Waiting on the stairs gave me time to think. Officially I was minding my possessions, while Martin parked the car but, really, I can't think of a single thing in these cartons that anyone in their right mind would want to pinch. But at his suggestion, I agree to supervise and, for a few minutes, it's actually quite nice just to sit quietly, hugging my knees and waiting for his return. To be honest, I'm absolutely knackered, and my mind is just churning in endless, boggy circles, digging deeper and muddier holes for myself as I agonise over this evening's events. The anger I feel, and the hurt and disappointment, it really rankles, and the longer I wait for him to return, the more unbelievable it all becomes. Honestly, I could strangle Holly for the way she fitted me up, but if she thinks she's clever enough to come between me and Martin, she's got another bloody thing coming.
When he finally appears, slipping quietly through the door, it must be close to ten o'clock and I know that he, too, must be shattered. He hands me his keys and our eyes meet; mine gritty and heavy-lidded as I attempt an encouraging smile, and his, blood-shot and glassy, underscored by vague shadows that reveal the extent of his fatigue. As he stoops to pick up the heaviest box, I thank him again but, as reticent as ever, he simply grunts indecipherably, glancing wearily in my general direction. After I've let us in to his flat, I turn to follow him downstairs again but he insists that I stay where I am, and that, of course, he can manage. It's late and I'm dead on my feet, so it just seems easier to agree and I wander dazedly into the kitchen to put the kettle on, taking the opportunity to run my breakfast dishes under the tap before he returns.
When the last of my things are deposited safely in the spare room, he comes to find me. I watch as he peels off his jacket, examining it beneath the bright lights of the kitchen, focusing on the offending sleeve with his customary intensity. The vaguest hint of stubble shadows his jaw and, in his shirtsleeves with his tie marginally askew, he looks almost rakish, and surprisingly devil-may-care. It's a tantalising glimpse of a quite different Martin and, as he glances in my direction, catching me mid-ogle, I feel my face colour as I grin at him sheepishly. Perhaps, if we didn't feel so off-kilter, I'd be teasing him now, self-indulgently trailing my fingers across his back, savouring the firmness of his shoulders beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. As distracting as the thought is, all I can do is clasp my hands together behind me and hover, awkward and indecisive, and mute. The heavy, pointed silence that seems to exist between us makes me wary, an undercurrent of discomfort that I am too nervous to broach. Rapidly enveloped by a fog of exhaustion, I wrack my brains for something to say, and come up empty-handed.
I'm struck by a sense of familiarity, and I'm tempted to remind him of the last occasion when he carried my stuff up and down a steep set of stairs while I watched on, deeply impressed yet utterly oblivious as to why. Would it help, I wonder, to tell him how, within a matter of hours, I was in his thrall? I suppose I might have been in a vulnerable state but, whatever the reason, I'd become rapidly infatuated, and it was like a snapshot of a whole new world. I'd found myself gazing at him in total wonder; fixating on his physique where previously I'd not even noticed that boys might have kind eyes, or shoulders, or Adam's apples, or bums.
Remembering that desperate ache makes me smile. I even blush at the recollection, how mysterious it had been. The spine-tingling excitement, the spasms of need that had nearly bent me in two, it all had seemed deliciously overwhelming, this longing I had for what, in hindsight, I had absolutely no idea. Just recalling my angst, the naïveté of my unrequited crush, is now actually a bit embarrassing and I chew on my lip self-consciously, glancing across at him, distracted by the care with which he hangs his jacket on the back of the chair. Everything he does is so measured, his movements precise and economical, and his thoughts pragmatic and logical. In the chaos that typified my early teenage years, my whole childhood really, it's absolutely no wonder I'd found him so magnetic.
With my thoughts taking a bit of a shameless turn, I watch his retreating figure as he disappears silently into the utility room. Funny how wearing braces to hold up your trousers seems now quite cosmopolitan and sexy actually, a million miles away from the pensioners, and skinheads I'd previously associated them with. It strikes me that, for Martin anyway, they are simply a practical choice that happens to be as quirky and individual as he is himself, and I do like that about him. To tell him how very attractive I find him from this angle would surely make him catatonic with embarrassment, so I say nothing, losing myself quite happily in sleepy contemplation.
"You know, Martin, you're actually really hot." I'd told him once, as he climbed out of the shower, focusing intently on securing his towel around his waist.
He'd glanced up at me, surprised.
"Thirty seven degrees Celsius. I think you'll find that's within the acceptable range." He'd replied rather curtly.
I had laughed out loud, shaking my head at him in disbelief as I'd walked away, giving him the privacy he so desperately craves. On reflection, as sad a thought as it was, I'd come to realise that saying nice things to him just seems to make him highly suspicious, or really uncomfortable, or both. Because sometimes my feelings are so intense, I do tend to blurt things out, and I suppose I have just assumed everyone needs a bit of praise and positivity now and then, which is why I find his horror at finding himself in the spotlight, singled out for admiration, so hard to understand. But his discomfort is so painfully evident every time I admire something about him that I worked out pretty quickly that I needed to change tack. As long as any compliments I use toward him continue to mortify him as they do, convincing him of how attractive I find him will be far better achieved by my actions, and my reactions, rather than my words.
He clears his throat and I open my eyes with a start, blinking and struggling to focus. Blearily, I gaze up at him as he stands like a soldier at attention before me, a small glass bottle clutched in one hand and what appears to be an un-ironed handkerchief in the other, staring intently at his jacket.
"Tetrachloroethylene." He says firmly, without looking at me, his eyes narrow with purpose, an expression so distinctively Martin that it almost makes me laugh.
"What?" I ask, wondering whether he has some sort of home laboratory tucked neatly away in a cupboard I've yet to discover.
"Dry cleaning fluid." He replies briskly, placing the container on the end of the table and folding the hanky into a wad.
"You're not going to do that now, are you?" I groan, helplessly. "Martin, it's late, we're both shattered. Can't it wait?"
He hesitates for a moment, scowling unhappily and pursing his lips, before appearing to compose himself. Squaring his shoulders, he exhales deeply.
"Mm. Right. Yes." He says, clearing his throat cautiously. "And, umm, you haven't eaten, have you? I mean, are you hungry? I could make an omelette…?"
"No, honestly, I just want to go to bed." I tell him, imploringly. "And I can drop your dry cleaning in for you in the morning, if that'd help?"
Opening his mouth to respond, he apparently thinks better of whatever it was he was going to say, preferring simply to nod at me, and agree, glancing around the room anxiously as if he can't quite think what to do or say next. Meanwhile, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open and, with each minute that passes, I feel more and more like a cranky toddler in need of a nap. My patience for whatever urgent piece of housework, or medical research, Martin feels he must now undertake has completely deserted me and, grumbling under my breath I abandon him, trudging off toward the bedroom, yawning pointedly.
Even as I clean my teeth, things are already a bit fuzzy and, within minutes, I'm clambering gratefully in between the sheets of the empty bed. The crisp freshness of the linen, and the soft comfort of the mattress are blissful, and such an emphatic illustration of how much things have changed for me, that I lie on my back for a moment, drowsily moving my heavy limbs as if I were making a snow angel, luxuriating in the unmitigated joy of it all. I'm half asleep when the bed suddenly jolts and I hear Martin mutter an apology as he tries, unsuccessfully, to slip in unobtrusively beside me. Rolling over sluggishly to face him, it's as if he is already as inanimate as a waxwork, lying motionless on his back and appearing for all the world like an effigy on an ancient royal grave. Despite the fact hIs hands are folded resolutely upon his chest, and the sheet is pulled up rather securely beneath his chin, I reach out an arm beneath the covers, seeking the familiar warmth and comfort of his reassuringly solid frame. Instead, I encounter yet another layer of fabric, a thick, heavy cotton material that alerts me to the fact he's worn a tee shirt to bed.
I grit my teeth because I thought I'd made it clear that pyjamas are for old people and those who sleep alone. I thought he'd understood how much I adore the sensation of his bare skin against mine, how tactile I find every part of his body to be. Sometimes that contact will soothe me and sometimes it will inflame me; and by now it should be obvious that I need both, and every degree in between. As disappointed as I am, I can't be bothered remonstrating with him, even though, for our first official night of living together, this does seem like a bit of a slap in the face. I'm just too worn out to try and understand why he wants to keep a layer of clothing between us, a layer that actually feels like a shield. Nursing a horrible suspicion that I won't care much for his reasons, I withdraw my arm and turn away, naked, exposed and upset.
Just as I'm cutting through the strings of Holly's cello, a pair of surgical scissors in my hand, I'm jolted awake. I lie there for a while, in a state of groggy semi-consciousness, hungry, and vaguely uncomfortable, until I realise that the problem is that I need the loo. The air feels surprisingly cool, and I shiver as I slink hurriedly to the ensuite. The sudden drop in temperature means that winter is really looming and I sigh dejectedly. Just thinking about the gloomy, miserable weather to come is enough to make anyone melancholy. Still enmeshed by the fug of sleep, I can't recall where I left my t shirt but my blue slip is draped across the heated towel rail, drying alongside all the other underwear I hand washed this morning. After a light squeeze to confirm that it's dry, I wriggle into it, convincing myself that a tight layer of flimsy material is better than nothing as I roam the flat, now half awake and ill-at-ease, in the loneliness of the wee small hours.
As I tiptoe past, I glance down at Martin, his calm demeanour satisfying me that he, at least, sleeps peacefully. He's still on his back, his expression relaxed and untroubled, and, seeing his him so soft, and so innocent really, seems to provoke an oddly ferocious surge of love for him. Holding my breath, I gaze down at him, his strong features gently illuminated by the pale soft light, and I feel both saddened and fiercely protective, assailed by thoughts of what-if and what-might-have-been, had his childhood been different. I hesitate for a moment, and then I bend down to kiss him, pressing my lips to his as gently as I can, in the hope I won't wake him. But, as if it has other ideas, my stomach rumbles; a long, low, reverberating growl that sounds as if we are in the bloody Lion enclosure at London Zoo and, rather hastily, I'm forced to flee the room.
After weaving my way down the hall to the kitchen I'm on auto-pilot as I stir the cocoa into the hot milk, my first teaspoonful actually missing the mug almost entirely and spraying haphazardly across the bench. Annoyingly, as I was retrieving my folder from the spare room, the milk had caught, leaving the bottom of Martin's saucepan blackened and charred. Half-heartedly I consider attacking it with the scourer before deciding that a generous squirt of Fairy Liquid, and an overnight soak, must be the most sensible option. In the silence, the rhythmic ticking of the clocks is as hypnotic as a metronome; predictable, steady, and reliable. Quite like Martin himself really, I think, smirking to myself as I help myself to extra sugar, hopeful that he'll never notice that cocoa-coloured streaks now taint the contents of the little porcelain bowl.
Feeling slightly more compos mentis I pick up my folder and bend back the stiff cover, pressing it firmly out of the way. I had no idea what to expect when Martin handed me the courier package but, as I flick through the contents, I have a growing realisation that Tzippy had quite a clear purpose when she collated all of this reading material for me. While there are several photocopied articles from journals and magazines, the main body of work is a thesis, a recent publication by someone whose name of course I don't recognise but whose research is such that a clinical psychologist decided that ploughing through it will be a valuable undertaking for me. I flip impatiently through the first couple of pages, until I get to the nuts and bolts of the thing, the opening paragraph which had, yesterday, caught my eye so emphatically.
'Sensitive children are often the most misunderstood. Their openness is mistaken for weakness, and their natural cautiousness and reactiveness is labelled as fear. When a sensitive child exhibits thoughtfulness and awareness, he or she is usually perceived as reticent. Where introversion is displayed, accusations that the child is lacking in social skills and self-confidence inevitably follow.
Parents, peers, clinicians and educators are frequently guilty of regarding such children as needy and deficient when, in fact, this analysis aims to demonstrate that sensitive children are innately imbued with a high degree of perceptiveness, an advanced degree of empathy and intuition, and learning abilities that are, statistically, significantly higher than their age-group norms.'
I stare at the page, reading it over and over again until the words begin to swim before my eyes. I'm not even sure why I'm attempting to force my sleep-addled brain to process information at this time of night but, every time I think about it, my mind churns like an old watermill, trying to understand how everything fits together. I know the articles are significant because they feel like the clue to something extraordinary; my frustration is that I don't have the knowledge or the experience to work out how. Unfortunately, a year's worth of psych lectures aren't enough that I can piece it together; I only know enough to realise how much I don't know.
But Tzippy is a real professional, and she must have had her reasons for sending it to me; more than for the sake of encouraging me, more than just providing a bit of mentoring for my career. Because I'd noticed, too, the way she'd observed Martin, coolly and contemplatively, throughout our recent dinner. Every time he answered a question, she'd paid close attention, to the point where I'd teased him about it later, much to his horror, pointing out that he was apparently completely irresistible to middle aged women, and not because they wanted to 'mother' him either. He'd stared at me, wide-eyed, with genuine bewilderment and all I could do was to laugh at him, and kiss him, for being so sweetly and touchingly oblivious.
In hindsight I suppose, her quiet evaluation was just another facet of the whole Martin assessment thing, and it made me quite happy to realise that I'd been able to intervene to keep things light-hearted when he'd actually seemed quite determined to wind himself up. As brilliant as he is, there's a definite tendency to, at any point, retreat into rudeness and I'm now aware, having skimmed through Tzippy's paperwork, that this probably stems from his obvious discomfort in social situations. Sighing heavily, I close the folder, finishing the last vestiges of my cocoa and sitting my empty cup down on the magazine I'd left there earlier. Yawning like a hippopotamus, I rub my eyes pointlessly, before turning off the light and feeling my way, completely blindly, back toward the bedroom.
However despondent Holly's nasty little snipes had made me feel, as I edge my way down the hall, I remind myself that yesterday was not all embarrassment and disappointment. Before I'd left the flat, I'd decided to call Tzippy and thank her. To be honest, it also seemed like a good place to start if I wanted to create a network of people that would be might provide guidance in my career. Funnily enough, it was Holly that was always banging on about the importance of networking even if her attempts were all about landing herself a cushy teaching role at a small, independent school. On the other hand, I can see the enormous benefits of having access to vastly experienced people like Tzippy and Aiofe; to be able to ask questions and discuss approaches, and countless other valuable reasons too. I've thought about it a lot actually, and I can't see how it could be wrong to take the tiniest advantage of the fact I might now be moving in the same circles as them.
I slip back under the top sheet as lightly and unobtrusively as I can. Martin has apparently still not moved and I wriggle slowly and deliberately toward him, edging my cold feet closer and closer to the reassuringly familiar warmth he radiates. I think about the conversation I'd had after I'd called the office number, from the business card Tzippy'd enclosed. Despite being so different from me, her manner of speaking so level and unemotional, her feelings apparently so well under control, I still feel a sort of connection. I'd gushed as I'd thanked her, breathless and excited as usual, but she'd been so kind, so dignified, and so understanding, talking about things quite generally. However subtle and indirect she was, I knew exactly what it was she was implying. We'd talked about Cornwall briefly, and college and careers; mine not Martin's though, careful as she was to avoid even mentioning his name. After a few minutes I'd told her I had to get a move on, or I'd miss my bus and she'd chuckled in a sort of benevolent way, leaving me feeling a bit overjoyed, so chuffed was I by her kindness. And, after I'd squeezed in one last squeaky and emphatic speech of gratitude, and I was about to hang up, she'd said my name emphatically, as if she'd suddenly thought of something crucial she still needed to say to me.
"Yes?" I'd answered cautiously. "I'm still here."
"Come to my book launch. I will send you the details…"
"Really? Oh Tzippy, thank you! I'd love to!" I'd exclaimed, unable to conceal the delight in my voice.
And, I was genuinely thrilled. In my mind anyway, it doesn't get much more grown up and sophisticated than moving in London literary circles and I was gratified beyond words that she'd thought to include me. Not only that but, as an author, she wouldn't invite me, would she, if she felt that I wouldn't fit in? If she suspected I might be embarrassing, or awkward, or unsophisticated or, more likely, that they felt I wasn't a good match for Martin, she wouldn't be encouraging me to attend, would she? Despite my country accent, and my ignorance, and the fact I'm just an awkward student really, I'm actually feeling really welcomed and accepted. For the first time, it seems like the perpetual clouds of worry, the fretfulness and insecurity that have plagued my life, are suddenly starting to clear. As an adult, as an individual, I feel like I have value; like as if I'm trusted and respected and liked.
"And make sure you bring Martin too, if you can persuade him…" She'd added, barely an inflection in her low, calm enunciation.
"Yes! Of course! I'll do my best!" I replied breathlessly, a fleeting moment of doubt superimposing itself on my gleeful footwear rumination.
"By the way, Louisa, I wondered…have you met his parents?" She adds, thoughtfully. "I mean, really met them… to talk to?"
"Umm, well, yes actually, I have." I replied honestly, my delight instantly evaporating at what seemed to be quite an odd and loaded question.
"I see. Yes. Good." She answered, and suddenly her voice is brisk and impatient. "Anyway, I'll be in touch…"
She'd hung up then, but I'd stood staring at the phone for quite a while before the penny dropped, and I'd replaced the receiver in something of a daze, my heart pounding and my head literally spinning. I realised her intention was that I should read between the lines but, honestly, I'm not really great at that, especially with people so much older and more worldly than me. I suppose she was saying all that she could in the circumstances, but it was really frustrating to feel like someone was trying to tell you something but you couldn't quite put your finger on what exactly it was. I think I can safely assume though that she feels Martin fits the description of a sensitive child or she wouldn't have gone to all that trouble, but do I also assume, by her question, that she feels his parents have been more than detrimental to his growth and development? To complicate everything further, Martin has made it abundantly clear that, as a subject for discussion, his mum and dad are completely off-limits. In a moment of gut wrenching clarity though, I realise I saw enough of them to know implicitly that they were.
However, like a box of jigsaw pieces, random, scrambled and disconnected, I have no idea of the bigger picture, the implications and, most importantly, what I can do to help. Besides, I also have the niggling feeling that I'm being quite disloyal to Martin by even having the conversation with Tzippy, despite how non-specific her references really were. His stringent requirements for privacy, his reluctance to ever mix with anyone, and his horror that anyone should know anything about his life, makes sorting this out seem almost impossible. But, lying here in the dark, it does make him a little easier to understand. I mean, judging him harshly because he hates having his private affairs discussed, or accusing him of reticence because he keeps everything so close to his chest, isn't that exactly what the thesis is really about? And the awful thought that occurs to me now is, if he was the sensitive child the writer describes, how bad is the damage? The idea that any vulnerable child might suffer at the hands of their parents is appalling enough, but imagining Martin as a child, knowing even a little of the horrors he went through, makes me suck air into my lungs in a sharp, noisy gasp.
I gulp repeatedly, and squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate but effort not to cry. Beside me he stirs, and the mattress rolls and flexes as I feel him turn over on his side. I wait for him to settle again, holding my breath as he carefully adjusts his pillow. My capable and clever Martin, brilliant and accomplished, physically imposing and appearing impenetrable; to picture him as a helpless and vulnerable little kid seems almost impossible. But there are many forms of child abuse and all of them are something I feel very personally. The room is so silent that the quiet has become a hiss, and I swallow hard and wipe my hand across my eyes, trying to suppress the soapy-mouthed threat of tears. I wonder if he and I have yet another thing in common, if we were both children who grew up unphotographed, feeling like our existence didn't matter. Libby's family home was like a shrine to her, and Caroline's was even worse. Yet I don't recall a single snapshot of myself at any age and it's like I wasn't even worth recording. I shudder quite violently, though I'm no longer cold, and I wonder if I should ask him whether, somewhere, he has an album, or a shoebox or even a lone frame.
Behind me, I hear him sigh and, after a moment, his arm slides languidly from beneath the covers, his hand coming to rest lightly on my hip, his touch gentle and gossamer light.
"Is everything alright?" He says quietly, in a voice that is as soft and enveloping as warm treacle.
"Yes, I'm fine, just needed to pee and then, you know, I couldn't get back to sleep." I reassure him, relieved that my words don't catch in my throat, snagged by my desperately shallow and uneven breathing.
"And you thought cocoa might help?" He asks casually.
"Oh my god, Martin, it's like living with a bloodhound!" I gasp, incredulous at his powers of deduction. "It's not unheard of, you know, for people to have a hot drink in the middle of the night."
"Yes, I'm aware of that. It's just…I mean I wondered…was there a reason you couldn't sleep?"
I sigh heavily.
"Quite a lot happened today, one way or the other." I point out. "I sort of can't believe most of it. Especially Holly, you know, I really thought she was a friend…"
"Mm." He replies thoughtfully. "Louisa, I wouldn't let it concern you any further if I were you. In my opinion she seems an unworthy candidate for friendship, and someone with whom you appear to have very little in common. Now that you are no longer residing under the same roof, I can't see the need to have anything further to do with her."
"It's not as simple as that, Martin, Holly's in a lot of my classes. It's not like I can avoid her."
I realise that he is considering my reply. He raises his hand and pats my hip gently, as if he is emphasising a point but still he remains silent.
"It's just a bit of a sad way for the flat to dissolve I suppose." I continue sadly. "I mean, I knew it wasn't ever going to be the same when Libby left but when that Jo moved in….Now she and Holly are as thick as thieves and good luck to them."
I hear him snort; a derisive sort of sound that leaves me in no doubt of his opinion.
"I suspect Aunt Ruth would have a field day if she should ever encounter either of them." He says thoughtfully, reaching up to stroke my hair back, gently tucking an errant lock behind my ear and brushing his fingers across my cheek. "And, while Holly is cunning enough to avoid a stretch in Broadmoor or Holloway or wherever, the other one, the Home Counties Henchwoman… the results of her ink-blot tests would certainly be illuminating…"
I laugh and it's like, for the first time in hours, I can actually exhale properly; unfettered and unrestricted, as if someone has loosened the laces of my over-tightened corset. My diaphragm relaxes and, involuntarily, I stretch, curling my toes and flexing my fingers almost as if I'm wracked with a spasm. Behind me, Martin slides closer, gently wrapping his arm around me and we lie together in the dark, breathing in unison, buoyed by a tacit understanding that we are safe in the world as long as we have each other.
"Martin…" I say tentatively, after a few minutes, summoning every ounce of courage I possess.
"Mm?" He replies, slightly dreamily, tracing my outline beneath the covers with a lazily trailing finger, in such a way that I suspect we have quite different ideas on how we might best clear the air.
"Well, I suppose I just want to say that, even though Holly was being horribly unfair about the rent and everything, I'm really not bothered…" I say, my words flooding out with a sort of childlike vehemence. "But, you know, what is worrying me is the fact that she…well, she over-exaggerated things, Martin…and I'm scared you might have believed her."
For a split second, his hand becomes motionless and I sense his hesitation, an almost imperceptible twitch that suggests my fear is not unfounded.
"I see." He replies, shifting his weight like he is suddenly uncomfortable, as if there is a whole Hoover-full of sand and crumbs in the bed.
"And the only reason I can think of, the only thing that makes any sense actually, is that she just wants to spoil everything for me…well for us, really…otherwise why would she be so malicious?"
"It is rather an odious accusation to make…even if I am ignorant of the actual degree to which you allege she exaggerates…"
I know instantly what he's thinking, There's no prizes for guessing that her allegations are actually troubling him, just as I was terrified they would. I'm desperate to correct him, to point out that there were only two, and that I didn't love either of them. I want to throw myself into his arms and explain, I want to tell him how stupid I was, so young and so desperately naive, hoping as I did that what they offered me would be enough. The recollection makes me feel sick and, not for the first time tonight, my mouth feels soapy, though this time the imminent tears are those of shame and despair. I wish I'd never raised it as everything suddenly seems so horribly clear. Honestly, if I've heard it once, I've heard it a hundred times; girls lamenting how a boy will tell you to be honest, and insist that he won't judge you but, sure as eggs are eggs, he always does. Never discuss it, isn't that what Libby told me? Whatever the answer, you always come out looking bad.
His hand has stopped moving altogether and I cringe at what his thoughts might be. What if he asks who they were? What if he wants to know if I loved them? I mean, is it worse to admit that I didn't at all, actually, but I slept with them anyway? My anxiety over the whole conversation is bubbling over. That test I had done, I could never admit my relief at the result, realising how ignorant I'd been, at the time so oblivious to the implications of both Danny and Andrew's commitment to monogamy being as loose as it was. That I suspected them both yet allowed myself to continue drifting along, isn't something I am very proud of, reflecting as poorly as it does on my real values and my self-esteem. Though I want to be honest, the shame that grips me, my face burning like I'd received a sharp, stinging slap across my cheek, just leaves me firmly convinced that I have far too much to lose and nothing to gain.
"You'll just have to take my word for it, Martin." I say, more defiantly. "She was exaggerating. End of story."
"Right." He replies gruffly, managing to load one syllable with so many implications that I feel myself gasp.
While I do understand that Holly's words would naturally have disappointed him, if he trusts me, he'd take my word for the fact that she made it all up to spite me. Despite how hard I'd tried back then to make them work, any past relationships now no longer matter to me in the slightest. On the rare occasions I do think about either of them, it's inevitably to compare them unfavourably with Martin, yet here he is, lying like a frozen haddock beside me, exuding this sense that somehow, of everyone involved, it is he who has been wronged. Yet, like so many other parts of his life, his previous relationships are off limits, probably because he was a man sowing his wild oats, a thought that makes me sick, both at the idea of him in bed with other women, but mostly at the breathless hypocrisy of it all.
"So, umm, excuse me but can I just say something?" I say, fighting to modulate my tone, as jealousy and resentment start to rear their ugly heads.
I feel suddenly quite incensed at a world, at society really, where male sexual exploits are lauded and the more tottie you pull, the more of a man you're considered to be. My foot begins to jiggle up and down, and my jaw clenches ferociously, a sure sign that my agitation is becoming explosive.
"I'm listening." He answers flatly and I take a deep breath.
"Well, I'm not sure if you recall, but when I raised the subject of Edith once, you told me that you'd forgotten her."
"Mm." He replies, his voice a low, ambiguous rumble, and I feel him shift his weight again, almost as if the mere mention of her name can can make him tense.
"And, if you recall….you told me that I should, too." I add, carefully. "Forget about her I mean."
He presses his lips to my shoulder thoughtfully and appears to consider things for a moment.
"Yes. I did." He agrees, eventually.
I hesitate now, feeling almost like I'm about to walk the plank, or venture into a minefield laid in quicksand. He'd have to be an imbecile not to have already guessed where I'm going with this but, despite his legendary intelligence, sometimes, emotionally, he can be a little slow on the uptake.
"So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is, doesn't that work both ways?" I say, the calmness of my tone belying the fact that I'm suddenly a seething mass of anxiety and irritation. "I mean, clearly we've both got, you know, pasts we want to forget?"
I hear him sigh.
"Mm." He replies carefully. "I…umm…I do deplore hypocrisy and, you're right, I did ask that we…move on…from any further discussion…around…"
"So, you're agreeing that you need to move on too?" I interrupt quickly, twisting my head around to try and see his face, despite the grey gloom of the darkened room.
"If these…ahh…boyfriends are no longer in contact with you…certainly. If you've expunged them from your life…it would be…insincere and sanctimonious of me to…ahh..to permit myself to be affected by that woman's…allegations..."
"Right." I reply and it feels like the most inadequate response I could have possibly come up with.
I lay my head back down on the pillow with a dull thud. My heart feels shallow and fluttery in my chest as we lie there; together, yet in isolation, side by side but still separated, between us a gulf the size of the Irish Sea. The events of the day drift in and out of focus, too much to make sense of really and I feel overstimulated and edgy but, at the same time, dull and somehow debilitated. I'm shattered but too much so to sleep. In my mind's eye, I see Holly, her mouth smiling but her eyes as cold as the sea in winter, and I see Tzippy, gazing at me tranquilly over the top of her half-moon glasses, her greying curls as wild as the snakes of Medusa.
But, most vividly, I'm visited by the apparition of little fair-haired boy. Bullied at school and belittled at home, his retreat into silence becoming an impregnable defence that I'm gradually starting to understand. I've read that very child described now; I'm enlightened to the process of why he came to live so comfortably in his own mind; an absolute necessity when, outside, everything is so cruel and utterly beyond his control. That Martin has reached the end of his tether, that he gets to a point where he has exhausted his daily complement of words, it's hardly a surprise really. Every day, while the rest of us are absorbed by trivia, he is taking huge amounts of responsibility on to his shoulders, performing minor miracles in surgery, improving people's lives. And tonight there's the extra burden of taking care of me; driving in traffic, lugging my things about, putting Holly and Jo back in their boxes so irrefutably.
Twisting my shoulders, I reach behind me and search for his hand. I need to make sure that he feels appreciated almost as badly as I need to know he hasn't judged me. I can't bear the thought of him imagining I'm something I'm not, wondering about what sort of girl I am every time he looks at me.
"Where are you?" I ask, groping blindly in the darkness.
"Ouch…I think you found me.." He replies, in a pained voice, as he winces and sucks air noisily in through his teeth.
"Oh, god, Martin, I'm sorry!" I whisper fervently. "Was that my nail…Are you alright?"
"Umm…yes, I'm fine." He replies quickly, his tone suddenly dignified and prim. "No…permanent damage…perhaps a minor laceration…"
I stifle a giggle. Even after everything that has happened today, all the drama and upset, and excitement and joy, when Martin's manners edge towards formality, when his words hint at pomposity, or he assumes the imperious air of the famous consultant, I just can't resist the opportunity. Those precious seconds of bewilderment, as his cool superiority evaporates, are honestly like a drug to me.
"Shall I kiss it better then?" I ask him, my tone soft and angelic despite the grin that has spread broadly across my face.
For a moment, he doesn't respond and it's only when I feel him exhale rather heavily that I realise he's been holding his breath.
"Perhaps we should term it a clinical trial…to which you have my informed consent." He says slowly, and I feel the touch of his hand as he rests his palm lightly atop the bedclothes that conceal my upper arm.
I want to laugh again, and tell him that it's a cheesy line straight out of a Friday night episode of 'Casualty' but it dawns on me that he won't actually have a clue what I'm talking about. And then there's how lovely and reassuring it is to feel him want to touch me again, even if there's still a suggestion of hesitation and doubt; that we have made it safely back to this point means, god knows, I don't want to scare him off again.
"What do they actually call the person in charge of a trial?" I ask him.
"Aah, in this case, he or she would be the Principal Investigator…" He replies, slightly distractedly, as he shifts the tiniest bit closer, and slides his hand carefully beneath the counter pane.
"I think that should be you, then, since you've had so much more experience." I point out, brightly.
"Have I?" He growls in my ear, withdrawing his hand so purposefully that, for a split second I fear that, once again, I've pushed him too far.
To my relief, he eases himself closer behind me and I wait for his usual routine before embracing me, smoothing out my untamed and ticklish mane so I can fall asleep in his arms. But, instead, with the return of that quiet intensity I love, he draws my hair carefully away from my neck, slipping a finger beneath the strap of my slip and sliding it delicately from my shoulder. Kissing the point where it lay, slowly and deliberately, his breath is warm against my bare skin and I shiver as he nuzzles the exact spot he knows will cause goosebumps to ripple across my flesh. I push myself back against him and he says my name, in a voice that is half despair, half desire, the heat of his breath so provocative against my skin that I want to melt into him. As if he realises, he draws his knees up behind mine, enclosing me protectively within a nest of his long, muscular limbs.
"I love you." He whispers, as his hand cups my breast, his fingers brushing against me with exquisite lightness until I arch my back in unashamed delight.
"Oh god, Martin, I love you too!" I hear myself whimper. "So much…"
"Nothing else matters." He says, hoarsely, as he entwines his legs around mine, folding me into what feels like a delicious sort of thrilling yet inescapable hold.
And, as if it was a mad wrestling match, between two rather mismatched opponents, with one deft manoeuvre I find myself suddenly on my back, gazing up at him appreciatively, an insane grin on my face. The amusement I feel at the finesse with which he turned me over is completely at odds with the fierce intensity we both seem to be feeling but it's been an absolutely bonkers sort of day and this does seem somehow like it's the the logical conclusion. I close my eyes, and throw my head back against the pillow, revelling in every madly fervent moment, in each fiercely experienced sensation that he's always able to conjure up in me. Perhaps this is what they call a perfect storm, a place where acknowledging your fears and your mistakes and your vulnerability can lead you, where trust is everything and sticking together when the life conspires against you becomes it's own reward. No one in the history of the world has ever told their boyfriend that they love them and meant it more fervently than I do now.
I run my hands through his hair as he hovers over me gently, not an easy feat I'm sure for a man his size. Sometimes I catch him gazing at me as devoted and reverential as some ancient High Priest, as if what we share goes even beyond the spiritual. And sometimes, like now, he's just a typical lad, giving in to temptation with an impetuous zeal, fondling the fabric of my slip and everything beneath it. Rolling it lazily beneath his fingers and sliding his hands around my hips, he murmurs his appreciation in a series of breathless, low grumbles, half strangled as if he fights to conceal the pleasure he takes from it. I smirk as I raise myself up to kiss him, though I'm sure he doesn't see it, not least because he's really not looking at my face.
"This feels nice." I hear him say, in an aching tone of longing and I can't suppress a giggle.
Martin, the master of understatement, his breath ragged and his words catching raspily in his throat as he endeavours to get a grip on smooth, silky fabric. Kneeling between my thighs, he tries to shift it upwards in a gentlemanly fashion but the material clings to me, bound by heat and static, and I lift my hips enabling him push it up around my waist, his fingers suddenly clumsy with urgency.
Throwing my arms up, I tug upwards at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head as he shakes himself free. I find myself mesmerised for a moment by his ruffled hair. I gaze up at him helplessly, my face wreathed in smug suggestive smile, wishing he knew how adorable he looked when he was like this, wishing I could even begin to tell him. A beautiful, golden boy, breathless and unfettered in the thin, dusky light, momentarily free of everything in his life that weighs him down so heavily. Everything about him is so gorgeous, so smooth and strong, and so irresistible; the feeling of his hands upon me so delicious that I can do nothing but writhe with pleasure, and gasp his name out loud.
Reaching up, I pull his mouth down to mine, cupping his jaw fiercely, desperate enough now that I could devour him. As if he knows I'm at the point where I can no longer bear the wait, he pulls away and I exhale sharply as he enters me, groaning as I cling to him, coiling my legs around his hips. Though, as usual, he is silent, there's a vehemence to him now that I haven't sensed before, a fierce intensity that while not unpleasant is uncharacteristic. He still knows me just as well and, with his expert caress of my breast, I am overcome almost instantly, helpless before he has even settled into his slow, deep, intoxicating rhythm. Feeling as if I am sinking into the mattress, my limbs as light as a feather, my mind is now empty of everything but a fervid and desperate need. Exhilarated, I cry out his name, croaking out those two syllables repeatedly with every incredible wave that wracks my body. It's only then that he seems to relent, as if he has awoken suddenly from being under a spell. I feel his hand clasp at my wrist almost desperately, his fingers snaking through mine, his breath coming in shallow gasps as buries his face in my neck. He shudders almost imperceptibly, gasps almost silently and, dramatically, he is suddenly depleted and still. When, eventually, we relinquish our hold on each other, fierce as it was, and he rolls onto his back it doesn't occur to me. Even when my heartbeat has returned to regularity, and I've pulled the covers up to shield us from the crisp autumn air, I still haven't noticed. Only when I lie here, ecstatic and drifting toward sleep, floating in that heavenly post-coital fug that renders everything else unimportant, am I suddenly aware that Martin still grips my hand. As much as his hold on me is quite obvious, it's really not that unusual, which is why it takes me far longer than it should have, almost to the point of unconsciousness, for me to realise that he is still trembling.