As illogical as I knew it to be, at first I'd felt a sickening shame, my default reaction to any part of my privacy being violated, my feelings exposed. But, to my inordinate relief, the nausea had almost immediately abated as Louisa had calmly suggested that we continue our walk, apparently unruffled, and possibly even slightly amused by her encounter with my aunt. As we'd wandered around the outskirts of the park, I'd come to the firm conclusion that discretion was definitely the better part of valour and, wordlessly, I'd taken Louisa's hand in mine once more, reminding myself of what a total idiot I really was, and how high the stakes were if I couldn't manage to conquer this persistent yet irrational fear. It seemed to help if I kept certain thoughts at the forefront of my mind, if I continually asked myself if I were prepared to lose her over something so feeble as my struggle to escape a self-imposed prison. And the answer was of course, most vociferously, no.
I was also well aware that I needed time to think about so many things; the reality was that so much had happened over the course of the past few days that my mind was in rather a state of turmoil and, though only a proportion of this was actually negative, now wasn't the time for silent reflection. I knew that I needed to find some way of rethinking my reactions but they seemed so ingrained, almost as intrinsic to me as breathing, a mindset I always return to as if I were programmed. For the moment, I couldn't face them and it was simply far more preferable to distract myself, to attempt to smooth things over with a re-emergently joyful Louisa, who bounced along beside me, seemingly curious about my life, asking me about Ruth, and appearing slightly incredulous that she and Joan could possibly be sisters.
There wasn't much I could tell her really which she'd also been slight perplexed about but at least she seemed not to have found Ruth intimidating or off-putting. It seemed pertinent to ask Louisa at that point how she felt about keeping Joan abreast of things, whether she'd feel comfortable if I told my aunt that she and I had been keeping company of late. She'd started to laugh then, apparently there was something amusing about my turn of phrase, which she informed me was archaic and positively Victorian. However, when I asked her to come up with an suitable alternative, her eyes had flashed provocatively, and I'd hurriedly changed the subject, making a mental note to phone Auntie Joan promptly though, anticipating that she would not take kindly to being kept in the dark over something as close to her heart as Louisa seemed to be.
After a while, it dawned on me that I was actually feeling surprisingly at ease, as we walked along in the pleasantly warm sunshine; I'd even found the conversation to be flowing rather easily which was remarkable in itself, once I'd got over my ridiculous and awkward self-consciousness. Louisa was right, no one was paying us the slightest attention, we were just one of hundreds of anonymous couples, strolling comfortably around this beautiful park, enjoying the weather. Despite my initial horror, encountering Ruth had actually left me feeling surprisingly composed, probably because, as usual, my perspicacious old Aunt was both subtle and non-judgemental. When she'd glanced at me briefly as she walked away, I almost thought I saw a modicum of encouragement and approval behind her small, slightly wry smile, and I was reminded of a conversation we'd had a few years prior when she had warned me of the dangers of becoming too absorbed in my work, and eschewing personal relationships.
"You don't want to end up too set in your ways, Martin." She'd said firmly to me. "Odd little preferences can become rather unpalatable habits when there's no one else around to scrutinise your behaviour. Flexibility, adaptability, patience with alterations to one's routine, they become a thing of the past when one only has to please oneself. Trust me, I know."
Off course I'd dismissed her suggestion out of hand. I'd actively sought out social isolation as a reward, rather than a punishment, and I enjoyed being able to have everything just the way I liked it; I put that down to ten years at boarding school, with no privacy and no control over my environment, very few safe places and seldom any silence. The more control I had over things, and the more orderly I could make my environment, the more comfortable I felt. Since I had only had study, and now my work, and tinkering with my clocks I suppose there didn't realistically seem to be too much of a risk of my becoming too intractable and regimented though, was there? And though admittedly I wouldn't be able to claim it for much longer, I was still only in my twenties, too young to be worried about being seen as a pillarist, or some sort of crusty savant.
But, with rather an oddly coincidental timing, Louisa starts to ask about my work colleagues and she seems bewilderingly interested in one of the senior vascular consultants, Piggers Langan, who had accompanied Bernard Newton to our table when I had unfortunately found my attentions focused elsewhere. Initially, she'd quizzed me about his nickname and I'd responded with a helpless shrug of my shoulders, because I honestly had never been the slightest bit interested in him, outside of that which I could learn from him, professionally. She frowned at me then, so I'd hurriedly explained to her that, while first names were seldom used in the hospital environment, I did believe that Piggers was merely a nickname, given to him at Eton, or Harrow or wherever he went to school. She'd looked at me with an expression of exasperated forbearance, informing me that she had actually realised that he wouldn't have been christened with such an unfortunate moniker, but that she was simply curious as to how he had acquired it in the first place.
"Is he married?" She asked me, thoughtfully, and I'd been a bit taken aback.
That Langan, with his disapproval of everything and everybody, his air of impatient superiority, and his insistence on rigid adherence to every rule and regulation, should pique Louisa's interest was frankly surprisingly, and I told her so. Her response was simply to grin widely and ask me if I were jealous, and I'd glanced back at her, askance, one climbing eyebrow letting her know very clearly what I thought of that suggestion.
"Besides." I added, as I realised that I knew more about him than I cared to acknowledge. "He is an infamous bore, known to be a confirmed bachelor, married to his work and rather severe on anyone whom he feels doesn't offer the same level of commitment...I hope you enjoy a challenge."
"I think that's a bit obvious Martin, what do you think?" She replied archly, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Anyway, it makes sense. He did come across as rather pedantic and fussy. They'd given him a lipstick-smeared glass and he was almost incandescent, it took all of Bernard's tact to calm him down."
"The man's a nightmare, if I'm honest." I said, regretfully. "Pedantic describes him perfectly. Goodness knows, umm, I like things to be done correctly but his level of intolerance for any sort of variation from the norm...umm, well, it has to be seen to be believed."
"That's sort of why I asked if he was married actually. He does seem a bit strict, not one for compromise, like one of those fusty old Oxford Dons you see in films."
"Mmm, I can't see him ever marrying. The poor woman would have a job of work ahead of her, that's for certain."
"How old is he then, do you think?" Louisa says, gazing at me thoughtfully.
"I've no idea exactly, ummm, late thirties I suspect? He might be forty, he's one of those people where it's hard to say for sure. However old he is, I'd say it's far too late for him now though. A dyed-in-the-wool bachelor and rather a miserable old bugger to boot."
She gives my hand an affectionate squeeze and smiles at me, and I find myself thinking that perhaps idle conversation isn't such a bad thing if one is fortunate enough to have a companion with an interesting and engaging point of view, and the pleasant sensation of having several hours of unstructured, unallocated afternoon spread panoramically before us. Strangely too, it is quite satisfying to be able to discuss my colleagues with Louisa. She is observant but never malicious, I know I can rely on her discretion and, because she has such a differing standpoint on things, to be able to openly discuss the human foibles I encounter every day, and to listen to her perspective, is actually quite enjoyable. I have a rule never to discuss anything outside medicine with my team, and everyone is well aware of my abhorrence of anything within the hospital which might be construed as gossip so, in many ways, mulling over people and situations with Louisa is actually rather cathartic.
Her interest in the work colleagues she'd spoken to last night is obvious, and she seems keen to discuss them at length; both Robert Dashwood and Bernard Newton had clearly made an impression on her, and I'd felt a flash of despondency at the thought that that might be the level of oily charm to which Louisa wished me to aspire. But, as I listened to her, it became clear that she'd found Bernard kind and funny in rather a paternalistic way; she was amused by his anecdotes and I have no doubt that he would have been delighted to have discovered a fresh audience for his hackneyed old material, never mind an exceptionally pretty one, with a ready smile. And, while Robert had been charming and attentive toward her, she'd noticed his intensity and she been secretly amused by his apparent middle-aged vanity, and his conceit at his own appearance, asking me with curiosity why he was one of the few male attendees to be sporting anything other than very short hair.
"Mmm, well I can only assume that he feels he is at the point in his career where he thinks he will no longer be judged on his apparent disregard for protocol. Surgeons are a conservative lot and there's no doubt that having long flowing locks earlier in his career would have hampered his progress."
"Were you ever tempted to grow your hair long?" She asks, an insouciant smile threatening to overwhelm her face.
"What?" I reply, aghast. "God no!"
"Good." She replies, leaning her head on my bicep, momentarily, as we walk along. "I like it just the way it is."
I consider her statement, and I find myself glancing down at her, rather sceptically. She snorts with laughter, and nods at me.
"I'm not sure why you find that so hard to believe, Martin?" She says, quizzically, as we make our way through the park gates and back out onto the road.
She turns toward me and I realise that she is going to run the fingers of her free hand through my hair, probably as we cross the road, in front of dozens of onlookers, and I realise that it's another test; Louisa exploring the range of her powers, the extent of her influence, and the limits of my endurance. There's so much expectation in her eyes, she's smiling at me, so insouciant and carefree, and I understand that she's just behaving like hundreds of thousands of other young people do, in the manner of so many of the couples I've observed over the years; and while, mostly, I've been disinterested, and often disapproving, on rare occasions I've had a moment of experiencing a feeling of bitterness, resentment even, that i should have been so excluded from simple gestures of affection. I will admit that I've felt some disappointment and perhaps the odd fierce stab of jealousy. Yet here I am, and it smacks me between the eyes that I could have so much of the tenderness and the affection that has always seemed to elude me, but I realise that in my own, typical, hair-shirted manner, I'm still denying myself, fighting against it, placing ridiculous parameters on it. I'm uncomfortable and awkward and rather stupidly even threatened by endearments and compliments, and the sort of physical closeness I crave so desperately from her.
I feel goosebumps on my scalp, a pre-emptive rippling of my skin, a tremulous shiver that wafts across my torso merely in anticipation of her touch, and yet it does not come because now she is grinning at me now, with the brightness of a thousand lux, her pony tail swinging along behind her, glowing chestnut in the early afternoon sun. The strap of her singlet slides over her shoulder and she reaches across absently to correct it, an action that seems unconsciously provocative, drawing my attention yet again to the perfection of her skin, the sculptural beauty of her shoulders. If I couldn't remember so clearly each intimate detail of making love to her, every glorious moment residing in my mind as a sort of breathtaking cinematographic masterpiece, I would be incredulous as to why she is even alongside me. Just thinking about that feeling, how utterly incredible it all was, every minute of it, and remembering how I felt so completely transformed makes me vaguely light headed and rather incredulous and, as we cross Kensington Rd again, I hear the words of Chris Parsons in my head.
"Don't fight it Mart, our women change us, hopefully for the better."
If I just think about it calmly for a moment, I'd see that my choice, my opportunity, my motivation to really change is alongside me, summery and animated and so joyous and alive. I'm astute enough to realise that I have an opportunity that I know will never come along again. This thing we have is something, previously, I wasn't even completely sure existed but now I know for certain that it does, my need is so intense, I want Louisa so desperately, that I honestly can't bear to be without her now. To secure this thing, this state of being, I simply must vanquish the horrible debilitating fears that plague me, and attempt to root out the self-preservation habits of a lifetime. The irony of my analysis of Piggers Langan's bachelorhood is not lost on me, it washes over me like a veritable tsunami of horrible self-realisation and the effect is nothing short of galvanising.
We turn into De Vere Court and I let go of her hand, sliding my arm up and around her shoulders, pulling her closer and bending over to press my mouth against the vaguely fruit-scented softness of her hair. The idea of ending up like Langan is too horrible to contemplate and, while I've always felt older than my years, he is forty, going on seventy, curmudgeonly and judgemental and, worst of all, pompous and self righteous. I am not quite thirty and my fingers are caressing the upper arm of a beautiful young woman who vehemently, and rather incredibly, insists that she loves me and who I know without a doubt will never let me assume any of the appalling character traits I have just assigned to my former tutor. in fact, it is probably quite safe to say that she will never let me get away with anything.
It's a walk of less than 300 yards to the door of my flat and there is no one on the pavement, not a soul to be seen anywhere, so although it's not that risky for me personally, none of my neighbours being known to me, it does feel like a massive achievement, feeling as I do quite pleasantly comfortable. And I can feel Louisa's relief, in fact happiness seems to exude from her, her mood elevates, her eyes sparkle and her conversation is, once again, breathless and animated. Her joy is like a brazier in the middle of winter, and I just want to be allowed to stand near her, to feel her radiated warmth, her frivolity is bewitching, her light-heartedness a tonic for my miserably serious soul. God knows, I don't want to be responsible for stripping away from her one of the main things that attracted me to her in the first place. Especially not now I know what it's like to feel her body shudder against mine, to hear her whisper my name so imploringly that I willingly relinquish all my self control and surrender to her. Wherever that place is that she takes me to, I'd like to revisit it, frequent it in fact, as devout and as unwavering as the most fervent of zealots.
It seems that she's now abandoned her excogitation on why all of the houses in the street might look exactly the same and she deviates wildly and unpredictably, cheerfully inquisitive now about the most dour of subject matters:me. It seems imperative that Louisa knows how long I've lived here, how long it takes me to walk to work, and which route I favour; a flurry of enquiry, as a stream of consciousness, delivered breathlessly and as I listen, and endeavour to answer, I feel a strange sense of comfort, a quiet sort of calmness, almost a sense of peacefulness. I'm not sure exactly why but I suspect that it's because, as inexplicable as I honestly find it, I realise that I do seem to matter to her now; what I want and what I need might be important considerations for her and I understand that my reluctance to share anything about myself is another hurdle I must get over. I glance at my watch and, as I describe my daily commute, woodenly and self consciously, she somehow manages to turn it into a compliment on my apparent fitness and I feel myself blush as I quickly start to think about making lunch and, with a vague sense of regret, delivering Louisa safely back to her horrid house.
My flat is pleasantly cool, an oasis away from the heat and noise and the fumes of the city. She gathers her things together while I prepare a rudimentary meal, and then we sit at the table to eat, opposite one another, peaceably. Louisa notices the vase of flowers, staring at the Zantedeschias with amused interest, giggling, and remarking to me that they appear rather phallic, and asking me whether I had considered their purchase possibly a Freudian slip on my part? I stare at her in indignant horror for a moment until I see the reappearance of her ubiquitous, insolent smirk as she enjoys my discomfort rather too much and I realise I do make it all rather too easy for her. However turgid and humourless I think she must find me, she is however grateful for lunch and I watch with interest as she devours her salad with almost rabid enthusiasm, waving her fork in the air as she compliments me on what really was the most basic of repasts. I can't help but think, for someone who appears to skip as many meals as Louisa seems to, she does apparently have rather a healthy appetite. She even gnaws the ends from the chicken femur, and scrapes her plate immaculately clean, as I sit listening to her, absently peeling the skin from two apples, coring and slicing them before passing one across to her, as she pushes her cutlery together and slides her plate away.
I feel an almost overwhelming sense of contentment in something as simple as sitting here with her, watching her animated enthusiasm as she speaks. I'm grateful just to listen, and to gaze at her, admiringly, as I note that she's one of those fortunate individuals to whom exposure to the sun just adds a warm, slightly-bronzed glow. Of course I find my mind wandering, ruminating briefly on the possibility that we might adjourn to another room but I chastise myself. For god's sake Ellingham, you're not a bloody caveman, I think to myself with more than just a hint of shame, emptying my glass of water hastily and forcing myself to stand up and move away, clearing the table rather industriously. For a short while, she is quiet until she joins me and we stand in silence by the sink, each lost in our own thoughts as we take care of the dishes, and I find myself rather vigorously and throughly wiping down all the surfaces before, all of a sudden, it's time for Louisa to leave.
I'd offered to drive her home and she'd accepted, apparently relieved, as if there were some kind of unspoken desire between us that we might prolong our time together as long as possible. There's a moment of difficulty as I stand by the door, as our eyes meet and I breath in heavily, as usual conflicted and unsure of what to do. In the end, as I stand there like an helpless and indecisive moron, holding the door handle in one hand and her overnight bag in the other, it's Louisa who reaches up to kiss me, gently but yet still so intensely stirring. As she pulls away, I release my breath as a long, shuddering, very audible sigh and, immediately, I notice the expression on her face change and she smiles at me knowingly. She asks me about my plans for the week and, as I carry her bag down the stairs, I provide a basic synopsis of the next few days: Monday and Tuesday for elective surgery, early starts and usually late finishes, depending on the immediate post-op recovery of the patients. I run my mind down my list of procedures for the next few days and, though I will be busy, it should all be quite straightforward. One can only hope.
"Can I call you on Wednesday night, then?" She asks almost cautiously.
"Mmm." I reply, as suddenly the week seems rather long and bleak in the imagining, and the reality of the difficulties we face is suddenly and miserably unavoidable.
She doesn't say anything and I glance across at her.
"I mean, I'd like that." I add, reassuringly, and she turns her head and gives me a half-hearted smile.
"This is going to be really hard, isn't it?" She says, almost sadly. "Now I know why you warned me."
"Yes." I reply helplessly, wondering if she understands how very very difficult I, too, found our weeks of separation.
Does she have any perception at all of how badly I missed her company during that time, I wonder, of how deeply I ached for the solace in her touch, actually yearning for the reassurance of her presence, as if my need could somehow conjure her up. And now, it was even worse, because I can't possibly tell her how almost overwhelming my physical longing for her has become. Waking up with Louisa next to me was better than anything I could have imagined, poetic in its sweetness, and now I face a week of early alarms, solitary meals and silent contemplation. Regrettably too, I cannot imagine that I will have escaped Saturday night without being party to some sort of repercussions, some distasteful parental fallout, and I would have to face that without Louisa's bolstering proximity. Suddenly, I began to dread the week and the heavy sigh I hear her utter, seems a fitting representation of the slight gloominess we both seem to feel.
"Just keep busy...and, umm, get on with things I think." I say firmly, as much to myself as to her, but she doesn't answer.
As we approach her flat, she directs me down a narrow alleyway and we emerge into a tiny, roughly surfaced car park where she indicates the space allocated to her flat. I retrieve her bag and we walk slowly back down the driveway, bordered as it is on one side by a tall, rather battered brick wall that has clearly seen better days, and now seems to be held up by the furiously competing forces of ivy, wild blackberries and convolvulus. As I follow her around to her front door, I observe that the lack of rear access to her flat does seem rather a fundamental planning failure, but she just shrugs her shoulders at me disinterestedly. I brace myself, stepping carefully over the foul door mat, and once again the atmosphere inside the building is like a foetid sauna, and I grimace in disgust. Of course, the kitchen sink is full of dishes and the countertop littered with empty takeaway containers and the detritus of excess alcohol consumption. With great difficulty, I refrain from commenting but Louisa catches my eye and I can tell from the frown she directs at me that she is warning me to keep my opinions to myself. I follow her into her room and, while it certainly doesn't feel as awkward and as frankly dangerous as it used to, I still feel self-conscious in here. I can't express to her how much I detest the thought of her living like this, in such dismal, unpleasant surroundings, exacerbated by my belief that she accepts it because, more-or-less, grim comfortless accomodation is all that she has ever known. I am, however, under no illusion that she will ever allow me to interfere in any way but I still will endeavour to think of opportunities that may arise where I can improve things for her, without provoking her ferociously independent streak.
Hastily, she drags the covers up over her unmade bed and I place her bag gently down at the foot, stepping cautiously around the stacks of books, and open CD cases, and discarded clothing that litters the floor. My feet seem to be sliding from under me and, as I look down, I notice that I am standing on a clear plastic dry cleaning bag. As I lift my foot, I realise that it is now attached to me via static electricity, and bend down, slightly impatiently, to remove it; laying it on the bed and attempting, somewhat inadequately, to smooth it out.
"Oh, sorry. " She says, smiling at me, so sweetly awkward and self-conscious. "I should put that back on."
I watch as she unzips her bag and pulls out a slightly haphazardly folded square parcel of tissue paper. Unfolding it reveals the glittering cranberry dress that she wore so spectacularly last night, and she touches it very gently, almost reverently, running her fingers thoughtfully around the edges of the flowers. Even in the gloomy light of her room, the fabric gleams and glistens, and I can't help but recall the effect it had, as it clung to her every curve, shimmering like a sea of precious stones, her hips swinging so distractingly from side to side as she walked.
"It's such a beautiful dress." She says dreamily, gazing at it, as if she cant quite believe it is hers.
For a split second, I completely understand how she feels. I'm as mesmerised by Louisa as she is by her dress, and I too feel incredulous at the thought that, in some small way, she might be mine. She slips the hanger through the delicate shoulder straps and holds it up again, twisting her wrist from side to side, so that the fabric gleams extravagantly and, for a moment, she appears lost in thought. She is so unselfconscious, so naturally beautiful that I feel myself irresistibly drawn toward her. I reach out my finger and tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.
"It's...umm...a very nice dress." I tell her gently, as my evaporating confidence renders me almost mute. "But...it was you...you made it...beautiful."
My awkwardly delivered words seem to hang in the air and as genuine and heartfelt as I know them to be, I cant help but be disappointed in my clumsiness, my uninspiring delivery, another failed opportunity to express myself, gone begging. But it only takes her shy, sideways glance toward me, and her attempt at biting her lip to conceal what I can tell is an almost child-like delight, for all my hope to return and my resolve to disappear. As much as I find her flat abhorrent, as determined as I was in my vow to control myself within the miserable confines of its grimy, flaking walls, I find myself drawing her towards me, and I am more than content just to hold her, to wrap my arms around her, and to feel the willingness, the comforting softness of her embrace.
After a moment I find I offer no resistance as she steps backwards, and pulls me along with her, flattening herself against the wall by the open door, the only place where the floor is relatively free of obstruction and I can stand comfortably upright without the risk of head injury. She smiles at me as her hands reach up to the back of my head, drawing my mouth to hers and kissing me in a way that causes my abdomen to lurch uncontrollably and, reflexively my hands slide down to her bottom and I pull her against me. I still can't quite believe her enthusiasm, as she murmurs her approval and, as much as I know I should tone everything down, I don't immediately choose to do so, preferring instead to revel in the totally unmitigated delight of slipping my hand underneath her flimsy singlet and fondling the deliciously perfect breast of the woman I am undoubtedly besotted with. I close my eyes, and whisper her name involuntarily, as my mouth finds the alluring softness of her throat, and I allow myself just a short minute of unadulterated hedonism before I, very reluctantly, pull away. As theatrically disappointed as she seems, gazing at me in a way that can only be described as amused petulance as she is, as difficult as it is for me to relinquish my grip on her, I'm cautious that, like a parent who constantly accedes to their child, allowing Louisa to always get her own way might prove rather unwise. I've spent the day conceding and capitulating and it suddenly feels important that I should, in some way, show some mettle and exhibit some fortitude, regardless of the provocative gaze of my rather too nubile companion.
"I will speak to you on Wednesday, yes?" I say firmly and, before she can say or do anything to shatter my flimsy resolve, I kiss her gently on the forehead, and stride purposefully from her room, through the damp, heavy air of the silent living room, and out on to the street.