I knew that I needed to do better. I'd made a complete hash of suggesting that she should spend some midweek nights at my flat and so it was clear that I must shoulder the blame for the ensuing debacle. On reflection, her rather upsetting response might actually prove to be useful; I am now more aware of some of her fears, even if I have little understanding from whence they spring. At least I have been presented with an opportunity to refute the one that Louisa seems most frequently to allude to; the outlandish idea that I am some sort of Lothario, a serial womaniser hellbent on cutting a swathe through the bedrooms of London. Even more preposterous is her notion that she is somehow inferior to all of her imagined competition, worse still that my commitment level is that of considering her a mere meaningless dalliance. A sugar daddy of all things, for god's sake, I'm not even thirty.
I acknowledge that I am ill-equipped to deal with emotional intricacies. Present me with a complex proximal aneurysm and I am in my element, but ask me to attempt to untangle fraught feminine feelings and I find myself frozen to the spot, hoping the ground might open up and swallow me. During Louisa's outburst of last night, I'd had a moment of terror, a sickening, cold fear that her childhood neglect, and all the compensatory behaviours she'd adopted, might actually be the thing that would drive us apart. Having always felt that we had a mutual understanding, one that helped bring us together, it had frightened me enough to goad me into a response. The thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, was frankly abominable; horrifying and completely untenable.
I could stare at her face for hours, I will never tire of it; she has more expressions, more angles, more grace than Modigliani, even Picasso, would have been able to represent, even if she'd spent a lifetime as their muse. Watching fear transform her though, seeing her beautiful mouth tight with distress, and her eyes awash with tears, was simply too much and I'd momentarily forgotten to breathe, such was my despair at the misery I'd caused her. I still have little idea what it was that I said that had redeemed me, what I did that triggered her abrupt change of heart but I do know that I have never been more grateful for a mystifying and inexplicable u-turn in my life. It occurred to me then, that I must accept in its entirety the emotional roller coaster ride that was loving Louisa. If the Yin was the tear-filled misapprehensions, the unfounded insecurities and the mild hormonal mood disorders, then the Yang must definitely be the hope she fills me with, her kindness, her joy and the passion she shows for everything including, rather incredibly, me.
My susceptibility to her, her warmth and the joy that she exudes, continues to astound me. I can't even begin to describe the way it feels, to be a willing bystander as someone dismantles the scaffolding of your life, examining every callous and probing every wound. That a fiercely self-contained and unemotional man, who prides himself on his rigid self control, can be almost rendered insensible by the mere sight of her in the morning, is utterly incomprehensible to me. That I can be driven half mad with desire by the simple motion of her hair softly brushing against the skin of my abdomen seems like some sort of sorcery. To be brought almost to tears by the way she cradles my jaw in her hands, and whispers to me so intently, so vociferously, of her love for me, seems nothing less than extraordinary. It is inconceivable, preternatural even, that I might inspire that sort of feeling in anyone.
Thinking about it now, as I wait for the lift, sparks a feeling of electricity at the base of my sternum, a surge that momentarily takes my breath away, and I castigate myself severely for my failure to compartmentalise my thoughts, as I wrestle with an amazingly powerful recollection, one that will revisit me frequently throughout the day, in any moment where I foolishly allow my mind to become idle. For a few incredible moments, last evening, I'd felt inviolable again, indestructible almost, but in the most positive, most complete way that I could ever imagine attaining. Perhaps Nirvana was a flat in Kensington, on a rainy Wednesday night, when I was filled with raw emotion, enraptured by a stunningly beautiful woman who knelt over me, forcing me to discover an athletic prowess I never knew I possessed.
Afterwards, in a blissful moment of complete satiation, putting her mind at rest had seemed suddenly imperative. Despite my almost catatonic state, I was aware that I must reassure her, reiterate to her how I feel, stress how important she is to me, just how much change she has brought to my life. But, in the end, when I am faced with opening up to her, exposing myself entirely, I cannot quite bring myself to confess everything. I still have too much to fear, and I can't quite risk it, I simply can't bring myself to admit to her the path I chose to take, in case it somehow makes me seem even more of an oddity to her than I already am. But, in my own clumsy way, I attempt to convince her of the other, more important truths, a realisation that becomes clearer every minute we spend together: that, before Louisa, there was merely a mechanical kind of release and, if there is ever going to be an afterwards, I cannot imagine it, the idea simply fills me with a sickening, panic-inducing misery.
Judging by her emotional state this morning, my declaration seems to have been adequate. From the rather endearing state of vague, smiling, semi-consciousness she wakes in, I perceive a restored buoyancy, and her insolence quickly becomes visible again as she casually displays every glorious square inch of her naked body to me as if it's some sort of sly little Louisa test, seeing how far she can push me. I failed of course, but I can l never let her have the satisfaction of knowing how easily she penetrates my armour, how she threatens my self control. I told her last night that I want her to be happy but that wasn't entirely true. I want her to be happy, of course, but I'm desperate that her happiness should be greater with me at her side. So I mean to be better at securing it for her and I'm aware that I should make up for my less-than-stellar behaviour of the previous evening. Fortunately, my suggestion of dinner is well received. I'd imaged somewhere unpretentious, hygienic of course, but preferably more casual than Michelin-starred, somewhere that she won't feel as if she owes me something afterwards; for, as ridiculous as her financial insecurities are, for her they are clearly very real.
I book a table at the Japanese restaurant we'd visited with Auntie Joan; not the same booth because I struggled to fit myself into that awkward confined space, but upstairs, at a proper table; private and more intimate, and away from the irritating gaze of that infernal waving cat. With Louisa's encouragement, I might suggest we explore a few previously untried items from the menu, as we did last time; the only previous moment in my life where I'd ever considered sharing a plate in such a fashion. My reaction to her, when we met again as adults, was visceral. I'd been transfixed, and astounded, and I probably would have spent the afternoon simply staring at her in disbelief, even more wooden and standoffish than usual. However, when I'd found myself the recipient of that radiant smile, as her sincerity and her kindness had inveigled me, and her spirit, her joie de vivre, had seemed somehow so magnetic, I'd been transformed. I'd suggest something and her response would be enthusiasm, or gratitude, or even mirth and, completely uncharacteristically, I found myself seeking her approbation, and wondering if there was anything I could possibly offer, anything I could ever do that might gain her admiration.
I exit the lift, and let myself into my office, shutting out any distractions, and focusing entirely on my work. My day commences, the usual non-surgical tedium; ward rounds, outpatients who can't follow instructions, and idiotic questions from the post op follow-ups. I proof and sign a stack of correspondence while I eat my lunch, muttering under my breath as I force myself to read and initial the pile of internal memos and minutes that seem to accumulate on my desk out of nowhere. I spend the rest of the afternoon dealing with precious occupational therapists who seem to think they know better, and over-sensitive lab technicians who exhibit the ground speed of the three toed sloth. Another clinic follows, and a late teaching round, when a particularly interesting case of popliteal artery entrapment syndrome presents itself. I return to my office just before six o'clock and I clear my phone messages, including one from Bernard, who seems surprisingly keen to meet me for coffee. I make a note in my diary, before slipping it into my briefcase and snapping the locks shut, switching off the light and closing the door behind me.
I'd never previously given it much thought but the idea of going home to someone does rather change the dynamics of ones day. I experience a pleasant sense of anticipation and there's almost a spring in my step as I hasten down the corridor toward the lift. I will be punctual but I won't have time to change, so this suit will have to do. I glance down to check the state of my cuffs and, as I do so, I recall my bedside conversation with a drowsy Louisa, earlier this morning.
"You look very smart." She'd said, smiling lazily, gazing at me rather invitingly from beneath dreamy eyelids.
I stab my finger against the lift button, feeling a sudden onset of an odd emotion, and I find myself squaring my shoulders as a pleasant sensation of repleteness washes over me. Compliments paid to me in my professional capacity are not that unusual and, as such, I have learned to accept them in a reasonably phlegmatic and dignified manner, though I certainly do not actively encourage them. Sentiments such as those expressed by Louisa, however, are so rare as to be rather noteworthy, and the notion that she not only approved of my appearance but took the trouble to tell me is somehow rather moving, causing me to clear my throat rather hastily. Another unexpected honorarium, another pleasant corollary of time spent with her; unfortunately one that I could never admit to appreciating.
The lift doors open and I step forcefully inside, glaring at the assembled passengers, unkempt, weary and nondescript as they all variously appear. No sooner do we begin our descent when the sound of a pager disturbs the silence, the insistent, staccato beeping causing several of the obviously more nervously dispositioned to flinch, and several others to reach instinctively for their pockets. Unfortunately, I'm quick to realise that the intrusive gadget, so demanding of a response, is the very one that currently sits deep in my coat pocket, and I retrieve it with a growing sense of irritation; I am certainly not the consultant on call this evening and to have my pager go off seems like rather an imposition. I glance impatiently at the screen and my heart sinks. I've been summoned by no less a personage than the Medical Director and, if my previous experiences with this gentleman are anything to go by, I know exactly what to expect. Groaning inwardly, I exit the lift at the next floor and, marching the short distance to the nearest nurse's station, I am forced to demand the telephone from the flustered young woman, who gapes at me like a bradyphrenic goldfish as I punch in the extension number.
As I listen to him, my aggravation only increases. An acute admission, a sensitive case apparently, a dreary, so-called celebrity whose name means absolutely nothing to me other than being the reason I'm about to let Louisa down. The slack jawed woman continues to stare at me and so I bark at her, angrily, reminding her that she has no business listening to my conversation, and she backs away cautiously until she is out of sight. The moment she is gone, I dial my own number and mutter a fervent oath under my breath, willing Louisa to answer. As I wait impatiently, I picture the room, and I count the number of rings.
"Hello?" She says tentatively, and I hear myself exhale.
"Louisa, it's Martin. I don't have much time so please listen. I have an emergency and I'm on my way down to theatre." I tell her, in a low, quiet voice, glancing around me carefully, in case what I am about to say to her is overheard. "Ummm, unfortunately, I won't make the restaurant...and I'm sorry, I really am."
There's a moments hesitation. I picture her, biting her lip, and I wait.
"No, Martin, that's fine." She replies, earnestly. "I understand, I really do...umm, should I ring them and cancel the booking though?"
I feel a sudden relief; I have struck thoughtful, sensible Louisa, who sounds like she really is actually unperturbed, and merely considers the practical aspects of our change in plans. At that moment, I feel a surge of love and of gratitude, in equal measure.
"Yes, mmm, good idea. Thank you. Umm... Shokuchūdoku in Pimlico...we were there with Auntie Joan if you recall."
Another moment of silence, and possibly a sigh, it is hard to tell.
"Yes, Martin, of course I remember..."
But I must interrupt her, and I do.
"Louisa, I am sorry. But I have to go..."
"Martin, Martin, just a minute, umm, would it be better if I went home, do you think?"
"Nooo...if you want to stay, umm, I'd like that. Don't...ahh..don't wait up for me though." I say as I glance around me nervously. "And I really must go. I'm sorry."
It's after one in the morning when I eventually let myself into the flat, as quietly as I can, my neck and shoulders aching courtesy of some asinine and irresponsible popular singer who decided that drinking all day and staggering through a plate glass window was a meaningful use of his time. As I repaired his lacerated brachial artery and ligated his damaged radial artery, I'd felt for the anaesthetist who had to manage the severely alcohol-affected moron through a long surgery that included the plating of his fractures by the orthopaedic consultant, and would still require skin grafts by the plastic surgeon who had joined us, and who was watching me complete the repair with obvious interest. By the time I'd tidied up the remainder of the damaged minor blood vessels, and the colour had returned to the imbecile's hand, my patience was almost exhausted. I bade my colleagues a brisk goodnight and left the selfish, drunken pig to the care of the trauma team.
I wasn't even sure if she'd decided to stay, I certainly wouldn't have blamed her had she decamped to the far more entertaining confines of her own home but, as soon as I venture cautiously into my bedroom, I know she is there. The gentle notes of her perfume hang in the air, still diffusing from her warm, soft skin. A delicately patterned, summery sort of dress hangs incongruously among the dark somber suits of my wardrobe. As I carefully hang up my trousers, my hand strays across towards it and I briefly run my fingertips over the surface of the fabric, noting it's lightness, the utter femininity somehow providing comfort to my exhausted mind. I find myself hesitating as I wonder helplessly what level of proprietary this situation calls for and, as tired and hungry as I am, I just can't seem to decide. Rather self consciously, I glance across at her before I pull on a clean pair of boxer shorts and then slip as silently and as unobtrusively as I can in alongside her.
She stirs, as I stretch out on my back and attempt to adjust my pillow without disturbing her. The discomfort in the region of my cervical spine seems rather out of proportion with the time I spent in theatre tonight but, as I carefully roll my neck from side to side, I become aware of the surprisingly intense muscular tension that renders me as taut as a drum.
"Martin?" I hear her whisper, her voice groggy and almost childlike.
"Yes...Hello." I reply, as quietly as I can, as she rolls over to face me.
"What time is it?" She says, her voice slurred and somnambulant.
"Umm...it's late. After half past one I should think...you should go back to sleep."
"You alright? You must be shattered." She replies blearily, and I can hear the concern evident in her voice. I feel her hand slide up over my chest and she pulls herself toward me, nestling in against my shoulder.
"Yes, I'm okay, just very tired." I tell her, as her fingers find my temple and she begins that slow, circling motion that feels so very comforting, a gentle pressure that is so mesmerising that I flex my jaw as I feel myself start to unwind.
The mattress feels suddenly so very comfortable, as if I am sinking down deep into it. My eyes sting and my eyelids are heavy; I find myself blinking more and more frequently until they no longer seem capable of opening at all. Unusually though, after a late surgery, or even long hours on duty, it seems I have no need to employ any kind of relaxation techniques in order to find sleep. My mind empties and I experience a feeling that I can only describe as repleteness; a realisation that if I could find a way to make this moment an enduring one, to somehow always come home to this, a permanent and tangible empyrean state, with Louisa at my side, then I would be a very fortunate man indeed. As I recede from consciousness, all I am aware of is a sensation of softness, the quiet tenderness of the moment; the silky warmth of her skin and the soothing ministrations of her fingertips. Drifting away toward peaceful nothingness, I will sleep soundly, restfully and apparently dreamlessly, until the persistent chirping of the infernal alarm will rouse me to cognisance.
But, surprisingly, it's Louisa's voice that awakens me; her urgent cries of my name jarring me instantly to sit up, brimming with a sort of dazed vigilance. The fact that it is daylight only adds to my confusion.
"Martin, your alarm clock! I forgot I took it into the spare room yesterday. You've slept in!"
"What? What time is it?" I reply, confused by her presence, momentarily uncertain even of what day of the week it is.
"Five to seven..." She replies, guiltily.
"What?" I bark incredulously, and I cringe internally. "Bugger!"
I extricate myself from the bedclothes and fly across the room toward the bathroom; I have teaching rounds in thirty five minutes, and I have never ever, in my entire career, arrived late on the ward.
"Louisa, can you telephone for a taxi please? For a quarter past please, if you can."
She grimaces at me and I'm suddenly distracted, perplexed as to why she's wearing one of the tee shirts I usually favour for sleeping in; as fetching as she looks, it's not exactly a good fit. I'd also be interested to know what need of my alarm clock saw her transport it to the only room in the house where it's purpose was rendered undetectable, but that will have to wait. I have the briefest of showers, run my electric razor over my face and dress, as expeditiously as I am able, still fiddling with my cuffs as I charge up the hallway.
She's loitering awkwardly in the kitchen, biting her lip when she sees me, tugging at the hem of her newly acquired, oversized shirt, and gazing at me cautiously from under her fringe.
"I made your coffee..." She says, tentatively. "And, umm, some toast."
"Thank you." I tell her, glancing at my watch, relieved that I at least have five minutes to eat something, even if it does contain insufficient protein. I retrieve a banana from the fruit bowl and place it on top of my briefcase, cursing to myself that I will have to try and buy lunch at the hospital or, worse still, venture out into the lunchtime throng. Smearing marmite across my toast, there seems little point in even sitting down so I eat what constitutes breakfast, leaning over the countertop as Louisa hovers behind me.
"I'm sorry." She says quietly, after a moment, and I turn around to face her, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin.
"Umm, Louisa, may I ask how the clock came to be somewhere other than where I'd left it?" I ask her, as calmly and nonchalantly as I am able, finishing my espresso and placing the cup in the sink.
She hesitates for a moment, and then she smiles, an unabashed brazen charm offensive; sauntering the few steps toward me and sliding her arms around my waist. It's clear that she sees me as somewhat of a pushover and, though she is possibly correct, I cannot let her think I am always so easily persuaded, so I stand upright, lifting my chin and staring at her down my nose, sceptically.
"Hmm?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
"I was...just putting a few things away...some clothes actually...and I took it in there with me, you know, so I could keep track of the time." She replies, with a sort of mischievous defiance
"Because?"
"Oh, alright Martin! Because I didn't want to be late to work! That's why!"
"Oh, right..." I reply airily, and we stare at each other obstinately for a few seconds.
In the end, she capitulates first, laughing and reaching up to kiss me, rather too provocatively for a kitchen at breakfast time, and especially as I hear the taxi driver sounding his arrival from the street below. I allow my hand to linger momentarily on her hip, feeling suddenly as if I have been rather swindled; consequently, when I check on the cretinous arse who was the cause of it all, the self-centred tosser that completely ruined my evening, my bedside manner is bound to be more than a little frosty.
Sighing in frustration, I force myself to relinquish my grasp and, as I rather reluctantly mutter my reluctant goodbyes, I pause at the door and turn back to face her; my eyes momentarily lingering on her bare, well toned legs.
"Umm, Louisa, the drinks. For your friend..ahh...Lottie...where will they be?"
She glances up at me, surprise etched all over her face, and I feel a lurch in my abdomen as a slow, delighted smile lights up her face.
"Do you remember The Cormorant? We'll be there from half five. That's when Happy Hour starts.." She says breathlessly. "Do you think you might come then?"
"Mm." I reply, as the tooting of the taxi horn becomes more insistent. "I'll see you there."