, umm, dressing room." I mutter and I hear her give a squeal of joy.

"Martin, oh my god, you have no idea how badly I want to look in your wardrobe!" She says, starting to laugh as she turns to look back at me and notices the expression of sheer terror on my face.

"Maybe another time, perhaps?" She says, with a twinkle in her eye and I wait with bated breath.

I knew she would push me, and, of course, she can't resist, smiling at me innocently as she flops down on the edge of my bed, and gives a few small bounces. I swallow hard but I can't look away, or she wins. She runs her palm across the fabric of the counter pane. It's a plain dark blue with a simple grey reverse but it seems to have her seal of approval.

"It's a lovely fabric, quite silky, Martin, but still very masculine." She says, glancing at me again. "I think you have very good taste."

"Mmm." I say and the sound catches in my throat, throttled by my tightly clenched jaw. I turn sideways and place my hand on the door handle, staring straight ahead , the internationally recognised sign for 'it's time to go' but Louisa obviously doesn't speak that language, or at least pretends she doesn't.

"God, no wonder you get that look on your face when you come to my flat." She says, and some of her insolence momentarily ebbs away. "You must hate every minute of being there."

I turn back to look at her sadly. She is standing up now, smoothing away the dents in the covers almost reverentially.

I clear my throat.

"I'm sorry Louisa, I can't lie. I do detest your flat."

As she listens, she looks at me with an expression I recognise from the morning I took her back to her miserable Port Wenn cottage, for the last time, to collect her pathetic assortment of possessions. An expression equal parts shame and defiance, chin up, eyes flashing, daring me to criticise.

"Why do you come over then?" She says provocatively, as she again passes closely in front of me, tossing her head and glaring at me.

I catch up to her as she hesitates at the door to my office.

"Go in if you like." I say calmly. "I'm just going to put the oven on to warm."

When I return, Louisa is gazing at the wall and she turns to grin at me.

"Your middle name is Christopher!"

I grimace.

"After my father." I reply without enthusiasm.

She seems transfixed by the frames on the wall.

"Gosh Martin. All your qualifications...and two degrees." She says quietly. "Quite an impressive collection. Dean's Award. Medicine Prize. Surgery Prize..."

My heart sinks. I feel horribly self conscious and force myself to stop listening, wincing as she recites slowly and carefully from the certificates I have arranged at the end of the wall. At that moment I fervently regret the immense folly which saw me have them all mounted for display. I blame the impetuousness of youth. That, plus a hefty dose of ego and a burning desire to best my own father; to restore the respect to my family name and to honour my grandfather's achievements and his faith in me. Definitely not to have to suffer the infernal embarrassment of having them not only seen by Louisa but read out to me by her, in a slightly breathless voice.

She turns to look at me, and her forehead is creased in a thoughtful frown; one that worries me because it's usually followed by a piercing observation I don't want to hear or a probing question I can't answer. We stand in silence for a moment as she gazes around her, taking everything in, committing it to memory, storing it for some later, mischievous purpose of her own, her eyes alight on the glass shelving behind me and her face is transformed by a childishly enthusiastic grin.

"Martin!" She squeals. "Your boat!"

I am surprised by her reaction and I can't think of anything to say other than to offer an uncomfortable murmur of assent. Quite frankly, I can't imagine what significance an old, rusty toy could have to her but I seem to recall her mentioning it before so it seems that it does prompt some sort of memory.

"You got it working again, didn't you?" She says, breathlessly, skipping over to where I'm standing, sliding her hand up my shoulder blade and resting her head against my bicep. "Can we put it in the bath? Or is it too valuable now? It's rusty already though isn't it? Can I touch it? Is that alright?"

I realise I am holding my breath and, as I exhale deeply, I wonder if I will ever get used to the way she touches me so spontaneously. There's something about her warmth and the steady pressure of her body against mine that is infinitely comforting, if nothing else, it's the fact she wants to touch me that I find so miraculous. When I was a child, and I holidayed with Auntie Joan and Uncle Phil, I recall that I was shown affection by them. I had the occasional Nanny that would sometimes offer me a consoling hug, usually after I'd been at the receiving end of my father's temper or my mother's vitriol but, for most of my late childhood and adolescence. I cannot remember a hand laid on me except in violence.

I suppose I must have yearned for some sort tenderness but I can't recall anything specifically. Physical isolation and emotional detachment became the norm for me; I knew no different. It just becomes the way life is; it marches on all around you and you realise that there are parts of this world that will simply never be accessible, experiences that are only to be enjoyed by people less flawed than yourself, so you just focus on something else, and carry on. Because, if you pretend for long enough that something doesn't matter, eventually, mercifully, it might not.

I hear her say my name, quizzically, and, I realise I've been lost in thought. I try and recall what she asked me and I'm at a loss. So many questions, one after another, fired off at me like the rattle of gunfire, and I'm rendered speechless, unsure where to start. I turn toward her and she nods at me, encouragingly and I swallow hard.

"Perhaps, we could. Umm, after lunch? I reply tentatively.

Louisa smiles at me, and I wonder if the look in her eyes could be described as affectionate. As much as I admit to enjoying her insolent expression, and the flash of her eyes as they seem to change colour, assuming a gleaming deep green when she challenges me, this glance is softer and more gentle somehow. She bends over and begins to examine the speedboat and its pilot at close range.

"I like the grimly determined look on the driver's face." She says. "Steadfast and unwavering."

"Can a boatman be unwavering?" I ask and I'm rewarded by her trademark teenage eye roll and an audible groan, and I choose that moment to leave the room, briefly explaining that I need to put lunch into the cooker.

I'm only gone for a a few moments but, when I return, I discover that Louisa is sitting on my desk, gazing at my shelves pensively, her face a mask of neutrality. Unless of course it's a chair, I normally take a dim view of people sitting on my furniture, more specifically my desk. It's always struck me as disrespectful at best and probably unhygienic but, for some reason, the sight of her bare thighs against the embossed leather is more alluring than it is aggravating.

She looks directly at me, and I know she wants to say something important, her gaze is unwavering and she is biting her lip.

"I read that thing you gave me." She says quietly.

"Aah." I reply and my heart sinks. I know this is a conversation we must have but I'm disappointed that the rather pleasant thoughts I was experiencing have been, once again, banished, this time by the intrusion of my ghastly father.

"At first I thought it was an obituary, and it was only when I got to the end I realised he was still alive." She says cautiously.

"Mmm."

"It was quite a glowing account of his life, wasn't it? I was trying to think, on the way here, of what he reminded me of...you know, quite James Bond-y in parts I have to say...If James Bond was a surgeon, not a spy of course...but he's certainly lived an action-packed life."

I look down at my hands as I listen, not like the long, refined fingers of my father, but large and solid and strong, just like Henry's, as if both phenotype and personality had somehow skipped a generation.

"And I wondered, actually, who would have written it?" She continued, and I realise she is testing the water, trying to ascertain my position. "Because, you know, whoever did, clearly holds your dad in really high esteem..."

"Louisa, he would have written the whole damn thing himself." I interrupt and I'm aware that my voice sounds snappy and taut. "His secretary would have typed it of course but the words, the sentiments, the braggadocio, all his own work."

She looks at me sadly and then, to my surprise she holds out her arm toward me. I stare at it for a few seconds and then I take hold of her fingers and she pulls me gently toward her, reaching for my other hand and intertwining it with her own.

"I'm really glad that you asked me." She says softly.

"Hmm, ever since I did, to be perfectly honest, I have regretted it."

"But I rather like dressing up. I don't often get the chance." She replies, with a cheeky smile. "Cocktail frocks and canapés, and you in a dinner jacket? I might even be early for this one."

She squeezes my hands and, as I stare back at her, I experience an indescribable feeling. Gratitude and desire and an an odd sense of exhilaration. I open my mouth to speak but all that emerges is a long, loud sigh because I'm well aware that my selfish need to want her near me means that I am as good as laying Louisa out on a sacrificial rock. I suddenly want desperately to be closer to her; if I must describe the horrors of my family to her then let it be as I hold her in my arms, confessing quietly into her ear, my face buried in her neck, the hideous dysfunction of the Ellinghams.

I take half a step closer, desperate to remove the space between us.

"Louisa." I say gently, laying her hands down gently in her lap and raising my fingers to her cheek.

I must warn her how toxic they are, how dangerous, and cruel and even sadistic they can be. I search her face for signs of wariness and alarm but all I see is her youthful insouciance, her positivity, her determination to find joy in every situation. While it's one of the things that draws me to her so powerfully, it now makes me shudder in an anticipatory pang of fear.

"I know a bit about rubbish parents, Martin."

"Yes, undoubtedly you do." I reply sadly, thinking of the indignities she suffered at their hands. That horrible damp cottage, the abandonment, that horrendous bag of rags.

"You said things were awkward, that you don't speak." She says softly, leaning forward and putting her hands onto my waist. "How's it going to be, stuck in a room with him all night?"

How can I tell her that, if she is there beside me, with her reassuring presence I feel like I could almost cope with anything? Can I possibly explain to her that, at this moment she feels like a talisman that could protect me from even the most malevolent of vipers; the woman that purports to be my mother, or who masquerades as some sort of Mother Theresa figure if my father's excruciating potted biography is to be believed. And, as I wonder how it will feel, to be there with Louisa at my side, it hits me like a revelation; that while I am certainly facing a somewhat difficult situation, Louisa has no intention of letting me face it alone. Does this mean that I am no longer solitary, a lone individual, detached and aloof? For a brief, incredible moment, it certainly feels that way.

I can see the concern in her eyes and I want desperately to reassure her. I find myself drawn compulsively to trace her bottom lip with my thumb, abandoning all thoughts of anything other than a sudden and desperately overwhelming need to show her how I feel. While words will always fail me, she seems to understand my gesture. In an instant, her arms are around my neck but, with her seated position we are straining to reach other and I hear her groan as she attempts to shift forward and I wince as her knees threaten to cork my thighs.

Her hands are behind my head, pulling me toward her and I'm momentarily shocked by the vehemence of her kiss; unsure of what inspires it but relishing the intensity regardless because it feels somehow as if she means to devour me and, this time, I have no intention of resisting. I put my hands on the inside of her knees and, instantly, she yields and I'm able to pull her closer, sliding my hands up her thighs, electrified by the sensation of her bare skin as she wraps her legs around mine. I've always been partial to her short skirts but never so much as now as I push the fabric up to her waist and run my hands over the delicious curves of her silkily-clad hips and bottom. It's impossible to believe that anything could feel this good, her skin is amazing, her body mesmerising, and the way she intertwines herself around me, nothing less than incredibly arousing.

Rather terrifyingly, the time and the location, my office desk at Sunday lunchtime, seem to only inflame the situation and as I sudden feel the desperate need to shed my suit coat, I'm horribly disappointed to feel her pause, and pull away from me. I open my eyes and, worse still, she is laughing, bringing her forehead down to my chest as her shoulders heave up and down in uncontrolled mirth.

"What's the matter?" I croak at her, my confusion and desperation clearly evident in my voice.

It is only when she lifts her head to look at me, her expression incredulous, that I hear it: the loud, persistent, high pitched ringing of the cooker timer, screeching loud enough to wake the dead but not loudly enough to disturb me; my voracious appetite for her obliterating everything else from my consciousness, Leaving me completely oblivious. With an apologetic nod, I sigh and lay my hand on her leg for a brief second and then, in a haze of frustration, embarrassment and chagrin, I make my way to the kitchen to prepare lunch.