As soon as we are in the lift again, Martin's authoritative demeanour seems to vanish, and the haughty, disapproving glare that had both amused and slightly disconcerted me for the last hour is replaced by a concerned and rather uncertain frown. As soon as I notice the way he gazes at me so intensely, I brace myself for a lecture. Do your worst, Martin, I think, secure in the knowledge that not only have I eaten a healthy breakfast, but I have also consumed a reasonably substantial lunch, I have washed my hands several times over the course of the day and, as I glance down smugly and wiggle my feet, I note my sensibly-heeled boots with their more than adequate arch and ankle support.
His eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips part, revealing a glimpse of firmly clenched jaw but he doesn't say anything, although I get the feeling he wants to. Unusually, I am silent too; there has been so much to take in, and to unpick about the day, that my head is starting to spin. My state of mind isn't exactly helped either by the burst of elation I'd felt when I realised that little Piers was probably going to be alright. I admit that I'd spent the morning imagining the absolute worst so hearing that he had an excellent chance of recovery was just such an incredible relief. But now, in the relative quiet of the lift, my eyelids have begun to feel heavy and all I want to do is to have a cup of tea and a lie down because I've come over feeling absolutely and utterly knackered. Looking across at Martin, regarding me silently with his thoughtful expression, I feel a sudden urge to see if he wants to join me.
Honestly, I just adore him but today has been interesting to say the least and I've certainly been provided with quite an insight into Martin's professional life. When he wasn't reprimanding the staff in a way that made me feel a bit uncomfortable, having him step in was actually a massive relief though; I almost hate to admit it but there was something very reassuring about the way he took charge. It was also rather flattering that, despite how busy I knew he was, he'd dropped everything, without complaint, to help me. And not just direct me, but completely sort everything for me, confidently, and without fuss, so much so that I am back to feeling like a slightly breathless Portwenn schoolgirl, gazing in total infatuation at her crush, slightly uncomfortable at how I seemed to be completely relying on him, but madly fancying him all the same. I probably should have insisted we go back to the relative privacy of his office so I could thank him properly but it was too late now. Judging, though, by the distance he is careful to put between us, Martin's rules about public displays of affection are even more stringent when he is at work. My gratitude will have to wait.
As the lift lurches, and creaks into activity, he clears his throat and asks me how I plan on spending my afternoon, and I smile at and tell him the truth which is that I really don't know. I have a vague idea that he wouldn't approve of taking day time naps but I do feel there are rather extenuating circumstances in my case, as I stifle a yawn. I notice that he swallows hard, an almost imperceptible movement above his perfectly knotted tie and immaculate white collar, before he quietly, and almost sheepishly, asks me if I would like to have supper with him. If only he knew how irresistible he is when he looks at me like that, his eyes so soft and round and childlike.
"I'd love that." I tell him and I can't hide the explosive smile that feels as if attempting to hold it in might sprain my face or dislocate my jaw.
"Just supper though?" I add, and I notice his eyes eyes widen.
"Umm, no." He replies after a moment, his voice slightly hoarse and the expression on his face so endearing, my heart feels as if it's going to melt. "I mean, if you'd like to stay...I..ummm...I didn't like to assume..."
"I think, in this case, assuming is okay..." I say and I can't help but grin at him, almost incredulous at the transformation he has undergone, from scornful and imperious to bashful and hesitant. "But, you know, obviously I don't have any things with me, and I've got work tomorrow..."
"Yes, of course." He says and he hesitates for a moment before reaching into his pocket. "Umm, you could take a taxi home perhaps, collect what you need and meet me back at my flat?"
While what he is suggesting sounds incredibly appealing, it's then that I recall my empty purse.
"The bus is fine." I reassure him breezily but he frowns at me, and clears his throat again.
"You've had quite a scare today, Louisa." He says, and I notice that the authoritative tone has returned to his voice. "And you won't be sure of the route home from here...I'd feel happier if, especially in your emotional state, you weren't subject to the rigours of public transportation, especially in this heat..."
"Oh, Martin, it's absolutely fine." I tell him impatiently, and I'm not even sure why I am arguing with him. "I'm used to it. I have my Travelcard..."
"Nevertheless, now that I have rather a lot of work to catch up on, I would really prefer not to have the added distraction of being concerned about your well being all afternoon." He says firmly, before adding rather pointedly. "Louisa, please, just this once, could you just do as I ask?"
I sigh and narrow my eyes at him in frustration. Even if I did have the funds in my very empty purse, it seems to me to be a pretty pointless use of them. And, if I'm honest, it's my rather stubborn pride that prevents me admitting my parlous financial state to him, a situation I doubt Martin's ever found himself in and one I don't imagine he'd really ever understand. The lift lurches to a halt and the doors slide open; a crowd of people waiting to enter stare back at us and as I hesitate, I feel Martin's hand on my elbow, as he pilots me forward. As I glance up at him, I notice his glowering, impatient expression has returned and perhaps it's the relief, or my weariness, or even just because the contrast is so marked but I let out rather an undignified snort of laughter as I'm marched rather firmly toward the exit.
I give in to him on the taxi idea, unable to face battling with him now, drained by the heat and the crowds and the tiredness that seems to be seeping into my bones. Though I still feel really uncomfortable about it, I watch passively as he opens his wallet and retrieves a fifty quid note, slipping it in to my hand as unobtrusively as he can considering how many people are around us. I rarely give much thought to our massively different situations in life, the gulf in our education and income and, I hate to say it, our social class, mostly because I've always somehow seen us as essentially so similar; bound together by a background that is so much stronger and more unifying than any differences society can impose on us. However, there are times when it's hard to ignore his power, and his status, never mind his significantly more advantageous financial position, and this is one of them.
"If I give you the key, you could let yourself in? I should be home by half past six." He says calmly, again reaching into his pocket. "Does that allow you enough time?"
I hesitate, thinking about how hot it will be in the stuffy, humid confines of Graham Terrace, how there will be no respite due to the fact that most of the windows are nailed shut, the curtains are flimsy and threadbare, and there is no sort of effective fan. In fact, the less time I spend there the better, at least until this heatwave passes, actually.
"It won't take me long to grab my things. If you don't mind, I'll go straight back to your place." I tell him with a smile. "And I think I left a toothbrush in your bathroom anyway..."
"Yes you did." He says slowly, opening his mouth and closing it again, as if he thinks better of what he is about to say.
"What?" I ask him, suspiciously, as he suddenly avoids eye contact with me.
"I...umm...I threw it out." He replies, and his tone becomes a little defensive. "Louisa, let me just say that they are not designed to become family heirlooms, passed from one generation to the next. Toothbrushes need at least some bristles to be both straight and remaining in place in order to actually function effectively."
There he goes again, making arbitrary decisions on my behalf, seemingly incapable of ever asking me what I might want to do, if I have an opinion on anything. It might have only been an old toothbrush but it was my toothbrush, to keep or to dispense with as I saw fit. I feel a quite intense flash of annoyance.
"Oh, I see." I reply, and my tone is distinctly shirty.
"Mm." He tells me, seemingly unabashed. "But, I...I bought you another one...Recommended by the Royal College of Dental Surgeons apparently..."
I'm not exactly sure why this admittedly minor trespass seems suddenly such a major infraction, but I actually feel really irritated. Perhaps if he tempered it in some way, if he weren't so matter-of-fact, so convinced that he was right; even if he said something nice, something complimentary, like I had a nice smile and it was important to look after it, I might feel less aggravated, but no, not Martin. And now he tells me that the bloody toothbrush he has purchased for me has an ergonomic handle and it seems I'm supposed to be giddy with excitement.
"Fine." I tell him crossly, plucking the key from his fingers and fixing him with a pointed stare.
He frowns at me, baffled as usual, oblivious to his own insensitivity. As we stare at each other, I feel rivulets of perspiration begin to run down my back and I wince. Worse still, the perfectly coiffured A&E receptionist bounces toward us, a shopping bag in one hand, her perfectly blended foundation rendering her skin flawless under the summer sun, seemingly resistant to the furnace of hot air we are experiencing. Of course she notices us, and I see her expression change, her features rearranging themselves into a mask of cold disapproval. Her eyelashes defy gravity, thick and black and exacerbating the darkness of her stare, and she displays not a drop of perspiration, not a glimmer anywhere, not even a noticeable warm glow, such is the density of her finishing powder. While I wasn't overly impressed with her before, as cold and unhelpful as she proved herself to be, now I positively dislike her, as I notice a sneer returning to her thin upper lip. She is almost upon us when I reflexively react, throwing my arm up around Martin's neck and pulling his head down toward me. There is a split second when he resists, a tiny moment where he is deciding how he will respond, before he softens and submits, and I feel the lightest touch as his hand goes to my waist. I know then that, despite everything, there are moments when I can and will have the upper hand, despite being powerless, broke and lacking much of an education, never mind the ability to save anyone's life. After a minute or so, I've made my point, and I relax my grip on the back of his head but I don't feel quite ready to end our kiss, relatively chaste though it is. I'm not exactly sure why it seems so important to me that Martin acknowledges me publicly as his girlfriend but it really really is. Eventually though, our lips part and he stands upright, adjusting his cuffs as he whips his head around, clearly concerned at who might have just seen us.
"Thank you." I tell him, and I feel a slightly triumphant smile spread across my face as he opens the door of the taxi for me.
"Right." He says, with more than a hint of discomfort. "Umm, see you at about half past six."
An hour or so later, I'm punching the door code on his building, drowsier than ever, enervated by the relentless hot air and feeling a desperate longing to be standing atop a Portwenn cliff, arms spread widely, buffeted by the cool coastal breeze. If feels like someone has turned an enormous hairdryer on me, such is the intensity of the heat, a blast furnace effect every time you step outside. Worse still is the fact that this mad weather is all anyone wants to talk about; if I hear anyone else point out how hot it is, I think I'll scream. My relief at entering the cool, dignified confines of Martin's flat is enormous, it feels like a church; silent, calm and welcoming. Peeling off my clothes, I climb straight into the shower and, underneath the restorative, pleasantly tepid water, I stand for ages, experimenting with the various shower head settings until I find one that feels like a slow, dull flailing and I relish both the numbing calmness and the fact that there are no indignant flat mates banging on the bathroom, insisting I have had too long. Afterwards, I just stand in his bedroom, wrapped in the deliciously fluffy towel, luxuriating in the comfort, my mind deliciously empty, and it feels blissful.
Eventually, I rouse myself, optimistically pulling on my best knickers, and my favourite pedal pushers and singlet, before deciding on a cup of tea and my much anticipated afternoon nap. Before I stretch out on the couch, I do make sure that I leave the kitchen immaculate, as keen as I still am to make a good impression, conscious that Martin must think I live in grotty accomodation out of choice rather than necessity, and thats all I remember really, other than the vague sense of disbelief that always seems to envelop me when I find myself in Martin's world. It had been so still and quiet, the only noise the peaceful rhythmical ticking of his clocks, and the distant low hum of traffic, and my mind had wandered toward sleep rather rapidly,
I'd been dreaming, I think, but I'd started the ascent towards awake, when the jarring image of Dr. Farr had accosted my subconscious and I saw her so clearly, snatching her quick glances at Martin that were, in hindsight, a bit of a dead give away really. For a moment, confused by sleep, I feel uncomfortable, and I wonder whether he is aware of her feelings. I wish I hadn't pictured them together; she is an attractive woman, obviously a smart one, and she has the added advantage of being in proximity to Martin every day, consulting with him, perhaps even meeting him for coffee or having lunch with him somewhere. I suddenly experience that unpleasant and sadly familiar sensation of inferiority, the one that used to plague me much of the time but that I really had hoped I had buried. I know that to feel jealously is pointless and I do remonstrate with myself, pointing out that I am here in his flat and she, obviously, is not. In the end, I spend so long examining the relative comparisons between his behaviour toward me versus his attitude toward Dr. Farr that I actually start to feel sorry for her, and even a little sad about her pain over what I hope is her unrequited crush. After all, I do know how if felt.
I shake my head at myself, as it dawns on me why I might be feeling so emotional, and I roll onto my back and clutch the cushion over my face, chastising myself for being so completely ridiculous, and, eventually I drift back off to sleep. I must have been in a coma when he arrived home because I didn't hear the door open, nor was I aware of him standing over me, even after he started saying my name, repeatedly. In my dream we were at the beach, we'd waded out into the waves but I wasn't as brave as Martin and I was reluctant to venture past the point where the waves were breaking, frightened of losing my footing, of being knocked down, slipping under the surface of the water, and finding myself swept away. But Martin was so much taller and stronger, unmoved by the tide, and he stood just out of reach, the water lapping around his chest, holding out his arms to me, laughing, and beckoning me towards him. My body was like concrete; as much as I willed myself forward, I could not move and though I told him I wanted to join him, his voice became more and more impatient until suddenly he wasn't there at all and feel myself jolted violently and desperately awake.
As I open my eyes, I feel the back of his fingers on my forehead and, with enormous relief, I remember where I am.
"What are you doing?" I murmur, groggily, as I push myself up to a sitting position, blinking at him and attempting to focus.
"You're very flushed." He says. "Are feeling well?"
"I just woke up." I tell him and, now that I can see him clearly, I realise he has rather a grave and forbearing expression on his face. My hair, still marginally damp, has partly escaped my ponytail and is plastered to my neck and cheek. I wonder if telling me that I appear flushed is Martin's way of telling me that I am a dishevelled mess and I reach up self consciously and try and reinstate some sort of control by redoing the elastic band and sweeping it into a loose bun.
"Yes." He replies and he seems to hesitate for a moment. "Umm, I thought I'd get started on supper straight away. It's late and you must be hungry..."
I watch, slightly surprised and rather disappointed, as he disappears down the hall, clutching his briefcase as if it contains the Crown Jewels. I know I must have looked like a beached whale when he arrived home but I honestly expected a slightly more enthusiastic greeting that that; even by Martin's low key standards, that was blasé at best. I wonder if kissing him goodbye, in full view of the general public and any passing hospital staff, was simply a really bad idea, and he is still upset with me. I plump the cushion I have been using as a pillow, and I replace it carefully alongside its mate, and I'm in the process of washing my teacup when he reappears alongside me in the kitchen, pulling open a bottom drawer and retrieving what appears to be an apron.
I smile at him, noting that he has both removed his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and I can't help but be amazed by the laws of physical attraction that for some reason make Martin in an apron and tie appear utterly magnetic.
"Seeing you out of your jacket, teasing me with that glimpse of arm... it must have been how Victorian men felt when they saw a woman revealing her ankles..." I tell him but he merely looks back at me, blankly, seemingly unimpressed with my analogy.
"Mmm." He replies after a moment, and I notice how his eyes dart around the room, as if he's trying to make sense of particularly confusing surroundings. He seems oddly anxious and it's worrying me.
"Well, hello." I say rather pointedly, nodding at him before I reach up and kiss him softly on the mouth.
"Yes, of course, hello...I...umm...you weren't awake..." He replies, his voice trailing off helplessly as he looks back at me for the briefest of moments, and then he turns toward the fridge.
He prepares dinner in virtual silence, answering any of my questions in a particularly clipped manner, and instigating no conversation himself. I lean against the kitchen cupboards, as is my habit, clutching a glass of wine to my chest, and observing him; his efficient movement; the spare elegance with which he bastes a fish and the speed and accuracy he's capable of when he wields a knife. He doesn't actually seem angry or upset, but he's clearly not himself and I start to wonder if something has happened at work that has upset him, or even if he's always like this when he gets home after a taxing day. I just don't know, it's all so new, being with him here like this. I wait patiently in the hope that he will relax somewhat, or perhaps that I will find an opportunity to ask him what concerns him, but not now, for at the moment he is distant and unwilling to engage, and I'm more than just a little uncomfortable.
Over dinner, he seems even quieter if that is possible, circumspect and watchful and, as I eat, I notice that he is watching me, even more so than he usually does. He carries out all the polite gestures; refilling my glass, and clearing my plate for me but, if anything, it seems like his remoteness is increasing. Eventually, after we do the dishes in virtual silence, I feel the need to ask him if him if everything is alright and, pretty unconvincingly, he insists he is fine but my sense of worry, the thought that I have done or said something to upset him is snowballing. When he disappears, without warning, after hanging his tea towel neatly over the handle of the cooker, I decide that I've had enough.
I discover him, sitting on the edge of his bed, with such a worried expression that I experience a real stab of concern. I stand in front of him and he glances up at me, so hesitantly that I find myself unable to resist attempting to comfort him, running my fingers through his hair and breathing his name out in a heavy, anxious sigh. I seem to need his reassurance too and I feel a moment of aching disappointment that I can't seem to get through to him, that he just will not share with me whatever is bothering him, until suddenly I felt his hands, gently, slide around my hips. I can still sense how tentative he is though, so I pull him against me, his face to my chest and that seems to be enough to jog his memory, reminding him that I have other things I need from him, more than just taxi fares and toothbrushes. He murmurs something, as if he's suddenly overcome by the intensity of the moment, and though I can't hear what he says, I can feel the heat of his breath through the light cotton of my shirt.
It doesn't take much to ignite us. I hear myself gasp as he slides the fabric upwards and lowers his head. I claw at the side seams, desperate to remove the damn thing, pulling it over my head, and baring my overheated flesh to his cool ministration. After a moment we tumble over onto the vast expanse of his enormous bed and, silently, I curse my choice of tight denim as Martin abandons his efforts to remove my pants. I dissolve into a fit of the giggles as I gyrate around on my back, attempting to gracelessly slide myself out of the determinedly gripping fabric as he watches on, slowly shaking his head at me with a strange expression that is half perplexed, half amused, his eyes bright with need.
He'd made love to me with almost reverential attention, ardent and intense; beguiling me, and only shedding his own clothes at the last, threading his fingers through mine and gazing into my eyes as his slow but exquisite momentum made me feel as if I had utterly dissolved, carried along by a tide of ecstatic nothingness. I closed my eyes then, as I felt the surge, and let myself be overcome by the waves. It was only when I opened them again that I realised that he was still scrutinising me, his eyes searching my face as if he is desperate to discover something, to find something he needs in my expression. In my post-climactic fog, I wonder vaguely what he is missing, what it is he's actually looking for.
"Wow." I say softly, and I flash him a grateful little smile, noticing how he still stares at me in silence.
I free a hand and reach up to his face, caressing his cheek, and it seems it is enough to distract him from his reverie. He exhales deeply and rather thoughtfully, before we slip apart and he rolls onto his back beside me, closing his eyes for a minute before he runs both of his hands through his hair. I turn onto my side to face him, mostly because I adore this vision of him, when he doesn't really know I'm looking; sneakily admiring him at his most beautiful. All the usual things that girls like of course; his smooth chest, broad shoulders, the definition of his biceps, and the veins in his arms, as he reaches up over his head. But, especially for me, in this moment, I love seeing him with all the tension gone from his body, his face calm and serene, his movement languid and relaxed; a Martin that doesn't seem to exist anywhere else other than when he momentarily allows himself to be unbridled, to follow his instincts and to abandon his self-restraint.
When his breathing slows, he glances across at me and gently asks me if I am alright.
"Better than alright." I tell him in a low voice. "That was brilliant."
For a moment, he holds my gaze but, almost instantly, I see that his face has coloured, and I can sense the return of his self-consciousness, his shyness, his inability to ever accept a compliment without a look of sheer terror flashing across his face. It would probably be yet another of his very endearing expressions if it wasn't just so incredibly sad. As I smile at him, I realise the rain has finally arrived, big heavy drops that splatter into the windows and, despite the early hour, it suddenly seems quite dark outside. Unfortunately, the rain does not seem to have brought the temperature down, it will probably just increase the humidity and make sleep impossible, that is if you happened to find yourself overnighting in a dingy student flat rather than a well ventilated Kensington apartment. I excuse myself momentarily and wander off toward the bathroom as Martin mutters a string of gruff, unintelligible syllables that seem to indicate that he is is going to lock up and everything else that seems part of his normal routine.
When I emerge, the bed is turned down and there is a glass of water on each bedside cabinet. Martin has switched on the lamps which has given the room a soft, comforting atmosphere, and I have a sudden and rather pleasant feeling about how lovely and cosy it would be in here in winter, just the two of us, regardless of the weather outside. I smile to myself as he strides back into the room, with his usual purposeful expression and a mysterious Manila folder carried discreetly in front of him. He clears his throat as I climb beneath the covers, and I watch with amusement as, ever modest, he turns his back on me, before retrieving a clean pair of boxers from his chest of drawers. I do admit to feeling a little disappointed as he pulls them in on, and I wonder if I should rummage in my overnight bag and find a t-shirt and a clean pair of knickers for myself. It does seems such a shame when half the joy of staying the night is snuggling up to him, feeling his warm velvety skin against mine.
"Shall I put my nighty on then?" I ask him, with just the slightest air of insolence.
"Umm...no..." he croaks, as his expression changes instantly to one of helpless disappointment and I can't stop myself smirking back at him, shaking my head as I pull the sheet up to my waist.
" Though, umm, if you don't mind, I do have something to...ahh...to discuss with you if you...if you're not too tired?"
"I'm fine, Martin, honestly, it's only early..." I tell him, and suddenly I feel more than a little intrigued.
A warning voice in my head tells me though that Manila envelopes do tend to contain humourless, unexciting, grown up style paperwork; insurance documents and bank statements, warranties and pension plans, and so I attempt to modulate my interet as best I can. He swings his long legs beneath the sheets, arranges his pillows and clears his throat again as if he is ready to begin. I find myself shuffling across toward him, hopeful of sliding in beneath his arm and enjoying a bit of a cuddle while I dutifully look at whatever he feels he needs to show me. But, as he opens the folder, and begins to flip through the plastic encased sheets, I realise quickly that he has is back in his familiar role of Mastery and Control, serious and resolute, and determined to ignore all distractions. So, of course, I can't help myself and I slide my arm around his shoulders, absently stroking his neck and leaning in on his bicep, pressing my lips occasionally against his ear and generally attempting to distract him. To Martin's credit, he ignores me though, seeming oddly committed to showing me what appears to be just a London Transport Timetable.
"Louisa, I've been thinking a lot about the situation we find ourselves in, my job, my lack of free time and so forth...and, as an extension of this, your...umm...flat which, as I've never tried to disguise from you, I feel very uncomfortable in..."
I open my mouth to object but he holds his hand up, as if to silence me.
"Please let me finish. I'm aware of your thoughts on the subject but I would very much appreciate it if you'd hear me out." He says, so firmly that I admit I'm taken aback.
"Okay." I reply and it's then that I notice an almost imperceptible trembling of his hand.
"Can I do anything about the hours of work I'm currently subject to? The answer is no. This is the life I've signed up to, I knew the requirements and, at present, other than a minor tweaking of the rosters here and there, it won't change. Not in the foreseeable future."
I sigh, but I don't say anything because I'm not entirely sure where he's going.
"I can't abide your flat, I've made no secret of that, but I have no choice but to respect your decision to live there. Clearly you value the social connections you have established... your...umm...your proximity to UCL, obviously is of the greatest importance, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, of course, Martin. And affordable student accomodation isn't easy to find..."
"Mmm. So, I...I took the liberty of researching the issue of convenience, the things that I thought might be replicated away from your flat that meant that we could possibly spend more time together without there being too much disruption to your daily life."
"I quite like most of the disruption..." I tell him and, without looking at me, he reaches across and pulls the sheet up to just beneath my armpits as I grin at him. "Sorry...where is this all going?"
"Well, umm, I've compared the transport routes and, though it is slightly further for you to travel, the extra time is not onerous...ten minutes each way perhaps which would mean a slightly earlier start for you if you chose to commute from here once the college term commences..."
"Oh, I see." I tell him and, for a moment, even though I know something of his planning skill, I am dumbfounded.
"I've, ummm...I've made a note of the alternative transport routes here, under Appendix One. There are three distinct choices and, of course, it would be up to you which one you chose..."
"Thank you, Martin." I say, but he continues on, oblivious, as I attempt to understand what exactly it is that he is trying to say.
"Under Appendix Two, you will see that I've made a list of the possible advantages your flat holds over staying here and, obviously, I've thought about worst case scenarios...the most likely would be that, say you'd arrived here, let yourself in with your key, only to discover that I'd had to deal with a post-surgical adverse event or I'd been called in to theatre for complicated emergency...and I didn't arrive home until midnight. I felt that being alone here, not knowing where I was, without your own things, might not be quite so onerous if you had umm, a television to watch."
"Wait a minute, Martin, are you saying you'd buy a telly just to keep me entertained if you weren't here?"
"Yes." He says, glancing at his feet, self consciously.
"But don't you hate everything to do with them. Mindless tedium at best, I think you called it, retrogressive titillation for the dissolute and those of impaired intellect I think you said it was?"
"Umm, well as long as I don't have to watch any of it myself, it's appearance in my home is neither here nor there to me, honestly, if it makes you happy. The largest cathode Ray tube monitor will fit in the space to the right of the fireplace and I believe there is room for a VHS analog recording device in the cabinet below. This will enable you to both view and record programmes of your choice, should you decide to spend time in the flat when I am working, on weekends for instance."
I bend in and kiss him on the neck, ruffling his hair and making appreciative squeaks of delight, watching with a feeling of triumph as goose bumps spread across his chest. It's so typical of him, doing a big thing for someone, in such a self-deprecating way but, best of all, it's not something you do for someone if you're upset with them, or you don't want to encourage them to visit.
"I did give some consideration to subjects other than entertainment." He says, awkwardly, as he flaps open another plastic folder and slides out a thick wad of technical papers, none of which mean much to me. "Appendix Three, umm, references the advantages of installing a Personal Computer and a study desk for you in the spare room, especially in view of the issues I believe you suffered last term, the lack of privacy and space in which to study and so forth. In view of that, I've spoken to a few colleagues and there was a consensus on the sort of software you'd need to support a word processor...ahh...we all agreed that Windows 3.0 would be more than sufficient. So, I've had the one I've ordered upgraded to 4MB of RAM; ahhh, it's got a floppy disc drive and a CD-Rom, a colour monitor, printer, that sort of thing, which, umm, should be more than adequate for you to complete assignments on..."
"Martin, how much is all this costing?" I blurt out, as I'm suddenly hit by the reality of it all, the shame of Martin being forced to subsidise me because I am struggling to support myself, and no improvement on the horizon for years, if I follow my present course of study.
"That's hardly the point, is it?" He says, a bit too dismissively. "It's the means to an end, and surely it's the end that's important?"
"And are you going to tell me what this end is? In between turning your flat into a Curry's branch, that is? I mean, do you think that, perhaps, I might just have a right to know your plans?"
I pull my arm from around his shoulders as the humiliation starts to burn, and he turns to look at me with complete confusion.
"I...I just thought that...perhaps...you...might..."
"What? I might give up my flat? Just, you know, squat here, hang around waiting for you to to fit me in to your life? Be here when it was convenient for you? What? Did you just think you could wave some shiny things under the hard-up kid's nose and she'd be falling over herself to move in with you?"
"What? Louisa, now you're being ridiculous..."
"That's exactly the sort of thing I'd expect you to say actually Martin. That I'm being ridiculous just because I demand a say in my own life. You're acting like some sort of sugar daddy and I'm your possession!"
As he stares back at me with wounded eyes, I suddenly feel sick. I'm not exactly sure what has come over me, and I have clearly gone too far.
"I'm sorry." I tell him hastily. "I didn't mean that."
He continues to stare back at me, but to my absolute horror, his expression turns to ice and his eyes are now narrow and dark.
"It's clear that I have made a colossal error of judgement. For that I apologise." He says and he begins to collate his sheets of paper, sliding them back into the folder and dropping it loudly onto the bedside table.
"Martin, I've said I'm sorry." I tell him and I grab at his arm. "I dunno what came over me actually, I'm just feeling a bit vulnerable, that's all, I think maybe this morning upset me more than I realised..."
"What you just said about me expecting you to give up your flat and your independence, just for my convenience...Is that what you think of me Louisa? Is that how you see me?" He says, and the anger in his voice is palpable, his sadness, his obvious disappointment in me, all on display.
"No, of course it isn't. I'll apologise again if that helps...I'm a bit emotional, you know, and this all came as a bit of shock. You've clearly been thinking about something for days and I'm still not even sure what that thing is. And I suppose I just felt a bit insulted, a bit marginalised in my own life...asking me to give up my flat, my independence, that's huge for me, Martin, huge."
"Louisa, if you'd been paying attention, you would have heard me say clearly, in fact one of the very first things I mentioned was that I respected your decision to stay at your flat, even if for the life of me I can't possibly understand why. If you'd care to listen instead of flying off the handle at me, you'd have realised that had no intention of asking you to move in here permanently. Probably rather fortunately as it happens because, obviously, we don't know each other very well, as this situation rather proves, don't you think?"
"So you don't want me to move in?" I say quietly and now, unbelievably, I feel ridiculously disappointed. "Martin?"
"Umm, I'm no longer sure what it was I actually wanted. All I know is that the thought of only seeing you once a week just... well, it was...the endless time in between...umm, as soon as I got home on Sunday afternoon, I regretted taking you back to your flat. The evenings alone have always been my...my solace and now...umm, frankly, they're almost unbearable."
He leans across and picks up his glass of water, swallowing half of it as if he is desperately thirsty. I feel so upset with myself that I feel tears pricking in my eyes. It's suddenly obvious that, rather than randomly throw an idea at me, instead of casually asking me if I'd like to stay with him during the week, without thinking of the implications, Martin has not only anticipated every problem we might face but he's actually come up with a contingency plan; a really generous, thoughtful plan that would also go quite a long way toward sorting a lot of problems that I'd faced over the last few terms. Plus, we'd get to spend precious time together during the week which, when I thought about it with any sort of self awareness, was something that had been eating away at me quite a lot actually. But, the most embarrassing pointer to my own fragility, the thing that shone a spotlight on my total lack of maturity, was that when I'd called in at the flat today, I'd found a note from Libby on my pillow, inviting me to her leaving drinks next Friday. I'd rushed up the stairs only to discover her room was completely empty, that she'd gone and, as if I'd been in denial, I realised that I was now residing in that dismal monument to landlord neglect with Holly, who I'd become less and less keen on, and Toni, who I could barely stand.
I swallow hard and I watch him staring at his glass, thoughtfully and rather dejectedly. After he finally puts it down, he turns and regards me, his expression pained and rather cautious.
"Louisa, umm, why do you get so..umm...upset with me...when I try to do anything for you? I noticed how...ahh...important it was to you...for me to tell you that I love you. And...to hear the words...that seems to make you much happier than if I undertake any activity, perform any deed that might actually prove it to you?...You'd rather I said it over and over again rather than demonstrate it? Is that right?"
I can't even look at him now, as his words seem to sear right through me. I feel the room begin to swim and, as I tell myself that I'm the most ungrateful, undeserving woman in the world, everything around me seems to cave in. I can't conceal it any more, the fear that is always there; the panic-stricken, lack of oxygen. The lashing out, the blind aggression, the realisation that I've been attacking Martin, in some feeble childlike form of defence, suddenly distresses me beyond words. For all my ideals, my smug narrative that I will not be a victim, that I will never succumb to my past, suddenly it has hijacked me. And it is not just overwhelming, it's very real, terrifying, and so very destructive. I glance sideways at him and it only takes a glimpse of his unhappiness, his hollow hopelessness, and I begin, raspily and uncontrollably, to sob.